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A tour of the magistrate courts

Apr 28, 2010 Features / Columnists, Freddie Kissoon

I went to listen to the arguments in the Mark Benschop trial involving operating a radio station without a licence. After I left the court, Mr. Benschop suggested that I should visit all the magistrate courts in the immediate vicinity. I did that. What I saw was awful and it brings me back to the performance of those in charge of the public realm in this country – the Government.
Many of those courts are without fans. They are small and cramped and desperately in need of a coat of paint. If a foreign visitor is brought before the courts and their relatives attend the session, it would not be nice what they will have to say about Guyana.
The Georgetown magistrate courts betray the economic stagnation of this. If you want to see the class content of justice, go down to the magistrate courts.  Almost all the defendants I saw were people whose sartorial appearance suggested they were from the lower rungs of the economic ladder and their class position may have been the reason why they were facing prosecution. Benschop suggested that I devote some attention to a magistrate by the name of Hamilton because he heard that she doesn’t give bail too easily. He pointed me to her arena. I decided to check before I sat because I could end up wasting my time when another female magistrate might be deputizing for Ms. Hamilton
I went to the prosecutor’s corner, and inquired of the female police if the official on the Magistrate’s bench was Ms. Hamilton. She indignantly refused to answer me. Mark Benschop was right there. The Guyana Police Force has some stupid people in it and you want to know if the failure lies with their trainers or them. There was no question in my mind that this officer knew me. How can a police officer refuse to identify a public official like a magistrate for someone who is requesting that information? Her job is to help the public. The person who occupied the magistrate’s seat leant over and probed what I wanted. When told, the magistrate said to me why I did not put the question to her directly.
I was momentarily speechless. Again, Mark Benschop was a witness. That was what I got for the respect I showed to the court. How can a media operative walk into a court and asked the sitting magistrate; “Is your name Hamilton?” I wasn’t going to do that for two reasons. One is that this is not the way it is done. Secondly, if it was done that way, you know you would be thrown out or even be arrested for disrespect. I will not print the conversation that occurred between me and Ms. Hamilton suffice it to say that if she and the Police Commissioner read this, then I would expect that the police woman would be given a stern lecture.
I visited the “child support” office officially known as the maintenance office which is in the compound. It is a tiny room that is unfit to serve the mothers that go there to collect their support. Is Priya Manickchand proud of this achievement? There was blackout so the women could not be tended to. They sat helpless on a bench in the court compound, and as Benschop introduced me, their eyes lit up as if I was Santa Claus. They knew I had nothing to give them except publicity and that was what they were joyful about. All the files in this office are of the paper type; there is no computerization. The piles reach to the ceiling. If those files are lost by rain or fire, no more data will exist on these women’s claims.
My last stop was the “holding pen.” This is the incommodious spot where prisoners are kept before they are moved to the courts. The place was built for about five prisoners. I saw about thirty-five of them in the cell. In the front part there are two small, dilapidated benches and a table. That is where you conduct business when you bail a person. The table is so dirty that you can pick up a serious infection by touching it. This place stinks to high heaven.
I left the hell-hole that was the magistrate compound in disgust. It was a bad morning for me. How could I get out of my mind what I just saw?  My day was saved by a wonderful conversation I later had with the wife of my former primary school teacher at St. Thomas More School on D’Urban Street.

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