by R. D. Cain
“Yes, that’s right, Your Honour,” Dewar said.
“And did you say who the alleged victim is?” he asked.
“Sir, the alleged victim in this case was the Nastos family dentist. The accused discovered that the dentist was molesting children.”
Judge Ryan seemed to be trying to put it all together but was obviously missing large pieces, so Dewar continued.
“Yes, Your Honour, Detective Nastos discovered that Dr. Irons was molesting his own daughter. Not long after, Dr. Irons’ body was found floating in the lake at Cherry Beach; he had been beaten to death.”
Judge Ryan opened a notebook and began scribbling notes. “Okay, well, let’s continue on, then I have to make a statement for the record. Go on, please, Ms. Dewar.”
“Certainly, sir.” She glanced at Carscadden and then turned her attention on Nastos for the first time. She looked him right in the eye. Nastos was unsettled by the direct eye contact with Prosecutor Dewar. She was the one who could take him away from his family. She toiled in this place daily among the gallery’s swarm of degenerates, the filthiest of street criminals. It was her job to put away the worst society had to offer and despite this, she had an elegance about her that Nastos thought he had put out of his mind.
She was pretty. While his wife was blond, slightly freckled and socially talkative, this woman was dark, of few words and — despite their past together — a complete mystery. Of all people Dewar just had to be the one who was going to try to take him away from his family by putting him in jail for the next twenty-five years. He tried to gather himself, to read anything the prosecutor’s face might reveal, but missed his chance. An elbow from Carscadden broke his train of thought.
“Detective, yes, I could check her out all day too, but I need to ask a few questions.”
Nastos lowered his head and leaned over to Carscadden. “Fire away.”
“I’ve very briefly read over the file here. Is your union going to cover your court costs?”
“No, I wasn’t working when I allegedly murdered this guy, I was off duty.”
“Allegedly, nice one, Detective. Now, can you get a surety to supervise your release? Your wife, a work buddy, your mom or dad?” Carscadden likely assumed that Nastos’ wife would be arriving at any moment, and failing that, cops are tight with each other. He probably thought Nastos’ parents might even drop by, but he was wrong.
“No, I don’t have anyone who will do that. The guys from work all disappeared; they would face consequences for supporting me and they all just want to stay clear for the time being. My wife can’t do it.”
“Why can’t she?”
It was obvious to Nastos that Carscadden had not read much of the file and the way he flipped through the pages didn’t inspire much confidence. “Kevin, my wife can’t do it because my daughter will be a witness against me. I can’t associate with a prosecution witness, so I can’t live at home. Both of my parents are dead. Looks like I’m going to go to jail. If I go to jail, even overnight, I lose my job, whether I’m convicted or not. I have no money to fight this, and we both know a guy only gets as much justice as he can afford. I’m screwed.”
Carscadden said nothing and to Nastos, he appeared not to care. He scratched a few notes in his legal pad, like he was trying to work something out.
Rubbing his wrists, Nastos caught up to where Dewar was in her opening remarks.
“Your Honour, the accused is also charged with lesser included offences subsequent to the murder. The prosecution asks for remand in custody, for concerns to the public.”
Ryan nodded to Carscadden. “Mr. Carscadden, anything to say?”
Carscadden took his cue, getting to his feet to address the court. He had a strong but tired voice and spoke like an actor who had recited his lines in the mirror so many times that the script became as unemotional as reading the obituaries of strangers. It was a passionless drone of words. “Last name Carscadden, initial K for the record, Your Honour. Since I plan to only help the accused obtain bail, then pass the case along, I request that I have a few days with him to get a position together for whoever takes this on. I would then submit, sir, that we revisit the necessity for court-ordered detention at that time. While I agree with my colleague that these are serious charges, the defense’s case will reveal that the prosecution’s case is very weak.” Carscadden glanced at Nastos and decided to say something positive, even if he felt it was a lie. “In fact, my client is innocent of this crime. We ask that the court allow the accused at least forty-eight hours to get some affairs in order either way.” Nastos barely reacted. When you need John Wayne, you get Pee-wee Herman. I hear the jails in Vancouver are okay.
