“On Wednesday morning, the public got their first glimpse of disgraced CBC radio host Jian Ghomeshi– who is charged with five criminal offences including sexual assault and choking–as he appeared at a downtown Toronto courthouse.

What are sex criminals wearing this season?

Well, foregoing his signature, I’m-old-but-a-downtown-scenester-who-likes-beating-women-rock-guy style, Ghomeshi went with a black suit, crisp white shirt and subtly pattered dark tie. Standing beside his fearless and brilliant lawyer, Marie Henin, who was smartly turned-out in black with a lurid splash of lipstick across her face, the pair looked evil and powerful, like they had mastered the dark arts and were taking the charges very seriously.

Ghomeshi, who typically sports a youthful, mop of dyed hair that suggested the gentle innocence of a Muppet to his victims, had trimmed it, a clear attempt to convey to the court that he was a serious man, a full grown predator and that these women would have understood that, via his hair, and thus implicitly consented to being attacked by him. His signature five-o’clock-shadow, a reminder of his love and violent fantasies surrounding the sleazy 1980’s TV show Miami Vice, was gone, once again suggesting that he was a powerful, business-savvy man of violent and criminal action. “Think Christian Grey, not Ted Bundy, “ Mr. Ghomeshi’s stubble-free face declares.

By not wearing a bloodstained white shirt, Ghomeshi and his legal team are sending a clear message to the courts that he is not always beating women for his own twisted sexual gratification,  but is often taking time to try to plot some form of consent from his victims, usually while setting up his video camera and arranging his other props. The tie, dark and respectful, but with a subtle pattern, is a clear indicator of the BDSM interior of Ghomeshi, a bold statement of his violent intentions that not even the most drugged, intoxicated or star-struck woman could possibly have misunderstood.

In court we see that Ghomeshi has decided to eschew the tie and go for a more casual, you’re-relaxed-and-in-my-lair-and-I’m-showing-you-my-record-collection vibe. He’s showing the court that he’s their friend, the voice that they allowed into their home, bedroom, kitchen and bathroom for so many years, and that their relationship is now so intimate that the obvious next step is to introduce a startling, brutally violent, dangerous and one-sided sexual component into their life together.

With Ghomeshi, the safe word is always “style.” “

A little bit unsteady on her feet, she’s wearing a Flashdance t-shirt and has Cleveland tattooed across her neck. She looks like she needs a cigarette, like she needs something. Her hair, which must have once been blonde, is now colourless. There’s a small bruise beneath her left eye and a defiant, proud kind of Fuck You, to the way she walks. You can smell her perfume from 10 yards away and later, when she steps out of the washroom the cold water she’s splashed on her face has caused her mascara to run.

Lawyers pace the room. A few talk urgently into cell phones. The one who looks like a Ken Doll records case notes into his Dictaphone– pleased with the sound of his own voice he bends his inflections as if for an audience. A man built to take up as much space as possible, suddenly declares, “This is bullshit!” He sits down beneath a couple of faded posters advertizing the Victim Support Line and begins to tell a story to his small retinue about a Jane and Finch stripper who was deported.

Translators, waiting to be called forth through the entrance into the prison for a hearing, are scattered about.

The Mandarin/Cantonese translator works on a Sudoku puzzle.

The French/Arabic translator, an immense, transgendered man reads a graphic novel.

The Romanian translator talks about skiing in Bulgaria.

The Vietnamese translator makes frequent trips to the washroom.

The Tamil translator looks like my old high school Geography teacher.

A ridiculously huge prison guard, indifferent and sadistic looking, emerges into the foyer like Darth Vader. Keeping the door propped open with one foot he shouts out, “Croatia!” Inconvenienced, he looks around. “Croatian translator!!” he yells again. Nothing happens, there is no Croatian translator present. The guard shrugs. Wordlessly, he returns into the prison, the door slamming shut, the matter no longer his problem.

A man of about 65 sits in the corner reading the Bible– softly, so softly, he’s repeating the verses to himself.

A woman with long blonde hair walks into the place. She’s wearing five inch stiletto heels, a leopard print top and black tights that make her look like she’s been dipped in ink. She wants to look hot for the husband she’s visiting. She has her two young sons with her and they’re so carefully polished and dressed as to appear ready for church or a Tommy Hilfiger shoot. The boys are excited by the vending machines and the older one jams his arm up the slot and begins to try to pry a chocolate bar free. The mother catches him out of the corner of her eye.

Tyson.

Come.

Sit.

Down.

Now.

“ If you don’t, we will go home right now, dammit.”

The boy comes to her, throws his arms around her neck in a hug, and then they both begin to cry.