The provincial courtrooms were located in a down-town high- rise office building, close to the police station. There were many legal practices situated within the building as well, including several attorneys who practised only criminal law. J.W. Bannerman's office was on the ninth floor, just to the left of the elevator. Frank read the hastily scribbled note taped below the brass nameplate, "Please remove boots and bring inside." He entered and found the waiting room empty. Because it was after five the secretary had left for the day, but he could hear the lawyer talking on the telephone in his office. Without removing his coat he chose one of the chrome-framed straight chairs ranged along the wall. He listened nervously while Bannerman completed his call, then rose to meet him when he was summoned.

The office was crowded with bookcases, and gave the impression of disorganized operation. The desk was littered with papers, and fat sloppy files were piled high on the corners, some of which bore the tell-tale brown ring of a dribbling coffee cup. Bannerman wheeled an oak chair to the side of his desk so that the two men could talk without the table top between them.

"Have a seat Mr. Wilson. Perhaps you could just throw your coat over the back of that chair." He was short and overweight, with a billowing midriff that hung over his pants, which in turn hung from a point well below his waist. His shirt had pulled out in places in the wake of the elusive trousers and emphasized his lumpy physique. His collar was unbuttoned and the loosened tie hung askew, adding to a generally dishevelled, rumpled appearance. His round face was topped by damp-looking tight curls and as he introduced himself he pushed his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger.

"I find it kind of warm in here, don't you?" Frank noticed that he didn't close his mouth when he finished speaking, he just left it hanging half open, and the corners turned downward in a slightly fawning expression when he smiled. He peered at Frank through heavy lenses. "Mrs. McDermott was in to see me, and has retained me as your lawyer."

"I'm not really sure I need a lawyer. I signed a statement, so I've basically already pleaded guilty, right?"

"That may be, but with an offence as serious this one I doubt that the judge will proceed unless you have representation, and he'll probably bawl the shit out of you for wasting his time. Did the police give you a copy of your statement?"

Frank dug it out of his pocket and handed it over. Bannerman glanced at it quickly.

"So how do you come to be in possession of the loot from the Upton armoured car heist?" Again Frank saw the obsequious smile. "From the beginning?"

"Sure, we have lots of time."

"Well, I was out drinking one night last summer, in one of the strip joints on the Quebec side. I'd had quite a bit to drink and I had bought one of the peelers a beer. She was seated at my table, and a couple of her boyfriends came over and sat down. They were friendly enough, despite their menacing appearance, and we got to talking about what did I do for a living and so on. This led the conversation around to the subject of robberies and how so many have inside help, and the next think I knew I was listening to a plan they had to rob an armoured truck. They explained to me how they would go about it and I admitted it would probably work very well. You must remember, I had had quite a lot to drink."

"So you fell in with them," Bannerman interjected excitedly; peering, grinning.

"No," Frank said irritably, "I didn't. We all went home. A month or more went by, and one night I was there again. I don't go there often, but I suppose they practically live there, because when I sat down they joined me at my table right away. After awhile they brought up the robbery idea again, but I got kind of scared then, and I told them I didn't want anything to do with it.

That made one of them mad, and he told me they had spent a lot of time planning the job and I better keep my mouth shut if I knew what was good for me. The next Tuesday afternoon I heard about the Upton robbery on the radio, and as the news reports became more detailed I was certain I knew who had done it. I was really scared then; if those guys got caught, I was directly involved. But a few days passed and there were no arrests or news of any kind, so I knew they had gotten away with it.

Then one day a car followed me home after work. I spotted it in the mirror, they weren't trying to hide, and I recognized the two guys from the bar. I turned into a quiet street and pulled over to the curb, and then I got out of the car real quick and went back to talk to them. They said they had been waiting to see if I kept my mouth shut, and now they had a little job for me. I was to rent a large safety deposit box and put the loot in it, and in a few months they would have me pick it up for them again. They put a blue tool box in my trunk. So, I was really screwed. First of all, these are guys you would not want to double-cross, and I was already their accomplice. And why were they bringing the money to me to hide? Maybe they were being watched or something. The idea of walking into a bank and renting a safety box for a big bundle of money didn't hold much appeal for me either."

"I can appreciate your reluctance," Bannerman beamed upon him, "So you kept it at home."

