In post-Covid courtrooms, the word on everybody’s lips is backlog. Custody time limit can also be heard, being nervously whispered in the corridors. Trials of on bail defendants are being fixed to coincide with the 2022 panto season.
Let’s zoom in to what is actually happening on the ground.
Modern slavery trials requiring a Polish interpreter invariably feature several Polish Roma travellers family members as defendants and vulnerable gullible and desperate ethnic Polish victims. The interpreter is a Pole with no or very little understanding of Roma culture, which remains impenetrable to an outsider.
My current trial is no different. I interpret for two generations of, by now, partly estranged family of five. Interpreting for Roma clients is always an unnerving experience as I am aware of an uneasy history between Poles and Roma minority in Poland. Linguistically, it is also tricky, as Polish is never my clients’ first or preferred language. In Poland, they speak Romani at home, Polish at school, the bank, and the post office. At the UK court, they speak Romani among themselves, making me feel totally excluded. There are no Romani court interpreters. There is not one Romani language. Polish Romani is different from Hungarian Romani, which is different from Slovakian Romani and so on. The best I can do is to expertly navigate the minefield which is Polish-Roma history and stick to my interpreter’s oath, which is simply to ‘well and truly interpret and true explanation make of all such matters and things as shall be required of me according to the best of my skill and understanding’.
The judge does little to conceal her dislike for the defendants. One of them was absent at the beginning of the week. She informed the court that she was feeling unwell. The judge demanded a detailed medical certificate for the next day. ‘Not the general unfit for work’ note, as I do not believe this lady ever did a day’s work in her life’. The second defendant, a middle aged man, is in custody, as he is also wanted on an European arrest warrant for a string of offences in several European countries. He was absent too. His breakfast was late, and so he refused to come to court. We come in at 10:00 and adjourn until tomorrow at 10:25.
Unbelievably, the near identical scenario played out on the second day, with slight variation. The woman had now booked a doctor’s appointment for Thursday and the man had reported chest pain and feeling unwell to his wing officer, which prevented him from coming to court again. We were back home in time for elevenses.
On the third day, the first defendant was still absent. The second one turned up, to everybody’s confusion. That did not change much on the greater scale of things, as we still couldn’t proceed with one of the main players missing. The judge threatened to issue a warrant for her arrest for serial absenteeism, if she didn’t turn up the following day.
I have travelled to the North London court from my house perched on the Surrey borders, every day for an hour and a half each way. An early morning lift to the station by my long suffering husband, a half hour train journey, 8 stops on one tube, 3 stops on another tube, and I was there. Three hours commute a day so I could enjoy half an hour in the court’s waiting room, where I listened to plummy voiced barristers regaling us with stories of their elegant pastimes and posh weekend entertainment choices.
Trial continues.
