his numerous required passwords, and spends the mandatory time to scan and delete various emails, weeding out the ones to which he must respond. Then he turns to the physical files stacked upon his desk, all in need of an update — warning letters for missed appointments, collateral phone calls, and the never-ending breach reports requesting a warrant.
When clients reporting in can’t remember his name, when the administrative assistant asks who their PO is, they refer to him as the guy with the hair. He has a thick shock, dark when cut close, but copper-coloured and unruly in its current length. Beneath this and a tall brow, his eyes are grey, his face long and slightly crooked. An oval button-size birthmark hangs below his left eye, so seen from that side he looks a bit like a sad mime.
The central part of the office is a maze cluttered with equipment — printers and photocopier, fax machine, partitions, tables and shelves laden with stacks of forms and files in transit. The individual offices all open off this space; the two administration staff work in a cross-fire of voices.
George Woodgate, the manager, is six foot seven, head and shoulders above the partitions, so he can stand in his doorway and direct his gravelly commands wherever he likes. He’s a former prison director who moved to this community supervision office en route to retirement. Woodgate and his wife found themselves a tidy property in a rural neighbourhood, and he likes the region for all the fishing and hunting it offers. In the prisons both inmates and employees are identified by surnames, and Woodgate has retained the habit, as well as his steel-grey hair in a brushcut. The manager pronounces Ellis more like Alice, which Peter suspects is intentional because he seems to be often out of favour with the man.
“Alice!” the call comes, and a few heads duck slightly while hands finger keyboards.
Peter feels the administrative assistant’s eyes following him because she relishes these little scenes in the manager’s office. He steps in to face the marching music. Woodgate sits ramrod straight in his treasured leather chair with a document in hand, which he plops on the desk to launch things. No pleasantries.
“We have a couple of questions concerning this presentence report, the fraud charge against Gauthier. We, meaning Judge Vanderkraan, and me. Questions I couldn’t answer when he telephoned a few minutes ago.”
The managerial glower is about as fierce as any Peter has seen. Judges are sometimes critical of PSRs in court, especially peeved by inaccuracies of a hurried probation officer, but Peter hasn’t heard of one actually calling Woodgate to make the point. This doesn’t seem like good news, and he shifts his feet.
“Number one — how can you justify recommending a discharge on the sole condition of restitution, which is a fraction, about one-third, of the amount of her fraud?”
“Well —”
“Ah!” Woodgate raises his gorilla-length index finger. “Number two — how do you justify a discharge in the first place? This is fraud. Have you heard of the concept of minimum sentences? Well, check the Criminal Code, Alice. People can do federal time for fraud. A discharge is hardly an option in this case, and the judge wasn’t pleased when the halfwit defence requested one, anyway, and pointed out your bleeding-heart recommendation.”
Peter knows enough to let the wind subside before he ventures a reply. “Well, Ms. Gauthier was only working part-time while on welfare. If she had declared the income, she would’ve still received social assistance, just not as much. So I subtracted the amount she had the right to from the total, which left seven thousand or so as restitution.”
“Nice to know you’re a math wiz,” Woodgate barks, at which the administrative assistant snickers from behind.
“Even that amount would take her years to repay. They lost the family farm in Manitoba. So they moved out here and her husband got a job on a logging crew, but then he had an accident, and Workers’ Compensation won’t —”
“Please!” Woodgate raises his hands to his big ears in mock horror, rubbing his crew cut. “This world isn’t fair. Get over it. We aren’t social workers, Alice. You might have heard me say that before?”
Yes, thinks Peter, and it’s usually a sign the rant is concluding.
“The woman committed an indictable offence. In future don’t be pushing for social revolution in your reports, especially when it embarrasses a judge.”
Peter shakes his head. “Oh, absolutely not.”
Woodgate cocks his head, a possible indication that any impertinence might warrant an old-fashioned flogging.
“I mean,” Peter adds, “that was never my intention. It was an oversight… not checking the Code.”
“That’s what I told Judge Vanderkraan — that it was the mistake of an auxiliary officer of the court.” Woodgate tosses the report into his shredding basket and turns to other business on his desk without lifting his gaze to Peter. “That will be all… for the moment.”
chapter two
Next Monday morning Peter swipes his card through the MAG-ID screen at the rear entrance of the building. Somebody’s cigarette has been left smouldering in the steel ashtray beside the door, nicotine going to waste, but he denies a wacko urge to stop for a puff. He mutters at the time displayed by the ID screen and hauls open the metal door. The system was installed last year, supposedly for security reasons, but it neatly logs the entry and exit of employees, their time, in other words. Tardiness was never a problem for Peter until Karen left. She always set their alarm clock. He lived, and for the most part thrived, on her time. Since her departure, Peter has struggled to keep both oars in the water, never mind spring out of bed in the morning. His head holds a dull ache like a bruised apple, and he craves the pills stashed in his desk.
He detours through the office kitchen to grab a coffee and hopefully evade notice by the admin. A film of sweat is already on his forehead — one of those mornings. Cup in hand, he slips past the file room.
“Good morning, Pete!” the admin sings out in her stinging, high-pitched voice of horror on a Monday morning.
“Ah, morning, Tammy,” he concedes, approaching the table abutting her desk where documents are lined up. Three bail intakes, fallout from an average weekend. Peter studies the undertakings issued by the police and the justice of the peace, sips his coffee, before turning to face the three persons across the counter surnamed Charlie, Gilson, and Nolin. Ms. Gilson’s UTA is clipped to an active probation file; Mr. Charlie is an old-timer who gets his cowhand’s pay once a month and lands in jail every two or three; the other, Nolin, is unknown, arrested on five charges, which isn’t an all-time high, but noteworthy.
Peter steps up to the counter. The three of them are seated as far apart as possible in the worn chairs of the waiting room. “Good morning. Sorry to meet under these circumstances. I’m the bail supervisor, Peter Ellis, and you’ve been directed to report to this office.”
Raising his mug, he steadies his arm with effort and takes another essential sip of coffee. He meets the smiling eyes of old Levi Charlie, slouched in the corner, with a purple bandana knotted around his dark neck. Ms. Gilson looks forty aping seventeen. Already on probation for the theft of some guy’s wallet, over the weekend she was arrested for assault on another fellow. She’s the sort of client male probation officers will not interview in private for fear of allegations. In this case Peter has an easy way out. Not so, unfortunately, with the beefy young jock stepping forward to face him across the counter.
“Listen,
