"Justice doesn't mean the bad guy goes to jail. It just means somebody pays for the crime." - Freedom Writers

Court is a peculiar thing, isn't it?

It balances, or attempts to balance, the wrongs one individual has inflicted upon another. It attempts to rectify the crime by punishing the convicted. Court, it is believed, is the place where "blind justice" is doled out by people in oversized black robes, gavel in hand.

I was in a South African court room recently.

The boy who stabbed an Eluxolweni Shelter boy last May had his day in court and I was asked to be there as a witness.

George, the Eluxolweni House father and I rode up to court together. He is the legal guardian of the victim. As we got out of the van on High Street and stepped into the mild South African morning, I saw the stabber. Our eyes locked briefly.

Dressed in a ratty looking suit coat, pants that were far too small and a black top hat, he had his hands clenched together, praying. Though his clothes were tattered and worn, it was probably the most respectable outfit this 16-year-old street child could piece together for his day in court. When he saw me, he ran from the gates that surround the Magistrate's Office.

I put my head down, walked inside and put my bag and cell phone on the conveyor belt before stepping through the metal detector.

I sat with George in the open space between the security check point and the building that housed the court rooms. The stabber approached us, I said hello, and he muttered something under his breath in Xhosa to George.

Grinning, George turned to me and said "He can't believe you're actually here. He doesn't want you here. He knows you saw what happened." He laughed, turned back to the boy and said something else in Xhosa.

I asked George whether he thought the boy would talk to me. I didn't want to cause a scene, especially in court, but I wanted to talk to him. This whole episode was heart-breaking and awkward. This boy had been one of my favorites. He still is. I've tried so hard to get him to change. I've tried--and I've failed, but I'll keep trying.

George spoke quickly in Xhosa to him, then, turned to me saying "Yes, he will talk to you."

I approached the boy, shook his hand and asked him if we could go sit down. We found a quiet place in a stairwell just outside the first court room.

"So," I began. "I really wanted to see you yesterday. I didn't want our first chat to be here."

"Yah," he replied, turning his head away.

"Listen, I really don't want to be here either. I am not here to get you. Though you probably see it that way, I really haven't given up on you. I am going to tell the court the truth, and the truth is that you stabbed Eric. I bet you didn't think the eyewitness was going to show up today, did you?"

"Ah ha," he said, his head still down. "I heard you were in town, but I didn't know you'd be here today."

I continued, "Listen, I have to tell the truth. But if they ask, I'm going to also tell them that you're a good guy who does really stupid, impulsive things sometimes."

He put his head down. "I'm going to pay for what I did. I know I am."

"Well, you might. But you have to at some point stop doing the things you're doing."

He said, "I know," and then stood up and walked outside.

I followed.

"Can I give you some advice?"

"Yes," he said.

"Tell the truth. Don't lie like you did when we were at the police station with Mama Judy. You told them you didn't use a knife...that it was just something you found. That's a lie."

"Ah," he said with a smile. "It's not a lie. I didn't use a knife. You going to say it was a knife?"

"Yes," I said, starting to get pissed. "I'm going to say it was a knife because it was. I saw it. Are you even sorry for what you did?"

He looked up again, brought his hand up to his chin, squinting, as the sun had risen over the court building and was now in his eyes. "Did you hear what he said to me? He told me I didn't have a father. Did you hear him say that?"

Again, I tried, "Are you sorry for what you did?"

Again, his reply, "Did you hear what he said to me Jason? Did you hear?"

Translation: No, he's not sorry. Not sorry at all. I gave up with that question.

"Anyways," I said. "I know I'm going to have to say things you don't like, but I hope we can still be friends. I really like you and I think you can have a bright future if you change. I really do. So after court today, let's both walk to school together, okay?"

He smiled a little. "Okay."

We got into court about three-and-a-half hours after we had first shown up.

Mango walked into a long, narrow wooden booth in front of the judge, a short, colored, Afrikaans lady, the lawyer, several officers and a translator. George stood next to the booth.

The judge began, looking at George. "Are you here as the legal guardian of the accused?"

"No," George replied. "I'm here as the legal guardian for the victim."

"Where is your legal guardian," the judge said, looking down at the stabber. The translator spoke to him in Xhosa, though he understands English fine.

"I don't have one," he said, looking back up at her.

Puzzled, she said again, "Where is your legal guardian? You're underage. You need a legal guardian here with you."

"I don't have one," he said again.

It was one of the saddest, most degrading moments I've ever witnessed. Here he was, in a court room, accused of stabbing somebody, and he had nobody to bring along. He stood alone.

"We cannot proceed without a legal guardian for the accused. You don't have a legal guardian," she asked for the third time.

"No."

The case was delayed. He left the box and walked from court. I followed him out and we walked to Amasango together.

When he is sentenced, it's very possible that justice will be served; that he will be punished for what he's done. The court can do that-and probably will. I'm not saying it shouldn't. He stabbed somebody. He cannot get away with that.

What the court cannot do is fix the underlying problem. The court is powerful in doling out punishments and ensuring that people serve time. It's powerless to fix the circumstances that have lead to the crime. It's completely incapable of rectifying all the injustice this boy has faced during his 16 years of life.

Perhaps he'll go to jail. Perhaps he'll have to attend an anger management course. But when he's done serving his time, he'll still have no parents, no legal guardian, no home, no reason to not end up in court again.

And the cycle continues.