It was a long time coming, the anticipated call that would begin Frank's odyssey through the corrections process. Each day he called Leila at noon-hour, just as her lunch break began, but each day there had been no word from Bannerman. In the beginning they conversed at some length about their interests and affairs but as time went on he found that the call had become a tedious formality for each of them. After he called one day and received a message from one of her co-workers that there was "nothing new" he arranged for Bannerman to call his landlady directly, and asked Mrs. Grabe if she would accept a call from his union steward should his chance come up to go north. He continued to visit Tom and Leila regularly, for several hours on one evening each week, and was often their guest for Sunday dinner.

For a long time after Christmas the days crept slowly by, the sun wasn't really visible before eight o'clock, and dropped over the horizon shortly after four. The mercury rarely rose above zero degrees fahrenheit, and for several days the city experienced what residents euphemistically call "a cold snap", when the thermometer outside the kitchen window read minus twenty-four as Frank prepared his breakfast, and crept upward only slightly during the day. Throughout the coldest weeks of winter, provided there wasn't a strong wind, each day he donned heavy socks, woollen pants, ear lugs and double mittens and struck out on a long walk. He liked to travel the foot paths that border the canal, and developed a number of circuits along quiet residential streets, enjoying the traffic-free parkland around the canal and pausing on one of the bridges to watch the skaters on the rink beneath. Yellow buses loaded with school children discharged their noisy cargoes onto the ice, mothers towing sleds glided in pairs below, and at lunch time civil servants in small groups sped past, wearing winter boots tied round their necks to be exchanged for skates when they neared down-town restaurants. One day each week he took a different route, following the footpath along the parkway until he neared the city's core and then detoured several blocks in order to visit the main branch of the public library. On those days he dawdled down-town, treated himself to lunch in one of the restaurants, made such small purchases as he needed and strolled through the square by the war memorial before descending the steps to canal level for the return home.

Frank richly enjoyed his newly discovered leisure and the completely recreational nature of his routine. He walked everywhere he wanted to go, and whenever he considered the weather too dirty he postponed his plans until a better day. He couldn't have said whether it was his impending imprisonment disposed him to commune with the elements, or whether it was his release from the long confinement in the armoured van. As the days lengthened, growing perceptibly a little longer, and February drew to an end, he began to think of spring. Though the temperature rarely rose above freezing the blanket of snow receded steadily, growing thinner, more compact and crystalline each day, and when the sun shone the saline slush along the streets turned to brine and ran into the drains. Soon, he thought as he walked along one day, it would really begin to melt and spring would finally arrive. Not late spring though, with its luxuriant verdant days of crocuses and tulip beds in parks and residential gardens, but the first throes of the emerging season; slush and salt, then mud, everywhere the accumulated grime of three months of neglect, and thousands of brown mushrooms rising out of the disappearing snow as spring uncovered tons of dog turds. Frank didn't relish waiting around for that, and he determined to contact Bannerman. It had been more than two months. He wondered if the police had forgotten about him, although he really knew better, so that there was a nagging uncertainty to each successive day. He began to vacillate between the euphoria of his new found freedom and the despair of his impending imprisonment. He was restless, and wanted an estimate from Bannerman as to how much longer he could expect to wait. Perhaps if Frank reminded him of his existence it might speed things up. He found a pay phone and dialled his number.

"Law office, Bannerman and Histon."

"May I speak to Mr. Bannerman, please?"

"He's in a meeting. Who is calling?" she enquired peremptorily.

Frank told her his name. "I'm afraid he can't call me back. Is there some time today I could reach him?"

"He'll be busy all afternoon. Is there a message I could give him?" There wasn't. Frank thanked her and rang off.

Early next morning he tried again, but with the same result. He would be in court all morning, in the afternoon he had appointments, perhaps there was a message? Late that afternoon he gave it another try.

"Law office, Bannerman and Histon."

"Hi, Jerry around?"

"Yes, hang on a minute, he's on the other line." The line closed then, except that Frank heard the occasional "call waiting" tone as he stood by.

"Bannerman here."

"Frank Wilson here," he modulated his voice carefully so it wouldn't sound sarcastic. "Anything happening with my case? I was wondering how much longer it would be."

