a major agricultural trading ground that evolved into an amusement park and now is slated for permanent destruction and restoration to park space. Some attempts have been made to gentrify the neighbourhoods that Hastings passes through, but somehow, those attempts never seem to take in a meaningful way. It doesn’t matter how much a city council spends on improvements, it’s as though Hastings refuses to allow new buildings, sidewalks and hanging baskets to penetrate its aura of washed out, rundown dowdiness. Some claim that’s its charm.
One block north of Hastings, Main Street meets Cordova at the outer edge of Vancouver’s renowned Chinatown. Strangely, small merchants, largely “mom and pop” Asian family operations, have not only survived, but thrived amidst the largest collection of homeless people and strung-out addicts the country has to offer. It’s no secret why so many homeless people and junkies end up in Vancouver: compared to other major Canadian cities like Montreal, Toronto or Winnipeg, Vancouver’s wet winters are practically tropical. It has long been a grievance of B.C. politicians that our province foots the bill for the derelicts, the neglected and the addicted of the other nine.
It’s at the intersection of Main and Cordova that the forbidding pre-trial detention centre sits kitty corner from the old Vancouver Police Department headquarters. Definitely an equality-based institution, the centre houses those awaiting their day in court for crimes as small as minor break and enter to capital offences like rape or homicide. Even Canada’s only real terrorists, charged with the bombing of an Air India flight that killed over three hundred passengers and crew, had spent their pre-trial months preparing with their counsel in the facility at which Carl was just now arriving.
The gaping garage door at the end of the driveway off of Cordova yawned open as Furlo and Smythe delivered their cargo for processing. Not being an official of the police or the courts, I was left to park my car on the dark, rain-soaked streets. Most people would not feel comfortable leaving their car, especially if it were an expensive one, parked outside in this neighbourhood. But the reality of the area surrounding the courts was that car theft was relatively uncommon. For most of the people for whom the streets of Vancouver’s downtown East side was home, a car really isn’t a prized theft item. Where would they go? The supply of drugs, food handouts and even temporary shelter for those trying to break their street existence is all located in this neighbourhood. Why would they want to leave?
I was buzzed through the front entrance doors by a night security guard who looked surprised to see me. “Winston Patrick,” he proclaimed boisterously. “I thought you’d given up this game.” Meinhard Werner was officially part of the Sheriff’s department, which is responsible only for the operation of our court system, including the transportation of criminals from prisons for court appearances. Meinhard, however, presented an image far from that which we equate with law enforcement. Nearing sixty, with a belly that protruded well beyond the capacity of his belt, Meinhard’s principal responsibilities were the signing in of visitors and the completion of the daily crossword puzzle in the Province newspaper. Oddly, though the Province is the “dummed down” tabloid paper in the city, its crossword puzzle is much more difficult than the one in the Vancouver Sun, its main competitor. One of life’s little mysteries.
“Hey Meinie,” I replied. “This is a temporary dalliance, I assure you.”
“You probably just missed me,” he joked jovially. How anyone working the evening shift on a Friday night in the worst part of town could consistently remain so happy is another of life’s little mysteries.
“That must be it.”
“So they bringing your boy in back now?” he asked, glancing down at video monitors showing the various entrances to the facility. It was hardly surprising Meinhard would know who my client was. If I flipped over his Province newspaper, I’m sure Tricia’s murder figured prominently on the front page. By the weekend editions of the two dailies, my picture from this morning’s media scrum at the school would make me instantly recognizable.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I offered glumly. There was little I could do for Carl right now except see to it that he was processed properly and given an appropriate place to bunk down. Unlike what is often portrayed in fiction, I knew Furlo and Smythe would make sure their prisoner was safe and sound and not locked up with a violent offender. The police generally have little interest in allowing their prime suspect to sustain any harm prior to going to trial. After sentencing however, anything goes.
Meinhard looked me over, his joviality sliding just slightly. People often view law enforcement personnel and defence counsel as enemies. It isn’t always the case. As much as Meinhard got to see the lowest of the low come through his watch, he always showed tremendous respect for the process and the principle of innocent until proven guilty. He had never made me feel like I was a lesser citizen for defending those charged with a crime, even the guilty ones.
“A bit of a tough one for ya, I imagine?” he asked, trying to give me some comradely support.
“It isn’t the most comfortable position to be in, that’s for sure.”
“He work with you, this one? Is that how you came to be his counsel?” He hooked his thumb towards a video monitor to his right, where a grainy image of Carl and the two detectives could be seen getting out of the car and heading towards a freight-like elevator in the underground parking lot.
“Yeah,” I replied. “We teach at the same high school. He approached me to ask for some legal advice, and next thing you know, I had a client.”
“Yeah, well, it’s going to be an ugly one, if the media dogs are right. You hang in there, and you’ll do right by him, one way or the other.”
“Thanks. I’ll do what I do.”
He gestured towards the doorway at the end of the hallway. “You remember the way, or would you like an escort?” Meinhard knew visitors weren’t really supposed to wander the innards of the building, but most practicing legal counsel were unofficially permitted to make their way to meet with clients without the aid of a sheriff escort. It was another of his subtle ways of saying “welcome back.”
“I think I still remember,” I told him.
“All right then. Go get him,” he said, passing me a plastic encased visitor’s badge and unlocking the hallway door with a loud, electronic buzz.
The interior hallways of the pre-trial centre are painted institutional cream, not quite blinding white, but also devoid of colour, warmth or personality, three elements generally not permissible in publicly funded buildings. The only decoration on the walls was the occasional “No Smoking” sign and a variety of scuff marks, where reluctant prisoners dragged and slid their bodies and handcuffs and wary new lawyers bumped their briefcases. I wound my way through a short maze of hallways to the central processing areas, where Carl would be getting fingerprinted, searched, given prisoner’s garb and assigned a cell until his first court appearance. I found Furlo and Smythe standing aside as a fingerprint technician worked Carl through the process.
Ambling up to the two detectives, I decided that for the time being I might try a less adversarial approach. It might prove to be more useful in gathering information.
“Coffee, Winston?” Detective Jasmine Smythe offered. I noticed Furlo was working his way through a Styrofoam cup of what must surely have been his twentieth cup of the day. Smythe carried with her a bottle of water she sipped from periodically. I also noticed she called me by my first name.
“No, thank you. It will only keep me awake all night.”
“You mean you’re not going to camp out here to tell bedtime stories to your client?” Furlo asked. He had already resumed punctuating the word “client” with a sarcastic drawl. For the time being, I refused to be drawn into a verbal pissing match with the bleary-eyed detective. I wondered how long my resolve would last.
“You two didn’t waste any time solving the case, Detective Smythe. You must be very confident.” I was on my non-combative best behaviour, just passing the time of night with my two VPD friends.
“Maybe we’re just that good,” she