Читать книгу Outside the Line - Christian Petersen - Страница 7

Next Monday morning Peter swipes his card through the MAG-ID screen at the rear entrance of the building. Somebody’s cigarette has been left smouldering in the steel ashtray beside the door, nicotine going to waste, but he denies a wacko urge to stop for a puff. He mutters at the time displayed by the ID screen and hauls open the metal door. The system was installed last year, supposedly for security reasons, but it neatly logs the entry and exit of employees, their time, in other words. Tardiness was never a problem for Peter until Karen left. She always set their alarm clock. He lived, and for the most part thrived, on her time. Since her departure, Peter has struggled to keep both oars in the water, never mind spring out of bed in the morning. His head holds a dull ache like a bruised apple, and he craves the pills stashed in his desk.

He detours through the office kitchen to grab a coffee and hopefully evade notice by the admin. A film of sweat is already on his forehead — one of those mornings. Cup in hand, he slips past the file room.

“Good morning, Pete!” the admin sings out in her stinging, high-pitched voice of horror on a Monday morning.

“Ah, morning, Tammy,” he concedes, approaching the table abutting her desk where documents are lined up. Three bail intakes, fallout from an average weekend. Peter studies the undertakings issued by the police and the justice of the peace, sips his coffee, before turning to face the three persons across the counter surnamed Charlie, Gilson, and Nolin. Ms. Gilson’s UTA is clipped to an active probation file; Mr. Charlie is an old-timer who gets his cowhand’s pay once a month and lands in jail every two or three; the other, Nolin, is unknown, arrested on five charges, which isn’t an all-time high, but noteworthy.

Peter steps up to the counter. The three of them are seated as far apart as possible in the worn chairs of the waiting room. “Good morning. Sorry to meet under these circumstances. I’m the bail supervisor, Peter Ellis, and you’ve been directed to report to this office.”

Raising his mug, he steadies his arm with effort and takes another essential sip of coffee. He meets the smiling eyes of old Levi Charlie, slouched in the corner, with a purple bandana knotted around his dark neck. Ms. Gilson looks forty aping seventeen. Already on probation for the theft of some guy’s wallet, over the weekend she was arrested for assault on another fellow. She’s the sort of client male probation officers will not interview in private for fear of allegations. In this case Peter has an easy way out. Not so, unfortunately, with the beefy young jock stepping forward to face him across the counter.

“Listen, I’m already late for work. I’ll come back later on my lunch hour. See you then.” The man swivels for the door, his silver glow-in-the-dark sneakers squeaking on the linoleum.

“Ah, Mr. Nolin?” Peter says. “It’s not quite that simple. Please have a seat and I’ll be with you as soon as I can. Ms. Gilson, because you’re already on probation, I’ll let your PO know you’re here and she’ll deal with your undertaking. Levi, you old hellion, come on in.” Peter holds open the security door as the dignified fellow enters in his worn cowboy boots, restraining his amusement.

“Hey, what’s going on? I was here before him. I just told you I’m late for work!” Nolin thrusts his chest over the counter. “Old Tonto can wait. He’s not going anywhere.”

“This isn’t a restaurant, Mr. Nolin. The business with this gentleman will take only a few minutes. When we’re finished, then it’s your turn. You’re facing a number of serious charges, which will take time to process. You might want to call your workplace and let them know you’ll be late this morning.” Peter feels hair rising on his neck, an instinctive male heat in his chest and upper arms. He compensates by lowering his voice almost to a whisper. “Of course, you’re free to go. No one’s stopping you. I’ll call the police and let them know you’re in breach of bail. They’ll arrest you again, and I’ll recommend you be held in custody until your first hearing in court next month. Or you can sit down and shut up.”

This last phrase casts a sudden silence over the office, the admin’s fingers momentarily suspended in air, since she has never heard this tactic used so bluntly before, or certainly not by Peter Ellis. Another PO, Greg Milchem, looks up from the photocopier with an amused gleam for conflict in his eye. The security door has closed. Peter holds papers in both hands but is squared off across the counter from Nolin. Old Levi Charlie stands at the side of Tammy’s desk, his mouth a gentle wrinkle. He winks at her when she glances up.

Levi’s face is lined like old dark leather, darker than most of his people, the Secwepmc First Nation, also known as Shuswap. He stands more than six feet, a bit stooped as a result of fracturing and later breaking his spine, both times thrown from the same Brahma bull. The bull, with the registered name of Vaquero Vex, but known as Double V, retired from the national rodeo circuit twenty some years ago. The same year Levi did. They had a running contest for a few seasons, but their last ride was in Medicine Hat in 1979. Levi was transferred from there to Vancouver by ambulance, and two months later, home to Canoe Creek on the train with a nurse attending him. None of the doctors expected he would ever walk again, but the next spring he pulled himself up in the saddle and never lacked for work in the region. The ranchers liked to joke that the Indian was always the best cowboy around.

