Magistrates' Court is a mill, where the wheels of justice grind inexorably on, turned steadily by the combined power of the magistrate, the prosecution, the lawyers and the Police.

Offenders are simply the grist. Fed in one end and spat out the other, they are accused, judged, and almost inevitably punished for a catalogue of misdeeds that the Law deems unacceptable.

Some are old lags who not only understand "the system" but also can ably protest whatever details may be incorrect. Others, however, are mere spectators at their fate. Resignedly, they let the tide of events wash over them on a que sera, sera basis. Ninety days in Westgate, a year off the road, a $1000 fine - there's no sense fighting it because nobody's listening anyway, and certainly not the presiding magistrate. Or so they believe. "Plead guilty and get it over with" is the prevailing philosophy.

The court setting is tank-like. No windows to the outside world, unless you count the panels of retro glass block on either side of `His Worship's' crimson throne.

As befits his office, the Magistrate's domain is raised above the common herd, its front panelled in two shades of real wood. The Royal coat of arms above his head adds levity to his role. At ground level and immediately below him the Clerk to the Court sits upon a generously upholstered rose chair, tapping away at her trendy computer.

Facing her are attending attorneys, their slick brief cases, pens and paraphernalia stacked on the table's mock croc covering. Heavily studded brown "leather" chairs distinguish their learned bottoms from those of the accused, who sit on long wooden benches or plastic chairs. The walls are partially lined in sheets of fake wood panelling. An electric clock marks the immediate passage of time while beneath it a shipping company calendar measures time in three-month segments.

The Press box, with its unforgivingly hard bench and narrow, mock croc covered shelf, is a haven of graffiti left by passing scribes - LEF, Mad Marcus, Pauly Egan, DAB, DWT, Matthew rules...among them.

Well-fed Police officers keep a sharp eye on the scene, their ranks temporarily swelled by prison officers.

Continuous background "music" comes from the air-conditioning, which sounds like a distant lawnmower. The lady and gentleman who attend the daily soap opera as spectators are in situ.

"All Rise!"

It is time for Acting Senior Magistrate Carlisle Greaves' ascension to his throne. Despite the pussy-cat smile and warm `Good Morning', he quickly establishes that he is a no-nonsense dispenser of justice. Once the defendants' rights are intoned, he gets down to business. Crown prosecutor Oonagh Vaucrosson, immaculately attired in a black trouser suit, her braids tightly coiled in a bun atop her head, provides details of offences and any objections the Crown may have to bail in clipped English tones.

The rows of defendants run the gamut of fashion and attitude. Everything from the telltale orange of Westgate residents to turtle neck sweaters, logo-emblazoned sweat and T-shirts, denim, sloppy trousers and skin-tight Capris are represented. Windbreakers, some thickly padded, are the undisputed top of the fashion pops. Scruffy or smart, and mostly dull black or navy, they belie the hot, sunny weather outside.

Defendant one anxiously scratches his stomach as he awaits the verdict of speeding at 70-plus kph. Disqualification for 12 months, $500. He'll pay today, thanks.

Next is the commercial fisherman. Carefully turned out in fashionably faded blue jeans, cowboy boots, navy blazer, collarless white shirt, stud earring, shag haircut, big gold ring - oh yes, and a briefcase - his is the sort of rig that wouldn't disgrace a laid-back Texan banker. His lawyer, the immaculately and nattily groomed Richard Hector, pleads his client's case with great eloquence and quiet persistence.

His client has done time "up west" for driving under the influence but now he's out, a changed man, of course, who desperately needs the three-year disqualification imposed by a previous magistrate to be lifted, not least because Mr. Hector has seen him physically carrying big fish down the road.

There is a great deal of back-and-forth with the tough-minded Magistrate who is loathe to set aside a colleague's judgment. The fisherman wears the look of a man facing the gallows. Finally, his attorney hits the ace in the hole: a passage of law that unlocks the key to Mr. Greaves' limited store of leniency. His client regains his wheels, composure, and a new lease on his business life.

There is a tall, blonde teenager with a shaved head who stole a Louis Vuitton (no less) handbag from a trendy Hamilton nightspot. He might have got away with it had he not revealed its presence under his shirt to a pal in full view of a pair of policemen, who promptly accepted his confession and booked him.

Asked if he had anything to say, the teenager tells Mr. Greaves the act was "a mistake" which would not have occurred had he not been very drunk. No previous convictions and the fact that the purse was recovered intact earns him a $500 fine and the bench's advice that, "If you can't hold your liquor don't drink. Be like me. Drink milk all the time - and I like it fresh. I'm a country boy. I milk my own cow."

"I've read a lot about these things," Mr. Hector quips.

A recidivist in signature orange is up for fraud and more. His alleged sins include trying to buy groceries with a bank card which wasn't his. He also wants a retrial before another Magistrate. He follows the legal arguments closely and at one point asks for the details of what "Miss Miller" said to be read to him. Mrs. Vaucrosson cannot oblige, she only has a summary. Meanwhile, there is much discussion between his lawyer, Mr. Mussenden, and the Magistrate over, among other things, whether a plastic credit card is a "document" or something else. Mr. Greaves thinks it's a perfectly good "document". He is also reminded by Mr. Mussenden that the man has been on remand since last November and needs to have his case heard.

"I am trying to get some fairness for my client," the lawyer says.

