Justice in the Congo, Part 6

Civil Court

On Wednesdays, the courtroom is used for civil cases.  My translator and I sit with a few others in the gallery as the Chief Judge walks in and takes his seat behind the bench, flanked by the Minister of Justice (a sort of head administrator) and the Clerk of Court (who doubles as the court reporter).  The Chief Judge hand-rings a bell to signal that court is now in session.  Three cases are slated for today.  

The only item on the courtroom wall is a piece of paper at the front of the room telling people to silence their cell phones.  This is asking a lot in the Congo, where cell phones are omnipresent and cherished.  Within seconds of the bell, a lawyer’s cell phone rings.  A moment later, the Minister of Justice answers a call and abruptly walks out of the courtroom mid-conversation.  

One of the parties in the first case is not here, so the case is postponed until both parties can attend.  In the United States, failure to show up in court or file documents on time often results in a loss.  But travel in America is not like travel in the Congo, where it can take over a day to drive 100 kilometers.  The train south to the major city of Lubumbashi -- which takes about a day when everything works -- tends to take two or more (no doubt in part because many railway employees, I am told, have not been paid in years). 

The second case is over just as quickly.  The parties are present, but they are merely continuing a hearing that began a week earlier.  Everyone decides that the matter is best resolved in private, in the judge’s chambers.  

I never receive a straight answer about the third case.  Court adjourns within four minutes.  

Criminal Court

On the following day, reserved for the criminal docket, the atmosphere is different.  The gallery is packed with more than 40 people -- all crammed onto the narrow wooden benches.  Six lawyers clad in black robes occupy the quadruple-wide podium in front.  

Three judges walk in and take their seats behind the bench.  They are joined by the Minister of Justice (who, among other things, announces the judgment of the court for each case) and the Clerk of Court, who writes the only records of the proceedings -- longhand.  

The gallery is remarkably well behaved during the four hours I sit in court.  Occasionally, a comment by a lawyer or a party causes the gallery to grumble a bit, but a harsh shout of “Silence!” from a judge restores order immediately.  

The first case, as my translator puts it, is a “dispute over soil.”  It ends quickly, as one of the lawyers says he had no time to prepare.  The panel agrees to postpone the case.  It seems that delay -- a prominent feature of daily life in the Congo -- is every bit as common in court.  

Everyone is present and prepared for the second case, and it goes forward -- for hours.  A farmer from a village named Kalumdwe, about 200 km east of Kamina, has been evicted from his farm by three men.  These men, the prosecutor says, have threatened to kill the farmer.  His crops, including bananas, maize, sugarcane, beans, and manioc, have been destroyed, and he and his family have been forced to sleep outside.  

The prosecutor produces a sheaf of documents establishing that, as far as the state is concerned, the farmer has had title to the land for nearly 50 years.  

The three defendants stand in front of the wide podium, facing the judges.  Dressed in jeans and short-sleeved collared shirts, they mostly plead their case themselves, as their lawyer stands by.  

The defendants furnish their own documents, from their own authority.  They explain that the old chief in their village has died, and that the new chief, their father, has authorized them to take the farmer’s land.  They present letters from the new chief ordering them to harvest the farmer’s crop.  According to tribal custom, they argue, authorization to harvest a crop implies the further power to kick the farmer out altogether. 

The oldest defendant, who speaks forcefully and with passion, sums up:  “The old chief has died.  This is our moment!”  

When either lawyer wishes to speak, he raises his hand.  As in grammar school, a lawyer’s desire to speak can be gauged by the angle of his extended arm and how fast his raised hand wiggles.   

A judge asks whether the defendants accept that the land belongs to the farmer.  They do not.  “It belongs to the chief,” says one.  

The prosecutor, who speaks eloquently throughout, finishes his argument by stating that the Congolese government rejects the new chief’s decision.  “The soil belongs to the government, not the chief.”  And the government is clear that the farmer owns the land.  “They must be condemned!” he shouts.  

One of the judges states the view of the panel:  “Everything belongs to the state,” he says.  “The state has the last word.  Even the chief is not above the law.  If he were, he could take everything for himself.”  

Case closed -- almost.  The court wants to know the extent of the damages to the farmer’s crop.  The prosecutor cannot establish the damages, and the defendants vigorously dispute that they caused any harm at all.  

The judges make a surprising decision:  They will travel over 200 kilometers to visit the farm themselves and assess the extent of the harm to the farmer’s crop, the journey to commence in just over a week.  But the judges have no money for the expedition.  Costs are estimated in advance, and the parties must pay before the journey begins.