Peter and Levi make their way through the outer office toward the bail supervisor’s desk, the latter knowing the way as well as the former does, having much more personal experience with the justice system over the past forty years. They reach Peter’s desk, and he puts his cup down, feeling almost ill-mannered. “Coffee, Levi?”

The rodeo rider nods twice for emphasis. Peter goes to the kitchen, fixes a cup, black with the three sugars he knows Levi prefers, and grabs a couple of doughnuts out of a box somebody brought in. Then they sit and sip coffee and eat their doughnuts while Levi scans the morning newspaper. Peter waits and enjoys the silence. A bit of filtered morning sunshine. In fact, Levi could have signed papers at the counter and been on his way. But Peter has come to enjoy the man’s company every two or three months, usually on Monday morning, charged as a result of getting drunk the former Saturday night, more or less. Try as he might, Peter can’t see the crime in that.

“Any salmon in the river yet?” he asks after a while.

Levi turns his chin up, considering the question. “A few. Run’s just startin’.”

“Are you training horses?”

Levi inclines his head with a faint smile. “Yeah, a few colts. They keep me in trainin’.”

“I guess.” Peter smiles, mainly in wonderment. Levi’s date of birth is listed as 1948–03–01. The month and day being estimates, because he was born with the deer, all according to his dear bygone mother. “So, ah, you were drinking again? Saturday night?”

“Yeah.”

“Says here maybe you assaulted a server at the bar?”

“Assaulted, or insulted? Yeah, maybe I insulted him.”

“Levi?”

“What? He grabbed my arm, so I grabbed his arm, he goes down. He insulted me first.” Levi gently fingers his purple bandana and squints.

“I see.” Peter sips his coffee and can’t quite restrain another smile.

Fifteen minutes later Peter escorts Levi Charlie back through the office and bids him farewell. Levi loudly replies that he’ll bring in a smoked salmon next time, with a wink, knowing full well the suggestion is a conflict of interest with justice.

Peter holds the waiting room door open and turns his attention to the unknown. “Mr. Nolin, thanks for your patience. Please come in.”

“About time.”

Peter leads the way toward his office once more. As they pass the admin desk, he catches an almost silent exchange with his peripheral vision. Nolin has made a face or gesture that elicits a faint snort from Tammy, a blushing smirk and bowed head when Peter glances back. Those two mocking him? It’s a small town, and they’re acquainted somehow, he guesses. Nolin is wearing loose synthetic warm-up pants currently in style as casual wear, and the material swishes with his swagger.

“Please have a seat.” Probation Officer Ellis nods toward an empty chair as he sinks into his own and swivels to pull open a drawer stocked with blank forms. Focus on the task, no call to combat. Yet that primal sense is on full alert. “Where is it you work? Did you get a chance to call your employer?”

Todd Nolin slouches back, covers his face with his hands, rubs his eyes, combs his fingers back over his close-cropped scalp, then lets out an angry snort. “Hey, let me ask you something. Have you ever spent a night in jail?”

“No,” Peter lies without compunction. As a matter of fact, he did spend one night in a scary cell in Mexico long ago, but he’s not about to play truth or dare with this guy. Nolin’s eyes are expressive, yet hard to read: measures of hostility and arrogance, but also of entitlement and an almost forlorn appeal. He’s been so hard done by getting arrested and all.

“I didn’t think so. Well, it’s not something I want to advertise, Mister Peters, okay. So let me sign whatever little papers you have there, so I can get down to the store.”

“Ellis.”

“What?”

“My name’s Ellis. Peter Ellis. Not Peters.”

“Whatever. Fucking pardon me. Can we get on with it?”

“All right, sure. Where is it that you work? Sorry to repeat myself.” Peter carefully selects one pen, his favourite for the moment, from a holder full on the desk. “But that information’s required for this little form.”

Nolin’s eyes smoulder, furious that he has to submit to civil process. “I’m the assistant manager at BBG.”

“BBG? Is that the full name?”

“Blades, Boards, and Gear, the sports shop,” he recites, as if he’s giving directions to a deaf old man, as if this bureaucrat dude is so clearly uncool and out of the loop.

Question by question, they complete the intake form in a few minutes. Peter saves an obvious one for last, since it always leads into a review of the conditions of bail. “Residential address? Where will you be living?”

