The Snakeheads

by Mary Moylum

  Verster immediately jumped to his feet. “Your Honour, I submit that it is a question of fact whether my client Mr. Sun Sui participated in any of the alleged activities as stated on the deportation order and the Immigration Department’s package of exhibit documents. I further submit that it is a question of law whether these alleged activities constitute sufficient evidence by way of complicity or membership in a criminal organization to warrant the application of the exclusion clause.”

  Judge Egan glared down at Nick from his pulpit. “Counsel is right, Mr. Slovak. What says the Immigration Department on this matter?”

  Verster threw Nick another gloating smile.

  Nick prayed he would be struck down by a bolt of lightning. Keeping his voice even, he said, “With all due respect, Your Honour, I’d like to refer to the documents here …” He went over the little evidence he had, trying to make it sound like more than it was.

  When Nick finished speaking, Verster launched into his arguments without looking at his notes; he had done his homework. “I’ve read the documents Immigration has submitted regarding my client’s alleged activities as a people smuggler and his alleged use of his nightclub to bring in asylum seekers under the guise of entertainers and sex workers. However, there is no documented evidence that my client directly participated in any illegal smuggling operation bringing in any illegal aliens on any cargo ship or any transportation vessel at any time. Your Honour, it was the Immigration Department that approved all of those foreign work authorizations for the Mandarin Club. Nor is there any evidence that my client is a member of any crime group such as the Flying Dragons. However, the very same Immigration Department is levying such charges against my client without proof. My client finds this deportation order against him to be vexatious. In this regard, I’d like to call as my witness one of the government’s own lawyers.”

  Jeremy Klein stood, casting a nervous look in Nick’s general direction. With a flourish, Verster introduced him. “This witness is a government lawyer from the Department of International Trade. He has prepared an affidavit from the minister’s office which indicates that my client is held in high regard by the prime minister’s office. My client, Mr. Sui, has advised the Trade Department on several occasions regarding trade in Asia. I would like these documents entered as exhibit items because they reveal my client’s value to the economy of this country. At the same time, I think we can also infer my client’s good character because under no circumstances would the government of this country have dealings with a crook or criminal.”

  Nick was stunned, and inwardly raging. It was all too typical of government for the left hand not to know what the right hand was doing. But in this case the right hand was stabbing him in the back.

  Outwardly, he tried to look unmoved, but the rug had been pulled out from under him. Still, he charged in, aggressively dismissing Verster’s arguments. “Come on, counsel! I really fail to see the relevance of this. Trade and people smuggling are two different issues. The Immigration Department’s case against Mr. Sui isn’t affected by these touching testimonials.”

  “Your Honour, Mr. Slovak is on personal mission to find the killer of an immigration officer, and has allowed his desire to find a culprit to cloud his judgement. The Immigration Department has tried to shut down my client’s business by locking up his employees in detention. Furthermore, the police and the Immigration Department Enforcement Unit have harassed and persecuted my client. I feel that there is a reasonable apprehension of bias and abuse of power on Mr. Slovak’s part. It is my considered opinion that Mr. Slovak is motivated by animus against my client in determining whether Mr. Sui should be judged as a member of an inadmissible class.”

  Nick was apoplectic, but he tried to maintain his cool. As he listened to Jeremy Klein describing Sun Sui as a man of good character, honest and trustworthy, and a valued advisor to the Trade Minister on the next Team Canada trade mission to China, Nick knew the fix was in. He had lost. The case was over in under two hours.

  Judge Egan peered down from the bench. He ruled that there wasn’t enough evidence to arrest and deport Sun Sui. Worse, he also ruled that there wasn’t conclusive evidence to prosecute Sun Sui on criminal charges of prostitution, money laundering, people smuggling, or any of several lesser charges of criminal activity.

  Nick took deep, steady breaths, trying to stay calm.

  “It is my opinion that a jury properly instructed would not convict the accused,” Judge Egan concluded, and with that remark discharged the case against Sun Sui.

  The only concession Egan made to Nick was to order that Sun Sui hand over his passport for a short time, to prevent him from leaving the country while Nick continued his investigation and any possible involvement by Sui in triads, immigration fraud, and drug trafficking.

  Nonetheless, Judge Egan’s decision, in favour of the appellant, was a kick in the teeth.

  Nick went for a long walk to detoxify his mood. The sky was overcast, the clouds seemed to hang low, no higher than the treetops. He walked past City Hall, past the glass and steel towers of the big banks. When he dragged his feet back to his office, it was just before 1:30 p.m.

  Erma, his secretary, asked, “Are you okay, Nick? You look lousy.”

  “I’m fine, Erma.”

  But he wasn’t fine. The entire investigation was unravelling from every direction. Not to mention all the other cases that were hanging over his head, a dozen of them that he’d set aside to concentrate on the one that mattered to him. In the middle of everything was tomorrow’s squash game with the M-16 officer at the British High Commission, which he should really cancel, but wouldn’t because he needed the physical release of smashing a rubber ball against a wall.

  In all of this, the man who killed Walter was still at large. Was it possible that his grief and anger over Walter’s death really was clouding his judgement as the horrible Verster had said? He put a hand over his eyes and massaged an aching spot on his forehead. Maybe he really was burned out; it had been a possibility for long time, but he’d been unwilling even to think about it.

  Rocco popped his head around the door frame. “You got a call from the INS in New York. Seems they’ve been trying to reach you for over a week. Here’s the number.” He dropped a pink slip of paper on Nick’s already cluttered desk.

