LEWISTON
Daryle Gormley hopped from the van, his shackles jangling as they hit the cement floor.
Cuffed at the wrists, his tattooed arms hung limply. Yet his eyes busily scanned the garage, from the closed bay door to the open passage to the jail annex.
It was his first glimpse of the new 8th District Court building.
Tall and lanky, Gormley stood at the front of a line of seven male prisoners. They were accused thieves, burglars and forgers, each of them ready to see a lawyer and a judge.
For 37-year-old Gormley, it was a reluctant return to the system he hoped he had left behind.
“I’ve done good,” he said. “I’ve been clean for three and a half years.”
But he’s here. He has been charged with assault and obstructing the report of a crime.
He didn’t want to come, shackled to accused criminals and escorted by guards.
The jail annex
Just inside the passage to the annex, the guards unsnapped their holsters and pulled the guns from their hips.
“Once we go through that door, that’s it,” Transport Deputy Martin Fournier said. “No guns.”
He opened a drawer from the wall, placed his 40-caliber Smith and Wesson inside, and shut it tight. Transport Deputy Jon Guay did the same.
Then, armed only with pepper spray, the two guards led Gormley and the rest of the prisoners inside.
According to state rules, police officers cannot carry weapons in jails and prisons. Though it’s located in the basement of the Lisbon Street courthouse, this is a small jail.
There was nothing like this at the old court, located a block away. Prisoners were brought over in the same van, then escorted by deputies across Park Street and through the front doors.
In the crowded lobby there, prisoners sneaked conversations with friends as they passed through. Sometimes criminals passed their victims.
“It’s an uneasy feeling,” said Guay, a deputy with the Androscoggin County Sheriff’s Office for the past four years. “Not only are you watching the prisoners, you’re worried about what the public is going to do.”
That ended in January, when the new court opened.
Bigger and better
Here, amid the fresh paint and locked doors, the prisoners await the call to appear in court and conduct their first meetings with their lawyers.
Police arrested Gormley in his Lewiston home about 36 hours earlier. He had a fight with his girlfriend.
At the jail, guards placed him alone in a cell. He wore the orange jumpsuit issued to all maximum-security inmates. And he began his wait to speak with a lawyer.
From the annex’s open area, where the prisoners sit on wooden benches, Guay escorted Gormley to a closet-sized room where he sat in front of a television monitor. On the screen, he saw a pale man with a white shirt and tie. It was his lawyer, James Howaniec.
Howaniec wore a pair of headphones and spoke through a microphone. So did Gormley. He emerged from the video room five minutes later with a grim expression.
“He kept saying I have a record,” Gormley said. “But I’ve been pretty clean. It’s been three and a half years. That has to count for something.”
Back on the bench, beside a man accused of holding up convenience stores, Gormley stared at the floor.
“My girlfriend has helped me so much,” he said, almost to himself. Then he pondered the bail. Howaniec told him it could be as high as $400, a small fortune.
He has little money. A former landscaper, Gormley has been disabled for several years. He suffered a brain injury from a blow to the head.
“Three and a half years,” he repeated.
Thumbs up
Half an hour later, Gormley and the others were led into a private elevator and taken two stories up. Fournier escorted them down a short corridor and into a side door of the courtroom.
Then, Judge John Beliveau entered.
Tall and lean with a shock of white hair, Beliveau ran the court with dispatch.
“No deals,” he told a man in Gormley’s line who asked for his $1,000 bail to be lowered. The prisoner, a man in his 40s, told Beliveau about the child support he must pay and the job he just got.
“That’s the best I can do,” the judge said coolly. Several minutes later, he read Gormley’s name aloud from a list.
“How ya been?” said Gormley, standing up. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
The judge examined a folder for a moment.
“No. You haven’t,” Beliveau replied.
Howaniec entered the plea: not guilty. Then he talked about Gormley’s disability, his three children and the time it has been since he last appeared in court.
A lawyer for the state asked for $400 bail.
“I remember Daryle,” Beliveau said. Gormley completed his pre-trail agreement. He did it when many others failed, the judge said.
He set bail at $200 cash.
Gormley seemed to sink in his seat. His shoulders dropped and a smile spread on his face.
When Beliveau looked away, Gormley caught Howaniec’s eye and flashed a thumbs-up sign.
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