On Justice In Noumea

By E. Berkeley

IF you happen to be a tourist, en

joying the invigorating trade

winds that fan Anse Vata, popular Noumean beach resort, if you have had your full share of sunbaking or a refreshing swim in the green-blue waves of the Pacific, you may con sider attending the Court of Justice in “town” an interesting, and rather welcome change.

I did!

You cover the distance of 2 miles in one of the numerous buses—tiny vehicles, which the New Caledonian fondly calls “baby-cars”. They run frequently and stop wherever you like.

The Place des Cocotiers is the terminus for all bus lines. It is situ ated in the centre of Noumea itself; and, with its flamboyant trees covered in bright red blossoms at this time of the year, it forms a beautiful square indeed.

In a sidestreet, within 5 minutes’ walk, stands the Palais de Justice. It is an imposing Colonial building for such a small Islands capital as Noumea, and has retained its charm for half a century.

A wide verandah encircles the first floor, and serves as ante-room for police, witnesses, accused, as well as for leisurely spectators of all ages.

Here the Tribunal assembles twice a week in the adjoining

Courtroom. Here foregather judges and barristers in their (pseudo) ermine - trimmed gowns, so much resembling the professional apparel of the Australian and English courts —with the sole difference, that our French confreres have wisely abandoned their wigs.

As it is already now in the early summer, they turn up their moist faces towards the purring electric fans, trying to keep cool; occasionally a flap with red-taped documents offers relief . . . ca v a bien, ca!

Before the official opening of the court usually a coloured sergeant busies himself. With rhythmic movements he sprays DDT underneath the ornate chairs of the Tribunal. The presidential seat is favoured with a particularly liberal dose!

The last sound of “phuttttt” from the spray (this seems to be one of the few UN written laws in Noumea) automatic

ally gives the signal for a general exodus from the verandah into the lofty courtroom, which by now is ablaze with a gleaming fluores cent light. Even on the sunniest of days. The wooden benches behind me, soon are filled by white and coloured people. They sit huddled together in respectful silence— Tonkinese, Indigenes (Kanakas) from the distant brousse, rub shoulders with white French town folks. Even a native from the Loyalty Islands group is present this morning, for whom a special enterpre ter must be appointed.

How colourful these people look!

Some have spotted jersies which form a vivid contrast against their dark skins, others in khaki are less gaily attired. Most of the native women are in voluminous Mother Hubbard frocks, with wide frills on hems and sleeves. They suit them charmingly.

THE first case on the agenda to-day is on of the illicit sale of alocohol to a native boy. It occurs often and is always considered as a grave offence.

An old Chinaman is the accused.

He stands before us, his head bent in shame. His voice is inaudible, as he replies to the cross-examination of Monsieur le President. Now his counsel begins to plead in exquisite

phrases for mercy for his client, ac companied by vehement Latin ges ticulations, which are never super fluous, but strikingly illustrative. He informs the Tribunal that the accused has actually sold the bottle of wine at cost price to the native (who had been found by the police sergeant savagely beating his horse whilst “under the influence”).

Furthermore, the defence proves to the judges that the Chinese vendor at once had acknowledged the origin of the bottle, without resorting to false statements, and that his client had never previously infringed the law.

Finally counsel sums up with an appeal for leniency.

The President puts the accused on a bond of good behaviour under the First offenders act. Our China man is 83!

A wrinkled yellow face turns around towards his lawyer, and his lips form the words: “Merci Mon sieur”.

Next, a case of juvenile delin quency. An ebony-skinned lad stands before the judges, not knowing where to look, where to put his hands or when to speak. Fourteen-years old Francois is , extremely nervous.

He is charged with entering a house and stealing a small sum of money.

From the barrister I learn the case history: The boy’s mother, an Indigene, had been married to an American Negro soldier from World War 11, when USA troops were stationed in

A recent aerial photograph of Noumea, capital of New Caledonia, and now the Headquarters of the South Pacific Commission.

4ew Caledonia. This boy was their egitimate offspring. Since the end f the war, however, the mother had entured out on a few “affairs of he heart”, with the result of addi ional illegitimate brothers and sis srs for the accused. There was little upervision over the children at ome, and the boy drifted into bad ompany. He has an innocent, hildlike expression. He is well-fed, nd is neatly dressed. Somehow, my eart goes out to him, and I feel rateful for the Tribunal’s decision, 5 remove the boy from his home nvironment, and to place him in cad with a reliable farmer, away •om the temptations of town life, nd enabling him to learn an honest ade.

It is 10 o’clock. Officially, the aurt is now closed to the public, he benches are empty. A few bar sters remain, standing about in •oups chatting quietly. However the ribunal on the rostrum retains its •namental chairs. The President rokes his hair, adjusts his pince-nez id in his well-modulated voice eminiscent of Maurice Chevalier) j reads out certain police evidence • the judges beside him. It con srns a recent car-accident, near the Tail township of La Foa. The driver in hospital in a serious condition -he sustained two compound frac res and a severe haemorrhage, tie policeman, sole witness, said: )river slightly injured”. The Presi :nt stops. He shrugs his shoulders, files tolerantly and I can overhear m whispering to his colleagues: Messieurs, it looks as if our worthy ►liceman has forgotten to put on his asses!”

PTHAT always fascinates me during * the court sessions in Noumea, on tesdays and Fridays, is the animated atory of the barristers, their ele ntly-worded appeals revealing an tounding vocabulary. In critical iments they sharply beat down an gument of the opposing counsel, ijestically waving their wide-sleeved ms in true Latin style. Their re ds are often spiced with personal mments, but a civilised decorum is untained. However, cynical their usions may be, in the fight for a ent’s rights, yet never do they avail jmselves of our modern Parlia mtary diction.

Furthermore, I am impressed with ; humane attitude which the legal ads of this small French colony opt in dealing with coloured and ite offenders of the law. Many a le did we hear the Tribunal* post ne a verdict, in order to obtain yet

more precise evidence before finalis ing the case.

The Court really tries to do its ut most to act with unbiassed fairness to both races and parties concerned.

Justice here seems to be upheld with Solomonian tact.

Only one trivial difference could I discern. Whereas white citizens are addressed with the formal Vous, the president will employ the more familiar personal pronoun of tu for coloured men or women—although his gentle tone of voice, and his im mense patience, I have never known to change, regardless of race.

This favourable impression of the Palais de Justice of Noumea will for ever linger in my mind, as the em bodiment of the historical French motto: “Fraternite, Egalite et Liberfe.”

MR. PAT COSTELLO, owner of a little island (Nananu Ira) off the north-east coast of Viti Levu, declares that the follow ing really is a true fish story. But he has given up the telling of it in the Defence Club, in Suva—he has found the fines there too heavy.

On Sunday, February 15, Paul Miller and others were fishing off Nananu Ira when Paul hooked a big one. The line broke, and Paul lost his tackle. Five minutes later he again hooked a fish. When he pulled it in, it had attached to it the equipment he had just lost.

On Sunday, March 15, Paul fished in the same area. He was pulling in a small fish, when a big fish snapped up the lot, and severed his line. But the big fish evidently dis liked the little fish, because a few minutes later its mangled body rose to the surface, near the boat. Paul collected it with his gaff, and re trieved the lost tackle.