a 2-year old op-ed

Last week, a colleague emailed me about this column, which appeared in the law school's newspaper some two years back. She and I became acquaintances in a school organization only last year, and apparently she read this quite intently the summer before her internship. "I never thought I'll get to meet the person who wrote this," she said.
I was flattered, and then alarmed. Do I even have a copy of that column? I decided to dig through an old and now rarely-used email account (Yahoo!) and found this in the Sent folder. I'm publishing this piece here so I don't lose it again.

Published in the Palladium, Vol. 2, No. 3, June 2005
Out to See
By: Sara Jane A. Suguitan



Precious Internship Moments



When I first walked into my hometown's courtroom, my conviction that Ally McBeal's pristine halls of justice are just pure, unadulterated fiction became all the more strengthened. It was nothing fancy; it looked like a small, dusty chapel. Two ceiling fans fanned in heat to the 60 or so folks packed up in the space. Instead of an altar, the pews faced the bar, where the Judge sits, the witness stands, and the lawyers and stenographers huddle. Tuesdays and Thursdays were crim days. The rest of the week is devoted to civil cases, and civil cases are exciting only when divorcing couples are being tried.

Usually, hearings finish around noon . Preliminary conferences come in after lunch, and that's when I make a small trip to the nearby coffee shop to breathe in some crisp summer air and accidentally overhear the local gossip. Lawyers and clients come in there to talk out the case and discuss strategy. Lawyers and lawyers come in there to settle. As for me, going solo on a corner table guarantees good beyond-the-classroom-walls education. Folks talk about the weather, politics, both local and national, their families, schools, and the economy. From this, you gather quirks and differences, common frustrations and opinion, and admiration for this people's sheer faith in faith itself.

Brewed coffee is at P20 a cup and I only need a quarter of that brew to get me writing the decisions assigned to me. All in all I wrote 7 during my 240-hour stay. That and the hearings keep me busy all day. The kind judge, who lives in Sta. Mesa and apparently makes a daily bus trip to and fro, takes time to discuss the cases he hands down to me. "Let's deny this petition," he'd advise. Sometimes, it's "This motion should be denied so the case can go to trial and the defense be heard." Then I scour the thick records for the factual bases and the pleadings or the scattered copies of SCRA (some are in the Judge's office, the others are in the public attorney's) for the legal bases. On a rare occasion (and with all my might), I politely expressed my position on a case which was opposed to that of the mild-mannered judge. The case was for illegal possession of shabu, which consisted the bulk of the criminal dockets. The accused was only 19. Two weeks before I had to deny his motion to dismiss, he was arrested by the police. He was brought into the office where I work along with the staff of the judge, and I had the sad view of a dirt-poor lad in handcuffs, clutching a plastic bag containing his clothes. He'd need it for that night, and for many more nights he'd be spending in the nearby provincial jail until, hopefully, he gets acquitted. Judge reasoned out to me that it would be better to dismiss the motion for reinvestigation since it will not guarantee the accused his liberty from his jail cell. Indeed, it was best that he go to trial. I saw the logic and reluctantly accepted the decision's wisdom. I wrote a denial of the motion with a heavy heart. At 5 p.m. that day, I went straight to the cathedral and prayed hard. It was the best I can do.

Most of the accused in the criminal cases being heard here are poor people, and most of them don't have lawyers. Heartbreaking. I haven't seen the jail, which is adjacent to the court, but I'm 100% sure that the living conditions are bad. One time, I drove by the jail complex on my way home and saw that the government has started constructing an annex. A sign at the front said, "This is your taxes working for you." Nice, I thought, but I'd rather have my taxes work effectively for me by uplifting economic conditions. I'm starting to re-think the Dangerous Drugs Act. Did our legislators really think that by imposing longer jail terms and drop-dead amounts of fines, we'll be curbing the drugs problem? Did they seriously think things through before passing that hell of a law? Most of the violators of the drugs act are poor people. The poor resort into drugs because they're 1) poor and depressed (lack of money bears a direct correlation with sanity and quality of life); 2) they need a way out; and 3) they don't know the consequence.

May 18 was my last day of internship. I came to the office at 7.30 a.m. to finish the seventh decision. It was a case of shabu again, and this one's going to be dismissed for illegal search and seizure. There were only three of us in the office, and I had the only computer all to myself. By 8 a.m. the decision was ready for the Judge to correct, or, hopefully, if no corrections will be made, to sign. I had spaghetti, chicken, and large cups of Coke delivered by 11 that morning, and by then my papers were in order – certificate, evaluation forms, etc. It was indeed a very sacred 240-hour experience