Hair-Trigger (3 page)

4

J
ack Lofton was woken at six
AM
on Saturday, chained to the other prisoners, and driven to Old City Hall in a police van where he had to wait in a holding cell with fifteen other people until court began at nine-thirty. They were served packaged sandwiches and juice. He told his story to the public defender or “duty counsel,” a young Chinese woman who advised him to request that his case be remanded until Monday, since it was evident that his friend wasn't going to show up. There was no point asking the judge for bail if there wasn't anyone to post a surety. He was then taken to a larger holding area in the basement to wait until two when everyone else was finished in court.

Lofton and the other prisoners who hadn't made bail were driven to the Don Jail. While waiting to be processed, they were fed Salisbury steak with vegetables and dessert on aluminum trays. During the strip search he had to lift his testicles, turn around, and spread his buttocks. His money, clothes, keys and other possessions were confiscated and taken to the property room. He was given a blanket, a blue jail jumpsuit, a pair of socks, a T-shirt, and a pack with a comb, toothbrush, toothpaste and small container of shampoo, then told to walk naked into another holding cell off the processing area to change.

Everyone there appeared to be a small-timer. He got into a conversation with somebody who'd been arrested for Fraud Over and Failing To Appear while passed out at his ex-wife's place after she called in on him.
A little oriental punk who
seemed to know the routine from the way he was talking to the guards and asking people for cigarettes and things went up to him and said, “Hey. Do you need a house?”

“Yeah.”

“You want to bunk with me?”

“Uh . . . sure.”

“Okay, come on. You stay with me.”

Prisoners observed the new guys coming into the main lockup as they sat around reading newspapers or watching one of four TVs in a long narrow room lined on one side with two-man cells and a guard station. Opposite, there was a wall of bars, and beyond that a walkway; the windows behind were protected by metal mesh. Steel tables and stools were set up in the centre of the room, toilets and showers at the far end.

Everyone was locked up early for the night. A bunk bed in Lofton's new “house” stood against one wall of cinder blocks, across from a stainless steel table with connecting chairs that were bolted to the floor. At the back, a toilet and sink. Du produced some smokes and held up a match for his cellmate before he walked back to the lower bed, lighting his own. “So, what do you do? Why you here?”

“Oh, just some bullshit. . . .” Lofton leaned forward with his arm across his knee and took a contemplative drag. He wasn't sure why the kid had chosen him to bunk with, unless it was for protection. But that hardly seemed necessary, the way he'd been introducing him around like he was cock of the walk. Getting deodorant, scoring tobacco.

“I got picked up on probation violation,” Du said. “It was
shit—
they picked me up when I was just walking home from school, man. Not fucking fair. There were all these things I couldn't do, like I couldn't leave the house except to go to school. All kinds of conditions. But I wasn't doing anything, they just grabbed me—”

“What were you in for originally?”

“Armed robbery.”

“And they just gave you probation?”

“Time served too. Six months.”

“Oh, so that's how come you know everybody.”

“Yeah.” Du drew on his cigarette. “It wasn't nothing. My friends and me, we went into a store and robbed it with a BB gun and a couple knives.
You know,” he added with a shrug, “just doing something.”

“You're from Vietnam, right?”

“Yeah. Five years I been here.”

Lofton flicked his ash on the floor. “They don't mind if you smoke?”

“Yeah, they don't fucking care. You clean up yourself in here.”

“So your friends are out on probation, then.”

“Yeah. The cops pick me up for
nothing
. Just walking home. Fuck.” He shook his head disgustedly. “So, you. Really—what's the charges?”

Lofton smiled slightly and rubbed his jaw. “Just a comedy of errors, my friend. Last summer three cop cars showed up one night after I'd parked my bike behind my girlfriend's building. I didn't know what the fuck was going on when they pulled their guns on me. This other girl came out and said, ‘Oh, no, it's not him, he's just visiting someone who lives here.' Apparently, there was a peeping Tom before I got there. You know, some guy looking in her window—”

“Ha!”

“Yeah, but they were already going through my saddle bag and found this nine-inch switchblade I got for my ex-wife, because she used to get off the bus late at night when there was this rapist around. I forgot I had it. So I was charged with Possession of a Prohibited Weapon, but never went to court about it. Yesterday I got caught shoplifting a knife from Canadian Tire. I almost never carry ID, not since I sold the bike, and figured there might be a warrant out on me so I gave the cops a phony name.”

“Oh, man.
You crazy like me.”

“So there's an Obstructing Justice charge now too.”

“Shit. How come you don't make bail?”

Lofton raised the cigarette to his mouth. Exhaling, he said, “My friend didn't show up. I don't know what the fuck happened, so I've got to phone him again and tell him it was remanded until Monday.”

About an hour later, Lofton was on the top bunk reading a newspaper when a guard came by with cookies and hot chocolate.

“Our snack,” Du said.

“What, they do this every night?”

“Yeah, yeah. Last night we got cake.”

He came down the ladder. “This is like the fucking Hilton. They sure don't feed you fucking cookies and cake in the L.A. lockup.”

“Los Angeles? You were there?”

Lofton sat on the stool and picked up a vanilla wafer. “That's where I grew up.”

“Why you in jail?”

“Armed robbery,” he said, “and attempted murder. I was found not guilty.”

“Fuck, you wild guy.”

Early the next morning after breakfast he had a shower. His wet hair was combed into a shaggy ducktail as he poured himself a cup of tea from one of two urns, and took a seat at the centre table to read a three-day-old section of newspaper. Later, he sat among the other prisoners watching television.

