Spiked

by Randall Denley

  Fung smiled back, like he expected the same thing. He wore a black suit today, white shirt, grey tie. The only flash of colour came from the brilliant purple frames of today’s eyeglasses. I wondered if he had a pair for every outfit.

  “Mr. Fung, my office has looked into your business history in considerable detail and we uncovered some interesting things I would like to get your take on today.”

  It was smart for a lawyer in a heavily publicized trial to underline for the media that something interesting was coming up. It wouldn’t do to have your best shots slide by unnoticed.

  “Tell the court, if you can, about your business relationship with Fung Holdings, based in Shanghai.”

  Faulkner began to rise but the judge anticipated her objection. “The Crown has had ample time with this witness Ms. Faulkner. Let Mr. Bernstein get started.”

  “It’s a family corporation. My father owns it.”

  “I see. And what sort of business is your father in?”

  “He has many, many interests, primarily in shipping and manufacturing.”

  “And some political interests as well.”

  “Yes, he is involved in that.”

  “In fact, your father is Fung Chunlan, a member of the politburo, is that not correct?”

  “It is.”

  “So, a very important man in China. And large sums of Chinese money are passing through you for investment in Canadian projects, is that correct?”

  “I am the North American representative.”

  Bernstein paused and flipped through a binder, pretending to look for something. “Mr. Fung, have you had any discussions with any Canadian police or security agency about possible money-laundering concerns?”

  “I really have to object,” Faulkner said, clearly exasperated. “Mr. Fung is not on trial here, and neither is his father.”

  “That’s true,” Justice Macpherson said, “but this goes to witness credibility. I’m interested in the answer. Mr. Fung?”

  “No, your honour. Of course not,” Fung said.

  Bernstein scribbled a note, then said, “All right, Mr. Fung. We have that on the record then.”

  It felt a lot like Fung had just walked into a trap and Bernstein wanted him to know the jaws would snap shut later. At a minimum, he had made Fung look like a money launderer without having to prove it. The media would like that, but it would take something a lot more solid to persuade the judge.

  ”Let’s turn to your own personal income, Mr. Fung. I understand that you’re quite a successful gambler.”

  Fung nodded enthusiastically, as if this were a compliment. “Yes. It’s all about numbers. I have a good head for numbers.”

  “I’m sure you do. In your earlier testimony, you referred to a poker game that you say Mr. Sandhu participated in, one with ‘dodgier players,’ as you called them. Can you tell the court who runs this game.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t recollect. I play in a lot of games.”

  “I see. Can you identify any of the players at this game where you say my client lost $25,000?”

  “Not at this time.”

  “Really? Here you are in court, Mr. Fung, testifying against my client, but you can’t remember basic facts about your key allegation. Would you have the court believe that you were gambling tens of thousands of dollars, but you didn’t know who the other players were?”

  “Well, it wasn’t like these were friends of mine.”

  Bernstein made another note. “All right, Mr. Fung. Perhaps we will return to that later, see if your memory has improved.”

  I could see why Fung wouldn’t want to name in court anyone who played in a dodgy card game, but I wondered if the game had ever existed. Of course, I had already been pointed in that direction by Gail, but I thought Bernstein had achieved his goal.

  “Let’s move on to the fund-raising event. Did you attend it?”

  “I did not, although I bought a full table, 10 tickets.”

  “I see. And did you make any connection with any officials from Mr. Sandhu’s riding association?”

  “No. I got the tickets through Mr. Gill.”

  “So you weren’t very involved, but you told the court earlier that, after the money went to the riding association, Mr. Sandhu ‘would take care of it from there.’ What did you take that to mean?”

  Faulkner said, “Your honour, my friend objected to this very question on the grounds that the witness had no direct knowledge of what happened next.”

  “I did,” Bernstein said, “but now I’d like to explore Mr. Fung’s thinking a little further.”

  The judge waved away Faulkner’s objection. “Very well, Mr. Bernstein, but you made a good point the first time.”