"That's what you are here for," Mr. Greaves retorts.

"That's what we are all here for," Mr. Mussenden corrects.

"Guilty, guilty. Your Honour," asserts another defendant as his name is called. Audible gasps fill the court.

"No, no, this is an indictable offence; that means you don't have to plead now. You have to be tried before a judge and jury," he learns.

He is charged with "grevious bodily harm" and the Prosecution objects to bail. His mother discusses the matter urgently with his lawyer, and there is a desperate plea for bail based on mitigating circumstances. Mr. Mussenden works hard, but the Magistrate is having none of it. He remands the young man in custody. Mamma crumples, and is heard sobbing outside the court as her son is led away.

A tiny slip of a teenaged girl is quietly defiant as the court hears she is charged with possession of a 250-volt stun gun and a knife. A vile and violence-filled letter is read out over the objections of the busy Mr. Mussenden.

In it the girl refers to herself as a "live-or-die bitch", and seeks her friend's assistance in carrying out a murderous plan to despatch a fellow citizen while wearing a ski mask. Her mother, who found the weapons, had turned her daughter in to the Police - an act which earns the Magistrate's praise. The girl speaks to claim she found the gun in a school field, stowed it in her drawer and forgot about it, and the letter was merely her private thoughts. She is bailed for $1,000 with one surety while a social inquiry report is completed.

"Vengeance is the death knell of all peace," Mr. Greaves intones. He advises the girl to tell the probation officer who will prepare the report absolutely everything that bothers her. "We must get inside these young people's minds," he says.

A 59-year-old taxi driver with too much beer coarsing his veins caught Police attention when he swerved across the road. Disputing the veracity of their evidence regarding the brand of beers, and reiterating that he was never "incoherent" carries no weight with the Magistrate, who slaps a 12-month suspension and $1,000 fine on him. He exits clearly troubled about his working future.

A well-dressed man with a briefcase makes a dignified stand at the back of the court. He is charged with assault and pleads not guilty so a future trial date is set. Subsequently, he tells this reporter that this is the fourth time his accuser, who apparently has "a problem", has done this to him, and the Police claim they have no choice but to follow through, even though previous cases were thrown out. Each time the defendant says he loses a day's pay and, having exhausted his funds, will now seek legal aid.

Afternoon traffic court, in the same setting with the same magistrate, is run with ruthless efficiency.

Like the morning session, crash helmets are banned because, a Policeman explains, a disappointed defendant might "plug the judge". Cellphones and pagers are ordered "off".

In the style of boarding aircraft, names are called in alphabetical groups. Soon the seating is filled, and a sense of resignation among the "doomed" prevails. Today, no-one will plead "not guilty".

"Good afternoon and welcome to traffic court," His Worship, Mr. Greaves, begins. Preparatory to take-off, he intones a menu of rights and penalties before warning that he will begin slowly, then get into a groove and move quickly. He proves as good as his word: 100 cases in half an hour.

Representing the Police Prosecutions Department is Pc Rosabelle Lambert, resplendent in purple and turquoise. She shuffles her records as rapidly as Mr. Greaves dispenses justice, interjecting "reckonables" (previous convictions) where necessary.The continuous clacking of the court clerk's keyboard sends paper spewing from a printer as judgments are delivered. Defendants line up to collect them on the way to the cashier - sooner or later.

Among the defendants is a woman whose half-century clean record is now blemished by a small speeding offence. She leaves $190 poorer. The impatience of youth is well represented by an assortment of speeding students from some of the Island's top schools who casually accept their fate.

There is a woman twice caught with no licence or insurance, and speeding. "I don't understand you people. You could buy a car with the money you're paying in fines," Magistrate Greaves admonishes as he racks up her bill.

A construction worker covered in dust, and a painter whose splattered trousers rival a Jackson Pollock painting, take their punishment like men. A beautifully dressed young woman with ringlets, a scruffy, bearded man do likewise.

A journalist faces a speeding charge and possible calling as a witness for a highway foreman whose gold jewellery is abundant and impressive. The latter pleads "guilty with an explanation" to speeding. As he addresses the bench, the Magistrate talks to someone else. "Are you listening to me, sir?" he inquires.

"I can listen to more than one thing at once" is the curt response. The man continues. He was speeding only to deal with a dangerous, morning rush-hour oil spill and it was his job, he said, to get there as quickly as possible to prevent accidents. Unimpressed with this diligence to duty, Mr. Greaves cuts him off, dismisses his explanation, levies a $220 fine and a 12-month driving disqualification. The journalist, who was following him, is reluctantly pleads guilty and is fined.

Quips like "pay or stay", "40 days and 40 nights in jail", "Don't drive anything with four or more wheels except a lawnmower" are veneered on to the sentences by Mr. Greaves in his thick Bajan accent.

The whole process is akin to naughty students appearing before the headmaster who's heard it all a thousand times before. Prosecution. Defence. Punishment. Pay up. Ah yes, paying up: the most popular request is "next week," or "next month, sir." Most get some deferrment, along with Mr. Greaves' warning that his court is "the most consistent in the world" and he doesn't bluff when it comes to dealing with those who don't pay up on time.

"All fines are collectible on a Friday because warrants are issued immediately if you don't pay up."

Generally, traffic court is the ultimate G(uilty) spot. Here, justice works like a laxative: swift and sure.