New Order in the Court

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ike Toby, Ian is in court for missing appointments at a drug-treatment program. He and his partner Lorna are raising nine children from previous relationships and fighting drug habits. Lorna says Ian needs the court's censure as much as its help: "You have to face your problems in there because you're asked, Why are you here? and there are elders staring at you, so you can't lie. The way they look at you makes you sit straight." While they wait in the foyer, elder Norma Langford scolds 20-year-old Nicholas, convicted of throwing objects at a passing car. "You didn't have any respect for other people's property, did you?" admonishes the 74-year-old. "That's a lesson we have to teach you - you can't destroy people's property and get away with it." Though elders can be consulted about sentencing, their main task is pulling trouble-makers into line and reminding them of their community obligations. Joe Narbaluk, head of the Enmaraleek Aboriginal association, says one offender was so struck when elders recognized him and urged him to emulate his football-player relatives that he gave up drugs for footy training: "In a normal court no one would have had the opportunity to attract his attention like that."

Sergeant Steve Lythgo has lost count of how many Koori defendants he's seen in 18 years as a police prosecutor. But he remembers their mood: "They had no input other than speaking to their lawyer before the hearing, and half the time they didn't seem to know what was going on." Here, magistrate Collins explains her rulings informally, without jargon. "The fact they are speaking to us," she says, "means they're more likely to understand they need to comply with the order." As his young son listens, Ian tells Collins he missed the appointments because his ex-partner has been threatening to kill their children. He is jubilant when Collins gives him a final chance to stick to his bail terms.

So many Kooris are now choosing to be sentenced by the court that it's booked out weeks ahead. But if they think they'll get an easier ride, says lawyer Julia Love, they're wrong. Many of her clients "feel quite comfortable in jail," she says. Having to complete drug treatment is far tougher: "It's a real commitment and it's confronting." Nevertheless, the court has critics. One of the fiercest, Q.C. David Galbally, has said it is seen as "giving a special favour to a group of people." Community spokesman Narbaluk says a soft touch doesn't help anyone: "It's foremost in everyone's mind that we cannot allow this to become too lenient, because that will defeat the purpose." Prosecutor Lythgo says he sometimes thinks an offender should have been jailed, but "they've been to jail before and it hasn't achieved anything, so what else can we do?" At a recent public meeting, Broadmeadows regional coordinating magistrate Bob Kumar was asked, not for the first time, why the court was needed. After repeating the statistics about Aboriginal over-representation in jails, Kumar says he told the crowd, "Most of us migrated here: we came with our eyes open. But the law has been forced on Kooris."

Two weeks after his appearance, Ian's drug treatment coordinator says he's kept every appointment. Toby is also off drugs, paying his rent, and found work after court staff vouched for him. "The court's made me realize I can survive on my own," he says. He strokes the head of his sleeping eight-month-old son. "Now I just want to raise him the best I can." If the Koori Court experiment succeeds, this child and many others may never need to enter a court house again.