Here's an old article from Anna Politkovskaya that could probably hold true for anyone who has been in court:
Three lawsuits thrown out of court. 58 more victims in line for humiliation
Why are judges so rude to us, when we support them with our taxes?
Novaya Gazeta
Anna Politkovskaya, January 27th, 2003
Legal protocol is a stern thing with pretensions of objectivity. Sort of. When, however, this protocol falls into even a few places during the court session – under the dictation of the judge: “Write this, don’t write that”, as happened during the last installment of the ‘Nord-Ost’ courts, then one needs to make some notes outside the protocol, notes whose aim is to resurrect the picture of our life.
“Karpov, be seated! I told you!”
“I would also like to speak….”
“Sit down! You missed the stage for examining documents…”
“No one sent me a notice!”
“You missed it. Sit down! Or I will have you removed!”
“I wish to enter…”
“I won’t accept anything!”
Decent gentlemen, as in well known, do not try to settle scores with ladies, and so he submits. But she does not quiet down:
“Karpov, don’t raise your hand again!”
“I wish to finally have my rights explained to me!”
“Nothing will be explained to you!”
The active characters in the play:
He is Sergey Karpov, the father of Alexandra Karpova, who was killed during the terrorist liquidation operation in the building on Dubrovka. He is now a plaintiff, one of the 61 appealing to the capital’s Tverskoy inter-municipal court with a request seeking damages from the Moscow city government for moral injury in connection with the circumstances of the cause of their grief. Sergey is already not a young man, but she is lecturing to him as if he was a fifth grader.
She is a lady in a cloak.
The hall, which has not seen a good sweeping in a long time, is full of people. The journalists who have been forbidden to use Dictaphones (and why? What government secrets are they protecting here?). The victims with their battered souls – it is a bit frightening to speak with them, because they almost immediately burst into tears. Their relatives and friends have come to support them if they should faint or have heart problems. The lady in the cloak charges the atmosphere to the hundredth degree with rudeness.
“Khramtsova V. I., Khramtsova I. F., Khramtsov! You have some remarks to enter? No?” She simply calls all the plaintiffs this way: “V.I.”, “I.F.”, “T.I.”… Perhaps she is semiliterate, she can only read large letters?
“There are remarks,” responds a tall, thin young man.
“Khramtsov! Speak!” with a tone like ‘here are your alms, now shut up’.
Alexander Khramtsov, who buried his father, a trumpet player in the ‘Nord-Ost’ orchestra, begins, but almost immediately there are tears in his voice:
“My papa traveled the whole world with orchestras and shows. He represented our country and city. It is a loss that can never be made up. Do you really not feel it? It was you who let in the terrorists! They were strolling around here without a care in the world! Yes, and you still haven’t answered for the assault. But why did they take 400 people to Hospital #13, when there were only 50 staff, and couldn’t help everyone? They died before they be helped…”
The lady in the cloak lazily shuffles papers from place to place, in order to do something to kill time. She is bored and sad, and now and then looks out the window.
But Alexander continues. Naturally, turning to the three defendants at a side table, these representatives of ‘the city’, jurists from the government and finance department. Where else can he look? Not at the judge who averts her gaze.
“Why didn’t they bring in at least some interns? Maybe just for the buses? They could have looked after our loved ones while they were being taken to the hospitals.”
“Khramtsov!” the lady interrupts, catching the plaintiff’s eye. “Where are you looking? You have to look at me!”
“Alright…” Alexander turns his head back in the direction of the judge’s chair. “But they drove off, and they suffocated… They drove off, and they suffocated…”
Alex cries.
Strictly speaking, who is this Judge Gorbacheva, who practices at the Tverskoy inter-municipal court in Moscow?
The answer would be kind of simple: she is a representative of one of the branches of our government, whom we support with the taxes we pay to the treasury. That is, the judge lives exclusively on our dime. We pay for her professional services; she is not paying us. Why then has she no respect for the ones who pay her? And we pay Judge Gorbacheva who, instead of showing gratitude and respect, insults us… How has she takes it into her head to, and when she takes it into her head. It all depends on her mood.
Legal culture in our country does not exist; it is like the naked king’s clothes. In truth it is the regime’s court. No one has any illusions, not even little ones: alright, judge, you belong to those who believe that they support us, and that it is not we, the citizenry, who support them, and under fear of loss of rank and privileges you cannot do anything for the unfortunate victims but refuse every one of their demands without exception… All right, let it be so… Let us assume so…
But why then do you have to be so rude? So mocking? Insulting? To beat those who are almost beat to death?
After the decision was made to deny the plaintiffs and the tongue-twister reading made by Citizen Gorbacheva was all in the past and everyone had left the court, only the defendants were left: Yuri Viktorovich Bulgakov - the head of the legal department for the Moscow city finance department, Andrey Evgenevich Rastorguev and Marat Sharipovich Gafurov – counselors from the capital’s rights directorate.
“Well, should we go celebrate?” slipped from a tongue.
“No,” all three suddenly said at once. “We are people. We understand it all… It’s a scandal how our government treats them.”
“How is that? You?”
They fall silent. The Moscow evening has taken us into its dark arms. Some head to warm houses, full of the laughter of relatives and the love of friends. Others go to hollow apartments, forever made empty by October 23rd.