UPS AND DOWNS IN COURT 114

Rough justice in the war on drugs, but the white boy gets a break

I hate being searched. It's bad enough at airport security, but here at the
courts of Old City Hall they actually go through my knapsack as well as
waving metal detectors around me.

And it's two or three times a day, because the moment I'm in a non-smoking
building I get a craving, a damn compulsion, for a cigarette.

And I hate having to take off my hat in the courtrooms.

They're very big on that here, policing hat-wearing. Like justice would
crumble.

I start on the main floor. Courtroom 114. It could be a welfare office, a
drop-in or a donut shop. Same folks, same crowding, same tension, same
waiting. Blacks, whites, Asians, mostly poor, mostly street-wise.

Everyone here appears to be a prisoner of war, the much-touted war on drugs.

Uneasy complicity

One fellow stands semi-permanently at a podium to my right. With a jolt of
uneasy complicity, I realize he's representing the Centre for Addictions
and Mental Health, on whose board I sit, to report on compliance (or lack
thereof) in attending group sessions and the results of urine tests.

This, at the moment, is the drug diversion court.

A young, street-wise woman is called up and asked to explain why she failed
to keep her appointment at the centre.

"Actually, I didn't think it would be proper. I was under the influence of
alcohol." I wonder how long it took her to come up with that one.

The judge looks at her, disappointed, and tells her he may revoke her bail
and hold her in custody for a few days. He asks her to have a seat while he
thinks about it.

Another woman is called up, and she's a little happier than her predecessor.

"I think I found an apartment where, hopefully, there aren't too many drug
dealers."

Her urine has tested clean, she's been good at keeping her appointments and
"been helpful to others."

White boy

A white boy filled with suburban angst and wearing 'gangsta-rapper' baggy
jeans and jacket comes to the front, standing sullenly, head down.

Charged with possession of crack, he was diverted and subsequently attended
the group therapy and counselling that's the alternative to jail.

"Have you been using cocaine?"

"No."

He admits to smoking pot -- no one keels over in shock or expresses dismay.
Some things have changed.

He wants to get a job, but the court and his sister want him to stay in
school. He resists, declaring that he'd just go back to his old behaviours,
and what's the matter with working?

Nothing, admits the judge, but he has potential, he could do a lot better.

The young man agrees to stay with the program, and the judge tells him
they're going to look at his housing, his schooling, the whole ball of wax.
Potential.

I wonder about the message this sends to the others gathered here. No one
else here has had his or her abilities and possibilities pointed out. Of
course, no one else in this crowded room is middle-class.

I go down the hall to courtroom 111.

A 30-something black man is called up and stands before the judge's bench.

"Take your hat off."

"I wear it for religious purposes, Your Honour."

'What religion?"

"Rastafari."

"Take your hat off!"

The defendant shrugs and pulls off his stocking cap and a tangle of braids
is liberated.

111 is remand court.

Room 112 is for guilty pleas.

It's sad and shabby. Alcohol-related crimes. Drunk driving, assault. People
are being sent to detox programs before sentencing.

A guy, an addict, in the prisoner's box argues against jail time.

"Jail just educates me more in bad stuff.''

The judge says, "Well, at least you won't be stealing any more CDs. Ninety
days."

I come back a day or two later, returning to courtroom 114, which today is
not for diversion but, like room 111, is doing remands.

Very edgy

It's more crowded than last time, and edgy. Very edgy.

One large man who could clearly benefit from an anger-management course,
rises abruptly. The Crown catches sight of him out of the corner of her eye
and forestalls chaos by calling his case.

He's given a date to appear again and he lumbers out, bitching to the
embarrassed cop standing guard near the door in an appeal for sanity and
fellow feeling:

"This sucks. Three joints -- pay the fine and get out. Not this crap."

Can you say "Amen"?