Dewar stood, and both she and Carscadden began an exchange with the judge. Nastos gave up and tried to tune it out. He decided he was better off thinking of the future, hoping for a nice protective custody cell, maybe something in a corner with reduced hallway traffic and a roommate in for tax evasion or failing to buy his yearly dog licence.
“Your Honour,” Dewar said, “I don’t want to spend all day on this. We can’t show special consideration for a police officer. He’s supposed to uphold the law; he should be held to the highest standard.”
Nastos noticed how Carscadden winced and his face flushed at the words highest standard. It was about time he started taking this seriously.
“Your Honour, despite Ms. Dewar’s revealing beliefs that the police deserve fewer rights than the rest of the public, I wish to remind you that Detective Nastos has not been convicted of anything. A week, how about a week, Your Honour? Detective Nastos has an exemplary record of public service.”
The judge asked, “Just to understand you, Mr. Carscadden, you mean because your client was good at his job?”
His face flushed red; he flipped through the blank pages on his desk like he might find answers there. Carscadden was getting flustered. “To speak very bluntly, Your Honour, if this man had molested the detective’s daughter, it sounds to me that the only member of the public that need fear Detective Nastos need worry no longer. My client is a risk to no one and the only real issue here should be, if my client has an appropriate surety, to post bail, surrender his passport and be allowed some time to get his personal affairs in order.”
Nastos appreciated Carscadden’s directness. He’d seen judges listen to the same prefabricated arguments from the same lawyers day in and day out for years. He’d learned that if one can generalize and say there is one trait shared among all judges, it’s the unbridled excitement they feel when a lawyer actually goes off script and opts for plain-spoken truth.
“Mr. Carscadden, I’m going to grant bail, let’s move on to the issue of a surety.”
“Your Honour,” Dewar interjected, “the defendant cannot reside at home since his daughter’s a witness. Who is Mr. Carscadden suggesting be a surety, himself?”
Carscadden had no time to say how bad an idea he thought it was, but Nastos did have the time to read the serious aversion on his face.
“If you want your client to have bail, sir, unless you have a better option, you will have to monitor his whereabouts, for the time being.”
“Me, sir?” Carscadden couldn’t sound less enthusiastic.
“Well, for the time being, you’re his lawyer. If you want him to have bail you’ll have to monitor him, unless you find another volunteer.”
Nastos watched incredulously as Carscadden turned around from the judge and surveyed the gallery like he was searching for someone to bail him out. His gaze fell on the little wanna-be gangsters, street prostitutes, crack addicts — how long before he would realize that a miracle wasn’t going to happen? Then his eyes settled nervously on Nastos. “It would be an honour, sir,” he said unconvincingly, like it was his plan all along.
Judge Ryan continued. “The accused can only leave the residence of Mr. Carscadden for court purposes or to deal with legal
matters while in the company of his surety, Mr. Carscadden. Mr. Nastos will also be afforded two hours per day to attend to personal matters, but under all circumstances the accused will have a curfew of six p.m., seven days a week. Further release conditions include no communication directly or indirectly with any witnesses that the prosecution is to call. I’ll provide you with the complete list on the recognizance.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mr. Carscadden smiled.
“Now a few words for the record,” the judge began. “Since the accused is a police officer in this court jurisdiction, we’ll need to make arrangements with the trial coordinator to get an outside judge. I won’t be able to take this myself since I have to clear my docket completely for personal reasons. Ms. Dewar, what dates do you have in mind to start the Prelim for the trial?”
Dewar opened up a paper notebook and flipped through the pages. “Sir, Chief Crown Attorney Scott has some dates highlighted.” She flipped some more pages. “Monday, May seventh, 2012.”
