Without Fear or Favour

I thought my day was going to be easy since defending an octogenarian for a minor misdemeanour could not be difficult, but when the interpreter said. “I can’t understand your client,” things no longer looked so rosy. How could I run a hearing without an interpreter, with my client barely speaking let alone understanding English? I simply couldn’t.

“I don’t understand your submission Ms Weenberger.”

I struggled to grasp what I was hearing. Did the Magistrate mean he did not understand what I was saying? I was telling him my client did not speak Greek but Macedonian, whereas the interpreter spoke Greek.

Somewhere deep down, an uneasy feeling started to creep in. Suddenly the old court-room seemed to shrink to an even smaller area, with the Magistrate growing visibly in stature sitting on his throne like chair underneath the familiar Australian emblem, towering over me like a vulture, his black gown wrapped around him making him appear extra fierce. If only I was somewhere else.

“Ms Weenberger I trust you are ready to proceed?” It was as though the Magistrate had not heard what I had said only minutes earlier.

I was not sure if it was my imagination or if his Honour’s voice was icier than usual this morning. And why was it the man could not get my name right. I want to yell it is Weinberger your Honour, like wine, but I kept quiet.

“Your Honour, there appears to be a problem with the interpreter.” I try again, focusing on sounding calm and in control of the situation. There was no point letting on I was ready to throw up. Memories of my ballet teacher surfaced. She used to say ‘It is not what you dance but how you dance it. If you look confident, no one will know you have made a mistake.’ So with my shoulders back and head held high, I go into battle.

“What do you mean, there is a problem with the interpreter, Ms Weenberger?”

Again I ignore the mispronunciation of my name, wondering what would trigger the Magistrate’s sympathy, or if indeed he had any.

“Apparently the interpreter cannot understand my client because my client does not speak Greek and yet the interpreter does. My client speaks,” I am interrupted mid sentence unable to tell his Honour what my client speaks.

“Ms Weenberger, where was your client born?” There was definitely no hint of sympathy or understanding.

I cringe as I realize I am flogging a dead horse. My client looks older than his eighty–six years, yet there seems no compassion from Magistrate Mullens.  How could he be so heartless?

“In Greece, your Honour,” I reply fighting the urge to run out of court.

“And where did he live during most of his life Ms Weenberger?”

I am not sure if spit actually hit me, but it would have been close.

“Greece your Honour, but..” I try to explain.

I get no further.

“Ms Weenberger it is obvious is it not? Your client was born in Greece, he lived in Greece, he speaks Greek!” Mullens pauses to rearrange some papers before he continues.

“Sergeant, please continue.”

..............................

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