"No. I took it out to the woods to bury it, but I found a hollow log and hid it in there. A couple of months went by, and I heard nothing from the gang, and there had been still no news about the robbery. It was late autumn by then and threatening snow, so I decided to get the money before winter set in, and do as I had been instructed with it. That's when my wife found the money in the trunk."

"And she blew the whistle."

"Well, yeah, sort of. She thought I had stolen it from work, and being not too bright, she figured the best way to protect me was to call my boss and 'tell the truth', as she was taught as a child."

"So you cut a deal for a possession charge." He shook his head sadly. "I could have got you off! After that much time had elapsed, it would have been pretty hard to tie you to that money. You could have found it even."

"But I didn't. Besides it's not the law I'm most worried about. Those guys are going to be pretty pissed off when they find out what happened to their money. Mind you, they don't know where I am right now, I've moved into a rooming house."

"Whew, Christ, that's quite a story!" There was no smile this time.

"Thanks," Frank thought dryly as he watched him hitch his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "So what happens now, I mean, how much time will I have to serve?"

"I dunno, let's check the bible." He reached across the desk to a thick book, bound in green leather-look vinyl. He held it up for a second so Frank could read the gilt lettering on the spine: Martin's Annual Criminal Code.

"Let's see, Possession of Property Obtained by Crime; Section 312." He began to mumble as he scanned the pertinent sections. "Here, 313 (a) indictable: value exceeding two hundred dollars; liable to imprisonment for ten years."

Frank felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him. "Ten years!"

"That's the maximum. You won't get that. You obviously don't have a criminal record, or you wouldn't have been a bank guard, and you're a family man. These things work in your favour. And then there are some extenuating circumstances in the commission of the offence: although you aided in concealing the money, you didn't convert any of it to your own use; and you played no part in the robbery itself. I don't know … with the right judge, maybe with a joint submission regarding sentence from me and the crown … still … a hundred and thirty thousand is a lot of money. I'd say you're going to serve some time."

"Well, how much time?" Frank cried in exasperation. It irritated him, the nonchalant way in which the lawyer dispassionately weighed the facts and calmly contemplated his future.

"Probably … about two years. Yes, I think I can guarantee that. First we have to get a court date. That could take from three months to a year. Are you in any hurry?"

"No, not really. I wouldn't want to run out of pogy of course. But the sooner begun, the sooner finished, right? I don't want it to drag on indefinitely."

Bannerman rose with some effort, his face beaming once more. "Leave it with me. If we need to talk, where can I reach you?"

"I'll call Leila McDermott every day at noon, you can leave a message with her."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

At dinner that evening Tom laughed and congratulated him as he described his meeting with the lawyer. Leila wasn't so pleased.

"I don't understand how you two can treat this so lightly. Two years in prison is nothing to laugh about. Aren't you worried?"

"Of course we are Lee. It's just easier to look on the light side for awhile first. We'll get to the worst case scenario, and when we've examined that, the situation won't seem so grave. Meanwhile I think it's healthier to enjoy the humourous side of the situation. Besides, I have something planned for this evening that will help alleviate some of Frank's concerns. A couple of the boys are going to drop over."

"Tom, you promised me."

"Relax, will you. I know what I'm doing."

The meal was resumed in an uneasy silence until Leila broached a new topic. She suggested that Frank accompany them to the farm for the Christmas holiday, an invitation which Frank readily accepted. He would visit his parents earlier in the season and thus avoid the massive family Christmas where he would no doubt make others ill at ease; to say nothing of himself. They were discussing this over coffee when there was a gentle rap on the glass of the kitchen door.

From where he sat Frank was the only one able to see the face in the window. The dark beard was long and uncut, the eyes dark and semi-squinted to appraise Frank in return. Under a brown leather motorcycle cap his hair was long and pulled straight back to form a tail from where it was collected together with a leather thong. What fascinated Frank was the fact that he wore an earring. Except in pirate movies he had never seen such a thing on a man before, but a small gold cross dangled from a hole pierced in one ear. In his expression and demeanour there was a truculence that suggested he would like nothing better than to have someone make a comment on that. When he opened the door another man entered with him. He was younger and of slighter build and his hair, though fair, was as long as that of his companion. His beard, obviously trimmed from time to time had the same unkempt natural look. Both wore faded and well-worn blue denims and long heavy work boots which they removed at the door, revealing grey woollen work socks.

The older, heavier man surveyed the table, smiling only with his eyes as he spoke. "Evening gents, Miss Leila."

