My Day In Court

I am visiting the Palais de Justice -- the court here in town, for the third day in four. (My main project this week has been to learn about the justice system here in Kamina, Democratic Republic of Congo.) Today, the court will hear criminal cases. I’m excited, because yesterday, reserved for civil cases, was a complete dud.

Entering the courtroom, it is clear that today will be more exciting. It’s packed. Over 40 people have crammed onto six wooden benches. As we did yesterday, my interpreter and I walk toward the back to find a seat. We squeeze onto a bench, and court begins when the presiding judge rings a bell with his hand.

The clerk of the court reads some information about the first case, my interpreter kicks into gear, and I begin to jot some notes. All of a sudden, the presiding judge interrupts and says something in French that silences the courtroom and gives me the feeling that I should look up.

“Are you a lawyer or a judge?” my interpreter translates, as every set of eyes in the room, including those of the three judges, is fixed on me.

I blush.

Collecting myself, I announce that I am an “avocat.”

One of the lawyers has walked to the back of the room. He grabs my arm and shepherds me through the courtroom. I am placed on the very front bench less than 10 feet from the judges, behind a podium, with the lawyers who are set to argue today.

Woefully underdressed, I would stand out quite dramatically amidst six lawyers clad in black robes -- if my skin pigmentation hadn’t already served that purpose.

My interpreter slips onto the bench next to me. Two lawyers who used to have a spot on this bench must now loiter next to it. I am mortified. And a little concerned I’m going to be asked to practice some Congolese law.

Once the commotion dies down, one of the lawyers begins to make his case. He used to have my seat, and his papers are still in front of me. I try to slide the papers down a bit, but there are more papers and more lawyers to my right, and my interpreter is on my left.

Soon enough, the lawyer makes reference to a document and then has a need to look at it. Pressing up against my back (the bench has no back of its own), he reaches over my head and shuffles through his papers. He knocks my head with his elbow, pushing me within inches of a dust-filled compartment under the podium.

The lawyer finally finds the right paper. Having few alternatives, he leaves it at the podium and continues to push, jostle, and elbow me as he makes his argument for the next couple of minutes.

I think it’s fair to say that I assisted in my first Congolese trial today. Which side I assisted is harder to say.