Are you being served in the halls of justice?

When my editor assigned me to cover a trial one of the country's busiest courts which hears cases of national prominence, I thought I would be stepping into an elegant building with a shiny tiled floor.

You know, something along the lines of TV series Law and Order and Ally McBeal.

Instead, I found myself walking through the side entrance from a narrow gravel parking lot.

"Mbak (miss), do you want a SIM? No need to take the test, Mbak. I can get it for you in one day," a young man called out to me about getting a driving license as I entered.

The building was old and dusty, with spider's webs hanging in the corners. My first impression was that it would make an ideal place to shoot a horror movie or one of those supernatural shows at night.

And Ally would probably have gone into a coughing fit, for the smell of kretek cigarettes was everywhere.

The main building of the court was no better in the decor department. Formerly a Chinese school, it has three floors, with a dimly lit basement for documents.

I arrived at 9 a.m., as the trial was scheduled to start at 10 a.m. Lots of reporters had packed the courtroom, from those from foreign wire services to bodrex, the bogus journalists ready to cut a deal for a story if the price was right.

And so we waited. And waited; 10 a.m. came and went, and there was still no sign of the proceedings getting under way.

"Don't worry, you'll get used to the late schedule," an experienced court reporter said to me, as the trial finally began at 3 p.m.

So I did; after about a week, I had quickly learned the ways of the court. Just as a 10 a.m. scheduled trial meant it would not start until at least 3 p.m., a 1 p.m. start would mean the judges would finally be sitting comfortably a few hours later.

I gradually got to know the court "culture".

At my first trial, I was busy scribbling down some legalese when someone sitting next to me tapped my arm.

"Mbak, Mbak, want (to buy) some Parker pens? I have a complete collection. Very cheap."

Uhm, a bit of wheeling and dealing in the halls of justice.

On another day, as the judge solemnly read his verdict, there was an almighty crash. An old wooden bench had given way, leaving a man not only sore from his fall, but also red faced.

Then there was the time when about 30 soldiers were sent out of the courtroom for carrying weapons. Well, maybe they could not be blamed.

The framed poster stating weapons were prohibited was covered with dust, its tiny print almost completely faded by time.

The soldiers probably did not notice it, and there is no security check anyway.

And pens are not the only items for sale in the courtroom. Legal expert Frans Winarta once told me that it really is the size of one's wallet that tips the scales of justice.

"You might be released after bribing someone or you might be detained if they expect some money from you," he said.

Now, perhaps, I have a better idea of what is going on during those hours we wait for a trial to start. Perhaps a bit of the green stuff is changing hands, and I don't think it's the same value as a new pen.

-- Sari P. Setiogi