Leila sat closest to the door, and stood now to greet them, and having her trapped between the wall and the crush of humanity in the tiny kitchen, he kissed her lightly on the mouth.

"Hi Bobby, we don't see much of you any more."

"Who does? With a wife and two kids I never see anybody anymore. If Tom hadn't called before supper we'd be sitting at home watching the hockey game." He stood aside so that all could see the young fellow standing quietly in the corner formed between the refrigerator and the wall. "This is Jimmy. He works where I do, and boards at my house."

Jimmy said nothing, only grinned and bobbed his head toward each of them in turn. Though the night was cold, minus ten degrees, he wore only a second world war battle tunic over his tartan work shirt. Bobby appeared lightly dressed for the weather as well, though his denim jacket was worn over a fleece-lined leather vest. Neither man wore gloves or mittens. They removed their coats and folded them over the back of Leila's chair.

"Can I get you guys a beer?" Tom wanted to know.

"Please," Jimmy replied.

Bobby wavered. "If there's any more of that coffee, I'll have some of that. The only coffee I ever get is out of a machine at work. I mean, they call it coffee, but that's where the similarity ends."

Tom hooked his fingers around the necks of several bottles of beer and led the way into the living room.

"So, Tom, this is the guy you were telling me about?"

"Yeah, sorry Bobby. This is Frank Wilson. He and I are partners, sort of."

"Nice to meet you Frank." He didn't attempt to get out of the chair and Frank merely nodded in greeting. He leaned back in his seat and put his feet on the coffee table. His chest and biceps strained the black tee-short he wore above a thick leather belt and large burnished brass buckle. Leila brought him coffee and disappeared to busy herself very quietly in the kitchen. Bobby drank from the steaming mug and contemplated it with satisfaction, then rubbed the droplets from his ragged moustache onto the back of his hand and dried it on his jeans.

"So Tommy, how you been for two years?"

"Good Bob. I've been going to school."

"No kidding?" in disbelief. Where are you doing that?"

"At the university."

"Like it?"

"Yeah, I do."

Bob ruminated on this for a moment. "Last time I was in school was in the joint. I took welding, took it serious too. I mean, I read everything I was supposed to, and studied for the little exams. Funny thing, as long as it was new, and I was learning, it was interesting. Now that I'm doing it every day it's boring as hell. I spent all last week inside a three-yard bucket, welding cracks. The smoke was so heavy I had to work outside in an unheated shed. Mind you, there's good money in repairing heavy machinery. They're paying me thirteen dollars an hour."

Tom whistled softly, then he addressed the younger man. "You work there too, eh Jimmy?"

"Yeah, I'm the gopher."

"The gopher?" enquired Frank, interested.

"Yeah, I go for parts, go for supplies, move machinery, sweep up. Anything and everything. I don't make thirteen bucks an hour." He grinned and took cigarettes, rolling papers and a small leather cigarette-roller from his breast pocket. He placed them on the coffee table, and stood up to remove a foil-wrapped package from the front pocket of his tight fitting denims. He sat on the floor next to the coffee table and began to prepare a joint of hashish. Frank had never seen it done before, and watched the elaborate process with interest. He adjusted the little rolling machine, and then after unwrapping a straw-coloured chunk the size of the first section of his thumb, heated it carefully over the flame of a match. He began to crumble the softened material into the leather pocket until he had dispensed about a third of it. Next he squeezed a few fragments of tobacco from the end of a cigarette, rolled and adjusted the mixture until he was satisfied it was evenly distributed, and slipped a cigarette paper into the edge of the machine, turning the tiny wheels until only the gummed edge remained visible. He moistened the glue with his tongue, and with a flick of the wrist, a cigarette tumbled into his palm. He began to tamp one end of the tube until he had made enough space to insert a rolled strip of cardboard. The finished product appeared to be a tailor-made cigarette, complete with tube filter.

The others had been watching this operation, observing the familiar ritual as they discussed times and people Frank knew nothing about. Bobby listened intently to the small sounds coming from the kitchen.

"Leila?"

"Yes?"

"You might want to come in here a minute."

She entered and surveyed the room quickly. Her glance fell upon the paraphernalia on the table and she sat on the sofa next to Frank.

"Here," Jimmy offered the cigarette to her lips, "We'll let you do the honours," as he struck a match.

Leila drew deeply on it, then held it casually between her fingers for a moment; until she exhaled a portion of what she retained in her lungs, then took another quick pull before passing it to Frank.

