NEW COMMUNITY COURT CONVENES

At 9:13 a.m. Wednesday morning -- things were running late -- a
sheriff announced, "Order in court. All rise," and Provincial Court
Judge Thomas Gove emerged from an antechamber, strode to his bench
and sat down. The first day of Vancouver's new community court had convened.

The courtroom smelled of new carpet. It was a small space, a little
larger than a racquetball court.

All 27 seats in the public gallery were taken, filled mostly with
journalists, and the weight of bodies and the room's close dimensions
gave the proceedings a claustrophobic air. Judge Gove -- balding,
close-cropped hair, bifocals perched on his nose -- leaned forward and said:

"We are trying new approaches in this court . . . so we ask the users
of the court and the public to be patient with us as we work through
the wrinkles . . . as there will be."

He then asked members of the media not to divulge the names of those
who appeared before him.

He said he hoped the press would respect their privacy so they could
get on with their lives in dignity.

His implication was, things will be done differently here: Justice in
community court will be an agent of the second chance, not public
shame. And offenders, who will have committed less serious crimes
like property theft or drug possession, will have signalled their
willingness to try to change their ways by first accepting
responsibility for their crime.

And to aid that rehabilitation, an on-site triage team of probation
officers, and health, housing and social services workers will be
there to work with the accused.

Sometimes, a sentence might mean jail time, but more likely it will
be community service, or orders to seek addiction counselling.

And speed is of the essence.

The court hopes to hear 1,500 cases in a year, and help clear the
legal logjam paralysing the courts.

"Where [a case] could take 14 months in the past," said Crown counsel
Andrew Cochrane, who attended on Wednesday, "the idea is now they do
it in a day."

For the record, the court's deliberations began with a sputtering
start. The first case was referred to another date -- the accused, a
woman, failed to show. She was in hospital. Cases two, three and four
were stood down for various reasons -- in one man's case, his lawyer
had failed to show.

But at 9:18 a.m., a sheriff led in the court's first warm body -- a
bleary-eyed guy with tousled brown hair and tattoos on both forearms.

He wore brown khaki shorts and shirt, and light blue paper jail
slippers. He had spent the night in jail.

His name was Devon Lloyd. He was 35. (Lloyd had no objection to
having his names used when he was interviewed later.) He was
originally from Kelowna and was now living on the streets in
Vancouver. He had a bit of a record, he said, but nothing recent. He
had, he said, "an alcohol addiction."

He had been caught shoplifting food at the Safeway on Davie Street.

Gove's deliberation took two minutes. He referred Lloyd to the
court's triage unit, and ordered him to return to court later that
morning for sentencing. Did the accused understand, Gove asked? The
accused did.

Later in the morning, Lloyd reappeared. He had met with the triage
unit, which would help him find accommodation, and set up sessions
for addiction counselling. Gove sentenced him to four hours of
community service -- he would be working in maintenance at the
Lookout Shelter -- and ordered Lloyd to reappear in court three weeks hence.

"If you satisfy these conditions," Gove said, "the plan is not to
proceed with the charge."

There were other cases that morning -- a man arrested for shoplifting
school supplies for his kids; a native woman with addiction problems
who had failed to appear in court and when asked by Gove if she
wished to say anything, said, "That I do want to change."

And after his sentencing, Lloyd left the courthouse, accompanied by a
court worker who was walking him over to the Lookout Shelter.

TV crews and reporters crowded around him when he came out. He seemed
bemused by the attention. When asked how this was different from his
other court appearances, he said, "Well, I was never on camera afterwards."

What did he think of the speed of the community court system?

He thought it good, he said: he would get some income assistance and
a place to stay, and any other time he would still be sitting in a jail cell.

All around us were the walking wounded of the Downtown Eastside --
dozens and dozens of people shuffling and weaving and hurtling
forward in that jerky way addicts do when they're high, but many of
them stopped and wondered at the circle of television cameras. The
street traffic seemed to come to a halt. That's when somebody asked
Lloyd, what's next? Will this help him rehabilitate?

"Well, it's all up to me, I guess," he said.

And with that, he walked away. The media scrum broke up. It was as if
someone had thrown a switch because now that the show was over, the
street scene seemed to resume, with the shuffling and weaving and
jerky walks, and an old man -- lank hair falling over his shoulders,
eyes dazed, stinking of something -- shuffled through the crowd of
reporters with a plastic cup, asking for change.

We ignored him.