“Arbour Villa. That’s why the cops sent me to talk to you, so I can go home.”

“Maybe you’ve misunderstood. Your bail order, issued by a justice of the peace who acts on advice from the police and the prosecutor, prohibits you from being within one hundred yards of Arbour Villa.”

“Yeah, yeah, but you can give me permission. It says right on there.”

“That applies in some cases, rare ones. Not in yours, I’m afraid, given the seriousness of the charges you face. Which brings us to the order itself.”

“Wait a second! All my clothes and stuff. That’s where I live, so what am I supposed to do?”

“Find other accommodation,” Peter says flatly. Before Nolin can start again he adds, “You’ve been charged with the following — assault causing bodily harm, sexual assault, unlawful confinement, possession of a restricted weapon, and resisting a police officer. The conditions of your bail order are as follows. ‘Report to a bail supervisor’… today before four, it says, which you’ve done. ‘And thereafter as directed.’ I’ll give you a slip for the next appointment before you leave. ‘No contact or communication directly or indirectly with Marina Faro.’ That means no phone calls or notes, no messages through a third party. ‘Not to be within one hundred yards of 465 Arbour Street, except with prior written permission of the bail supervisor.’ We’ve already covered that. And you’re not permitted anywhere near your former residence. ‘Abstain absolutely from the consumption of alcohol or non-prescription drugs and submit to breath or urine tests upon the demand of any peace officer who has grounds to believe you have consumed alcohol or drugs.’ Self-explanatory, right? Also, Section 145.3 of the Criminal Code stipulates that anyone who doesn’t abide by the conditions of an undertaking can be charged with breach of bail, which is an additional charge punishable by fine or jail. Do you understand the conditions of your order?”

“This is bullshit! She made the whole story up. She wigs out, then the old bat neighbour calls the cops and suddenly I’m on the wanted list, like O.J. Simpson or somebody. Fuck!”

“Do you understand the conditions of your order?” The jock’s self-comparison almost amuses Peter — the excuse he’s heard a hundred times before. “You’ve been arrested and are under investigation for an offence, actually five offences, but you may or may not be guilty. Do you understand the conditions?”

“Yeah, yeah! How do I get some clothes and my razor? That’s what I’d like to know!”

“I’ll contact Ms. Faro and ask her to gather those items for you. You can check back with me in a couple of days.”

“Oh, I like that. Great service! Tell her I want my workout bag, too, and all my shoes, and the store stock catalogues from last week.” He grasps his big square head in his hands. “Are we just about done here?”

“Soon. I need to take your photograph… if you don’t mind standing there against that height strip on the wall.”

Peter pulls a Polaroid camera from the desk drawer. Oddly enough, Nolin does as he’s asked, although muttering under his breath. Some clients refuse to have their photo taken, and a PO can’t force them into it. But Nolin must be used to having his picture taken, gets a kick out of it maybe. He stands six foot three and glares at Peter through the camera lens.

“Now if you could please sign this reporting slip for Thursday —”

“You mean I’m coming in here twice a week!” He scribbles his name and throws down the pen.

“This week, yes,” Peter says, wondering if Nolin shouldn’t report daily, given the rage he’s in. He admitted to no prior criminal record, which may or may not be true. Either way it means nothing if he ignores the paperwork and seeks out his victim again.

A few months earlier a guy named Kavanaugh did just that — walked from the probation office straight home to take after his wife again with the nearest weapon to hand, a vacuum cleaner pipe, and left her scarred for life. Peter still cringes recalling the case, though he did everything by the book, and Woodgate later made a point of telling him not to blame himself — shit happens. Every time one of these guys slams the office door a probation officer considers the chances, the probability, of some further, maybe final act of violence.

After the client leaves, Peter typically spends another twenty or thirty minutes completing the new bail intake. He reviews the forms, makes a note of any missing information to be filled in at the next report date. He begins the file’s “running record,” with a bare-bones summary of the interview and his impression of the accused, usually a single paragraph. In Nolin’s case Peter fills most of a legal sheet with handwritten notes. The charges indicate far more than the run-of-the-mill bickering and tussle between a couple. Something pushed this guy into the crazy zone. This prompts Peter to call the Royal Canadian Mounted Police’s Victim Services for more background.

“Glad you called, Peter,” Maggie McConachie proceeds at her usual breathless pace, easily outstripping him five words to one in their weekly dialogues. She’s good at her job, and Peter has learned to heed her advice. “This was a scary incident. I was petrified for that poor young woman. He held her captive in that apartment for over an hour after the police arrived. We took Ms. Faro straight to the hospital. She had awful bruises, possibly fractured ribs. Nolin didn’t give himself up for another hour after he let her out. He had a handgun, for heaven’s sake! The police didn’t push him, mainly for fear of suicide apparently, though none of them were in any hurry to be busting into the place, I assure you. We haven’t seen the likes of it in this town for a long time.”

