Some months ago, I went on the Historic Houses Trust’s walking tour of inferior courts and, with the matter having ended more satisfactorily than most of my courtroom experiences (in an article herein), I did not see the need to attend the follow-up tour of superior courts. I met the editor of the Journal in his office to explain.
“I’m not sure what else I can say about these tours,” I said sliding the brochure across his desk. “They say they’ll answer questions like: ‘Who are all these people in court?'”
“Who indeed?”
“Who cares?” I said. “And it goes on: ‘Why do they dress the way they do?'”
“One does wonder why.”
“Why do walking-tourers dress the way they do?” I said. “That’s a question worth asking. Look, I just think I’ve used up all my cheap shots on the oldies who go on these things.”
“But think of our readers.”
“Yeah, I guess they’re pretty old.”
“No, this,” he said tapping the brochure. “It says: ‘You’ll view the recent refurbishments to the Law Courts building’ … Go see what’s behind the scaffolding.”
So, as your loyal servant, I presented at Queen’s Square, and prostrated at the feet of Queen Victoria – the meeting point – before a woman with a clipboard.
“Everyone’s been taken downstairs,” she said ticking me off. “To the crypt.”
“What, they’re all dead? Buried? Cremated?”
“Having coffee.”
I joined them and reacquainted myself with those – still with us – from the earlier tour.
“Can I suggest everyone goes to the toilet now,” said the guide. “Especially the ladies. The King Street courts were built at a time when it was thought that women didn’t go to court or, if they did, they didn’t need to go to the toilet.”
With half-finished cups pushed away, we queued, two by two, willed out what we could, and marched out like little banana-bread soldiers.
At the door of our first courtroom, the guide explained we were about to see the Sydney Airport motorcycle gang murder trial. She pushed the door open. Serious faces turned to watch us squeak our way in.
“Who are all these people?” I heard a woman in the gallery whisper to another. “Why do they dress the way they do?”
The judge entered. Everyone stood, sat, and held their breath as a man with a beard was brought up from below. There were whispers, and then a bailiff spoke up.
“Err, we’ve brought up the wrong man your Honour.”
“He’s no biker,” someone murmured behind me. “Wrong sort of beard.”
They took him down again. More phone calls.
“It seems the prison van is caught up in traffic sir,” said the bailiff.
“I suppose we will have to take a short recess,” said the judge. “Unless that earlier gentleman wants to plead guilty to something?”
When the correct ‘gentleman’ was brought into the court, someone came forward to read a victim impact statement. Part way through, they said they’d written a poem, and the room readied itself to extend its sympathies above and beyond – and into poetry-appreciation – until the reader said, on reflection, they would just hand their poem up.
Sighing, in appreciation, our group left to take in another couple of courtrooms before our guide directed us to inspect – not a word of a lie – an old toilet. Its special feature was a circular bowl and we queued to read, one by one, the name stamped inside.
“I hope you won’t make us sound dreary,” a woman said to me in the queue. “Like some bored bunch from Probus. These tours bring moments in history to life!”
And then she plopped her face in the bowl.
At last, we went behind the scaffolds, into the main complex and up to courtroom one – where the High Court sometimes sits. With gold leaf door handles, comfortable chairs and a view, it met with approval. As everyone tottered in and out, I paused for a moment and thought maybe – just maybe – for the first time in years, I thought I could hear the call of the bar.