Grave proceedings

The recent sitting of Killaloe District Court in a pub reminded Dick Robinson of the many colourful venues he visited during his days as a court clerk

WE took refuge in the courthouse in the town of Cahirciveen, during my secondary school days, from a marauding Christian Brother who had decreed that boys should be on the opposite side of the street to girls. The white line was apparently the paragon of purity. We crossed it.

Our stay in the court was short-lived but we witnessed a lady seeking to have another bound to the peace.

“She called me a consumptive hoor,” was the plaintiff’s argument. The district justice said: “You don’t look as if you have consumption to me.”

The story remains there, as the Christian Brother came in. We ran out and got belted heavily with the strap, which was lined with coins, when we got back to the school. My first encounter with courts was cynically amusing and physically painful.

An advert for a court clerk in the paper was the next time I gave any notice to our centres of justice. The job was outside of Dublin, where I worked as a tax officer and where I hated the venue and the work. Of course, the fact that the pay on offer for a court clerk was about £16 a week, as opposed to nine, was a factor in my application.

When Judge Aeneas McCarthy heard court cases under disco lights at the recent ‘Killaloe’ District Court — the temporary venue was O’Donovan’s bar and restaurant in Ballina in Co Tipperary — it put me in mind of similarly unorthodox venues once frequented by the courts service.

In my time, I worked in nine counties in a huge number of court areas, so unless a venue is named, it could have happened in any of them. In court, you will listen to stories of rape and murder and child abuse and theft and assault. You will hear the tragedies of families whose lives are in crisis, whether through the loss of a loved one by violence or traffic accident, or because a relationship is in tatters. You will listen to civil and licensing matters. Your role is administrative — but still, you must listen.

Two defendants were making their first appearance in court after being arrested.

The charges were the murder of two women. The court was sitting in a leisure centre in Arklow, in the hall, which had a pool-side patio outside.

The justice was informed by the garda that a group from the home town of one victim would try and “get” the defendants. “What will we do if there is trouble?” he asked. I had unlocked the door to the patio. “Follow me,” I said, indicating the door. In the event, we agreed with the superintendent that we would follow the normal procedure with the list. This was to call licensing-application and preliminary matters, then summary cases — unlighted bikes, defective car lights and tyres, speeding and the like, and finally the serious matters being prosecuted on behalf of the DPP.

It was decided that we would vary the procedure, and when the tenth speeding case in the list was reached, we would call the murder charges.

Then, a Garda cordon would be put across the hall and the defendants would be brought in. The group came forward, and, in a firm and effective operation, the gardaí contained them. I resumed my seat without having to sprint to the safety of the patio. The men were charged, and the remand procedure was carried out in a calm and courteous environment and they were remanded in custody.

At lunch break during a court, I heard the judge say to the defending solicitor: “I am watching your client there beside you and I must say that his demeanour suggests guilt to me.”

“Judge,” the solicitor said, “the man beside me is my apprentice — the defendant is at the back of the room.” Milltown Malbay had a rather unorthodox court venue for a spell. This was a prefabricated building in a graveyard and it was entered by a narrow gate on the right-hand side, as one came from the Spanish Point direction. Internally, it was grand as it was also used as a classroom.

The court sat once a month and one sitting was held during the annual festival held in honour of the musician, Willie Clancy.

In this location we were removed from the ceol and the craic. Instead, we were set amid the resting places of many, including airmen and sailors washed up by the ruthless Atlantic.

At the sitting, the superintendent was atypically distracted. His usual, perfect eloquence and incisive questioning was absent.

His gaze seemed drawn to the top window of the room on the right-hand side. We finished the list.

Later, as he came up to the bench as usual for a chat, before we went our separate ways, he apologised to the judge.

“You couldn’t see it — but there were a couple of revellers on one of the graves outside — and as sure as God they were doing the ‘bad thing’.”

Small wonder the locals call the festival ‘Willie week.’

Shortly afterwards, the court was moved to the community centre near the church in the town.

The usual suspects associated with the court waited outside for the arrival of the judge, and as we entered the hall, with not a little noise, we found a funeral Mass in progress.

Nobody told us the church was being repaired and we only hoped that the dignity of our retreat compensated for any distress caused by our entrance.

Another case involved a most beautiful woman who had been widowed at a young age. She was weary with the weight of the world. She had two beautiful children, and despite comfortable circumstances the grief had emotionally paralysed her. The application was for her children to be taken temporarily into care. It was being brought after all the authorities had talked with her and felt she was aware and prepared. The children were blond and beautiful, but they were unwashed and their hair was full of nits. Never has a court been more humane in explaining that this was for the children’s good. The two female guards picked up the children and held them as if they were their own. As they left the room, the mother screamed. She screamed a scream of hopelessness and helplessness and love and desperation.

My son was the same age as the eldest of the children. When I came home that evening, I held him in my arms and cried my eyes out. And several decades on, I can still cry about that story.

The last court I officiated at was in a hotel at Killaloe, Co Clare — I was changing career and my wife came to see how the court functioned and to see the last hurrah, so to speak.

After about a half an hour, the sitting and the post-court chats were over and the parties were leaving.

My wife was sitting on her own at the back of the hall when a most concerned garda approached her and said: “Mrs, is it that your case wasn’t called — or are you waiting to apply for a barring order?”