few irreversible repercussions. I suppose no one thought much of the little typos that began turning up here and there—if they even observed them in the first place. I noted them, but did not know yet the whole truth about Odalie’s tactics, and so did not say anything. Like most people, I quickly arrived at the assumption that Odalie was simply careless at her job and told myself I would only bring it to the Sergeant’s attention if she did not improve her accuracy over time. Out of a completely voluntary but enduring sense of conscientiousness, I took it upon myself to keep careful watch of her.
For the most part, we typists are expected to be incapable of mistakes. It is a curious phenomenon that whenever something is typed up it becomes, for better or for worse, the truth. I’ve sat in on a few trials myself and listened to words I’d typed with my own two hands read aloud by a prosecuting lawyer. The reading aloud of this transcript is always treated as though the information it contains is just as accurate and inviolable as the pair of tablets Moses brought down from Mount Sinai—even more so, for after all, Moses smashed those tablets on the first go-round and had to go back for a replacement set, and these transcripts seem more ironclad.
Even more interesting to me is how, as the confession is being read aloud by the prosecuting lawyer, the court reporter simultaneously types these same words in turn, creating a second, repeated record of the truth. Out of professional courtesy, I would never doubt the court reporter’s accuracy (as I would not appreciate somebody doubting my own), but it is interesting to contemplate the number of hands—
feminine
hands, no less—and machines that must handle the content of the confession until it translates itself into a verdict and, finally, a sentence. This is, of course, a function of our modern times. Whether we’ve made the wisest choice or not remains to be seen, but either way we’ve gone and placed our faith in the fidelity of machines, in that we’ve chosen to believe what these devices reproduce will stay true to the original. Furthermore, we typists are considered an extension of the typewriter and the mechanical neutrality of all it produces. Once we’ve positioned ourselves in front of the machine itself, our legs crossed at the ankles and tidily tucked under our chairs, our fingers poised over the keys, we are expected to become inhuman. It is our duty to take dictation or transcribe everything exactly as it is. We are thought to be mere receptors, passive and wonderfully incapable of deviation.
I suppose this is also the paradox of justice. The disembodiment, I mean; that justice is supposed to be all-seeing and yet blind at the same time. We typists are expected to give up our opinions, but I suppose Lady Justice is expected to be even further deprived of her faculties, in that she is not even entitled to the prejudices of first impressions. Lady Justice may be obliged to be blind in order to properly do her job, but I’m not certain I could stand that particular handicap myself. I’ll admit outright, I have always been something of a
voyeuse,
and I feel very little shame in this. I am quite skilled at watching people, and I believe this habit has given me something of a true education in the world—perhaps in more ways than one.
From the time of my early childhood years, the nuns at the orphanage often commented on my ability to successfully gather information by simply remaining silent and spying, unobserved. Of course, they did not put it this way. They only called it
spying
when I had been mischievous, and this was rare. Most times, they said things to me like,
My, but what an observant little thing you are, Rose! Always soaking up everything around you! See that your observant ways don
’
t lead you into trouble, and you will go far in this life
. I heeded their advice. I was always good; I minded my manners and kept my hands and fingernails
For the most part, we typists are expected to be incapable of mistakes. It is a curious phenomenon that whenever something is typed up it becomes, for better or for worse, the truth. I’ve sat in on a few trials myself and listened to words I’d typed with my own two hands read aloud by a prosecuting lawyer. The reading aloud of this transcript is always treated as though the information it contains is just as accurate and inviolable as the pair of tablets Moses brought down from Mount Sinai—even more so, for after all, Moses smashed those tablets on the first go-round and had to go back for a replacement set, and these transcripts seem more ironclad.
Even more interesting to me is how, as the confession is being read aloud by the prosecuting lawyer, the court reporter simultaneously types these same words in turn, creating a second, repeated record of the truth. Out of professional courtesy, I would never doubt the court reporter’s accuracy (as I would not appreciate somebody doubting my own), but it is interesting to contemplate the number of hands—
feminine
hands, no less—and machines that must handle the content of the confession until it translates itself into a verdict and, finally, a sentence. This is, of course, a function of our modern times. Whether we’ve made the wisest choice or not remains to be seen, but either way we’ve gone and placed our faith in the fidelity of machines, in that we’ve chosen to believe what these devices reproduce will stay true to the original. Furthermore, we typists are considered an extension of the typewriter and the mechanical neutrality of all it produces. Once we’ve positioned ourselves in front of the machine itself, our legs crossed at the ankles and tidily tucked under our chairs, our fingers poised over the keys, we are expected to become inhuman. It is our duty to take dictation or transcribe everything exactly as it is. We are thought to be mere receptors, passive and wonderfully incapable of deviation.
I suppose this is also the paradox of justice. The disembodiment, I mean; that justice is supposed to be all-seeing and yet blind at the same time. We typists are expected to give up our opinions, but I suppose Lady Justice is expected to be even further deprived of her faculties, in that she is not even entitled to the prejudices of first impressions. Lady Justice may be obliged to be blind in order to properly do her job, but I’m not certain I could stand that particular handicap myself. I’ll admit outright, I have always been something of a
voyeuse,
and I feel very little shame in this. I am quite skilled at watching people, and I believe this habit has given me something of a true education in the world—perhaps in more ways than one.
From the time of my early childhood years, the nuns at the orphanage often commented on my ability to successfully gather information by simply remaining silent and spying, unobserved. Of course, they did not put it this way. They only called it
spying
when I had been mischievous, and this was rare. Most times, they said things to me like,
My, but what an observant little thing you are, Rose! Always soaking up everything around you! See that your observant ways don
’
t lead you into trouble, and you will go far in this life
. I heeded their advice. I was always good; I minded my manners and kept my hands and fingernails
Similar Books
