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by Carmelita Lee I moved to Ireland in 1999 in answer to an ad posted in the JCR Magazine for a reporter to work in a Dublin reporting firm. They wanted someone who had done high profile cases, and if coming from the Central District of California, Los Angeles Federal District Court wasn’t enough, having cases like Rodney King and segments of the Challenger Space Shuttle tragedy under my belt put me over the top. I was selected, along with one other American reporter, from among 250 applicants. I had been raised all over the world, an Army brat who had lived in Japan, France, Israel, and all over the United States. I was sure there would be no culture shock, and I looked forward to coming to the Ireland of the Irish Spring television commercials, or the Ireland of the movie “Waking Ned Devine.” And of course, you can understand the commercials, the movies – after all, can’t you all understand Pierce Brosnan when he’s playing 007? Yup, there won’t be a problem reporting in Ireland, after all, English is English. Or maybe it’s not. My first day on the job was one filled with apprehension, hope, a desire to please my new bosses and a need to keep food on the plate. After all, I had just left the best job and best salary I had ever had to leap into the unknown. I had been in Ireland for four weeks, setting up the house, getting the girls set up, the cat into quarantine, receiving our household goods in a container. Work wasn’t officially on at the time, due to the two-month summer break taken in the courts and reporting firms alike. Yes, two-month summer break. I hadn’t met my colleagues or my bosses until the day I was to first report to work. In honor of where I was, I chose my best royal blue plaid suit to wear to work, and showed up at the office amid completely blank stares. No one had expected me except my bosses. My shocked co-workers were not at all amused, and I and the other American had not met each other yet. We were, you could gracefully say, met with a deafening silence and a tangible gloom. Only our bosses knew we were there, and with no ceremony, they welcomed us and gave us our assignments. The other American lady was dressed in a black suit and white shirt – as was everyone else – and me??? I reminded myself of a riot in blue. My boss gasped when she saw me. “Oh, no!” she said, “You can’t wear blue to court! You can only wear black to court!” This was only the beginning of my very first day! I was 30 miles from home, no car, and no change of clothes. If they hadn’t needed me that day, they would have immediately sent me home. With a little shifting of the schedule (shhhedoool, they say) I went to Mr. Justice McCartan’s courtroom, and set up. The formality of the place was unbelievable, every person dressed in somber black (except, of course, me . . . .) and the lawyers were bedecked in black robes and white wigs. I was taking this all in as we waited for the judge. This tiny packed courtroom was preparing for the opening motions calendar, the first of the Michaelmas session. The room was stifling, and there was no ventilation, with very dim lights and a skylight above us which opened to a dreary, drizzly rain that turned the grimy glass pane into streaks of muddy water. That didn’t help. I personally was locked into a small area that had been designed for a pen writer, who in days past would have had his back to the court, and who would have faced the audience. The last revision to this courtroom had been in the 1930s, and machine shorthand wasn’t introduced here until 1988. The only way to actually write is to position the machine directly in front of the witness (you can reach out and touch them) and have your back to the Registrar (clerk) and to the court, because there is no room under the low desk in either direction . We’re provided with a regulation high-backed chair, not a comfortable swivel chair, so there’s no chance to swing around for better sound, or to hear the attorneys who are sitting directly below you, and to your back. The ceiling with the skylight is probably 30 feet high, and at the back of the courtroom is an observer’s gallery. The acoustics? Terrible. When the court came out, because there was noplace for me to go, and no room to stand up straight, I committed another faux pas . . . I didn’t stand up. I felt this urgent tugging on my blue plaid jacket, so I turned to face the registrar, who was hissing at me to stand up and show my respect to the judge. With some difficulty I moved my machine an inch forward, and pressed my chair into the Registrar’s side, stood and turned to look directly into the court’s face. Doing what comes naturally to all Americans, and what I had done at the beginning of every court day for the previous 12 years in Los Angeles, I smiled brightly and said, “Good morning, Judge.” There was a collective gasp . . . .A, you never look the court in the face, and B, you never address him! And the judge, looking a bit astonished, said sourly, “And good morning to you.” Then he bowed. Deeply. From the waist. And everyone in the room bowed as well. And me? I was just standing there, ready to fall over because it took all I could do to actually stand up straight, pressed between my machine, a desk and my chair. We got through the morning’s “list,” what they call their calendar, and started