by John Farrow
“Heard of him.” Touton was the most famous and feared cop in the department, yet although both men worked out of downtown headquarters, Cinq-Mars had not been around long enough to make his acquaintance. “You want to tell me a story? How he’s your uncle?”
“He’s closer to me than any uncle.”
“I don’t care if he’s your father—is he?—you still threw the first rock.”
“Eighteen thousand rocks have been thrown so far. I’ve kept count. Why do you care so much about the first one?” He was leading her towards a paddy wagon down the block. She feared it, for she was mildly claustrophobic and it looked as though they were packing the rioters in tightly. She might not be able to endure that confinement without losing her cool.
“You started it.”
“The English started it when they invaded us in 1759. That rock’s been waiting to be thrown for over two hundred years.”
“Tell it to the judge.” He had to wait with her in a line with other cops leading their prisoners to the paddy wagon. Standing beside her, he did not mind the delay.
“You tell it to Armand—Captain Touton,” she said. “Treat me badly, and you can kiss your career goodbye.”
“There’s nothing at all charming about threatening people.”
“You haven’t treated me badly yet. I’m not asking for special treatment.”
“I don’t have the energy to treat you badly.”
They laughed briefly again, and Cinq-Mars couldn’t help but wish that they had met under different circumstances. In the larger scheme of things, throwing a rock might not be the most heinous crime on earth.
“Do me a favour … no—two favours.” She was still trying to breathe normally.
“You’re in a great situation to be asking for favours.”
“I’m claustrophobic. Put me in a squad car. Not a paddy wagon. I’ll scream. I’ll go insane.”
Cinq-Mars looked at her. He saw that she was serious. “Sorry, but you should have thought of that before you threw the rock.” The response was a tough one, and the woman continued to gaze up at him as though another option might yet occur to the officer. “I don’t have a squad car,” he went on, “and I don’t have the rank to do anything more than put you in that paddy wagon.”
“Then promise me this—”
“I can’t make any promises.”
“Promise me. Get me on this paddy wagon. It’s nearly full. I’ll be at the end, near the window. It’ll leave soon. If you put me on the next one, I’ll get pushed all the way inside and I’ll have to wait. I’ll die in there. Please.”
Cinq-Mars nodded. Dragging her along with him, he shoved past other officers. “We need this one to go on right now. I can’t wait.” Other officers didn’t mind. The longer they spent in line with their prisoners, the longer they were out of the fray, where no one really wanted to be.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll put in a good word with Armand.”
“You do that.”
“My second favour …”
They were almost at the rear gate, and Cinq-Mars shouted at the guard to hold on, he had one more prisoner to shove in for this trip. The guard argued back, but Cinq-Mars pressed forward with his captive and the door remained ajar.
“What second favour?” he shouted in the young woman’s ear. “Tell Armand I’m under arrest. Get the word to him, all right?” “I don’t have access to the man—” “Just do it, all right? Trust me. He’ll thank you.” “What’s your name? I’ll have to tell him your name.” He helped hoist her into the back. From inside, an arm reached around her waist and clasped her, pulling her in.
“Get your cuffs back,” the guard commanded.
Cinq-Mars helped turn the woman around so that he could reclaim his handcuffs. She spoke to him over her shoulder. “Anik Clément. Got that? Will you remember? Anik. Clément.”
He got his cuffs off her. The door closed on the young woman. Cinq-Mars moved off quickly, not really knowing what he should do in the chaos of the street. He noticed that the parade remained in shocked existence, although wildly dispersed, and various segments had lost touch one with the other. Performers, bands and floats were continuing to come down Sherbrooke Street, those at the rear not fully cognizant of what was going on up ahead. He thought that he should at least stop the parade before any baton-twirling teenagers got hurt.
Then he heard a burst of screams and shouts behind him. Twisting around, he saw the tumult of bodies and cops flailing with their sticks close to the paddy wagon. The situation looked rough, but the police had the upper hand. He wasn’t needed. Then, in what seemed like slow motion, although it happened in seconds, he spotted a rioter opening the rear door with the keys, and prisoners inside the paddy wagon splurged out. For one quick instant, he caught sight of the girl, and she noticed him, then darted into the mob and into the dark night, away from the bright parade and television lights.
Cinq-Mars took three steps towards her, then let it go.
She was lost to him this time. In any case, she had given him her name. She undoubtedly regretted that now. Just to be safe—who knew what distractions might await him through the night—he wrote her name in his notebook before returning his attention to the streets. When he looked up, he gazed straight across at the prime minister scanning the situation. Interesting. A politician who hadn’t run for cover. Cinq-Mars then brought his hand down upon the back of a rioter, opened up the boy’s left palm until he dropped his rock, then gave him a shove to send him on his way. The rock he kicked down a storm drain, to keep it out of circulation.