  “Let me repeat that for you, Mr. Fung. When Mr. Sandhu said he would take it from there, what did you take that to mean?”

  “That he’d find a way to get that money to settle his gambling debt.”

  “Ah, and how did you deduce that, sir?”

  “Well, he didn’t say it in so many words, but I thought that was the whole point of the exercise.”

  “You thought that. Is that what you’re telling the court? This isn’t something Mr. Sandhu told you specifically?”

  “Not specifically, no.”

  Tommy, as he called himself, didn’t look like he was enjoying his second day of testimony quite as much as he had the first. His face was flushed and his smile looked artificial.

  “But it was what you would have done yourself, right?”

  “I wasn’t the one with a gambling debt.”

  “No? Mr. Fung, I have a document here that I’d like you to take a look at.” Bernstein handed several pages of paper to Fung, then said, “Can you verify that this is a summary of your corporate bank account for the last six months?”

  Fung quickly leafed through the document, then nodded.

  “A yes or no for the court, please Mr. Fung.”

  “Yes, this is the corporate account.”

  “Excellent. Now Mr. Fung, you will notice the highlighted withdrawals, and very helpfully they were cheques. You will see that the amounts range from $10,000 to $30,000, all made out to individuals. Are these corporate payments?”

  “They must be,” Fung said. “This is my corporate account.”

  “So I would have expected, but then I researched these individuals a little further. Do the names Paul Abrams, Larry Tsu or Pierre Groulx mean anything to you?”

  Fung shook his head. “No, not that I can recollect.”

  “My investigator tells me that these are all gentlemen who make their livings primarily from playing poker in private games. Ringing any bells now?”

  “Still not coming to me.”

  “Let me ask you this, then. Mr. Fung, were you clearing personal gambling debts using corporate funds?”

  “Certainly not. Our books are carefully audited.”

  “I’m sure. Let’s move on.”

  I thought Bernstein was going after this with just the right touch. He didn’t need to prove that Fung had done anything wrong, just plant the idea that he was the kind of guy who would.

  “Mr. Fung, you were initially interviewed about this matter by the RCMP, is that correct?”

  “It is. I offered to co-operate fully.”

  “That’s grand. Did your offer come before or after the Crown offered you immunity in exchange for your testimony.”

  “I don’t remember exactly.”

  “Let me help you out. According to the transcript of your original interview, you denied any knowledge of what was behind this supposed deal with Mr. Sandhu and you never mentioned a gambling debt. That didn’t come until weeks later.”

  “If you say so.”

  I flicked on Twitter on my phone. Judging by the running commentary from my colleagues, Fung was going to get eaten alive.

  “It isn’t me saying so, Mr. Fung. It’s the RCMP. Surely you must have seen the transcript. Do you dispute their account?”

  Fung shot a glance
at Faulkner.

  “Don’t look at her, Mr. Fung, look at me. I’m sure the Crown has reviewed the RCMP’s statement with you. Did you find it accurate?”

  It didn’t seem like the biggest point on which to hang Fung out to dry, but I expected that the real point was to rattle him in preparation for the next question. It was working because Call Me Tommy was looking flustered.

  “Sure, all right. It was accurate.”

  “Very good, Mr. Fung. One last question. Isn’t it true, sir, that you and your partner, Mr. Gill, concocted this story about the gambling debt to escape your own responsibility for attempting to bribe a government official?”

  “Not at all. That’s completely false.”

  “Completely false? All right then, that’s your testimony.”

  Bernstein leaned over the defence table to scribble another note on his yellow legal pad. “That’s all I have for you, Mr. Fung.”

  Faulkner rose to redirect. It would be her shot to try to mitigate the damage done to her witness by Bernstein. I didn’t feel optimistic about her chances. It was time to head back to the media room and bang out my column.

