When Bureaucracy Becomes a Barrier to Justice - Hornsby Shire Council Libary

A dispute at a suburban Sydney library raises an uncomfortable question: are routine public services being used to frustrate litigation against the state?

On the afternoon of February 1, 2026, a routine errand at a public library in Sydney’s north turned into something more troubling. I had gone to Hornsby Library to access a basic civic service: the witnessing of an affidavit by a Justice of the Peace—a step required before documents can be filed in court.

What followed was not dramatic. There was no shouting, no security incident, no refusal framed in legal terms. Instead, there was something subtler: delay, discouragement, and quiet obstruction, administered through procedure rather than force.

That distinction matters.

A Small Gate in the Legal System

In New South Wales, Justices of the Peace are meant to serve as low-level gateways to justice. They verify affidavits, certify documents, and ensure that ordinary citizens—especially those without lawyers—can meet procedural requirements. Libraries host JP services precisely because they are meant to be neutral, accessible spaces.

On that day, my documents required witnessing. Although the total bundle was around 40 pages, only 15 pages actually required certification, well within the commonly applied 20-page limit. I was initially fifth in the queue, then asked—reasonably—to step aside and take a later number to accommodate others. I did so without objection.

When my number was finally called, the JP declined to proceed, citing the end of service hours—despite other patrons still waiting and no announcement that the service had concluded. At that point, a library staff member intervened repeatedly, urging me to leave and asserting that I had already “asked my question.”

When I asked for the JP’s registration number—so I could lodge a complaint about the handling of the matter—the request was refused. The JP left the area, assisted by staff, without providing identifying details.

Why This Matters

Viewed in isolation, this could be dismissed as a scheduling misunderstanding or an awkward interaction between staff and a patron. But context matters.

The affidavit in question related to an active civil case: Charlie Armstrong Adams v State of New South Wales (2024/00399218). The proceeding concerns alleged procedural misconduct by state institutions, including failures of record-keeping and accountability that have had concrete legal consequences.

The state is not a private litigant. It is the entity that funds courts, employs public servants, oversees libraries, and regulates Justices of the Peace.

That reality creates an uncomfortable question: what safeguards exist to ensure that state-run services are not—intentionally or otherwise—used to impede litigation against the state itself?

Pattern or Coincidence?

This was not the first time I had encountered difficulty obtaining routine JP services while pursuing this case. Similar issues arose previously at the same library, involving different staff and a different JP, and again at another council-run library elsewhere in Sydney.

To be clear, I am not alleging a coordinated conspiracy. Bureaucracies rarely operate that way. What they do exhibit, however, is risk aversion, institutional defensiveness, and a tendency to close ranks when the state itself is the defendant.

In such environments, obstruction does not require instructions. It emerges organically—from uncertainty, from misplaced loyalty, from a desire to avoid involvement in anything perceived as “controversial.”

The Quiet Power of Friction

Legal systems depend not only on laws, but on frictionless access to procedure. Delays, refusals to identify officials, and informal discouragement can be as effective as formal denial—particularly for self-represented litigants.

When access to something as basic as a JP becomes unpredictable, the system sends a message: proceed at your own risk.

That message should concern more than one litigant. Today it is a civil case against a health authority. Tomorrow it could be a planning dispute, a police complaint, or a whistleblower affidavit.

The Question That Remains

No one at Hornsby Library accused me of wrongdoing. No one cited a statute barring service. Nothing was put in writing at the time. And that is precisely the problem.

When public institutions act in ways that impede accountability without leaving a paper trail, trust erodes quietly.

So the question is not whether there was malice—but whether the system is structured to prevent even the appearance of it.

If public services can be used—through discretion, delay, or denial—to frustrate litigation against the state, then the rule of law is weakened not by dramatic overreach, but by a thousand small gates quietly closing.

That is a question worth asking. And answering.

By Charlie Armstrong Adams
Sydney, Australia