In the afternoon, Lofton was told he had a visitor. He and a number of others were escorted to a circular area where heavy telephones were affixed to a counter beneath a window of Plexiglas by steel cords. There were no chairs. When he saw Derek Rowe on the other side, he went over to the empty spot opposite him and picked up a receiver. “Well, you finally made it.”

Rowe was dressed in a white dress shirt, but was unshaven and looked hung over. “I had to close the fucking store on Saturday to go down to the courthouse, but when I got there your name wasn't on the docket. They said you'd been transferred to another room, but I couldn't find you there either, and left.”

“I forgot you had to work Saturdays. After seeing the judge, I had to go to a holding area.”

“So what the hell's going on?”

Rowe listened to Lofton explain with one shoulder against the glass. “So it wasn't the liquor store, then. You said something about planning to steal a bottle.”

“No. So I need you to be there for me in court on Monday.”

“You need me to put up bail.”

“You don't have to pay anything.
Just sign, saying you're responsible.”

“Like I said. It can't be more than a grand, because I'll have to prove what's in my bank account.”

“Well I'm good for it, don't worry. The worst thing about this place is the boredom. The unmitigated fucking boredom of waiting in court, in the cells, getting processed into the Don, sitting around jail, being locked up after dinner. . . . I've got a nice cellmate though, this Vietnamese kid named Du. He can't do enough for me.”

“Who fucks who?”

Lofton ignored him. “His lawyer sounded pretty incompetent by the sounds of it. There were so many stipulations to his probation that he was going to have to break it no matter what he did. Of course,” he conceded with a wry smile, “nobody in this place ever did anything wrong. They're all innocent—just ask them.”

“So, are you pleading guilty or what?”

“What can I say? They caught me red-handed. I'll just plead no contest. The duty counsel was this not-bad looking oriental, and it's funny, you know . . . she suddenly looked at me when I was talking to her, and said, ‘What is someone like you doing here anyway?' I told her, ‘I have no idea, believe me.'”

“So just why are you pulling this penny ante shit?”

Lofton brushed his hair back. “I don't know,
Mom
.”

“You might have to do a few months in minimum security, like Mimico or Metro West.
Are you getting a lawyer?”

“No, a duty counsel will be good enough.”

“You sure?”

“I don't have any kind of defense worth paying for.”

Rowe glanced around and asked, “What's the racial balance in the Don these days?”

“I don't know. A mix, I guess. I've seen more Mexicans in here than I've ever seen in my life.”

“I didn't think Toronto had that many Mexicans. Are you referring to Hispanics in general?”

“No, I think Mexicans. I know Mexicans.”

After Rowe left, Lofton went back to the main hall and played cards until everyone was locked up for the duration of the afternoon.

The next morning he saw Rowe sitting in court. When it was his turn, the prosecutor, or Queen's counsel, told the judge that since the defendant had no criminal record they were only asking for a small surety. The duty counsel said that Lofton had a friend who could provide up to a thousand dollars, so the judge granted bail for that amount.

It was a quarter after eleven. Before Lofton was taken to the larger holding area downstairs, he asked a court officer how long it might be before he got out, and was told about one-thirty, two o'clock. If you were polite to them, apparently they'd be polite to you.

There were about fifty in custody down there. He waited, watching the numbers thin as people made bail or were taken to other detention centres. The day dragged on. At three he asked a guard what the deal was, and was told that his guy must not have been able to provide the surety.

By four twenty-five, Lofton figured court was finished. There were only three others in the cell with him, and the Justice of the Peace had likely left for the day. He swore to himself as he looked through the window at people typing and walking around, knowing the phones in the Don would be cut off at five and he was fucked. Maybe he should call his ex-wife.

Hours later, he sat on a bench in the police van on his way back to jail.
At nine-thirty, while waiting in a downstairs holding cell to be reprocessed into the general population, Lofton asked if there was a chance he could use a telephone and was told by a guard that he was going to be seeing the J.P. in about ten minutes.

He was taken upstairs to another cell, wondering what was going on. When he was led down a hallway, Lofton saw Rowe through a glass partition talking to someone, maybe a Justice of the Peace.

After he was released, they were both buzzed into the anteroom and stood by the benches waiting for the guard behind the window to release the second door. “Oh, man,” he said, “I didn't know
what
the fuck was happening. All fucking day I've just been waiting around.”

“You're welcome.”

“You don't know what it's been like, having no idea what the fuck's going on hour after hour, all day long. I mean, I
saw
you in court, I knew you showed up.”

He felt mildly exhilarated when they stepped out into the night air and walked down the ramp.

“I spent the whole day on this bullshit,” Rowe said. “I didn't even get to see the guy until almost four o'clock, and when he looked at my bank book he said I hadn't had it updated in a couple of months, and gave me twenty minutes to get to a bank. I don't know why that made any difference; if I'd had it updated two days ago I could have still taken all the money out without using the book. I remembered there were Royal Bank machines at Queen and Yonge, but when I got there they were gone; it's a fucking Towers store now.”

“I didn't know
where
you went. Do you have a cigarette?”

Rowe gave him one, and paused while he shielded his lighter for him. They started walking again. “I'd left the car in a garage because I figured I wouldn't have to go far, but when I finally found a machine it was too late and the courts were closed. So I had to come to the jail tonight to do it, and waited here for over an hour and a half.”