There has been important reflection from ethnographers in general (Auyero, 2020) and trial ethnographers in particular (Flower & Klosterkamp, 2023; Suresh, 2023) on waiting as a key moment in immersive fieldwork research. It creates a space of co-presence conducive for engagement with others (Klosterkamp, 2021); from a more ethnomethodological perspective, it is an opportunity to access the “raw” experiences of those who have to wait (Ayaß, 2020).
It is harder to find immediate benefits in being late to a trial hearing which is the central element of trial ethnography. Yet it happens to all of us: a traffic jam, a last-minute change of courtroom number, or too long a queue at the security gate. While the first reaction is understandably disappointment, in this blog post I reflect on the benefits of being late and staying outside the courtroom, based on my experience of observing trials of opposition protesters in Moscow in 2017–2018.
A Chance Encounter
One day I did not make it to the hearing on time, and I had only myself to blame. The door was shut right in front of me, a bailiff’s heavy hand holding it closed from the inside. Sinking into disappointment, I leaned against the wall and looked around. A man stood next to me with a jacket draped over his arm and the relatively relaxed posture of someone about to be called to a hearing in which nothing personal was at stake. We started a conversation as two people outside a hearing to which we seemed both invisibly connected. An expert for the defense, recently arrived in Moscow from another city, he was about to defend his expert conclusion comparing two portraits in an open court hearing. I asked what he thought of the expert conclusion made by the Federal Security Service, which formed the basis of the case. Their analysis concluded that the defendant on trial and a protester in video footage overturning chemical toilets and kicking police officers during the dispersal of a demonstration were the same person. The defense, however, was convincingly showing that the defendant had been in a different city altogether. “Hooligans indeed! All of them! I do not approve of that [the protest] at all. But the [portrait] expertise is so badly done. All my life I have looked up to experts working for the Federal Security Service—there are no professionals comparable to them. But this is just so badly done.”
That day I was happy I stayed on the other side of the courtroom door and could benefit from the shared boredom of waiting to have a conversation with someone I would not have met otherwise. Experts for the defense (specialisty) are often invisible actors in trial proceedings, present in the courtroom mostly by mediation of their expert conclusions. If they are invited to a hearing, their appearances are one-off which is not enough to build a relationship of trust. On a more analytical level, it was an important encounter. A former law enforcement agent himself, my interlocutor did not support the protesters and clearly distanced himself from the defendants. He did not view the trial as political or the prosecutions as disproportionate. He agreed to write the expert conclusion because he was disappointed by those who has always been his role models, and it offended his sense of professionalism. I was reminded that people who work—or once worked—in Russian law enforcement can also share a certain understanding of competence and integrity. It was a moment that forced me to reflect on my own preconceptions, specific to the milieu of human rights activists that I knew better.
When the courtroom is full
It was an appellate hearing in the non-criminal trial of a well-known human rights defender accused of reposting a text calling for an unauthorized rally in support of the defendants in a major extremism case ongoing at the time. By the time I arrived, the courtroom was already full, and only defense attorneys were allowed past the door guarded by two bailiffs. The bailiffs, visibly stressed, had arranged several metal benches in a U-shape, as if applying crowd-management techniques used at demonstrations, creating an additional security layer. Together with around three dozen other people standing along the walls—reading or texting on their phones, chatting, or pacing back and forth—I waited to see what would happen next. A group of six to eight journalists arrived, led by a court clerk, to conduct the pre-hearing photoshoot. Suddenly, there was commotion. A man in his mid-fifties with a rucksack shouted at the bailiffs: “You should have—and were obliged to—warn us beforehand and ensure all this! Now the hearing has already started, and you’re inviting us to go somewhere! We’re not going anywhere.” People quickly exchanged information: the courtroom was definitely full. Meanwhile, a young woman in an elegant blue suit climbed onto one of the metal benches, with a bailiff lending her a hand. The crowd pressed in around her to listen. “Attendees (slushateli)! Those who couldn’t get in, go to courtroom 217—the translation is on. Those accredited, with video cameras, will most likely be let in to film the operative part when the judge retires to the chamber.” Some people, upset that they hadn’t been admitted, began arguing with the bailiffs and with the woman who was the court’s press secretary (“We will file a complaint with the Investigative Committee!”). Most of us went off to look for the courtroom where the live translation was being broadcast.
Before this experience I had always taken the accessibility of trial hearings for granted, even if there is a reflection to be made on the openness of political trials in an authoritarian setting. One could enter a courthouse simply by presenting a passport and stating the name of the judge or the courtroom number. This time, being outside the courtroom allowed me to observe the way in which the openness of a court hearing in a high-profile case was negotiated on the ground. The stubborn presence of court spectators was such that it felt almost threatening to the bailiffs. I was surprised to see some spectators berating the bailiffs for the delayed live translation, and the courthouse press secretary feeling the need to climb onto a bench, to make sure she was heard by everyone. An influx of court spectators created an important pressure on court clerks. It contributed tremendously to my reflection on the various uses of publicity that defense actors make in political trials (Mustafina, 2022).
Beyond courtrooms
Being late was an abrupt but ultimately welcome, way of removing myself from the courtroom and the legal technicalities of an ongoing trial. In both cases, I arrived too late to enter the courtroom, yet I was placed in another research situation that was just as valuable as what was happening inside. In the first case, I had an encounter I would not have had otherwise. In the second case, I observed what happens outside the courtroom when court spectators exceed the room’s capacity. Ultimately, these experiences helped me make a series of analytical adjustments for my larger research project. In this sense, I reiterate the tremendous importance of spaces beyond the courtroom such as court corridors and waiting areas for trial ethnography (Klosterkamp, 2021; Walenta, 2018; Weil, this blog series).
References
Auyero, Javier. Patients of the state: The politics of waiting in Argentina. Duke University Press, 2020.
Ayaß, Ruth. “Doing waiting: An ethnomethodological analysis.” Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 49.4 (2020): 419-455.
Flower, Lisa, and Sarah Klosterkamp, eds. Courtroom ethnography: Exploring contemporary approaches, fieldwork and challenges. Springer Nature, 2023.
Klosterkamp, Sarah. “Affectual intensities: toward a politics of listening in court ethnography.” Gender, place & culture 30.11 (2023): 1529-1551.
Mustafina, Renata. “Turning on the lights? Publicity and defensive legal mobilization in protest-related trials in Russia.” Law & Society Review 56.4 (2022): 601-622.
Suresh, Mayur R. Terror trials: life and law in Delhi’s courts. Fordham Univ Press, 2023.
Walenta, Jayme. “Courtroom ethnography: Researching the intersection of law, space, and everyday practices.” The Professional Geographer 72.1 (2020): 131-138.