Somewhat daunted, he accepted the drug and tried to imitate Leila's casual air as he took a large drag. The smoke was acrid, but sweet tasting, heavily aromatic and reminded him remotely of fresh pine boughs. He inhaled it deep, and began to choke, coughing for a long time until the irritation tapered off into a strong burning sensation in his throat and deep into his lungs. The second time it was offered he was more careful, took less, and experienced no difficulty. The air in the room grew heavy with the pungent smoke, it hovered over the area, enveloping their heads in a blue shroud. On the third circuit Leila offered the tiny butt from between the nails of her thumb and forefinger and Frank managed to pinch it likewise, but when he attempted to draw on it the hot end disintegrated, flying through the hollow tube, scattering burning material and hot ashes into his mouth. He gagged, tried to spit, and wound up wiping the ashes from his tongue onto the back of his hand. Someone proferred an ash-tray and he threw the cigarette-end into it.

He took a long drink of his beer, and then raised himself frantically from the sagging depths of the sofa, and stumbled headlong toward the back door. Once outside in the cold air his head began to clear, and he wasn't sick to his stomach as he had thought he would be. He gulped great lungfuls of air and repressed the gagging sensation in his throat. He straightened his shoulders, filled his lungs and took inventory of what effects he could detect.

He couldn't have said what he had expected, except that Tom had often assured him there was nothing to fear. He felt no discomfort, and his head was clear; neither disoriented nor dizzy. He experienced none of the familiar accompanying effects of alcohol, but his lungs still ached from choking and he felt as though there were a weight on his chest. His eyes felt dry and gritty as well.

"Who would risk going to jail for the right to do this?" he wondered, without realizing he had said it aloud.

The night was cold, clear and still and he decided to enjoy the air for a few minutes. He got his coat from inside the house and switched off the porch light as he returned. As he began to pace the length of the laneway he threw his head back and contemplated the sky. There was no moon, but the glittering spectacle above him filled Frank with awe. It was as though the night sky above him had been transformed into an orb of solid glass so dense that light barely penetrated it, yet, it was punctuated by millions of apertures of varying size, that permitted the dazzling light from above the firmament to pierce through to him. It seemed strange he had never noticed that before.

When he re-entered the kitchen Leila was preparing fruit, coring and quartering apples and peeling an orange. She giggled at Frank's appearance.

"You look stoned Frank."

"I don't feel anything, except a gagging sensation. I thought for awhile there that I might be sick."

"That's okay." She offered him a piece of the apple. "Take a bite of this and it will go away."

Frank ate the fruit and instantly felt better, but the food tasted so wet, crunchy and tasty that he wanted more. He reached for the plate, and Leila giggled again. "Feeling better? Here, take this in with you." She handed him the container.

Bobby sat high in the straight-backed arm chair, with one foot on the coffee table and the other crossed over his knee. The air smelled of cigarettes now, and Frank saw that both he and Jimmy were smoking. He had his head back, contemplating the ceiling as he spoke, and with a laid-back, glassy-eyed look he expounded articulately on his subject. A change had come over the gathering;, the atmosphere was lazy, and the tempo of activity had slackened.

"I don't ride much any more either Tom, only to work when the weather's fine. I went camping twice last summer, and I took one of the kids both times."

"Not your usual party atmosphere, eh Bob?"

"Not hardly, course I still get to fix it a lot. I suppose there's some pleasure in that," he chuckled and the others did also. He turned to Frank.

"So. I hear you're in deep shit," he lifted his bushy eyebrows as he spoke and ended with a sardonic smile. "What's the charge?"

"Didn't Tom tell you?"

"Nope. He said he had a friend was going to jail and asked would I come over and cool him out."

"Oh. It's possession of stolen property over two hundred dollars. The money from the Upton armoured car job."

Bobby's eyes grew round, and peripherally Frank saw Jimmy's head swivel toward him. "Yeah, it was found by accident, where I had it stashed in my car trunk. I told the police I found it, and showed them where, but they didn't believe me." This last was stated with an air of despondency.

The result was an uproar of laughter that continued until Frank was compelled to join in. When he did so it began another round of merriment that continued until he became aware that they found something hilarious in his discomfort.

"Okay, so what's the joke?"

