Columnists

My Date With Kafka:
Part II

T. SHER SINGH

 

 

 

DAILY FIX

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

 

 

Continued from yesterday …

The lawyer’s secretary had just spoken to the court office. She informed me that there was a warrant out for my arrest, that the police were looking for me. 

“What does that mean?” I asked.

Oh, no problem, she said. Just go to the Old City Hall and explain to them that you forgot about the Court date, that’s all, and they’ll give you another one.

“But I didn’t forget any date. I didn’t even know I had to be in Court.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, “Jim sometimes forgets about these things.”

She made a gesture indicating a bottle.

“But not to worry. You go to the city Hall, and they’ll give you a new date.”

So, off I went to the Old City Hall. I found the court officer I was to talk to. Explained what had happened. He checked the file. Yes, a warrant had been issued. He asked me to sit down. He made a phone call. A police officer appeared in about 20 minutes. He asked me to identify myself. He checked my birthdate and address.

Then he told me he had to put me under arrest.

I was handcuffed.

There was nothing to say, nothing to do, but to follow him.

We were in the south-west corner of the building, on the main floor. We walked out, walked the entire width of the building to the East side, and north … towards the cells.

It couldn’t have taken more than a minute or two. But it felt like a lifetime. It felt like the crossing of the Sahara. I just wanted to disappear, to die.

I don’t believe I have the capacity to convey what went through my mind as I was led by the police officer through the crowded main hall and down the busy corridors, hand-cuffed like a criminal.

They kept me in the cells until past lunch hour, brought me into a packed courtroom, put me in the prisoner’s box, along with a number of other accused.

The Judge gave me another date and let me go without much ado.

I found another lawyer by the next morning. He heard my story patiently and examined the various documents in detail.

“A-ha,” he said, “your name has been misspelled in the charge. Maybe we can do something with this.”

It was obvious he didn’t believe my story.

I walked out and decided that only I could convey to the Judge what I had been through. I gave it a lot of thought and many a sleepless night and became confident that I could convince anybody and everybody that I was telling the truth -- but only if and when I was given a full opportunity to do so.

The date set for the trial arrived, 10 months later.

I arrived in court. Well before the 10:00 am time I’d been given. A police officer introduced himself. I told him I would argue my own case. He asked me if I wanted to discuss the matter. Sure, I said. Fine, he said, plead guilty and you’ll be out of here in an hour, a fine of a few hundred dollars, no more.

I looked surprised: “For running down two people?”

“Well, we don’t know. We can’t find the women. They’re not here today.”

“Have you ever spoken to them?” I asked.

“Well, no, but they’ll be here when we need them.”

I told him I had not done anything, so I could not plead guilty no matter what he offered to do to “help” me.

He avoided me from that point on. Sometime in the afternoon, during a break, I cornered the Crown Attorney  --  the prosecuting lawyer -- and explained my story. He said he’d check with the officer and get back to me. He did. He said: “The officer wants a guilty plea, or we go all the way.”

At 5:00 o’clock, my name was called. The judge gave me another date eight months down the road.

Eight months later, I came back fully prepared for battle. The officer was there. But no women. I tried to ask the Crown if he would review the file, but he scolded me for bothering him and ordered me to remain in the body of the court until my name was called.

At 5:00 pm, my case not being reached again, I was given another date, again several months away.

I came for the third trial date. Nothing had changed. This time, no police officer, no women. The Crown wouldn’t talk to me. I tried to speak to the Judge, very politely, but the Crown ordered me back to the seat. The Judge said nothing.

At 5:00 pm, when I was being given yet another date, I complained bitterly to the Judge: Three full days wasted, no income, no police officer, no witnesses.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, “the best I can do is give you another date.” I tried to explain. He threatened to hold me in contempt and jail me if I didn’t keep quiet. I went away with a fourth date in my pocket.

Finally, almost 2 ½ years after the initial arrest, the matter came to trial.

*   *   *   *   *

The police officer was the first prosecution witness. This is what I got from him in cross-examination:

-  that my car was never examined for any damage or markings. He did not feel it was necessary.

-  that he had never met or spoken to the complainants. They were not in court. There were no statements from them on file.

-   that no attempt had ever been made to meet with the complainants on the day of the alleged incident, or to have them medically examined. Why not, I asked. Because he could not physically examine a female, he replied. Have you heard of such a thing as a “female” police officer? Yes, he answered, but we don’t have any in our station. Did you ask the complainants to go to a hospital to get examined? No. Why not? We just didn’t, he said.

45 minutes after the commencement of the trial, the Judge interrupted my cross-examination. He asked the Crown what other witnesses were being called.

None, was the reply.

It was, and remains the shortest wrap-up of a trial I’ve ever witnessed.

The Judge asked: “Well, counsel, is there anything you can say to assist us?”

The Crown shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

There was total silence for about 60 seconds.

His Honour then proceeded to dismiss the charge against me.

*   *   *   *   *

Ever since, I have not nursed a chip on my shoulder. I have no anger, and I continue to believe in the system for one reason, and one reason only: the fact that the judge finally saw through it all and the truth came out, despite my ignorance of the procedure, despite my lack of training in legal matters, despite the way each and every person I came into contact with had failed the system.

I have thought a lot about that string of events since then.

I was aware that I had a few assets which had served me well: I was reasonably articulate, educated, patient, willing to let the system work its way through. I did not have an accent. I understood, without any difficulty, each and every person I had to deal with, and was able to relate to them as equals.

And that depressed me.

How would somebody else, someone with a thick accent, less fluent language skills, have survived the experience? Not without a heavier price, for sure.

That night I sat with my child in the rocker as she slept, and I cried. The pain, the humiliation, the embarrassment, the frustration, the powerlessness, the impotence, the hell that I had been through, but had never been able to share with anybody, poured out.

I was fortunate in that it did not turn into anger.

And this was possible only because in none of the good souls that I met during that 2 ½ year period, neither the lawyers I encountered, nor the police officers, nor the court officers, nor the judges, in none of them had I seen malice.

The incompetence and negligence they had displayed, the pain they had inflicted, was not perceived by them. They had just noticed that I was different and automatically inferred, possibly at a subconscious level, that I would not fully understand them and/or that they would not fully understand me; therefore, it was not worth their time or effort to put in that little extra effort which they decided they might have to expend on me; and concluded that it was alright to neglect me and my rights. It was okay to give me sub-standard service. I wouldn’t notice it; nobody else would notice it; in fact, no one would be the worse for it. They thought: nobody would know. Nobody would care.

It was intellectual laziness and dishonesty at its worst.

What I had seen was a mere product of human nature -- the dropping of standards to the lowest level permissible by a system, while maintaining the semblance of the service originally intended.

What saddened me all the more was the reminder that I lived in the best country in the world. What would’ve been my fate if I had been caught in a similar vortex in say, India?

*   *   *   *  *

I should hasten to add, before you jump to conclusions, that even though it took me a few more years to figure out my blessings, I have thereafter thanked God virtually every day for that string of events.

It planted a seed in me, which changed my life forever. It gave me the strength I needed to extricate myself from all that had tied me down till then. And to overcome further hurdles that came my way.

Within a year after I walked out of that courtroom a free man, I was well on my way to law school.

More than three decades after that day, as I look back at it all today, I wouldn’t want any of it changed a bit … for one reason only: for what it did to change me. 

A gift, I have learned, comes in a package. The wrapping gives you no clue of what lies inside.    

read other articles in Columnists