"Oh Christ, it could be months yet. Wait till I get your file." Frank heard the shuffling of papers and then Bannerman continued. "I've been talking to the Crown Attorney's office, and they've disclosed all the facts and evidence they have, which isn't much. I think we'll be able to agree on a sentence, but we're having trouble finding a suitable court date. I had two openings lately but both were before a judge who is a real law-and-order guy who has some fixed ideas about armed robbers. I don't want to take you before him if I can help it. I had a couple of other clients I thought were more suitable, and they had been waiting a long time. Let's see, I can reach you through Mrs. McDermott right?"

"No. I changed that. If it's urgent my landlady will take the message."

"Okay, I see it here now. Well, all I can say is I'm still working on it, if there is any sense of urgency I might be able to move things along. Do you have enough money to live on and so on?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Well, try and hang in there, and remember, patience will pay dividends."

That was Wednesday. On Friday afternoon he returned home and was climbing the stairs when Mrs. Grabe opened her door to see who had entered.

"Mr. Wilson, I have a telephone message for you. I think it must be the call you have been waiting for." Her round happy face appeared worried. She gave him a slip of paper with Bannerman's name and phone number printed neatly on it. "You can use my telephone if you like."

Frank entered the neat, scrubbed kitchen and dialled the law office as she hovered close by. "This is Frank Wilson, is Mr. Bannerman there?"

Bannerman came on the line. "Hello Frank. Listen, can you be ready to go by Monday morning?"

Frank's heart stopped. This was it. "I guess so. What do you mean by 'ready'?"

"Ready to go. Pack your stuff, put it in storage. Bring nothing only the clothes you wear and eyeglasses if you wear them. I think that's all you'll need."

Frank allowed his body to sag against the wall. "Okay."

"Fine, meet me in front of courtroom number three at nine-thirty."

"I'll be there."

Hilda Grabe was watching him intently, she was wringing her hands now.

"You were right Hilda, that was the call I've been waiting for. I'll be leaving Monday." He considered for a moment. "Or maybe even Sunday evening. But since Monday is the first I'll pay my rent for March now."

The look of concern became a broad toothy grin. "You have been a good tenant. I'm sorry to see you leave, but I suppose you will be happy to be back at work." He agreed, and edged self-consciously toward the door.

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

Frank repacked his belongings in the two cartons he travelled with, then arranged his clothing into two clumps of hangers and packaged them in covers fashioned from green garbage bags. It gave him a strange feeling, this freedom from possessions and the permanence of ties. Tom was to pick him up at eight o'clock. Leila had convinced him to spend the weekend with them; as he would want to visit his folks on Sunday and that would leave them only Saturday night. He collected his books together and stacked them neatly on the corner of the desk. He waited, sitting, staring at the wall. Since his call from Bannerman the day before he hadn't been to sleep; nor had he been able to read, his eyes had simply passed uncomprehendingly over the lines of print, pages turning automatically until he realized he had no idea what was happening and returned to his original place. He couldn't say what he had been preoccupied with really, he was just … waiting.

He heard the door open at the bottom of the stairs followed by the sounds of sock feet on the steps. Tom rapped lightly on the door. "All set?"

"Yeah. Here, take these boxes will you? I'll get the books and the hangers. Frank took one last look around the room. He left the door open, as he had found it three months before, and switched off the light with his elbow. "Let's go."

The truck turned the corner onto Tom's block and he said, "Frank, will you look through the glove box for me and see if you can find my spare house key? Leila has gone out for an hour or so." Frank fumbled and searched in the dark compartment amongst papers, maps and junk until the truck had pulled deep into the laneway and Tom had shut it off.

"I don't see it here."

"Okay, maybe she didn't bother to lock up. Forget it." He arrived first at the kitchen door and opened it wide, standing to one side to allow Frank to enter.

The room was filled with men, all looking expectantly at Frank. Tom had collected together a group of eight; François and Claude were there from work, Frank's father and brother had been invited, Bobby and Jimmy stood by the fridge with pints in their hands.

"Right on," thought Frank, "a party is exactly what I need right now." He wondered why he hadn't noticed the familiar cars on the street, and then remembered he had had his head in the glove compartment. The group drank beer, and laughed and cussed and lied until the small hours. Leila returned with pizza after midnight, after which things quieted down some. Some of the men played cards then, and François and Claude and Frank's father told stories from the war. Everyone got quite drunk, and nobody left before they ran out of beer.

"Great party," slurred Bobby, as he and Jimmy pulled on their boots.

Frank's father remarked soberly, "It seems kind of strange, attending a party to celebrate my son's going to jail."

"Hoo, hoo. You might say it's a tradition, like an Irish wake."

