He carried his readers along quite a roller coaster ride. Here was a funhouse mirror of a courtroom if ever there was one, a child's version of a trial proceeding performed with the same earnest manner seen when little children play at having tea parties with empty cups served to dolls sitting up at knee-high tables.
A child's tea party has no actual tea, and a bc human rights courtroom has no justice. The participants just act as if it did.
Hard to believe that it all took place in my city, in my country, in my Canada.
The final outrage came at the very end, as the curtain was prematurely run down on Andrew's eye-witness accounts of the theater of the absurd:
12:04 PM ...
CODA: There will be no more liveblogging. As I left the courtroom for the lunch break, i was taken aside by a sheepish-looking court official, who said that he’d just learned that I had been “broadcasting” from inside the courtroom. So had I. Broadcasting, I said? I didn’t have a microphone, or a camera.
No, he explained: but liveblogging counts as broadcasting. It’s not the computer that’s the problem. You can type away on it all you want. If you step outside to send it, that’s okay, too. But if you send text from within the courtroom, that’s broadcasting.
Anyway, I gave him my solemn word that I would do no more broadcasting. What with the hearings being almost over and all. It seemed a fitting way to put a cap on the week.
Fitting, indeed. One final empty cup of justice, to toast the conclusion of the game called holding a hearing.
Poetic justice, making a brief appearance at the end of a trial otherwise devoid of any justice.