Court Monitor

It took forever to get, but in some respects my first job in OZ was worth the wait. My new position gives me a front row seat to Perth's underbelly in action, a window into the lives of the devious and malcontented. I am a Court Monitor.

On paper, the job is fairly simple and the technical requirements well within my powers. I ensure high quality audio recording of court proceedings and log the proceedings against the recordings. But unlike manufacturing widgets or flipping burgers in endless succession, my scenery changes by the minute. Dimbulbs follow the grand schemers, teenage drunks precede the 66 year-old first offending thieves. People smugglers, corporate cheats, contentious lawyers, wife beaters and blokes stealing candy from babies--I get them all. With the added thrill of a different judicial system. OK, 'thrill' is more like 'momentary panic' at times, but that is also a plus in the package.

So much information to impart but I cannot possibly list it all here. I think I will answer some of the questions I've been asked amidst select tidbits:
Your day (minute) in court is spent looking at people with their heads buried in paper. The judge, judicial support officer, prosecution, your defense, the court officer and the court monitor are all staring at their copies of various paperwork pertaining to your matter. Don't worry, the JSO will give you your own set of paperwork to bury your head in later.
Judges and lawyers don't wear wigs in the lower courts or in civil matters. Judges do wear a black robe. In district court and higher, you can tell the status of a person by the size of his/her wig and jabot (JAB oh. white ribbon collar.) The larger the size, the more important the person.
Supreme Court handles serious crimes like murder and high value theft. It does not function as a last stop for appeals or rulings like it does in the U.S. The courtrooms themselves are gorgeous and storied in their wood panelling, raised prisoner dock and private fireplace for the judges (no longer used since the advent of central heating).
Magistrates Court is the first stop for everyone. You are either arraigned and sent on to the appropriate court or plead guilty and take your punishment. Mag Court, as we call it, is the intermediary step for attorneys who want to become judges. It is also the Lawyer/Mag's first chance to tell idiots and repeat offenders exactly what they think of them.
The terminology has changed in the past couple of years. It is no longer "The Queen vs..." , "Appearing for the Crown.." or "Your Worship", rather, "The Commonwealth vs..." , "Appearing for the State..." and "Your Honor, Sir, Ma'am" although I've never heard anyone being corrected when saying 'Your Worship'.
If you are entering or exiting a court in session, you must show reverence for the court. A short bow...even an irritated jerk of the head...is considered good form and proper behavior. No eating or drinking. Keep your kids under control.
Newbies are easily spotted. First timers are always dressed in the best clothes they own. Suit & tie. His brother's khakis. Her most expensive sweater. Their faces are white, bodies stiff and the most likely to come to tears during their appearance. This all falls away with each successive appearance. Habitual criminals just manage to change out of their pajamas before showing up. Only just.
Peculiarities in the legal ranks. It seems lawyers the world over have an unwritten code: the more attention paid to their clothing, the less time spent on grooming. I don't think more than two or three practicing attorneys in Perth own a comb or brush. And everyone uses their given names. There are no Bob's, Susie's or Andy's on the legal rolls.
Court Monitors do well to develop stoney faces. If we forget that we are part of the courtroom, utterances of "yeah, right", "loser", "you're kidding" are heard by those near us. Even facial expressions like rolling eyes aren't a good idea. Some very good reasons why most of us prefer the courtrooms that have Monitors in offset booths instead of near the judicial bench. No one is looking behind the glass.
Residential Tenancy appearances are a penance. Only the senior monitors get the juicy Supreme cases and no one wants Children's Court. A steady diet of heartbreak is hard on the soul.

Naturally with all this excitement going on during our days, Court Monitors can't wait to tell their spouses about the latest case (omitting sensitive information, of course) and the new things they learned. Oddly, spouses don't seem as excited about the whole thing. And not everything I learn has a legal aspect. One week I learned how to tie a double (full) Windsor knot in a necktie, Monday I learned that the optimal bull:cow service ratio is 2:50. Hey, I had to get something out of that monumentally boring civil case.

Ribbons

I am an addict.

I have aspired to this state since I was about nine years old. On the outside, looking in. Eyes mesmerized by bright lights reflected off glass, wanting what others had. Plotting, planning, scheming how I, too, could come to glory.

Shelf after shelf loaded with bottled beauties. Tables of creations which able and amateur hands had made. Some worthy, some unworthy of the accolade draped upon them. Accolades that could be, would be, mine. Ribbons, of course. Prize ribbons at the State Fair are what we are talking about. And the first one sets a person on the path of obsession, nay, addiction to wanting more.

I had many nonstarters. First with my favorite bread to make called Sally Lunn-baked in a bundt pan. But the entry deadlines are months before the fair and I didn't develop a fever for it all until too late. The DT's hit during the fair itself, when sadly nothing could be done. A successful victor knows patience and when to strike. [This also describes terrorists, but we aren't going there.] My last year in Ohio saw my perfect opportunity to achieve goal. I was canning peaches when I had a vision. A dozen or so of the peaches were of equally small dimension. They twinkled. They winked. They waited without complaint while I carefully peeled and placed their worthy fruit into a mason jar. They held their shape and heads high when the blue Christmas ribbon I placed on the lid was replaced with a first place ribbon by the judges. They had delivered my dream.

But what to do in Perth? The Royal Show had different rules and the preservation method itself was different. I checked out the competition on my first Show here. Ha! This wouldn't be just a ribbon, this was going to be ownership of the competition. The fever never left. I measured peaches at the grower's market so they would fit my jars perfectly. OK, they gave me a funny look when they spotted this until they heard about my plan. I was then escorted to the nonpublic sorting room to have my pick of the harvest. I also carefully selected tomatoes for judge-blinding shape and size. My pickled pepper relish looked like heavenly confetti. Ammunition ready, I reached for the application.

Problem. The rules seem to indicate that every entry must have a twist-off lid to allow the judges to taste the contents. All well and good for jams & chutneys, but one never opens vegetables without using or refrigerating afterwards. I called the Chief Steward who agreed that was an issue and said to enter my canning jars as they were. Indeed.

But, in fact, my tomatoes were not rule-compliant. They were not pickled. The judges could/would not taste them...and I would not have expected them to. But who uses pickled tomatoes in their spaghetti sauce? Who pickles tomatoes? This requirement may be the entire reason that only three entries were turned in for the vegetable class. The other two were bread & butter pickles and a jar of pickled mini peppers. My red beauties were destined to be fourth in a three horse race.

My tomatoes won a red ribbon--second prize--untasted. Gosh, how bad were those peppers? You might notice that re-using commercial jars is perfectly OK here at the Royal Show. An absolute no-no at State Fairs back home.

I happened upon the Chief Steward during my day at the Show. She had the grace to look repentant. She realized about an hour after talking with me on the phone that she had given the wrong advice and had no way of correcting the information.

One can't function without a few extra fixes during the year. So during the off season, I enter a few creative contests-either ideas or writing- to scratch the itch. When one pays off, you'll be the first to know.