Courthouse junkies

>> For a group of grizzled retirees, nothing's more fun than watching a day in court

by CRAIG SEGAL

The courtroom was sprinkled with old men. They sat separately, hanging on every word. It was a particularly sexy case. Four men in their early twenties were on trial for pimping, each backed by his own lawyer. A teenage prostitute was testifying, her worn-out face covered in bright makeup. She wore tight pants and six-inch heels with jagged salt stains. When she pulled back her bleach-blonde hair, a tattoo became visible on the back of her neck.

The girl testified that the pimps had forced her to box two other prostitutes. The red boxing gloves lay on the ground, beneath her lawyer's table. She had wanted to kill the youngest pimp. The one she was in love with. She had put it in writing.

I was wondering about the old men. Were they fathers of the prostitutes? Former clients? I scribbled the question on my notepad and passed it to another journalist. She smiled and wrote on it and passed it back: "Old pigs."

Not dirty old men

Turns out they're not old pigs, or dirty old men. They're not even all men. The gang is almost exclusively retirees, and rather than spend their days staining glass or watching TV, they watch justice at the Montreal Court House.

They know all the lawyers. They watch cases longer than journalists, regularly finding mistakes in articles. During high-profile cases, they sometimes see themselves on TV. True, some prefer sex cases. But, others prefer drug trials or biker cases.

"I don't judge the bikers," says a woman who watched the Mom Boucher trial. Pointing to the ceiling, she says, "Him above judges. Not me. The bikers are very nice to me."

"Guys like us, you have at each courthouse," says Jacques Prairie, the youngest of the group. The 62 year old has spent his weekdays at the courthouse since he quit his job installing sprinklers, four years and four months ago.

Robert Normandin, the oldest and by far the most dapper, is 75. He's been coming since he got rid of his tobacco shop at Complexe Desjardins 15 years ago. He always wears a jacket and tie, and has a soft, gravelly voice from years of smoking Rothmans King Size. If you don't interrupt him, Robert will talk nonstop about his favourite cases.

"Drug cases are much more complex," he says. "In one case, some guys stripped a plane and filled up the inside with gas tanks, so they could fly here nonstop. The pilot was fined $1.5 million. I've wondered since if he went to prison." Next he talks about a customs officer who got caught smuggling hashish from the other side of the world. "I got to know his wife in court," he confides.

Then there was the kid in Arundel who cut up his parents with a chainsaw. Robert says he would have followed the case if it were in Montreal.

Robert recommends the courthouse lifestyle. "I leave the house at 10 and don't go home 'til seven. I see people. I see things. I learn things. When you stay at home and watch TV, that's no good."

Lunch break

At lunchtime on weekdays, the courthouse regulars sit at the far end of the smoking room of the court cafeteria.

Sometimes they get loud. Jacques and Pierre, for example, don't think it's right that a man be called in for a sex crime after spans of decades, when he is lonely and old. And they're not afraid to say so.

Not everyone in the cafeteria shares the old men's opinions. "In the past, some clients wanted to kick them out. Sometimes they say cruel things," says Marianne Lantin, who has worked at the cafeteria for four years.

But despite their eccentricities, most cafeteria staff like the men. "They've given me birthday presents," says Sylvie Marois, who has worked in the cafeteria for six years. Adds another staffer, Melanie, "They're normal like us. They just come to see the cases. They read the papers. It's just a pastime."

Showtime

As lunchtime draws to a close, Robert and the other men squint to see the daily charts which tell of upcoming court action. Checking to see that their cronies are with them, they dart for the door. Today's selection is the meat-grinder courtroom on the fourth floor, where cases are pumped through every few minutes.

As the accused are led nervously into the room by armed guards and wait tensely for sentencing, Jacques settles into his seat comfortably. He is wearing dark green jeans and a black turtleneck. His body takes the form of the chair, knees wide apart. He carefully places one hand on top of the other on his paunch, and watches justice. :

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