into a trial. It didn’t seem too bad, I was not having any difficulty at all with the accent, or so I supposed, and when I wasn’t sure of something, I stopped the speaker, either the lawyers or the witnesses, to have them clarify or repeat the phrases. Only . . . that’s not done here, and they found it quite annoying. By our morning break time, the judge had been alerted to the fact that I was new and a foreigner, apologies were given by my firm about the blue suit, and I had phoned my husband to hustle down to the store to purchase a black jacket. I had been instructed by my boss to be certain I had one “by the morrow.” I was practically in tears, because I had been soundly admonished by my employers that I was NOT to interrupt ANYONE for clarification, as “it isn’t done here.” The judge, it turns out, was new as well, and very kindly invited me back into his tiny chambers to tell me how he loved California, and wanted to run an American-style courtroom, so if I needed to stop people in order to get an excellent transcript, go ahead. Talk about confusing instructions. But just as kindly, he informed the Registrar to stop snivelling about my blue suit and my interruptions, which almost immediately set me and the registrar at odds. But then . . . at one point the new judge decided that since he had a crackers American court reporter, he could do what they do in America, and when even HE didn’t understand the inner city witness, he asked me to READ BACK. By then I had had my husband bring down my trusty old tape recorder so that I could listen back to everything before producing a transcript. I had never, ever heard 007 talk like this. When he asked me to read back, I was relieved, because I knew I had this section. We were dealing with a murder in the inner city, and the frightened witness was terrified of reprisals by the thugs who had committed the murder. He had witnessed the entire event, and then when the thugs ran off, he and two young girls had gone to the victim and tried to help him get to his feet, but couldn’t. He was describing how he went searching from house to house to get help, but people who had peered from the windows as the crime was committed, wouldn’t open the doors. This is what was in my notes: Q. What did ye then do, lad? A. I trout da dares. Q. And what did ye then do? A. I was sighing mortar, mortar, swum she held me. Q. How did ye feel then, lad? A. I would give fifty dollars American to know da dares. And that is what I read back to the judge. He (kindly) said to the attorneys, “Let’s do that again, slower please.” And this is what actually was said: Q. What did ye then do, lad? A. I tried all the doors. Q. And what did ye then do? A. I was saying, Murder, murder, someone should help me. Q. And how did ye feel when no one opened the doors? A. I knocked 50 doors on Maryland to open one door. Yup. And there was this exchange that I had to read back: Q. How long did this take, for you to get someone’s attention? A. Jason Miri and Joseph Mesuf was moving like the statutes of ball and spit. I interrupted and asked him to repeat it. He repeated it exactly the same. The court asked me to read it to him, and I read it. He was very kind, but exasperated. He said, “No, no, it’s: Jesus, Mary and Joseph, meself was moving like the statues of Ballinaspittle.” Eek. And this was only the first day of work. I’ve been here for four years now. Now all the female court reporters can wear what they want, including pants, to court, and any colour they like. And I have a reputation, not only with the attorneys, but with the judges, that I will interrupt every time I don’t understand. I not only speak directly to the judges, but some of them ask me how things were done in the States. I find it the highest form of compliment when, the next time I’m in their courtroom, I see things done that way. I have been privileged to help two new judges institute some new procedures in their own courtrooms, and I’ve submitted suggestions to their new courtroom revisions committee, which is working hard to bring the Irish court system out of the 19th Century. I don’t even hear the accents anymore, and my stateside family tells me that sometimes I even have a wee accent myself. I no longer write mortar every time someone says mortar but means murder, nor torn for turn, nor torch for church or touch. I did chance my arm . . . that means I put my arm through a locked door but reached around for the key to turn it, and got in. You can imagine what wide enough for a coach and four means – there are lots of phrases from old-time usage, chivalry and swordsmanship – like thrust and parry. That’s what the attorneys are doing every time they have a heated argument. And a highland coo? It’s a Scots breed of cattle – uh-huh, a coo is a cow . . . . And slow as the statues of Ballinaspittle? Well, apparently if you wait long enough at the Shrine to St. Mary in the little village of Ballinaspittle, the statues move . . . . and that’s pretty darn slow. Until next time. From Carmelita Lee, reporter at large in Dublin, Ireland ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Carmelita Lee is an American court reporter working in Ireland. She reported the Rodney King trial and portions of the Challenger tragedy. She is currently reporting in Ireland and has reported in Israel and the UK. (Back to Table of Contents) |