I worked in a rural law firm this summer and, as such, had the glorious opportunity to attend provincial court. I felt like a big shot. I put on a full suit. My task was to attend provincial court as agent for 4 different lawyers whose clients’ had suffered various drug, traffic and assault charges in the vicinity of the town. I was to ask for adjournments, enter pleas and set trial dates. I am assured by lawyers that the various accused will be absent. I arrive at provincial court, a community building which was at one time a high school and speak to the ‘clerk/Crown’ who is actually a local RCMP officer I had been drinking with the night before. He is younger than I am. I wonder why I don’t get to carry a gun too.

As the Court begins to roll through the 25 traffic offences I realize that I know most of these people, they used to be young punk kids. They are now apparently older punk adults who are driving recklessly, drunkenly or some combination of both. I am no longer comfortable on local roads. Plus I am the only person wearing an actual suit. Most people are in sweatpants. Various sketchy defence lawyers begin to gather at the back of the room, recognizable only by the fact that they are not wearing sweatpant. Defence lawyers are classy, they wear jeans. Those that are wearing ties look as if they got them out of the lost and found at KFC. They clearly hate being here, an attitude which they communicate by loudly muttering at each other and pacing back and forth like they have somewhere else to be. Hopefully the barber. Or at least a shampoo place.

Suddenly a lanky man with an unkempt (and food-encrusted) moustache sits down beside me and says “pssst”. I apprehensively lean over and he says “Are you Dubois?” I feel like saying “no”. Instead I nod “yes”. He points at my paper which contains his name and the following information “Assault on spouse. Previous offences. Seek trial date in November.” Hooray.

He asks if we can go outside to talk. I think “no”. We go outside and he explains his life story and asks if I can just apologize to the court on his behalf. I think “Sure. That’s all the Court ever wanted. An apology.” I ask him to sit quietly and let me speak for his lawyer. His name is called. He promptly leaps to his feet and begins to speak. Judge looks at me standing and asks “And who are you?” Judge advises accused that he would be well advised to sit down and let me speak on behalf of his lawyer. I have just been given a measure more credit than an unemployed two-time woman beater by a tired old provincial court judge. I feel like champion of the world. I get a trial date in November. After I sit down, Sketchy Accused informs me that he needs to “get the fuck outta here before November.” Apparently he has big plans. I suggest that he speak to his ACTUAL lawyer. Moustache Man pokes me hard in the chest with a dirty finger and says “you and your lawyer friend are on my Shit List” and storms out. Awesome.

Judge wants to dispense with ‘civil trial’ [small claims] that has been on the docket for months before my final issue arises. I am forced to watch two packs of maladjusted hill-folk from an even smaller town fight over a $3,000.00 trailer for 45 minutes. One woman “objects” within the first 30 seconds of trial. Judge looks as if he might grab the sidearm of RCMP officer and lay-waste to entire room beginning with the obese woman who “objected”. Obese woman is clearly a connoisseur of Frito Lays and The People’s Court. 45 minutes later, my final issue is dealt with - it took 15 seconds. It’s difficult to believe how hot it is in the room. I now realize why people wear sweatpants instead of suits. Considering the heat, I would feel sorry for the Obese Objector if I didn’t hate her so much - she’s sweaty and uncomfortable. She should wear shorts instead of sweatpants. I eventually go home.

Upon my arrival at the family farm my father asks if a criminal named Moustache Man had ever got in touch with me—he had called the house several times earlier looking for me. Old-Fashioned Lawyer’s secretary had given Mr Shit List my home number. Great—the woman-beater phones me at home and I am not even his lawyer. I give my parents full permission to wing Sketchy Accused with shotgun or small-calibre rifle if he ever approaches farm. Dad advises that he doesn’t need my permission to wing someone, especially a convicted woman-beater. In short, rural Saskatchewan is the best.