inside of many of our institutions. Parliament and the courts are typical examples. This week, Community captures the flavour of one of them: Plea Court. For the prosecution: gleaming varnish and fake wood panelling; immaculate tailoring and shiny shoes. Handcuffs and cops. Young duty counsel and seasoned attorneys.

For the defence: benches and plastic chairs, high-top sneakers, T-shirts and chains, hair rollers and shades. A flair for bargaining, and patience -- lots of patience.

For the Press: a little corral touched with burgundy mock croc trim and a host of names defacing the Government varnish. Heather, Mundy 1724, Ellen, Paul, Libby, Val, TCRG, DAB-N-DWT, Peter '87, KH have all served time on the unforgiving bench ...

For the presiding Magistrate: a raised arena embellished with the Royal cypher, declasse glass bricks, a door to nether regions.

The tools of His Worship's trade include a neat row of burgundy binders inadvertently suggesting the Law may be stacked against defendants; a crimson, high-backed chair that wouldn't disgrace a coronation and a desk lamp for extra enlightenment.

Near-arctic air conditioning coddles innocent and guilty alike. The day in Plea Court begins with the arrival of a motley cast. Male, female, young and senior. Those upholding the Law and those who have opposed it. Some are there of their own free will, others are under Police escort.

Defendants take their places with resignation or respect, but not both. Their faces reflect hostility, resignation, boredom and anxiety. For some, the wall will become their visible means of support, for others it will be mamma.

They are grist for the judicial mill -- speeders, thieves, drug smugglers and forgers. Each has been sucked into the system by fair means or foul. This is their day (or one of them) in court. Time and a well defined system will now process them.

Some defendants are dressed for the occasion -- in pearls and polyester, while others bear grim evidence of a rough and troubled life. T-shirts are the garment of choice. The motifs are splashy, the messages trashy.

Shades are de rigeur -- and have their own language. Dudes and dodgers hide behind lenses so dark you wonder if they can tell night from day. Movers dangle theirs on strings around their necks; groovers go for mid-brow.

In the gulf between defendants and the Law is a large table to which a tide of legal beagles will flow. They will bring a variety of accents to their work -- Bermudian, Canadian, English, dicty and down-home. Some will be brief, others will go for Oscars.

The Police prosecutor is a constant. Impeccably co-ordinated in shades of green and grey, he might have strayed from a Smith's ad. The only flash in his performance is the light bouncing off the bows of his glasses.

He will deliver the traditional, turgid `Policespeak' in an accent as crisp as his shirt, with a presentation as neatly arranged as the hairs on his head.

Quaint civilities prevail. Authority figures address the Magistrate ad nauseam as "Your Worship'' -- though John Q. Public will do little of that. A few will call him "Your Honour'', most settle for "sir.'' For his part, the Magistrate unfailingly refers to his clients as Mr., Mrs., or Miss -- but not Ms.

"All rise!'' Obedience, born of years of standing for school principals, is instant. Late (apparently no cardinal sin at this level), the Wor. Will Francis skips up to his dais. In light blue jacket, royal blue trousers, silk pocket handkerchief and toning tie, polished shoes and trimmed whiskers, he cuts a natty figure.

His manner is businesslike, his attention focussed. Proceedings begin. First up is a young woman accused of stealing and forging cheques to finance a major shopping spree. She cuts an unusual figure in her African print jumpsuit and rows of rollers. Given a choice of courts, she selects this one, and whispers "guilty'' to each of the many charges before her.

Her co-defendant favours rose-tinted shades, a plunging neckline, gold chains, bleached pompadour and cool, cool defiance.

The Magistrate decides he needs a social inquiry report on the duo, and sets aside time in mid-October when he anticipates he will be "more relaxed''.

A man with three Christian names is charged with causing a breach of the peace. Dirty and shabby following a night in the cells, he appears to suffer from the mother of all hangovers. A fresh abrasion on his elbow attests to the violence of his evening.

In an effort to learn the whereabouts of a child he had fathered, he has damaged someone's home, threatened Police officers with death, and entered into pitched battle with a number of them.

Today, he stands penitently, swaying in his sneakers, staring straight ahead as the legal process begins.

"Excuse me,'' he whispers hoarsely, "but what am I being charged for?'' Mr.

Francis decides to keep it simple.

"Did you assault Mrs. X?'' "I'm not sure.'' "You're not sure?'' "It says here there was an altercation in (a Warwick road). It says that you behaved in a threatening manner.'' "Altercation,'' "threatening manner,'' "assaulting an officer in the execution of his duty...'' Nobody speaks his language. He blinks uncomprehendingly -- and opts for a safe response: Not Guilty.

While the Prosecutor supplies graphic details, the duty counsel, in nifty bow tie and white knee socks, slides swiftly to the accused's side for a whispered conference. He emerges with a fulsome explanation.

The foul language was "simply what one would see on TV,'' counsel explained.

The accused "simply lost control'' because his efforts to try and get visitation rights to his child were unsuccessful, and he "simply wasn't prepared'' for the violence inflicted upon him by the Police.

Simple, too, was Mr. Francis' decision. In exchange for counsel's promise that the accused would behave, the man was bailed for $1000 pending social, psychiatric and probation reports. They would all meet again in October.

"Mr. B., let me make one thing clear to you. I had been thinking of a stricter course but I am going to give you a chance to exercise some reason,'' Mr. Francis began. "As a condition of bail you must make no approach to (a certain road). In other words, let me tell you Mr. B, if you should even be seen hanging around looking at that property I will consider that a breach of your probation. You can be sure the Police will remand you in custody and I will keep you in custody. Do you understand what I am saying?'' Bleary-eyed, Mr. B. raises his finger to make a point -- and fails. It's all he can do to stand up. He shuffles off, perhaps to find the laces for his battered sneakers.

