A Day in the Life of an Accused tour a chance to see the inner workings of Melbourne’s County Court

EVER wondered what it’s like to be processed through Melbourne’s court system? Herald Sun’s Mikey Cahill takes you into the bowels of the County Court to experience a day in the life of an accused.

Mikey Cahill experiences life as an accused.

IT’S early … 6.55am … sparrow fart.

We’re outside the County Court, waiting to go in as the first journalist and photographer duo to experience the A Day in the Life of an Accused tour.

Why are we milling about at dawn? Because we need to be all done by 7.30am when the real criminals start arriving. Gulp.

Judge Lisa Hannan is here to meet us, 54 years young. She is a striking woman. Brown hair pulled back, hawklike focus in her eyes, a disarmingly calm demeanour. In Melbourne’s justice system she is The Iron Lady with a Velvet Hammer. Firm but fair.

“I have to get through 25 cases between 9 and 10am in the directions list,” she says chirpily.

“That’s the General List Court, which is a fast-paced directions court critical to the efficient and effective listing and running of trials.”

Hannan has been up since 5am, in here at 6am, robed for our picture at 7am, deciding the fate of accused perpetrators by 9am. She looks unflappable.

Law Week Victoria starts on Monday, touted as “a festival of events about the law and your legal system in Victoria”.

Calling it a festival is very Melbourne. It takes away the cold grey spectre of prison and puts a red bow on it.

“Everyone that comes in on the tour, we get them to come in as if they were a prisoner,” Hannan says.

Mikey Cahill experiences A Day in the Life of an Accused at the County Court. Picture: David Crosling

For the A Day in the Life of an Accused tour, a vehicle for high-risk, high-profile or high-violence criminals is taken in and then one person is handcuffed and placed in the van.

“We’ll bring them (the public) down. Then we pick a poor victim, handcuff them and process them as if they’ve just arrived,” says Jill, from Corrections.

For a foreboding place, there is a vibrant atmosphere. A mixture of genuine colleague warmth, Nescafe coffee and gallows humour.

We’re led to a “wet cell”. It’s an observation cell for “high court gains” and people who aren’t expecting a sentence. They wear a canvas suit. A wilted grey outfit sits nearby for those at risk of self-harm — “it was used just last week”. It’s a straitjacket of sorts.

“A high court gain is someone who walked in the front door and is going out the back
door; not expecting they’d be locked up in jail,” Jill explains.

We are led to the room where the accused must wait. It’s grim.

“We always get questions about the Brasco toilets out in the open. That’s the nickname from back in the day,” Jill says. It’s a dour room, sure to deter people.

“It’d be pretty confronting wouldn’t it? Sitting here, thinking about where it all went wrong,” Hannan says with compassion.

It’s a blue room and the CCTV cameras have been pelted with spit bombs. It looks like an unruly classroom, albeit with the WC insultingly out in the open. It triggers the phrase, “You do the crime, you do the time,” in your head.

From there, it’s a daunting walk into a secure lift, four more claustrophobic walls to remind the prisoner of what may lie ahead. Hannan glides and guides us into another room.

Mikey Cahill experiences A Day in the Life of an Accused at the County Court. Picture: David Crosling

“The most anxious the prisoners get is when the jury is out,” she says.

There is a mirror in this room. Interestingly, it is made of reflective metal.

“For everybody’s safety; so they can’t bring glass into my courtroom,” says Hannan.

Finally, we enter the courtroom. The lights flick on. It’s all mahogany-looking wood, squishy leather and a calm-before-the-storm feel. Hannan looks instantly at ease. This is her house. It’s 7.25am and we don’t have much time. She is keen to tell us how the A Day in the Life of an Accused tour plays out.

“This year we’re doing two scenarios: culpable driving and a coward-punch. We arraign somebody, then we have volunteers from the (legal) bar. We hear a very compressed plea then we move to sentencing and then questions,” she says.

“In terms of the one-punch, the coward-punch, we want to get the message out that it will lead to a jail sentence.

Judge Lisa Hannan sits on the bench inside the County Court in Melbourne. Picture: David Crosling

“We hear a prosecution summary and at that stage I pause and ask somebody on the tour what they think and what the penalty should be. They always start high and then we start the plea and by the time we’ve got through the plea, generally speaking, they are at or below what the judge would sentence.

“With the coward-punch, we get questions like, ‘He was drunk, why doesn’t that count?’ Then we get opportunities to explain the elements of sentencing and …” Hannan is interrupted by the lights going out dramatically.

It’s a fitting double metaphor for criminals who have been stupid enough to thwack somebody unawares: lights out for the victim, a dark future for the perpetrator.

As 7.30am ticks around, our photographer has got the shot. It’s time to adjourn.

Before we leave Hannan to do her work I have to ask, does the judge know if someone is innocent or guilty by looking at them?

Surely after all these years she must have killer (sorry) intuition?

“I’d definitely not say that is true,” she says, cagey as a prison. “It’s a matter for the jury.”

Courts Open Day, run by Judge Claire Quin, May 20. Melbourne Law Week, May 15-21. lawweek.net.au

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