A Sad Face

Over the years I have reported on hundreds, nay thousands, of court cases ranging from petty theft by a millionaire politician to cruel senseless murder of the spouse by a deranged man. But none haunts me like the first case I covered so many years ago. The face of the middle aged man I saw that day still reappears before my eyes when I feel a sense of sorrow and all self pity for my own misfortunes takes flight.

I was just out of college with a freshly minted degree in journalism. I was the lucky one in my class, landing the job of a reporter with the leading daily in this metropolitan town. I was assigned to the local court house with the responsibility of filling one column every weekday. This was another piece of good fortune because the courthouse was walking distance from my apartment and I did not have a car. With a cup of black Mocha from Fresh Mug outlet, reporter’s notepad and a pen I entered the courthouse. Even this novice reporter knew after only a cursory examination of the courthouse calendar that the story in Tuesday’s paper will come for court of Mr. Justice Hunding in room 403 at 10:00 AM. It was not difficult to kill an hour in a busy place like courthouse. A journalist, more so a fresh one just out of college, has an eye open and an ear out for a story and who knows what conversation one overhears ends up as a masterpiece of journalism.

I got another coffee, Kenyan this time, from Moonbeam Café in the basement of the building and walked up four flights of stairs. A friendly nod to the security guard and flash of the journalist pass gave me entry to the ‘press box’ - a wooden bench next to the witness stand. There were no more than fifteen other persons scattered in twos and threes in the room which could seat about two hundred. I did notice one shabbily dressed man sitting in the far back corner of the room a good distance from any one else. He must have been about fifty, his head full of graying uncombed hair, his face unshaven for a couple of days, He was buried in his thoughts and for all practical purposes may have been in another world far far away. The prosecutor and the defence lawyer were standing near the main entrance conversing almost inaudibly with each other. Thanks to the inquisitiveness of my profession I could not help but listen in to their conversation. The accused had attacked his father with a chain saw, fortunately no serious injuries resulted. This was not included in the charges though, because the father did not want it. The prosecutor, whose face turned towards the back corner whenever he mentioned the father, assured his adversary that the incident would not be mentioned to the judge. Their conversation and the mutterings in the room came to a sudden stop when the court clerk entered through a back door and called for order before taking his seat behind a table. Mr. Justice Hunding, wearing long black robe, entered from the same door and took his seat behind a square table. A policeman and the accused entered from the main entrance and the accused, holding a plastic cup in his right hand, stood facing the judge.

The prosecutor walked over to the judge’s desk and read the indictment. The accused had punched his doctor, a short frail woman in her sixties when she refused to prescribe him the drug he requested for his pain. The doctor came and testified that this was indeed the case. The doctor added, “My patient needs care for his mental illness. Unfortunately for him and the general public the medical profession is helpless without his agreement to be treated.” The defence lawyer now asked his client to state his side of the story. “Sir, I did not touch her, I went like this,” the accused said showing how he threw the punch, “but I held back just before it landed. And sir, she has been giving me poison which has been dissolving my intestines that come up in my saliva. I have it in this cup as proof, sir.” He tried to pass the cup to the judge but his lawyer grabbed it.

The judge asked the accused, “Do you agree to a month’s detention for the examination of your mental status and also agree to accept any treatment that is prescribed?”
“There is nothing wrong with me sir. It is the doctor who has something against me sir. It is her who should be standing in my place, sir.” The accused shot back.
“Look, the doctor is doing what she can for you. And I too want to help you if you will let me. Now let me remind you, it is you who is being tried, not the doctor. What do you have to say about yourself?” The judge asked him again.
“Sir, I have no problem that I know of. It is the doctors who are trying to kill me. They don’t like me for some reason sir. The proof is in that cup sir, only if you will care to look at it, sir.”
“Enough of the cup. Nine months.” The judge wrapped up the proceedings.

I don’t know why but my eyes wandered to the far corner. There the lone man had stood up and was looking at his only son, perhaps his only kin on this planet, being led away by the policeman in handcuffs. The image of grief frozen in that face has lived with me ever since and will be with me till I meet my God.


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