“They released this guy on bail? What more do you have to do to be remanded in custody these days?”

“My sentiments exactly, Peter. I think anyone else would have been held.” She lowers her voice to indicate that what she’s saying is off the record.

“What do you mean?”

“You know who he is, don’t you? Todd Nolin. He was drafted by the Buffalo Sabres a few years ago and played for their farm team. He even played part of a season with Buffalo. He came back here about two years ago. Apparently, there’s still an outside chance he could be recalled or picked up by another team. Anyway, he’s about the only local hockey star we’ve had since Dave Borchuk played for the Philadelphia Flyers back in the 1970s, with Bobby Clarke and Bernie Parent.”

“Dave Borchuk?”

“You don’t follow hockey, do you? Borchuk owns BBG, the sports store.”

“Nolin works there.”

“That’s right,” Maggie says. “Getting the picture? Nolin’s the young blood, a local star, and they think he can do no wrong. Even if he is a brute. This isn’t the first time the police have dealt with him.”

“I’ve run him on CDS. He doesn’t appear to have any record.”

“No, but years ago — he must’ve only been seventeen or eighteen — there was a hush-hush investigation. Others didn’t think the victim’s story held up, so nothing came of it. But I interviewed the girl involved.”

“Aha! What was the charge?”

She sighs. “Sexual assault. Listen, I’ll be sitting in on the next interview with Marina Faro, tomorrow or the next day. Some of these cops are about as tactful as pit bulls. Anyway, I’ll fax it to you once it’s been transcribed.”

After they hang up, Peter takes another close look at the photograph attached to Nolin’s file. Something in the guy’s eyes gives him pause.

That same morning Peter picks a note from regional personnel out of his office mail slot: “Due to the current budget freeze no advanced training will be approved until further notice.” His name remains on the eligibility list. He tosses the page into his recycling box with a nasty oath. It means he’ll continue doing all the work of a trained probation officer, yet with no job security and for a fraction of the salary. Or will he? The local newspaper is looking for a reporter, but Peter can’t quite see himself covering town council meetings and bowling tournaments. He might just file a grievance with the union, though he knows that stands a snowball’s chance in hell of helping him.

A little later Woodgate calls out, “Alice?” and Peter drags his feet to the manager’s office. He’s got half a mind to challenge Woodgate on the training issue, especially since the man forecast such an easy progression through the ranks at the hiring interview. But it’s going on two years now, damn it! Peter thinks. Of course, they’ve had the discussion before — three times, actually. Woodgate always waves his gorilla fingers in a helpless gesture toward the top of his bureaucratic pyramid, saying, “You know, the bean counters tell us… What can I say? It’s out of my hands.”

Yeah, Peter thinks now, but it saves this particular office some money, which looks great in Woodgate’s year-end report.

“Your letter from personnel was copied to me,” Woodgate informs Peter when he enters the manager’s office. “Sorry to hear your training’s postponed.”

“Me, too,” Peter replies curtly with all the challenge he can muster at the moment. Maybe he could get a job with the city in park maintenance or dog-catching or something.

“Stick with it and you’ll get there,” Woodgate mutters.

How motivational, Peter thinks, heartwarming really.

“Say, the young guy in your office a while ago, was that Todd Nolin?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s that all about?”

Peter provides a summary.

Woodgate shakes his head. “That boy was a good hockey player. It’s a shame.”

Peter isn’t exactly sure what Big George means by this, nor, at the moment, does he give a shit. “I’d better get back to work.”

“Right. That’s all for now, Alice.”

Peter returns to his desk, considering his lack of future. He ponders the scales of small-town justice where potential as a hockey star brings celebrity status, and in Nolin’s case, entitlement to be an outright prick.

Slouching rebelliously in his chair, Peter props one heel on the windowsill. The news about his training, the lack thereof and the implications, has sapped his zeal for the job. An early lunch is in order, maybe a pint or two. But it’s only five after eleven, so he’s got at least a half-hour to kill. He clips his fingernails, mentally daring anyone to interrupt him. That takes three minutes, then he stares out the window for a while. Finally, he glances back at the documents and notes re Nolin on his desk. The victim’s name and phone number catches his eye — Marina Faro.

At the first ring an answering machine clicks on. She’s not taking any calls. No message on the machine, just a moment of static, then the beep. Peter states his name and reason for calling, recites the office number.