Most of his fellow officers were busy handcuffing their prey and lining them up for transport to crowded overnight lockups, but order had largely been restored in this area and the mopping-up procedures were under control. Cinq-Mars helped out an elderly couple petrified that they might be run down by escapees or policemen. They both walked with canes. Although anxious to avoid any further unexpected adventures, they had enjoyed the spectacle well enough. He clasped the frail, stooped woman around the shoulders and shuffled along with her, while the diminutive old man took hold of his opposite elbow for balance. They made their way through a gap in the crowd towards a quiet side street. From there, they progressed on their own, undeterred by the steep incline. He watched them go, admiring the longevity of their affection for one another.
Before heading back to the bedlam, the young officer again took out his notebook. He had nothing further to jot down. Instead, he read the name inscribed on the page. Anik Clément.
Alone on the reviewing stand, Pierre Elliott Trudeau again took his seat. Momentarily, his good friend Gérard Pelletier, these days a cabinet minister who’d been down at Liberal Party headquarters prior to the fracas, joined him for a preliminary debriefing.
“I’ll be blamed for this, I suppose,” Trudeau remarked.
“You looked great on TV. The commentary was positive. A few journalists took cheap shots, the people-in-the-street interviews were largely negative. Overall, you looked good. The commentary will be helpful.”
Trudeau nodded and moved around as though preparing to leave. The parade was gone now, the big fight over, and only thousands of dazed spectators remained behind. The biggest story they recounted had to do with the rioters—some called them patriots—who’d been tossed into a paddy wagon and then escaped. That had been exciting.
“Gérard, this isn’t going away. It’ll be the fight of our lives.”
The tall man beamed. “Interesting times, Pierre. Would you rather be bored?”
The question did not demand an answer. They both knew that a confluence of events and forces had placed them in power in changing times. Two weeks before this riot, Robert F. Kennedy had been gunned down in Los Angeles, two months after the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. President John F. Kennedy had been dead for less than five years. The potential for attacks on leaders was now part and parcel of the stress of political life, and while the night’s foray had been limited to glass
and rocks, who knew what the future might hold? He loved to debate. He loved to tangle on the fly with those who brought ideas of their own. He presumed that he’d continue to have that opportunity. Others, though, moved in the shadows and guarded their secrecy. For them, the discussion was closed. Out there, some believed in their own analysis, and while today they had tossed projectiles without much accuracy, no one could predict how their rage might escalate, or their range improve.
“I’m beginning to believe in your Cartier Dagger. The luck you’ve had.”
“Come on,” Trudeau said. “Let’s go win an election.”
Trudeau and Pelletier walked back up the steps to the library, to the relief of the officer assigned to the prime minister’s protection, and the two men departed behind curtains erected for this event as though they were moving off a stage. Another performance awaited them as the country went to the polls the following morning, their fate in the hands of the people once again.
She counted this among the best times of her life. No sooner had she broken out of the van with the other prisoners than one had shouted, “This way! Come on!” She had gone with him, running blindly, furious and scared. She was so relieved to be out of that crowded space that she could scream, and she remained utterly terrified that she might be stuffed back into the truck again. Almost immediately, five of them were on the move, running hard, leaping hurdles and sprinting through small openings in the clusters of people. They alerted one another to police sightings—all thrilling, all fun—and headed north, still on the run, where the crowds thinned out, and finally dispersed to being only stragglers. The group slowed to a jog, always glancing behind, then bent, exhausted, they stopped to catch their breath.
“Paul,” said one.
Another said his name was Jean-Luc.
“Vincent,” said the third.
“Pierre,” said the boy nearest her.
“Anik.”
“Let’s grab a beer,” Paul suggested, and they drifted onto St. Denis Street and the bar scene there. They entered a crowded subterranean spot where young people were talking about the night, for most had taken part in the events firsthand and perhaps more were claiming to have thrown rocks than had actually done so. One boy wiggled both his big toes, which poked out from holes in his socks. “I got so mad, I threw my shoes.” Everyone was euphoric from the snap of adrenaline.
The five escapees pooled their coins and ordered a pitcher. When the word went around the bar that they were the ones who’d bolted from the paddy wagon, new friends bought them beer into the wee hours. They were the heroes of the escapade, and Anik remained ecstatic. She had been longing for this. Real contact with people like herself, who shared the same ideals. The boys were in school—Paul in photography, Jean-Luc in political science, both Vincent and Pierre studying literature at different universities. They were high on excitement, and after forays to the back alley they were high on marijuana as well. A good night all around.
The conversation ignited her. Anik’s own friends had let her down. They had wimped out. She hadn’t expected much from them, but definitely something more than retreat. Tonight was the last straw. Time to change her friends. These boys, though, had not only joined in but had come prepared to fight, and one, playfully, was mad at her for beating him to the punch.
“I wanted to throw the first rock,” Jean-Luc exclaimed. “I was waiting for the pretty majorettes to pass by, the ones in pink. Why’d they stop right in front of me?”
“I didn’t know anybody else would join in.”
“I saw you run right out into the street. I couldn’t believe it!”
“The people of Quebec joined with you tonight, Anik,” Paul said solemnly. “We are rising up.”
Finally, she was making friends with those who would not only talk and debate, but with those who understood that actions spoke more loudly than words. Tomorrow, headlines would announce the riot to the world, and the people of Quebec would realize that their cause had been brought forward, that students were willing to denounce the politicians, fight the police and even escape from their custody for the sake of independence. The people of Quebec would know, in their hearts and minds, that their political environment had changed forever.
