Cold as a Courtroom

            My body is pulsing with slight shivers, and I curl my toes to bring heat back to my iced feet. It’s Swaziland, so it can’t be that cold, right? But the wooden courtroom bench beneath me is stony and the air above feels as if the sun hasn’t shone in weeks. For her, it must feel like years. She stands like a statue, her hands clenched behind her back while I sit and stare at the defense attorney who has been questioning her for over an hour and a half already.

            I can’t tell if my stomach is quivering because it’s cold or because it’s keeping me from standing up and punching him.

            “I put it to you, _________” he says her name as if he knows her, and it feels like nails on a chalkboard. “You are lying. Tell us, when did you become such a promiscuous girl and wayward child? You were having a relationship with __________ and tried to hide it by blaming the accused.”

            “I don’t know anything of that. What I know is he raped me,” she responded, her voice cracking like icicles melting.

            She was eleven years old during the time that this occurred. And this defense attorney is telling her she was promiscuous and wayward and willingly having a relationship with an old man – and to cover it up, she made up a story about the accused who sits there soaking up this moment of watching her squirm.

            “Why didn’t you report it right away? Why did you wait three years to report it?”

            “Because he threatened to kill me.”

            “No, I put it to you, __________, that you didn’t report it for three years because it never happened. You reported it to get on better graces with your grandma who didn’t like the accused.”

            “I don’t know anything of that. I know that he threatened to kill me,” she repeats.

           

            It went on like this for two straight hours. She stood for TWO hours as this attorney spat pointed questions – no, not even questions! Half of his approach was telling her things, making statements and then saying, “What do you have to say about that?”

            There was a point where he kept mentioning things like, “If you were really traumatized, you would have reported… or You wouldn’t have gone back to him when he called you… or You wouldn’t have listened to so-called threats…etc.  I wanted to yell at him that he was simply making a fool of himself by clearly knowing NOTHING about trauma.

            Ooh, he was horrifically good at his job. So much so that I can’t picture him sleeping that night, recounting the abusive comments he spat out at a victim while defending so relentlessly the perpetrator.

           

            He actually came to confront me at the end, though. It was about a letter of complaint that I had submitted to the Ministry of Justice about him and his “convenient” lack of appearance for the past SEVEN court attempts. Over the past FIVE YEARS, the case has been in existence, and the defense attorney never showed up once. So the case was always postponed. Thanks to the advice from some local Swazis, I followed their steps and submitted a letter of complaint to the correct offices. The authorities were quite upset and moved by the complaint and carried out their investigation. I don’t know what he – the defense attorney – was told, but he had serious pressure breathing down his back. And he came to confront me about the letter, claiming it was pointed and unfair.

            I simply repeated, “No, sir, what’s UNFAIR is this girl having to tell her story SEVEN times over and over, to be traumatized, exposed to her perpetrator, and undefended in a place where justice is supposed to reign. Not excuses from the defense attorney to not show up.”

            “But, they were good excuses…”

            He continued talking and I couldn’t help but scoff. He said something like, let’s all focus on her and how to finish this case, and I said that’s exactly what the letter is for. While he still tried intimidating us that the letter could cause problems, I stood unmoved by his pity party. And I gloried in the fact that someone in authority had clearly warned him something severe. He ended by saying although the letter was unfair and blah blah blah, he respected me for taking the right steps and not taking it to the media. Again…thinking only of himself.   

            Meanwhile, the girl whose trial it stood there while he and I bantered back and forth until he left after his last comment. When I left, I asked her what she thought of this whole process and me personally getting involved. Did she think I was overstepping anything? She had read through and approved my letter of complaint, but she was so silent that day, I couldn’t tell if she was bothered more or not. She wrote me a letter the next day entitled: To my Wonder Woman:

            “How blessed I am to have someone to call her mother. Educated people say a true mother fights for her child…Thank you for choosing me and for making sure my case proceeds, really my case was not going to proceed without you. The letter you wrote was perfect. In the end, whether he is found guilty or not, I don’t’ care for he knows the truth deep within his heard, which is the one that will set him free. You stood for the forgotten, least and the last, and by doing so you brought peace, joy, and freedom in my heart. You are my hero, Mom.”  

           

The case still has a long ways to go. At least she is done with her part. The witnessed will be called to stand next month. And then the defense still has his part after that. I don't know when this case will be concluded, but I am now reassured that at least she feels fought for - not just by me, but by those in authority in this country. We are deeply grateful for the positive feedback from the Ministry of Justice and the DPP. <3 p="">