by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR

Mother and son stand 15 feet apart. A uniformed cop stands next to the boy and both are enclosed in a space fenced off with four-foot-high barriers.

Mother and son haven't set eyes on each other since he moved out after a fight with her boyfriend in December. He was then nailed selling cocaine to an undercover officer at the Hells'-controlled drug bazaar at Berri and Ste-Catherine E., pocketsful of tiny plastic bags emblazoned with a black Nike logo and full of white powder.

Now mom, a faded 40-year-old from one of the least glamorous areas of St-Henri, talks with resignation and muted anger about the oldest of her four kids. "I don't want him to work. I want him to go to school. If he comes home he'll be at home 24 hours a day when he's not in class. I'll be home to watch him. If he messes up even once I'll call the cops."

The boy, like so many minors facing justice at the youth courthouse at Bellechasse and St-Denis, sports jeans and a look of nervous contrition with an occasional hint of defiance. His lawyer explains how the boy started selling drugs after losing his warehouse job. He didn't want to go back to Mom's place because he despises his mother's boyfriend.

But Mr. Junior Drug Dealer now asks to be sent back to live with mom and stepdad rather than remain in custody until trial. Mom tells the judge that she won't be putting up with much more of his bullshit that he's imported off the streets. "St-Remy has a lot of prostitution and drugs on it. I'm working with the local police to help fight it," says Mom. The middle-aged female judge compliments the mother for her "extraordinary" testimony and allows the boy to go home on a few conditions.

The boy promises to go straight. He's taken away, to ponder the crossroads of a life of crime or good citizenship.

His chances of avoiding crime are surprisingly good. Only a small percentage of juvenile scofflaws go on to a life of adult crime, which is why Quebec juvenile court judges mete out some of the most lenient sentences in North America. Last year the feds passed a law meant to force our judges to give out harsher sentences. But the law hasn't changed our youth court's ways, according to insiders.

The next day, another 17-year-old fuckup, wearing jeans and a dorky teen moustache, asks to delay his sentence of 100 hours of community service, which was to take the form of janitorial duties at a youth centre. The boy never showed up for his mopping chores and now claims that he has to care for his dad, who suffered a nervous breakdown and remains suicidal.

The boy reports that he got a full-time job in mid-January, worked for four months and then lost his job a couple of months ago. The judge points out that this would only be possible if it was July and not March. She reminds his lawyer that, "This is a court of law, not a compassionate association." The judge opts to decide later on what to do about the infuriating kid. The boy grabs his coat and blasts out of the courtroom, sneakers practically burning a hole in the carpet.

Back in the first room, a tiny, chubby 13-year-old brown child from Côte-des-Neiges shows up alone for trial. She's a shabby infant among lawyers clad in immaculate coal-coloured, pleated robes. The girl reports that her mom - who isn't present - ordered her to change lawyers. This sparks a furious exchange between her old and new lawyers. The new lawyer barks rudely at the old lawyer and the judge. The judge orders the girl to bring her mother next time so they can make some progress in her case.

And so turns the heartbreaking wheel of justice for our local young rebels. It must seem a terrifying place for a kid but it indulges them a surprising amount of patience and respect.

Comments? kgravy@openface.ca