When the last guest had been escorted to the door, Frank discovered Leila collecting bottles and glasses. "Gee, thanks Lee." He tried to plant a sloppy kiss on her cheek and failed.

"Look at you," she said in disgust. "You get to bed," as though admonishing a child. "I put out a clean pillow and some blankets for you."

"Gee, thanks Lee."

He slept soundly until noon Sunday and then spent the afternoon and supper hour with his parents. The meeting with his mother was mostly uncommunicative and he got away as soon as possible after the meal and returned to his friends. He had left messages with Rodger's room-mates asking him to telephone his father, but there had been no calls, and Frank spent his last evening of freedom watching television.

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

Leila's normally robust features had a pasty appearance and she seemed nervous and upset. She set the coffee cup before Tom and spilled some on the table as she did so. "Would you like breakfast Frank?" she intoned solemnly.

"No thanks Lee. I'll get something later if I get hungry. Shouldn't you be leaving for work now anyway?"

"I'm not going in today. I want to be here when Tom gets back."

"Don't worry, Lee," Tom said quietly. "Probably everything will go just like Bannerman said."

"Right! And Frank will go to prison! Besides, I can't help worrying about what else Bannerman said. Frank could get ten years in the penitentiary. Oh, I'm sorry Frank, I know this isn't helping any." She began to cry, softly at first, and then left the room quickly as she lost control. Soon she returned. "Here, I ironed your shirt for you, it was all rumpled up, and here's one of Tom's ties. Maybe his sport coat would fit you," she suggested, dubious.

"No, I'll just wear my windbreaker. I'm sure the judge has seen lots who were worse off than me."

In the living room he donned his best clothes and when he returned the two men prepared to leave. "I guess that's everything." He patted his pockets, not looking for anything. "Will you call the Unemployment Office and tell them I'm no longer looking for work? Here's my social insurance number." He wrote it in ball-pen on a paper napkin. "And will you return my books for me? They're not due until next week."

"We'll do that on the way Frank. We can go right by the library. We have lots of time, you're just anxious to get this over with."

Frank kind of shuffled from one foot to the other, self-conscious. He looked sadly at Leila's tear-stained face. "Yes, well, I guess we'll see you then."

She managed a brave smile. "Bye Frank." She hugged him a long time, and kissed his cheek. "You'll see me soon. We'll come and visit as often as we can."

Bannerman had said to meet him at nine-thirty but they arrived just before nine. The area outside the courtroom was filled with people; some in groups chatting carelessly, while others huddled with spouses, quiet and apprehensive. Criminal lawyers were evident everywhere, years of experience having inured them and toughened their features until, were it not for their pinstriped suits, many of them would have been indistinguishable from their clients. A large group of high school or community college students collected into a noisy throng, waiting for an opportunity to observe the proceedings. Tom and Frank in turn observed them, speaking seldom, waiting with grim determination. Nine-thirty came and Bannerman did not arrive. At nine-forty Tom began to snicker and poked Frank in the side. He nodded toward the elevators, and Frank began to giggle too. Bannerman stood talking animatedly to a woman in a black gown. He so perfectly matched Bobby's description that the two men could barely suppress their laughter.

"It's got to be the same suit," whispered Tom breathlessly.

Bannerman approached and sat beside Frank. He ignored Tom and Frank offered no introduction. "Hi. We're scheduled for ten o'clock, but I wanted to explain the procedure to you and answer any questions you might have."

Frank wanted to know about the judge. Things had happened so quickly after his telephone call that he was alarmed. Bannerman explained, "He's not a bad old guy. He was never a lawyer, but I'd say that after ten years on the bench he knows the criminal code better than I do. Besides, we're not considering some technical point of law here, just a sentence."

"I don't get it. How can he not be a lawyer, I thought judges had to know the law."

"Provincial magistrates are appointed by the crown; that is to say, by whatever political party happens to be in power at the time. There's no requirement that they be lawyers. This guy was the mayor of some little town up north … and, I think we can safely assume, a loyal Conservative as well. Don't worry, he may subject you to a bit of a harangue but he'll go along on sentence."

Bannerman instructed him on procedure, and how to comport himself in court, then rose and peeped into the courtroom. "Okay, we can go in now. We'll just take a seat until they call your name." They waited while the crown attorney dispensed with a number of remands and transfers. A prisoner was escorted into a glass dock, but his attorney failed to appear, sending a colleague in his place with regrets to the judge, and the man was led away again. When this happened several young men and women, who had been whispering and generally conveying an air of familiarity with the surroundings, left the courtroom.

