“So, this person the cops most unfairly say you raped,
Was it a boy or a girl?”
The client looks at me, nonplussed.
“So this bastard charlatan of a man, who ripped you off,
Does he have any money?”
The client looks at me, nonplussed
“I need ten thousand to get started, perhaps more because you are a new client”
“I think we have a good case, I think we’re gonna win”,
“Get you off”,
“Get real justice”.
The Courts are clogged,
The administrative staff are dreaming of better days, more senior government jobs, for less, or no work, and for much better pay,
The lawyers lower down on the food chain fight for the scraps,
The senior ones, maleficent, evil, divvying up the spoils,
Backroom deals are cut, “you get this one”; “I get the next”.
The Judges staring bored at the poor hapless litigants, numb to the pain,
Straining to make out the flapping tongues and pointless drivel, dished out by the lawyers,
The bullshit flowing free,
Death by paper and exhibits,
The floor a festering mess,
The client in the dock, or in the back seats, thinking:
“He never listened to what I said, he’s fucking this up”.
The Judge calls it a day,
Pronounces his findings,
You stare at your lawyer, his face drained white, faking a forced smile.
You know you have gone down, you felt it even before My Lord or Your Worship said it.
Sheepishly, on the way out, your lawyer puts a fake hand on your shoulder, the insincerity and embarrassment in his eyes,
“Sorry buddy, YOU lost”
“I’ll account to you in due course”.
Outside, the air is cold, and you know there’s more justice at the whorehouse just round the corner where, at least, when you get fucked, there’s a fleeting, paid for, pleasure.
Barry Varkel, an attorney of the High Court of South Africa and Solicitor of the Supreme Court of England and Wales.
Author of Nigiri Law and Goy Vey
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