September 6, 2011

BEHIND THE FAÇADE OF THE crisp, dark suit, under a sharp haircut and behind pale blue eyes, was a place of anguish. Steve Nastos walked down the street, avoiding eye contact with various lawyers, court clerks and police officers in the court district of downtown Toronto. Not long ago, he had been a respected detective in the Sexual Assault Unit, a father to a seven-year-old girl and a husband to a beautiful wife. He now wondered what kind of a father or husband he could be in jail.

Nastos was flanked by two uniformed officers a step or two behind him. The shorter, older officer had his hand on Nastos' elbow and had a good grip, the way cops always seemed to. Nastos knew why, of course: if someone in custody was about to run for it, he would unconsciously become rigid in his upper body, and a good cop paid attention for any sign of tenseness in the arm or any other sign that the officer needed to wrench the handcuffs or slam the guy into a wall. Of course, Nastos was thinking of doing no such thing.

Despite his best efforts, his smile eroded at times as the natural walker's sway of his arms was constricted and squeezed from the handcuffs digging into his wrists behind him. His shoulders, aching for relief, burned from the weight of his increasingly heavy arms. The last time he had worn cuffs was in training at Police College, twenty-five years and thirty pounds ago; they were a little tighter and heavier now.

Nastos observed the court building, stone and marble coming together in an imposing, rigid and cold shell. Engraved on an archway was something written in Latin, probably a courtesy warning from the lawyers to have one's wallet ready if one wanted anything even resembling justice. And it was just like a lawyer to post it in a dead language. He wasn't sure he had ever noticed it before.

With a cool September wind behind him, he pushed a dream of freedom aside and walked up the steps, past an archway into the court building, transforming from a free man, a man of the law, to a man accused of a crime. He hoped for an imaginary wall to surround him, rendering him invisible to the crowd. With it he would drift into the back of bail court, anonymous in the audience. He'd say a few yes sirs and no sirs when called upon, then just float back out, unnoticed and unremembered. For that brief amount of time, he would just try to become someone else, a figment of his own imagination. No more perceptible than a ghost drifting through a thick, still fog.

His shoes hardly made a sound as he walked up the marble steps to the landing, past the pillars, through the turnstile and through security. He turned down the left hallway, weaving around and through the crowd. Years of pacing this very building, waiting for verdicts, allowed him to arrive at Courtroom 101 — the bail court — having rarely had to raise his eyes to anyone.

He made it as far as the double doors when he heard a voice from the side call out, "That's him there, roll the camera. Detective Nastos?"

In that moment, Nastos relinquished his hopes of anonymity, took a deep breath and braced for impact. His body became heavy. He was aware that his heart was racing, his cold hands were sweaty and his wrists were aching from the cuffs gnawing into him like an old dog's dulled teeth. He saw reporters and camera crews permeating through a deteriorating wall of courtroom derelicts as the media swarmed in around him.

"Detective Nastos? Detective Nastos, do you having any comments before you enter court?" a reporter asked.

He said nothing.

"Did he deserve what he got, Detective?" another tried.

Nastos thought it would be best to shut down. It was easier just to abandon a part of his humanity, to give up his sentient, communicative being and accept his fate. Questions came in a wall of noise from the dozen men and women wanting their quote for the day. Just shut down, let it all go. What could have gone on for an eternity ended when one of the police officers behind Nastos grabbed the door handle and directed him to the temporary safety of the courtroom.

Long immune to the odours, filth and scum of courts, Nastos stood still, looking for a place to sit with his small entourage of officers. The older of the two officers pointed to the defense lawyers' desk and without a word Nastos headed directly for it. Looks like I move to the front of the line.

On his way down the walkway, he passed a young white man dressed like a black gangster. With a quick glance, Nastos saw the real gangsters in the back of court. They were probably here for aggravated assaults, attempted murders — real violence. For the white kid, dressing up like them was about as authentic as a Walmart Halloween costume, and more than a little insulting. Hopefully for this kid they'd see the humour in it rather than feel the need to stick a knife in his throat.

A sudden, violent stench identified the white kid as the very epicentre of the vomit and stale sweat odours filling the cramped room. The feeling of it settling into his mouth and lungs was as offensive as if someone had stuffed a rag soaked in gasoline down his throat. He suppressed a gag and moved past, shaking his head. Pretty soon, when this makes it to the front page, people are going to see me in the same light.

Slowly pushing the gate that separated the general gallery from the front of the room, Nastos approached the defense desk. Three lawyers eyed each other, then slid over to create a space. The two officers who had escorted Nastos took seats directly behind him, but made no attempt to pull his chair back. Obviously, they hadn't been handcuffed in a while themselves or they might have known it was basically impossible for him to do it himself. Nastos shook his head, rolling his eyes, then began sliding a chair back with his foot. Quite surprisingly, the youngest of the three lawyers saw his efforts and reached a hand back to get the chair for him.

"Thanks," Nastos said.

"No problem," he replied without looking up, taking his own seat.

Nastos recognized him as Kevin Carscadden. He was barely thirty-five. Carscadden had only been in town for a few years. In that time, he had begun making a name for himself as a reluctant mob lawyer. How someone gets into that line of work was anyone's guess. It was a good way to wind up dead, in jail or to become the media go-to guy every time they needed a sound bite from someone who talks like he's spent the last ten years with his head up his ass. Of course, this seemed a little hypocritical in light of Nastos' current predicament.

An officer sitting behind Nastos surprisingly removed the handcuffs from him. Nastos began rubbing his wrists. The acidic burn slowly began to clear from his shoulders and arms when he rolled his upper body forward. He tried to raise his elbows to stretch his back, but his body was not ready for that one yet.

One of the other lawyers leaned forward, past Nastos to Carscadden and spoke. "Looks like your guy's up first." The man slid a copy of the court brief over to Carscadden, then he and the other lawyer took seats next to the two cops in the row behind, leaving Carscadden and Nastos alone in front.

Nastos watched the brief sliding along, past him to Carscadden.

"Are you the duty counsel for me today?" Nastos asked.

"Looks like it." Carscadden checked the other two lawyers. It was pretty...