Nastos considered the prospect of arranged and supervised access to his daughter for the next eight or so months. They may as well just convict him. It would give the people working against him more time to manufacture evidence, discard the evidence that could clear him. Time would work against him. There’s another way. He leaned over to Carscadden and spoke softly.
Carscadden recoiled and spoke loud enough for the judge to hear him. “Are you crazy?”
Judge Ryan said, “That date doesn’t appeal to you, Mr. Carscadden?”
Carscadden stood up to address the court. “Sir, my client is offering to waive the pre-trial and go directly to trial.”
It was an unusual request but Ryan didn’t flinch. “Ms. Dewar?”
She flipped through the book some more. “It looks to me that there is time available beginning September twenty-sixth for a trial but that’s short notice for defense to prepare.”
Nastos nudged Carscadden’s arm. “Let’s do it.”
“This is a seriously bad idea, Detective.” Carscadden addressed the court. “That’s fine with us, sir. The sooner we can start the sooner my client can clear his good name.”
Carscadden sat down next to Nastos. “What the hell are you thinking?”
“I’m calling their bluff. If they want to fight, let’s fight. I’m not giving them months to get their shit together.”
Judge Ryan mumbled something to himself as he shuffled the papers on his desk. “Madam Clerk, if you could formally read the charges into the court record, then the accused will be remanded into the custody of Defense Council Carscadden as his surety.”
The judge banged the gavel. Nastos and Carscadden slowly rose to their feet. Dewar began digging out another court file for her next case.
The charges were formally read: on the night of August 14, Steve Nastos did, knowingly and with premeditation, commit the murder of Dr. Jason Irons, dds, of Toronto, by beating him to death in the City of Toronto.
“How do you plead, sir?” the judge asked.
“Not guilty, sir.” Nastos hoped he sounded confident, self-assured, but he didn’t think that was the case. With a bang of the gavel, he was free to leave.
The two police officers who had escorted Nastos into the courthouse not long ago said good luck and left. Nastos wanted to say something — hey thanks, or something a little less lame — but was distracted by Carscadden, who grabbed him by the arm. “Follow me, Detective, we’ll get the releases signed, then we need to talk someplace private.”
AS CARSCADDEN LED NASTOS OUT of court through the side door, another man left through the main doors. He was shorter than Nastos, with a beer belly, and his blue bulging eyes were narrowed and angry. He knew he couldn’t talk without shouting, so instead he typed into his BlackBerry. Jeff, your dyke prosecutor just let Nastos get bail, she’s useless. We’ll have to come up with something else. The man stuffed the BlackBerry back into his pocket. A court security officer approached him in the hallway, intending to take away his phone — its use was barred from court — but when the angry man, Detective-Sergeant Koche, thrust his badge up, the court security officer backed off with an apology.
Koche stormed down the courthouse steps two at a time. He jogged across the street into the coffee shop on the corner. It was quiet and warm inside, with only a few customers — there was a Tim Hortons down the street that got a lot more business. There was a man waiting for him in a booth, and Koche took a seat to join him.
“Thanks for coming, North,” he said, wanting to get right to business.
“Thanks for asking,” North replied. He was a gaunt man in his forties. To Koche, with his slowly exploding waist line, North was the kind of thin only drug addicts and movie stars attain through starvation. When he reached for his coffee, his sleeves pulled back enough to reveal faded, green-tinged tattoos on both forearms — some kind of Chinese symbols that were meaningless to Koche. Immature crap from that Chinese or Japanese phase a lot of metal-heads went through in the ’80s. North’s eyes were sunken with dark circles underneath and his face was lined with wrinkles deeper than expected for a man his age. Koche had no idea that it was because North had just come from the gym and was dehydrated from a ten-mile run. Koche wasn’t interested in North’s hobbies or interests; it was all about business.