“Trudeau loses tomorrow, I bet,” Vincent opined. “If he does, it’s because of us. Quebecers will wake up in the morning and their eyes will be open for the first time in a century. We’ve exposed him as a traitor—he’ll be kicked out of office.”
They clinked glasses and waited as expectantly as politicians for the verdict from the polls.
“Are we all members of the RIN?” Jean-Luc inquired. The boys agreed that they were, but Anik flatly said no. “You must join,” Vincent encouraged her. “No,” she repeated. “I won’t.”
A shock. “But you must!” Paul insisted. “Why won’t you?”
“We need all the help we can find.”
“I won’t join.”
“Why not?” Paul pressed.
“I won’t put my name on a membership list. You never know how things will evolve. Someday, we may have to go underground. You don’t want to go underground if you’ve put your name on a list the Mounties have already copied in triplicate.”
They were impressed by her foresight, by her commitment. Anik had inherited tactics from her mother’s long experience fighting union battles.
Very late that night, exhausted, exhilarated, she slumped home. None of her new friends had cars, and after the last pitcher of beer she didn’t have cab fare. The métro had closed for the night, and the bus schedule didn’t offer help at that hour. A long walk across downtown, then down the hill into the poor community of Pointe St. Charles, would be welcome anyway. A chance to clear her head and process her thoughts on the night’s uproar. To act, to be doing something, felt so great. Yet she doubted the optimism of her new companions. Students had been throwing rocks, that’s true, and bottles, which had been foolish, but no general uprising had taken place. For sure, they’d caused a commotion, but nothing more. Among the thousands of spectators, most had turned out for a parade, not a riot, and only a minority had responded favourably to the rampage. Changing people’s minds, Anik believed—and again, she drew upon her mother’s experiences—could be a slow, discouraging process. At least the contest for the hearts and minds of the population had begun, and that was the value of this night. The sun would come up on election day, and should Pierre Elliott Trudeau be returned to power, he would know, and the whole country would know, that a new contest had indeed begun, one the election itself had not resolved.
Bone tired, she was opening the latch to the knee-high gate outside her house when she heard a step. At this pre-dawn hour, it made her heart jump. “Hello, Anik,” a voice said.
She would not have turned had the intruder not spoken, but now curiosity obliged her to look his way. She recognized the uniform, then him. “You,” she said.
“I guess I never introduced myself. Constable Émile Cinq-Mars.” “Curious name. Is this a social call?” “I’m here to arrest you.”
“What’s with you, anyway? I met people tonight who threw twenty or thirty rocks, so they say. I threw one. I met a guy who threw his shoes—he’d be easy to find. You could do a Cinderella thing—if the shoes fit, arrest him.
Why hunt me?”
“You threw the first rock.” He stepped closer to her, cognizant that she could still make a run for it, in which case catching her, as he knew, would not be easy.
“Is that a bigger crime? Tell me about this mythical law that says whoever throws the first rock is more guilty than the person who throws the second.”
“'Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’ That’s from the Bible. So there’s an implied dimension of guilt, but I agree, it won’t stand up in court. But let’s not forget, you also escaped from police custody. That’s a bigger crime.”
“I’m claustrophobic. I told you. I was going mad in there. I had to get out. When the door burst open, I burst out. Whe
n you think about it, nobody actually told me to stay put. Maybe I was being let go.”
“You’ll have to tell that to the judge, I’m afraid.”
“I intend to. He’ll be sympathetic, I bet.”
They were lit by the porch light her mother had left on, but suddenly the hall light inside the house also snapped on as the door creaked open.
“Anik?” Carole Clément asked sleepily. “Is everything all right?”
Out ran a terrier, bounding frantically around the young woman. She knelt down to calm him by ruffling his ears and giving him a kiss on the snout.
“Yeah, Mommy, don’t worry. I’m just being arrested—I think.”
“That’s nice, dear. Officer, I think you should call it a night. It’s 4 A.M.” Anik laughed, and Émile smiled a little himself. “Mommy, I’m serious. He’s arresting me.”
“He’s not your date?”
“I don’t date—” she censored herself before uttering the insult on the tip of her tongue. “—cops,” she concluded.
“Why don’t you both come inside and we’ll discuss it,” Carole invited, and held the door open.
“Ma’am—” Cinq-Mars was about to issue his objection when Anik snatched the opportunity to skip up the stairs and slip past her mother. He followed her up, where the woman put a hand on his chest.
“Incidentally, Officer,” Carole inquired, “do you have a warrant?”
“The arrest commenced outside, ma’am. That gives me the right to continue the pursuit indoors,” he informed her. He moderated his ire. “Should such a pursuit become necessary.”
Carole removed her hand from the policeman’s chest and instead used it to direct him inside with a welcoming, yet sardonic, flourish. “Ranger, stay outside, boy. Have your pee.”
The dog welcomed the early-morning romp in the yard.
Inside, the policeman’s problems continued. First, the daughter said, “Want a cup of tea, copper?” and then her mother dialled a number on the phone.