Bill’s Bulletin Board

As is the case in most situations in the adult world of work, there are some things that your schooling simply didn’t prepare you for.

I thought of that a lot Friday as I sat in judgement.

I was a judge — no foolin’!

That evening, my wife asked me if the experience made me want to be a judge for real.

“Nope,” I replied. I didn’t even need to think about it.

A bit of background is in order, I guess.

The Canadian Cancer Society announced in October that they were planning to hold a fundraising event, called Jail N Bail, in Bolton this past Friday (Jan. 29). I have covered such events before. In the urban days of my working life, when there was a borough called East York before the Mike Harris government abolished it, the local chapter of the Cancer Society held a similar event. Various local personalities were “arrested” on various silly charges, bail was set and they were placed in a makeshift “jail” until they could raise the necessary money, which of course was directed to fight cancer.

I covered my first such event just the second weekend I was working in East York (that was in the spring of 1994), and one of the former mayors of Canada’s last borough was enlisted to be the judge and send the “criminals” away. In subsequent years, that same former mayor (Willis Blair was the name of this venerable and amiable gent) donned the judicial robes and sat in judgement, and later, it was a successful local lawyer and school trustee who got the nod. In other words, those in charged picked people who sort of knew what they were doing.

Thus, as the day approached for the event Bolton, I had some idea of what to expect, and since was basically a fun event for a good cause, I was looking forward to covering it.

But fate, without first consulting me (which is fate’s prerogative), had dreamed up other plans for me.

A little more than a week before the big day, event organizer Jennifer Tremaine, a fund-raising coordinator for the Cancer Society, sent me an e-mail. I dropped a ball a bit when I saw it. Since I assumed was a final update for the approaching event for the coming week’s paper, I neglected to read it in detail right away. It was several hours before I got around to reading it. There were some facts intended for public cation in last week’s Caledon Citizen (you folks in King missed it, I’m afraid). There was also a request for me to act as judge, charged with the task of being judgmental (lots of fun) and finding these naughty people guilty (no matter what their pleas were), imposing bail and sending them to the clink, which was really a makeshift cage in the local Walmart outlet.

My initial reaction was to politely decline the invitation.

For one thing, it’s rather tricky for me to objectively cover an event I’m actively participating in. It also goes against grain that was rubbed into me in journalism school, namely that I was there to report the news, not to help make it.

I took the weekend to ponder things a bit, and came to realize how little water my arguments were holding.

There was no good reason why someone else couldn’t take some pictures for the paper, and indeed, that’s just what David Anderson ended up doing. I had my camera with me too, for the few photo ops that developed when David wasn’t around. The next time I’m in conversation with a judge, I’ll make sure to ask if there are any regulations against him or her carting a camera onto the bench.

As for my concerns over my journalistic objectivity, I soon realized that was a little silly. Helping out a political rally would be one thing. Show me one person with an ounce of brains who is objectively opposed to an effort to raise funds to fight cancer.

Besides, the point has been made over and over and over again that cancer has impacted just about all of us. In my case, it killed my mother and it was complications from the cancer treatments my father was taking that claimed his life.

So I made the appropriate phone call Monday morning and said I would do it, wondering in the back of my mind what I was letting myself in for.

There was a certain amount of showmanship involved in this event, which made me feel both apprehensive and exhilarated. Beneath this meek and mild-mannered exterior beats the heart of a real ham.

There were costumes provided. The “prisoners” were issued either with stripes or orange jumpsuits. I was issued with what appeared to be judicial ropes, complete with some kind of bib to be worn underneath, and a wig. Anyone who has seen dramatizations of court proceedings in Britain will be familiar with these wigs. As a coincidence, the 1946 version of Great Expectations was on TV that night, and I was able to point these things out to Beth during the courtroom scene, as well as lamenting just how itchy they were. She had actually already seen one of the pictures David had taken on me in the attire of jurisprudence, accurately observing that I looked cute and “adorable.” Never let it be said that my wife lacks taste.

And I was obliged to pass judgement on various charges that someone dreamed up (I was just reading from a script), although I added a couple of counts of my own. One guy was called on the carpet for interrupting my lunch. A police officer had to answer for “creative golf scores,” which briefly sparked in me the notion that I might be able to beat him. The thought was very brief as I recalled my hideous performance the last time I golfed. A municipal politician was convicted of passing too many bills. I asked him if he had failed any bills, commenting that my high school teachers were always ready and anxious to fail Bill (of course that pun was intended).

Organizers also armed me with a gavel (something I believe only American judges are equipped with). It gave me something to brandish as I glared menacingly at shoppers who were strolling by (I did mention this was fun, didn’t I?)

By the end of the day, all the prisoners had been released, a lot of money had been raised for a worthy cause, I was able to shed the wig that was making my head itch and our judicial system had survived my stint as a bench jockey.

It wasn’t something I had prepared myself for, but I think I came through it okay. The prisoners I sent away might disagree, but even judges can’t please everyone.

Can they?