Noah, hanging his head, has a hangdog look. The dog he is looking for has hair that, he hopes, will be an antidote for the booze he drank last night. A hang of a lot of it, it was.
Normally, he behaves properly when he sallies forth to ‘have a drink’ with his chums. Being among lawyers, who regard ‘date’ as an abbreviation of ‘sedate’, he is prone to take ‘a drink’ literally. A single jar sufficing, the tipple falls short of the tipsy.
Last night, however, was different. It was a birthday night, and the drinks were all found. Having found more than he should have, Noah rolled home and stumbled into bed. Noisily enough to wake me up: stertorous enough to keep me awake.
Today, the morning after, he is feeling sorry for himself. I encourage him to feel sorry for me. “Why don’t you say sorry for your behaviour?” I bark.
“Ah ‘sorry’. What should the word sorry portend in the circumstances of this case? Do I simply feel rue? Or should I see myself as culpable, and ponder over whether I have exhibited malice, intent, or mere neglect? Moreover, am I to say ‘sorry’ voluntarily or is the word being extracted under duress?”
Alcohol, I have discovered, makes a lawyer both vocal and tedious.
“Don’t be an ass!” I cry. “Just say ‘sorry!’”
“Ah, but I cannot just say sorry. Not justly, anyway. Not least because ‘sorry’ is a portmanteau word.”
“A what?”
“A portmanteau. I know you think this signifies a tugman’s tug – you know, port man tow, ha ha …”
“I think no such thing. I know it denotes a big bag. I should know a big bag is. Just as I know a corny clown when I see one.”
“To be sure,” says my current partner. I have taken to calling him that to keep him on his toes. Current suggests a future partner and there are plenty of fish in that current.
Noah proceeds. He is frowning: proceeding to talk is searing to an addled brain.
“Let me be serious for a moment. It appears that Dunstan Mlambo, our Deputy Chief Justice, has ordered a High Court judge to apologise for the delay of over a year to provide reasons in support of an order made by her. He acts in his capacity as chair of the Judicial Conduct Committee.
“The mechanism by which this ‘sorry’ is to be conveyed is not left to chance. ‘The written apology must be provided to the Secretariat for onward transmission to the complainants within thirty days of receipt of this ruling.’”
“This, presumably, is a deadline the errant judge will meet,” I say, trying to seem interested.
“Yes, I imagine so. But do understand. What is the use of an apology extorted from a wrongdoer by legal prescript? What object does it serve save to humiliate?”
“Oh, I must wake up, must I? Perhaps it is you that must open your eyes.” I am now on my mettle.
“Why?” fumes Noah. The fumes are externally sourced.
“Isn’t there, dear Jurisprude, an issue of freedom of speech raised by this diktat? Surely a person cannot be required to say something if she doesn’t want to, especially if she feels the very converse.
“I mean, how would you feel if I ordered you to say sorry. Take this morning. How would you respond if I ordered you to apologise for smelling like a brewery?”
“I suppose I’d feel black-labelled. But I wouldn’t comply. My strength is as the strength of ten because my beer is pure.”
“God, you’re hopeless. I’ll tell you what I shall do. I shall get you debarred by the Judicial Conduct Committee.”
“Good luck, but for me, de bar beckons. So, fare thee well, dear Soul.’
The hang dog can still bark, it seems. But not to order. Not mine, anyway. Who knows what the Lord High Deputy Judge President might be able to achieve.
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