Jokes, whispers and sore butts
Court, with its formality, repetitions, solemnity and policemen, is a combination of church and school
YOU could feel the excitement buzzing through the High Court in Pretoria like a note vibrating along a guitar string on the opening day of the Oscar Pistorius murder trial.
We journalists sat cracking jokes and murmuring as we watched and waited for the accused’s arrival. We went “ooh” and “aah” as we spotted June Steenkamp in the benches, steely eyed and ready to glare at the man who had killed her daughter. We speculated about who would be sitting in the witness box first, and which members of the large, posh Pistorius clan were present. And we all gasped “did you see that?” as Pistorius was ushered hurriedly into court, staring ahead, avoiding the mother of his dead girlfriend and taking his seat.
Steenkamp glared, Pistorius stared ahead and we watched them in between staring down at laptops, phones and tablets, desperately tweeting the smallest gesture, the slightest noise, the breadcrumbs of insight that would make ours more retweeted than anyone else’s. When Pistorius produced a cushion to sit on, we craned our heads to see what colour, what kind, how old, what branding? As the proceedings finally got under way, if you looked up from whatever you were writing on, you might have noticed that the only people with their heads up were those involved in court business
We’re as close as can be to experiencing the feeling of what it’s like to be on trial
and the two families who were both staring at Pistorius. The journalists all had their heads down, furiously clacking away, and the only sound to be heard besides the voices of the lawyers was the clicking of keyboards.
Five days in, and the clicking is less incessant as we realise that some things in a court trial are just not that interesting — no matter what advocate Barry Roux may have you think. The guitar string note is quieter and has far less vibrato behind it than on day one.
Now that we have reconciled ourselves to the fact that we are all in this for the long haul and that everyone knows everything, we are more relaxed — explaining to each other what witnesses are saying, how names are spelt, what time phone calls were made. Common purpose makes for better relations and there is the solidarity that comes from knowing there are eyes on us and that Judge Thokozile Masipa is one unmuted laptop away from throwing us out.
Court, with its formality, repetitions, solemnity and beadyeyed policemen checking us out, is a combination of church and school, and we are the naughty kids trying to surreptitiously open sweet packets under the cover of diversionary coughs. We know that in the end our days of clicking and sore posteriors caused by hard benches will pay off, but it is hard to maintain that first-day focus once the slow wheels of justice start creaking through every detail of every minute of that fateful Valentine’s Day. Outside, other journalists watch the proceedings in the overflow room, where some things can be heard better, and photographers man the barriers waiting for the inevitable daily walk of shame. But in here we are as close as can be to experiencing the feeling of what it is like to be on trial.
By the last session on Friday, the first signs of nodding off could be seen. But, remember, the eyes of the world are on us, for now, and no one wants to be the person whose drooling, openmouthed, heavy-lidded visage was broadcast across the world into living rooms from Johannesburg to Moscow.
Tomorrow there may be fewer journalists in the gallery, but those who are there might bring cushions — and that is the true sign of dedication to the process, no matter how long it takes.
After all, this is all going to hurt Pistorius, his family and the Steenkamps much more than it will hurt anyone else.