Koche knew that North was becoming popular. It was called the Old Boys’ Club, a private investigation and security resource company that worked the grey areas of the law. They obtained information where the police would be hampered by warrant requirements and other procedural speed bumps. They stalked, intimidated, extorted, harassed just about anyone, for whoever paid the bills. Lawyers and police used them regularly and they were beginning to get a lot of work from the general public and franchise stores as their reputation grew. Only current and retired police officers knew the full extent of their services, though. It was an industry dependant on discretion, something North knew well and had proven to Koche first-hand while he was still a police officer.
“You don’t mind looking after this, do you?” Koche asked.
“We both know I don’t turn down much business.” North ran his fingers through his hair and scratched the side of his head. “We both know I got the time,” he added.
Koche sat in an awkward silence. There was something between them that needed to come out, but he didn’t want to be the one to start it.
“It was your plan, your cash and your drugs,” North’s eyes fixed on Koche.
“I know, I know,” he replied, trying not to be the first to look away, but he was.
“They took my life from me. I was a good cop. And where were you? Where the fuck were you?”
Koche knew the topic was a minefield and tried to turn the conversation away. He comforted himself, thinking, If North had any other options, he would have either left already or shot me dead. The detective-sergeant, a man with twenty years of police experience in drugs, robbery, intelligence and the street beat couldn’t help himself for checking North over. Koche knew all the behavioural characteristics of armed persons. Aside from obvious signs like a jacket or sweater hanging heavy on one side, there are the nearly unavoidable idiosyncratic movements. Armed people frequently tap, pat or otherwise move and wiggle to make sure their weapon is still in place — the same way a person might touch sunglasses on top of their head to see if they’re there, people with guns also got used to pressure and weight from the weapon and had to remind themselves by touching it or moving that it was still there. Koche saw no sign that North was making any such movements, but that was not enough to put him completely at ease.
“North, listen,” he said, “I’ve got something in the works; if it pays off, I’ll bring you in. I owe you.”
North obviously didn’t have much trust in Koche. “What do you want me to do this time?”
“You remember Steve Nastos?”
“Yeah — arrogant fuck, thi
nks he’s the best cop that ever was. I worked robbery with him years ago.”
“Well, it’s him. He’s up on charges. I want you to follow him. Catch him breaching. I want him to serve some time.”
“Receipts or no?”
“Not a chance.”
“Two hundred a day plus expenses.” North produced a BlackBerry and dialled through to a memo pad. “You screwing him like you did me?”
“No,” Koche said, “with Nastos it’s Shakespearean; he did this one to himself.”
“You owe me a lot more than a week’s work and you know it.” North put both hands on the table and got ready to push himself up, but he slumped back as if trapped between two bad choices. Koche decided to throw something in to tip the balance. Lies were only harmful if people ever found out about them.
“You know it was Nastos, right?”
“What?” North asked, confused.
“Holy shit.” Koche tried to feign a you poor stupid bastard look. “You know it was Nastos who ratted us out years back.”
North’s face went pale and he froze, expressionless. Yup, that got him.
He didn’t leave. Instead, his fist tightened around his coffee cup.
North looked Koche in the eyes. He was probably trying to figure out if he was being played, but the newly directed anger was exhausting his ability to reason. Koche had sufficiently poked the bear; now he just had to make sure he wasn’t the slowest runner.
North surprised him with an abrupt response. “Okay, I’ll do it. But I want the first week in advance, Koche, cash.”
Koche didn’t realize he had been holding his breath till he exhaled. “I’ll get it to you tomorrow. Call my cell anytime, especially if you get anything good. Got it?”
“And if I need to bring someone else in, that’s on your dime too,” North added, meeting Koche’s stare.
“Listen, this is sensitive, I don’t want some druggie —”
“I’ll tell you what I want. I’ll get this guy for you, but I can’t do 24 / 7 surveillance myself. I assume you want pictures or video of this guy breaching, which would be easier with backup. You know this. I started this business from ground level. If you want to hire the Old Boys’ Club, you leave it up to us, to me, to decide how the job is done.”