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.
chapter three
After work Peter climbs into his rusty green Bronco and lights a cigarette, verging on a habit for him recently. Living alone, he rarely troubles to cook anymore. Whereas he used to faithfully prepare dinner for Karen and enjoyed that hour of the evening, he’s become a regular in the frozen aisle and the deli section at Safeway, and this evening opts for chow mein and spring rolls.
It’s a fifteen-minute drive home to a neighbourhood community that over many decades developed around a log-built roadhouse, dating back from when the highway was a wagon trail. Peter stops by the general store for a case of beer, since he drank a number last night and fears the stock is low. God forbid.
Approaching the house, he tries to ignore the condition of the place, now in its second season of neglect. The grass is long overgrown because he wasn’t able to start the lawnmower come April, nor did he bother to get it fixed by the end of May. Dandelions are rooted and blooming yellow in the gravel driveway. The neighbour kids are out playing ball hockey again this evening as they have been for weeks since the National Hockey League playoffs began. He recalls the same boyhood tradition. They prop a sheet of plywood against the fence as a backdrop to their net, and for hours he hears the repeated whack of near misses and wild shots, big saves, and shouting. Peter sits at the kitchen island, eating chow mein, drinking beer.
Buying the house seemed a huge step at the time, for him and Karen, a decision weighted with all sorts of implications. Such as children. They considered two or three places that were barely more than cabins, with acreage in picturesque settings. Room for two, but no more. That was the reason they ended up in a fairly ordinary older house with four bedrooms, two baths, a full basement, a fenced backyard, and even a swing set waiting. Because they imagined children, cribs, toys, bicycles, and the required guest room for visiting grandparents.
For a while then they seemed almost prepared and stopped using birth control. Karen guided their positioning in bed. A few times she thought she was pregnant, and at first was disappointed when it wasn’t so. Yet the last time the possibility appeared to cause her only anxiety. Peter picked up the test at the drugstore. The result was negative, and Karen was clearly relieved. Children never to be. He challenged her, which prompted a quarrel, one of the more serious he could recall. Looking back, it made more sense.
He’s left with chow mein and beer, the house in disrepair, the cat rubbing against his leg starved for attention. And the sounds of the neighbour boys playing road hockey, the scrape of sticks, ball whacking plywood, and their carefree shouting. Peter taught at the local college for a couple of years, mostly remedial English and upgrading courses. Only part-time, with nothing over summer months, and the chances of a full-time position were remote. So he was wide open to ideas, to anything short of telemarketing. Then he heard about the job with the probation office. Karen didn’t like the idea. Socially conscious to a fault, she viewed the entire justice system as reactionary.
“Incarcerating people by the thousands is just plain medieval,” she said. “I mean, apart from those who are truly a threat to society. The majority have mental health problems, disabilities, addictions — what possible good does it do to lock them away?”
“Well, it’s called deterrence, I think —”
“It’s called discrimination, too! Look at the percentage of prisoners who are aboriginal. It’s something like twenty percent. And they make up less than three percent of the general population.”
“I’m not defending that,” he said in his own defence. “And I’m not signing on as a jail guard. It’s community supervision, and it involves trying to help the same sort of people you’re concerned about.” He was excited about applying for the job, and a bit taken aback by Karen’s reaction. Even then perhaps he missed a deeper level of significance in their different points of view.
And another thing: he didn’t much like bringing home one-third of what she was earning. So pride played a part, but there was also significant personal debt to consider, the price of education. The work with probation was full-time, even if he was hired as an “auxiliary,” therefore subject to layoff without notice. That didn’t bother him — at first.
When he encountered former colleagues in the grocery store, the salaried college instructors, they sometimes asked how Peter liked his new position. Often with a quizzical tone, even raised brows, as though it were tough luck for him. He’d say just fine, thanks. His own answer always surprised him a bit by being true.
There was much to learn about the process of justice, from the paperwork to the principles of sentencing, punishment, and rehabilitation. And, for better or worse, probation — supervision of offenders in the community. Knowing where they live and hang out, their particular vices or tendencies, their histories on record. They bring in their crises and yellow-nail tragedies to discuss every month. The learning on the job is divided into sections and subsections, Peter has discovered, and as in reading the Criminal Code itself, he is easily sidetracked or lost.
Theft of oysters is his favourite obscure offence in the Criminal Code, Section 323. Living in a semi-desert a day’s drive from the Pacific Ocean, he hasn’t had to deal with an oyster shyster, aka pearl burglar. But he holds out hope, imagining he might share a peculiar bond with that person, man or woman, the serial shellfish thief.
He enjoys the writing the job entails — documenting interviews and discussions with clients, victims, police, and lawyers. Sometimes he’s only a conduit of such paperwork, initials in the margins, but that’s fine. There’s been a flurry of requests for court reports of late, and Woodgate has started passing a few Peter’s way. The manager was reluctant to do so because Ellis has no Corrections training, of course. But the other POs have more than they can handle, and after reviewing the rookie’s work, Woodgate must have conceded to himself that an English degree counted for something, after all.
As junior employee, part of Peter’s responsibility is supervision of persons on bail, awaiting their day in court. Innocent until proven otherwise, they like to remind him, guys like that Kavanaugh, and now Nolin. After reading the police reports, the circumstances, or “circs” in office lingo, it’s not easy to put them out of mind, standing face to face with a man who reportedly molested his own daughter, or one who beat his wife, then placed the shotgun muzzle between her legs and made his threats explicit. The authority of Corrections over bail clients is limited. Yet the immediate risk of reoffending is often greater; because the wounds are fresh, the offenders can still smell blood.
The telephone rings thirty or forty times each day. After thousands of calls, Peter has standardized his answer: “Peter Ellis speaking…”
A brief pause. She gives her name, returning his call. Late Tuesday afternoon.
As her voice registers, it prompts a subtle shift within Peter’s beleaguered mind. A leap of memory to childhood: bird calls, the trickle of a forest stream. His imagination reaches out like this lately; his senses are craving.
“Ms. Faro, I work for Community Corrections.” He drops his foot from the grey windowsill. “As the police may have informed you, Mr. Nolin’s been