Giving 'second chances' to 'wandering souls'

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Norm Beauvais walks calmly up the steps of the Sudbury courthouse, a yellow notepad with a list of names under his arm.

But as soon as he's through the doors, he kicks into gear. Almost becomes a different person.

He immediately notices a middle-aged man in a tanktop wearing a "Git-R-Done" ball cap sitting in the vestibule at the front door and in a few seconds finds out he's there with his 18-year-old son, who's set to appear for breach of probation and sends them off to legal aid.

A few steps into the courthouse lobby, he spots a grey-haired woman he's helped before. 

She's charged with threatening death and mischief, but he knows she has mental health issues and is confident he can get her into treatment instead of jail. 

He assures her that this a good Wednesday to come to first appearance court, because there's a "good judge and good Crown."

Then, he recognizes a tall young man wearing a Toronto Blue Jays cap standing amongst the crowd waiting for court to start.

"Jordan! I thought you were doing so good?" Beauvais says with disappointment in his voice.

"I'm not going to jail for 30 days for this, come on!" says Jordan.

He's charged with driving a car with the incorrect license plates and breach of probation.

Beavuais says he has a "significant youth record" going back to when he was 12.

"I thought he was on the good path, moving forward, getting work and not associating with the groups he was associating with," says Beauvais.
 
"Disappointing? Yeah it is. It's really difficult. There's a number of people who are success stories and you really help them."

He then spots a thin, young woman standing outside the courtroom looking confused.

"Are you Jennifer?" Beauvais says, looking at the list of names on his yellow notepad.

"I didn't know what you looked like, but I was looking for you."

"Oh, wonderful," she says.

After he's clear on Jennifer's case, he bounces over to a 40-ish woman in a polka dot blouse named Karen.

She's facing a $1,000 fine for not completing the court-ordered public service hours, largely because she's working full-time.

She considers pleading guilty, even though she doesn't know how she would pay that fine.

Beauvais convinces her to fight it and ask the judge for more time. He sends Karen down the hall to apply for legal aid. Meanwhile, court gets underway and his clients file in, but Beauvais waits out in the lobby

"I just want to wait for her, make sure she doesn't enter that plea," he says.

"Just to admit guilt and move on is letting the system win." 

And Beauvais sees that all the time-- Aboriginal people who are so comfortable being in the courthouse and with the justice system that they will plead guilty just to get it over with, even if they are innocent. 

He says many don't realize how quickly a criminal record can pile up, especially if someone with an addiction to alcohol or drugs continually breaches probation, and in just a few months, a judge could see a long criminal record and consider jail time.

A middle-aged man wearing checked shorts comes up to Beauvais, looking for help with his son who's facing his third impaired driving charge in the last four months.

"I'm looking for the worker from the friendship centre," he says.

"Right here," Beauvais says, pointing two fingers at himself.

He's used to that. The 38-year-old says he doesn't look as Aboriginal as many of his clients.

His parents are both from Wikwemikong, but he grew up in Killarney.

"I remember growing up and nobody wanted to acknowledge they were First Nation," Beauvais says, adding that his parents never even had Native status cards.

Beauvais says he was a "really rebellious youth" and now feels that's one of his "biggest assets" as a court support worker.

He connected with his culture in his mid-20s when he attended Georgian College in Barrie.

"If you grow up without that sense of identity, then it's difficult. You're always that wandering soul," he says. 

"So, I'm really thankful for that and if I don't look the part, fine by me."

It's about mid morning, when Beauvais sees a thin, serious-looking young man in jeans named Adam enter the courthouse with his grey-haired father.

They stand by a window ledge in a courthouse hallway and people stream by while they discuss Adam's future.

He wants to be a police officer, but right now finds himself on the other side of the law, facing assault and mischief charges.

He's quickly piled up a half dozen charges on his record in the last two months. The common ingredient in all of those incidents was alcohol.

Beauvais suggests that Adam enroll in an addiction treatment program, but he doesn't want to.

"I just feel I'm being unfairly targeted," Adam says.

"If they weren't all alcohol-related, I would agree with you. It's very important we get a hold of this now."

But Adam is wondering about taking probation instead and Beauvais warns that if he goes out drinking again, he would breach his probation and he could quickly end up in jail.

"This can spiral out of control in four months. I've seen it before," Beauvais tells him, looking straight into his eyes.

Adam is quiet for a minute.

"This is make or break right here," says his father.

"This could be a big, life-changing moment for you. It could put you on the right path," says Beauvais.

Adam is still quiet. Beauvais says he can get the court to put off the case for a month while Adam gets help for his addiction.

"Is that fair enough?"

"I suppose," Adam grunts.

"To keep you conviction-free, you have to go to treatment."

Beauvais says many of his clients can trace their problems to addiction and trace the roots of those addictions back to their parents and residential schools and the cycle of trauma in First Nations communities.

He says he's learned to be patient when it comes to those turnarounds.

"It's a tough pill to swallow, because you really want to see that person get help, but it's such a long process. It takes years and years and years to just begin to address that trauma."

After a busy morning and a quick lunch break, Beauvais walks back to the courthouse, with a specific mission for the afternoon.

A 23-year-old woman named Rebecca is facing an assault charge.

Beauvais says this is for slapping a friend in the face during an argument, but Rebecca doesn't have a criminal record and holds both a high school and college diploma, which Beauvais says, puts her in an elite group for the aboriginal community.

He's hoping to convince the Crown Attorney to grant her a peace bond-- a promise to keep the peace, that wouldn't leave any marks on her record.

"The biggest reason I want to do this for her, I want to make sure she doesn't get a criminal record, but to give her some belief in the justice system, that they do believe in her and acknowledge some of the barriers she's overcome," he says. 

"People make mistakes and everybody deserves a second chance."

Beauvais waits patiently in the courtroom, while a long list of cases are dealt with.

His only chance is to speak with the Crown prosecutor at the break, giving him just a few minutes to make his pitch.

The judge calls a 15-minute recess and Beauvais leaps out of his seat and walks up to the young female prosecutor with a long ponytail.

They shake hands and he launches into his spiel about Rebecca and how important she could be to the community.

The Crown glances at a file folder and shakes her head.

Beauvais sits back down disappointed, but is already making plans for Rebecca's trial.