The crown attorney now declared, "The next case, Your Worship, is Regina versus Edward Frank Wilson, possession of property obtained by crime."

"Very well, call Mr. Wilson."

Bannerman plucked Frank by the sleeve and they rose together as the guard intoned "Edward Wilson." They approached the rail together.

The judge peered over his glasses at them. "You represent the accused Mr. Bannerman?"

"Yes, Your Worship."

"Edward Wilson, you are charged with the possession of property obtained by crime contrary to section three-twelve of the criminal code. You may elect to be tried today by a provincial magistrate, or you may choose to be tried by a county court judge alone, or by a judge and jury. How do you elect?"

"Trial by magistrate, Your Worship."

"Very well, how do you plead, guilty or not guilty?"

A clerk seated below the judge's bench typed his reply slowly into a small black box, from which rolled a broad paper tape. The judge peered at the crown counsel. "What are the facts?"

The lawyer rose and began to read haltingly from rough notes. "The facts are, Your Worship, on Tuesday morning, on November twenty-eight at nine o'clock, Detective Saunders and Detective-Sergeant Ford received a call from Mr. Wells of the Armoured Carriers Company reporting the discovery, at the home of an employee, of a large sum of currency. They were given Mr. Wilson's address and told to contact Mrs. Wilson at that address. When they arrived, Your Worship, they met with Mrs. Wilson and with Edward Frank Wilson who was just arriving home at that time. Mrs. Wilson had one hundred and thirty thousand dollars in Canadian currency piled on the coffee table. It was wrapped in standard bank wrappers.

Mr. Wilson made no attempt to deny that the money had been in his possession, and claimed that he had found it, and had placed it in the trunk of his car. Detectives Saunders and Ford determined that this was the loot from the armoured car robbery at Upton, and further Your Worship, were skeptical of Mr. Wilson's story. Upon further questioning at the police station Mr. Wilson changed his story and admitted that while he had not taken part in the robbery itself he had been custodian of the loot for some time, and was moving it from one place of hiding to another when Mrs. Wilson discovered it in the trunk of the family car. He signed a statement at that time. And those are the facts as I know them Your Worship."

"Do you wish to speak to sentence, Mr. Bannerman?"

Bannerman rose and referred to a single sheet of paper as he spoke. "With respect, Your Worship, Mr. Wilson has no previous criminal record, and has been a responsible employee with Armoured Carriers for over fifteen years. As a result of his acquaintanceship with some minor underworld characters he was involved in a discussion of a planned robbery and was later coerced into safeguarding the money for the gang. This lapse in good judgement has led ultimately to his dismissal from work, and he will never again be employed in any position of trust, Your Worship. It has also resulted in the dissolution of his marriage, and of course to his appearance before the court here today. With respect, Your Worship, I submit that the ends of justice would be served by a reformatory sentence."

"Mr. Quesnel, have you anything to add?"

"Your Worship, in view of the fact that Mr. Wilson has had no prior convictions, and because he has pleaded guilty at the first opportunity, the crown will concur with defense counsel's submission."

"Very well." The judge removed his glasses and leaned back in his chair. With fingertips pressed together he reflected solemnly on Frank's fate for several minutes. He then began to address him directly. "Mr. Wilson, I am not entirely content with the outcome of this trial. You have offered a somewhat inculpable explanation of the facts which this court has had no opportunity to either credit or disclaim. It may be that the extent of your involvement in the robbery that occurred at Upton was considerably more than can be determined from your guilty plea to the offense you are convicted of here today. Further, because of your silence I believe other more experienced criminals will remain at liberty.

However, court time is valuable, and because you have pleaded guilty the crown has been spared the expense of a costly trial, and in the face of a joint submission from counsel I feel compelled to agree to a reformatory term. But the interests of the community must be met as well. A brief period of incarceration would in the public mind indicate a tolerance of this type of crime, and lead to cynicism toward the criminal justice process. There must be some element of deterrence for others who might follow in your footsteps. I am therefore sentencing you to the maximum reformatory term prescribed, that is, two years less one day, which you will begin to serve immediately. Go with the officer."

Bannerman began assembling his papers on the desk before him, and the police officer left his post by the side door behind the judge's bench and approached the rail. He lifted it to allow his prisoner to pass as the next case was being called. Frank thanked Bannerman quickly for his assistance and accompanied the policeman to the door. Before stepping through it into the hallway beyond he turned for a final glance at Tom, but his friend had already risen from his seat and was turned away from him, walking toward the exit.