  TWENTY-SIX

  One of the good things about Ottawa is that, no matter which direction you drive out of the city, you hit the boonies pretty fast. Having spent my childhood in the Adirondacks and my teenage years up the Ottawa Valley, the middle of nowhere was my kind of place.

  With court not sitting on Friday, I was free to chase the Mae Wang story. When Reilly called first thing and suggested a drive in the country to meet a source, I thought why not?

  We were deep in the Lanark Highlands, northwest of the city. Out the window, I saw swampy wetlands, jagged granite outcrops and heavy maple forest. It was the kind of country that had way more deer than people.

  For a miled-out cop car, Reilly’s personal Crown Vic was surprisingly quiet, and so was he. The only annoying sound was Ranger’s snoring in the back seat. I had brought him along with the thought that a run in the country would do him good. A snooze seemed to be a higher priority for him.

  I felt comfortable driving in silence with Reilly. I had never been one of those people who felt compelled to open my mouth just for the sake of making sound. Reilly was the same way. I wondered what he was thinking about. He was putting his ass on the line helping me with the Mae Wang story when the brass hats had explicitly told him to drop it. Maybe he had reached the age where he just didn’t give a shit what the bosses thought any more. Me, I had hit that point back in my 20s.

  Reilly’s only piece of news had been delivered just after I got into the car. He was still digging into the apartment tenancy records so helpfully supplied by Mr. Mo, but he had discovered that a unit on the top floor was rented to the China-Canada Trading Company, a shell corporation with a fake address and no named directors. It was intriguing, but I knew better than to assume that Point A and Point B were connected just because it would help a story. It was still a tangible link between the Chinese and the building where Mae had died.

  We hadn’t seen a house for 25 kilometres when we finally approached a small hamlet of half a dozen worn-out, unpainted wooden homes. A road sign, equally tired, told me that it was Meecham’s Corners. The rusted-out cars up on blocks reminded me of the upstate New York town where I had grown up.

  “This it?” I asked.

  “No, no. This guy lives deep in the bush.”

  “If we get any deeper, we’re going to come out the other side.”

  “He values his privacy.”

  “Plenty of that around here. How do you know him anyway?”

  “We worked a case together once. Thing with a Russian diplomat who was smuggling drugs. Guilty as hell, but of course they just shipped him home. That was years ago, but we were close at the time. Then he transferred over to CSIS. He’s out now, but he’s still the best shot I’ve got to find out what’s going on with Mae Wang.”

  “You tell him that I was coming?”

  “I did. He’s not exactly the kind who normally talks to the media. Wants to meet you before he’ll say anything. Even then, this is all going to be deep background.”

  “I’m OK with that. You think he’s reliable?”

  “Who knows? When I worked with him, we both had the same view of the system, you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I think I do.”

  Reilly slowed the car and said, “OK, this is it.”

  A reflective green sign said 3472. It was one of those that townships put up so that the volunteer firefighters know where to come to hose the ashes after your home burns down. Other than that, I wouldn’t have guessed that the narrow, rutted lane led to a house.

  Reilly nosed the Crown Vic into the lane and said, “The house is about two kilometres back.”

  “Great. I’m thinking he doesn’t get many door-to-door salesmen. What’s his name again?”

  “Farrell.”

  “Seems appropriate.”

  As we got farther back, the lane narrowed even more and branches whacked against the side of the car, their fresh green leaves tearing and sticking to the windshield.

  “I’m glad I drive a beater,” Reilly said.

  After he navigated around a half dozen flooded potholes and rocky humps in the road, we finally came to a clearing. I could see a squat stone house, the kind they built a lot of around Eastern Ontario back in the 1850s. I could smell the thin plume of smoke that came from one of the two chimneys and drifted up among the branches of a massive maple that was probably as old as the house. In the side yard, there was an open-fronted shed of weathered wood that was partly filled with split firewood. In front of the shed stood a shirtless man wearing jeans and beat-up construction boots. He raised an axe over his head and brought it down with great force, splitting a heavy piece of firewood like it had exploded. The guy was built like Thor and had the heavy beard and long hair to match. It was either white or blond. It was hard to tell from a distance.

