The young lady was a mess on the steps of the courthouse. She sat on a bench with a quivering chin and shaking hands that fumbled inside an oversized purse. She managed to grab a pack of cigarettes but dropped several items as she hunted for a lighter. The woman looked like she might begin to cry at any moment.

I stepped up with a Bic at the ready. A flicker of flame was held to a shaking cigarette and then the tip of it began to glow. She took a deep drag, blew a relieved plume of smoke and thanked me for the light.

So began a conversation of profound interest. The young lady’s brother was on trial for a particularly nasty assault and the trial was not going well. She feared losing him to the prison system for long, long years. We talked about their lives together and we smoked. Others stepped outside, spied the cigarettes between our fingers, and lit up smokes of their own.

Nuances of the trial were discussed. Personal stories were shared among the group. A lawyer stopped to say a few words as he lit up. By the time court recess was over, a dozen butts had been jammed into an ashtray and a dozen stories had been told.

Man, there is just something about discussing the dynamics of crime and punishment over a cigarette. A sudden exhalation sends out a plume like an exclamation point to emphasize a strong opinion. A curl of lazy smoke rolling over the upper lip lingers in the air like an unanswered question to be pondered.

When a group gets together to chat over cigarettes, they are bonded in smoke. The act itself is like a form of communication. Each mannerism is a tattletale sign of an emotional state.

An agitated smoker takes short, sharp drags and waves his cigarette in the air. An angry smoker flicks his butt more often than he needs to. A distraught one lets smoke drift from the corner of his mouth as if too overwrought to blow it away.

I swear, in some circles, smoking is like a secret handshake. The act of lighting up inspires a degree of trust among others who share the vice. In a day where smoking tobacco is regarded with almost with the same disgust as drug use or puppy dismemberment, anyone who smokes in public exhibits a certain amount of courage and self-assurance.

I might be out on a street corner with hordes of locals eyeing me suspiciously. Is he a cop? An undercover agent? A fed with really bad hair? I fire up a cigarette and those suspicions tend to disappear like a butt flicked into the wind.

“You wanna know what went down?” a fellow smoker might say, wandering over with his own coffin nail. “I’ll tell ya what went down.”

If you’re a reporter and you smoke, you strike gold when a key witness is out of cigarettes. He bums one, he lights up and expresses gratitude with a spout of information. Long after I give up the habit, I will carry a pack of smokes wherever I go.

But I was talking about smoking outside the courthouse. It’s a place where stress runs high and nerves are often jangled. Friends of the accused step outside to smoke with fret and worry. Family members of victims light up in rage and bitterness. Lawyers who dare to smoke in public try to blow away their tension and work out strategies.

The men and women on trial inside a courtroom are being judged by a panel of their peers. Many of those peers smoke, too. And they are occasionally led outside so they can sneak a few puffs before getting back to the weighty task of ruling on a person’s fate.

I’m here to tell you, you don’t want your future in the hands of someone who really, really wants a cigarette and cannot have one.

The drama inherent at a courthouse is on display in a cloud of smoke outside its doors. On sweltering, summer days, smokers will be out there with packs of comfort in hand. On winter days with whipping winds, smokers will be out there. Court is a place where nasty secrets and ugly truths are laid bare for all. No reason to conceal your own wicked vulnerabilities once you get there.

But don’t get me wrong. I’m not a crusader for smokers’ rights. I have no political opinion on whether it should be banned there. I’m only saying I’ll miss the almost tribal culture of cigarettes if it happens.

I’d like to think I would still have met the troubled young lady on the courthouse steps even without our shared addiction to cigarettes. Maybe I would have offered her a Lifesaver. Maybe she would have asked me for a tissue.

Someday, I might see her again after we’ve both quit the vile habit. We’ll be out there, each with stalks of celery between our fingers. I’ll look like a moron trying to light the things with my Bic.

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter.