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her to cover his bail too. She did as requested. But as soon as that happened, my legal aid was cancelled. The prosecutor insisted that if I could cover Bishop’s bail, then I obviously had enough money for a lawyer. But in the end that didn’t really matter much, because after one look at our fat slob of a legal aid lawyer in his oversized, rumpled suit, I knew I could never allow him to defend me. When we were ushered into his office I saw a half-eaten baloney sandwich on a metal desk that looked like it had been purchased for fifty dollars at a flea market. His office was a pigsty, with broken linoleum tiles on the floor and stains on pale green walls that had not seen a fresh coat of paint in decades. The lawyer’s desk was covered with papers and books that lay disheveled and askew. He had thinning, greasy hair that looked like it had not been washed in weeks. To compliment an appearance that was less than fashionable, he had a slight lisp that caused him to spit when he spoke. And the only legal advice he offered was, “Plead guilty.” When I made a derogatory remark about his office, he made some retort about having other clients outside of the legal aid system. I knew right away it was a lie. The guy was paid by the government to shunt people through the legal system. He did not even want todiscuss the particulars of our case. He had no interest in checking into the legality of searching our bags without warrants. He had no concerns about probable cause for a search. He gave no consideration to the fact that Bishop possessed the baggage stubs and I didn’t. He was like a bald, sweaty parrot that just kept repeating the same thing to both of us. “Plead guilty.”
    I left his office and made a call to my wife in Montreal. I asked her to check our situation out with a local criminal lawyer, and to her credit, she found one named Sidney Goldman. Sidney was a showboat and a legend in the underworld where he was considered an expert on drug cases. He had several very high profile clients and he seemed to revel in the attention from both the media and the ladies. Sidney was representing Ryan’s loan shark buddy, Jean Paul LaPierre, and with Jean Paul’s recommendation, Goldman gave Barbara some very sage and candid advice that he would not normally have given to a stranger.
    “Tell your husband to get out of there,” was the message. “Leave on the next bus. It takes telephone numbers to pay for a good lawyer in New York,” and by that he meant lots and lots of cash. “Tell him to take his chances on extradition.” He gave his advice without asking Barbara for payment or a retainer. “It takes lots of money and lots of time for the U.S. to extradite a Canadian citizen,” he added. “With under two hundred pounds of grass, they might not even bother to pursue the case, and even if they did, you have a better chance to fight it from up here than you would in New York.”
    My wife flew down to meet me in New York with Sidney’s message and we spent our first night together in weeks. We rented a deluxe hotel room, took a horse-drawn carriage ride through the city and then went to see the Broadway performance of
Jesus Christ Superstar
. In spite of the cost, the experience left me feeling empty. When it was time to retire, Barbara and I climbed into a king-size bed and after a long conversation, we went straight to sleep. I was so wound up over the whole experience of jail that I was not even interested in sex.
    Before Barbara and I went out for the carriage ride, I discussed Sidney Goldman’s advice with my friend Bishop. He satin my hotel room and listened to my arguments but he was adamant that he was staying in New York to face the music. He had Robert Lieberman’s apartment to live in, he told me, and added that he wanted to come back to Montreal, but only after he had cleaned his slate in the U.S.
    “Remember when the federal prosecutor told us not to run home after we got our bail?” I responded.