Bobby laughed without opening his mouth much, so that his face didn't become happy-looking, he didn't show any teeth either, just kind of "hoo, hoo, hoo"ed through the ragged moustache and black beard. "I'll tell ya. I heard a story the other day about the guys who planned the Upton job, how they pulled it off and got clean away for three months, and then when they went to split it up, somebody's old lady found the money and turned him in. Guess that would be you, eh Frank?"

"That's funny?"

"Yeah. The story has the kind of sick irony so popular in jail-house humour. I'm afraid if this gets around, you're going to be something of a celebrity."

"How the hell would it get out? Nobody knew about this." It rankled, the idea of being held up as an object of ridicule for a bunch of convicts to laugh at.

"Somebody knew. I heard it from a cop, a guy who hangs around the garage sometimes. The foreman is his brother-in-law or something and at noon-time he hides his car behind the shop and has coffee in the lunch room. He told us."

So the detectives must have told everybody around the police station," Frank said angrily.

"I guess so, or maybe your lawyer … who is your lawyer by the way?"

Frank told them. The news was met with additional whoops of delight.

"Now what's so funny? Is he not any good, or what?" He was getting tired of being the entertainment. Leila had come into the room, and was listening quietly to this latest exchange, wearing an expression of worry.

"Actually, he's pretty good, he'll do all he can, and he won't rip you off on the bill. It's his appearance I find funny, I nicknamed him Mr. Dress-up. Picture this. He told me to look presentable for court. So I show up, all squeaky clean, my earring is out, and I've got a haircut and a shave. I'm not looking too prosperous, like crime has been good to me or anything, but I don't look anything like I do now. Anyway, along comes old Jerry; his shoes are all salt-stained, like the cuffs of his pants, his glasses are sliding off his face, his hair is in a mess and his tie is all fucked up. But that's not the best; his fly is down! He opens his briefcase, and dumps papers all over the floor of the lobby, then takes out a crumpled gown and puts it on. Hoo, hoo, you should have seen the look of disgust on the judge's face. I gotta hand it to him though, he got me off … that time. What did he say to you?"

"Not much. He said we could have a jury trial and try to discredit my statement, or he could try to arrange a deal on a guilty plea. He says he thinks I'll get about two years."

"Try to remember Frank. Did he say two years, or less than two years," Tom broke in. "It makes a big difference."

"He's right. Two years or more you serve in the federal pen. Less than two years you go to the provincial reformatory. It doesn't really matter which, since each system has a maximum, medium and minimum security institution, but it would be better if you were in the reformatory because Jimmy and I can give you an introduction to some people. After all, while you're in there you'll have to make some friends Frank, and you'll need somebody to show you the ropes, how to work the system and who to avoid; things like that. Of course, you'll have no trouble. Some guys do real hard time, but you won't. There's nothing about you to attract attention, so just try to keep it that way. And you'll be older than the other guys too."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Because doing time is primarily a young man's pastime. Sooner or later most of us grow up, or we take on responsibilities, whatever, and we don't go back to jail anymore."

"Then what's all this about recidivism, and how the system is a failure?" Tom asked him.

"I don't know. All I can say is that most of the people you'll meet in the joint will be the age of Jimmy here, or younger. Now they don't all graduate to the pen, right?"

By degrees the gathering grew silent as Bobby became less talkative. Leila began to play Ray Charles on the stereo and the quiet was interrupted only by Frank's occasional questions about what to expect when he got "inside". He began to feel less trepidation about his fate as the evening wore on, Bobby convinced him that nothing very threatening awaited him, and his relaxed familiar attitude minimized the impact of what was to come. Frank laughed at some of the jail-house argot he learned, and when he used the term "deuce less" to refer to Frank's impending sentence of two years less a day, he began to realize the function of such terminology. It denoted not only a familiarity with the system, but informalized and negated the punitive aspect of his incarceration as well.

When Bob and Jimmy got up to leave Frank consulted his watch. Twenty to twelve? It couldn't be! Frank had an acute sense of the passage of time and could usually estimate the time of day within a few minutes; but here he had lost two hours!

The two men pulled on their long boots and outer clothing. Frank, Tom and Leila crowded around the doorway to bid them goodnight. Bobby said, "Nice to have met you Frank, Tom will tell us when you're sentenced and we'll let our friends know you're on the way."

"Thanks for coming Bobby, and thank you for the party favours," Tom added to Jimmy. "Any parting words of advice?"

"Yeah. It wouldn't hurt to learn how to play bridge. Hoo, hoo, hoo." The door clicked shut and they were gone.