Even worse for wear is gangly Mr. S, who had overcome his agitation outside the courtroom door to sleep soundly until officials rouse him for his `Moment'. Unable to accept the end of a relationship, he had trashed someone's home.

Perhaps with lost love in mind, Mr. Francis selects February 14, 1994 for a full hearing and warns him not to go near the premises in question or he will forfeit the $500 bail. The defendant goes back to sleep.

Anticipation is high when Mr. Francis calls for "Mr. John Major.'' But the British Prime Minister fails to appear.

A procession of traffic offenders is dealt with swiftly. One, a prisoner, wears a sardonic grin. The irony of being tried for a speeding ticket whilst detained by Her Majesty is not lost on him.

Silver-haired Mr. T. faces his second "driving under the influence'' charge.

At 44, with gold chains setting off his T-shirt, he uses the wall for support.

"You had as much alcohol in you as the machine is capable of measuring, see?'' Mr. Francis notes. (Is it the machine or the man who is on trial here?) Will he need a lien to go with his lean? He has a year off the road to think about the answer and his $500 fine.

Broke Mr. J. came unstuck when the Police discovered he'd "licensed'' his car with a TCD sticker removed from a scrapped vehicle.

"Now you will have to use the money you saved up (for licensing fees) to pay your fine, so it will take even longer to licence your vehicle,'' Mr. Francis lectured.

In fact, Mr. Francis is good at lecturing. He also takes infinite care to see that each case is dealt with fairly and properly.

Sometimes his clients return the favour - like Mr. K. who, along with his mother, is trying very hard to pay more than court records show.

"I'm come here today with $300 in my pocket to pay this here fine off,'' the accused begins.

"No no,'' the Magistrate says, "You only owe $190.'' Slowly and carefully, the couple go through the list of fines and down payments. There is no shame -- simply an honest concern to avoid the trauma of future arrests for dishonesty. Mr. Francis sat, arose, and sat again. Court records failed to back their claims.

"Don't worry, the prosecutor will fix it with his men about the warrants,'' he finally assures. And mamma will square the rest away on payday.

Young biker Mr. M. tries bargaining. Hauled before the court on a warrant for non-payment of unpaid fines, he says: "I'm trying my hardest to get a job, but it's been very hard for me. Can you give me three months?'' "Three months? You don't have a job and you don't know when you'll get one! Will you be working before the month is out?'' "Yes, your honour...'' "Okay, I'll give you to 30th November to pay or 70 days in prison. Do you understand?'' "Yes, your honour. Thank you.'' "On the other matter, I haven't counted it all up. I'm not going to bother you with that. Let's see ... three and three are six. It looks like about $800. I will give you until the end of January to pay that.'' "Oh, thank you, your honour,'' the young man effuses.

Facing $450 in fines for an unlicensed, uninsured auxiliary cycle, Miss W.

twists the rings adorning her every finger and explains she's just had a baby and is unemployed. Can she have time to pay? Mr. Francis suggests the end of November. She suggests January -- and wins. S.

is indignant! Someone has apparently used his name for a traffic offence.

"Do you have a vehicle No. (1234)?'' "Look, I didn't know nuffin' about this here until last night,'' he protests.

The case will blow up in somebody's face on Guy Fawkes day.

Now it is His Worship's turn to explode. He does not like clients who are late. Mr. H. is before him is on a warrant.

"You were not here at 2.30 p.m. on ... I distinctly remember the officer going into the corridor and calling your name. You were not here.'' "I showed up, sir,'' the man replies evenly.

"You were not here at 2.15.'' "I was here, sir.'' "Look, you are just playing the fool with this court. What time were you here?'' "2.30 p.m., sir.'' "What is your feeling, Inspector?'' "I don't believe a word he says, sir.'' Nonetheless, the man is given a mention date and a severe warning to be on time.

Patiently waiting almost two hours for her `Moment', Mrs. L is determined.

Poor she might be, but she isn't going to be steamrollered by any system.

Taxed about $600 in outstanding fines, she explains her predicament. "I am self-employed but making next to nothing. I don't even make $600 a month,'' she said. "Plus I have a 12-year-old son at high school plus a handicapped child, plus I get no maintenance from the father, who is about $8000 in arrears. If he paid that it would help. I understand I have to pay, but in making a little bit of money, a long time seems like no time.'' The Magistrate says the alternate to paying the fine is 60 days in prison, and warns she cannot put money owed to the court at the bottom of her list of priorities.

He settles for her hope to sort it all out by mid-December. Mr. America is young, clean-cut, blonde. Sports prison-stripe shorts and high-tops with the legend, `Cons', he seems bemused by all the fuss over 9.4 grams of marijuana found tucked into a sock at the airport.

Through duty counsel, he offers a flowery apology for "all the trouble he has caused''. He says in mitigation that he is on his honeymoon and had no idea Bermuda's laws were so strict.

This earns him a sharp rebuttal from Magistrate and Prosecutor alike.

Universal snickers at the age-old excuse, "It was a wedding gift'' nonpluss him.

Mr. Francis relieves him of $900.

"All rise!'' His Worship goes to lunch, and the court empties.

ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE . . . and so is Magistrates' Court -- a melting pot of the varnished and unvarnished; where quaint civilities abound, and tales are as colourful as the outfits.