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