  “How old is this Farrell?” I asked.

  “Somewhere in his 40s.”

  “I guess splitting wood is a good fitness program.”

  Farrell put another chunk of firewood on the stump he used for splitting and whacked it into three pieces. I was sure he had known we were on the property the minute we came up the lane, but for the moment, he was ignoring us.

  We got out of the car. I heard nothing but birds and the wind in the trees. Somehow, I felt like I was home again.

  “Hey, Farrell,” Reilly shouted. “You’ve got company.”

  Farrell sunk the axe into the chopping block, then picked up a blue denim shirt and wiped his face with it before putting it on. He walked across the yard towards us. If his face had an expression, it was masked by his thick beard. I learned more from his intense blue eyes, which were surveying me up and down, trying to determine whether I was likely to be friend or foe.

  He held out his hand to Reilly and said, “Been a long time, buddy. You good?”

  “The best,” Reilly said. “I’d like you to meet my friend Kris Redner, the writer from the Citizen.”

  Interesting that Reilly would call me that. Did he really think of me as a friend or was he just trying to ease Farrell’s co-operation?

  Farrell offered me his meaty hand. It was calloused and strong. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with us,” I said.

  “I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” he said. “People in my type of work don’t spend a lot of time talking to reporters.”

  “Columnist,” I corrected. “And what is your type of work?”

  “Security consultant, mostly in places that are hot, sandy and have no income tax.”

  I wondered what “security consultant” meant, exactly. Mercenary, soldier of fortune, assassin? Maybe it didn’t matter as long as Reilly trusted the guy and he could help us. I had to admit I found him intriguing. He had something an old boss of mine at the Star liked to call command presence.

  “Come on in,” Farrell said and turned toward the house.

/>   “I brought my dog. OK if I let him out for a run?”

  “Sure,” Farrell said, then smiled when he saw Ranger. “I hope he doesn’t get terrified by a squirrel.”

  I unleashed Ranger, deciding that coming to his defence was pointless. Reilly and I followed Farrell into the house. Inside, you’d never know it was a warm spring day. The old stone walls still held winter’s chill, somewhat offset by a black cast iron woodstove that smouldered with the remains of last night’s fire. When it came to home furnishings, Farrell was clearly a minimalist. His kitchen held a pine harvest table, well used, and four mismatched wooden chairs. Other than a Keurig machine on the counter, that was it. The cabinets were rickety and covered with layers of paint, the top one whitish. They looked original. The only really notable feature was a glass-fronted gun case with a half-dozen long guns on display. There were pump and double-barrelled shotguns, an old Winchester deer rifle like the one my Uncle Martin used to have and three dark, evil-looking assault rifles. I wasn’t an expert on guns, but I knew he wasn’t using these to hunt groundhogs.

  Gesturing toward the gun case, I said, “You expecting a war?”

  “There are plenty of wars. You never know when one might come here.”

  “Seems like a pretty quiet, out-of-the-way place.”

  “That’s the idea.” He pointed to the table and said, “Have a seat. Coffee?”

  I said yes just to see him use the Keurig. He seemed more like the kind of guy who would have chosen one of those old-fashioned pots with the speckled metal finish.

  “When does a cop ever say no to coffee?” Reilly said.

  “Never.” Farrell pulled three Keurig pods from one of his ancient cabinets without asking what we wanted. “So, Reilly, you said you had a case involving Chinese diplomats and you were hoping I could help. What crimes did they commit now?”

  “We’re not sure if they committed any, but there’s some strange shit going on.”

  I drank my coffee black, there apparently being no milk or cream. Maybe his cow died. I was content to let Reilly outline the facts, or what we thought were the facts, about Mae Wang’s death. As he told the story up to now, I watched Farrell’s reaction. He had that focus that all good cops and interviewers have. His eyes never left Reilly’s face.