  “Thanks,” Nick muttered. He turned on his computer before dialling the New York number. Playing phone tag, he left a message before hanging up.

  “Erma, please make a fresh pot of coffee and zap this stale muffin for me.” He handed her an oversized blueberry muffin that had been sitting on his desk for almost two days.

  He adjusted his Obus and tipped his chair back, resting his feet on the window vents as he stared out at the world outside. How could this Li Mann character be so elusive in this new age of computer technology where privacy had gone the way of the dinosaurs? Anyone could be tracked down. It was just a matter of time. Maybe he wasn’t looking in the right country, he ruminated. He hated to call his counterparts in Washington and concede defeat. It could cause trouble, even a diplomatic tiff between the two countries. But what if Li Mann had fled into the United States or had a base somewhere in the States? Assuming that he was the top dog of the Flying Dragons, how stupid or audacious would he have to be to travel under his own name?

  Not wanting to call it quits yet, he did a quick cruise through VICLAS, the new violent crime linkage analysis system. He typed in Li Mann’s name in half a dozen variations and waited for the search. He liked VICLAS. It was a database of signatures of criminals’ modi operandi. It had given law enforcement agencies great success in identifying suspects. It had recently identified the killer in a 1983 murder of a teenage girl. But for Walter Martin’s killer, it turned up nothing.

  Munching on his blueberry muffin, he logged into ORION, a geographic profiling system that Dubois had raved about even though it was still in the testing stage. Last year, the RCMP had used it to pinpoint the residence of several members of Persian Pri
de, an Iranian organized-crime gang operating out of Vancouver. Several cups of coffee later, there was still nothing.

  The phone rang. He tapped out of ORION before picking up.

  “I heard the news on the radio. I don’t know what to tell you, Nick.” It was Kappolis.

  Nick hit a few keys to exit the program as he briefly gave his friend the details of what had occurred in the courtroom. “I still can’t believe it. Egan didn’t even reserve judgement. Such a public case, you think he’d at least make a pretence of reserving judgement for a couple of days.”

  “Why would Egan let Sun Sui off so quick and easy? You think he’s in somebody’s pocket? Hey, Nick, maybe the Trade Minister’s in somebody’s back pocket.”

  Nick was silent for a moment, contemplating the possibility as he remembered Klein’s testimonial. “I don’t know,” he said, wiping muffin crumbs off his desk, “but here’s what I’d like us to do. Put Sun under twenty-four-hour surveillance. You think you could have several teams on him around the clock?”

  “No problem. I’ll add Li Mann’s name to it. That way the surveillance requisition will come through pronto when we find him.”

  “That still won’t help us if Sun has leverage with the Trade Minister. His getting off could have something to do with this Team Canada trade mission to China later this year. I think I’ll put a call in to the Trade Minister myself.”

  “I don’t understand it, Nick. I’m just a cop, maybe you got to live in the nation’s capital to get it, but if one half of the government is spending millions to stop these migrant cargo vessels from entering the country, and here you are, trying to deport these agent smugglers, why does the other half of the government come up behind you and nip you in the ass? As a taxpayer, I can tell you, we need smaller, smarter government. Not some bloated bureaucracy spinning out of control and crammed with mediocrity.”

  Kappolis had a point, but Nick wasn’t up for a political discussion right now. He made the excuse that he had to return his messages. But Kappolis’s words wouldn’t go away. The more he thought about the government, the clearer the feeling became. He needed to be in Ottawa where these half-assed political decisions were made.

  Rummaging through his recycling box, he finally found what he was looking for. An invitation to the Immigration Minister’s summer tea party! It was time to confront a few people.

  chapter twelve

  She scooped up the mail and carried Buzby into the house, closing the door behind her. Bills, more bills and a letter from David, her ex. Just what she needed! Here she was in a house with a fat mortgage, that she couldn’t sell for love or money without losing a quarter of her equity, trying to cope with the pressures of living in an unforgiving economy. And no second income as backup. If she had known all this would happen, she might even have stayed married.

  No, no, she wouldn’t, she quickly corrected herself. That was over.

  They had outgrown each other; it was a stage-of-life thing. That was her problem, she outgrew things — jobs, friends, husband. She had met David when she was seconded to the UN office in El Salvador. He was first secretary to the American ambassador. They had met at someone’s Valentine’s party, and had hit it off. After a three-month romance they had tied the knot. In hind sight, it was a co-dependent relationship that had survived only because friends and family were far away.

  Coming home after a decade abroad had been culture shock for them both. After years of negotiating with rebel fighters and military dictators, David had found the chattering classes and language fanatics of the Canadian capital excruciatingly parochial. He also whined about the loss of his favourite perks. Gone were the Mercedes, the uniformed chauffeur, the ten-thousand-square-foot mansion, the retinue of servants. Worse, he had blamed her for the loss. He frequently reminded her that he had turned down the Washington posting for this provincial place.

  What could she say in her own defence? She had wanted to return to Canada. Her many years abroad had nurtured a rosy image of home as a wonderful place where everything worked: telephones connected you on the first try, road crews fixed potholes, supermarket shelves were always stocked full of food, and there were no power outages. But the home she came back to was a country fractured by separatist politics, a city rife with crime, and a property tax bill that reflected the burgeoning welfare rolls.

  Further cracks soon appeared in her relationship with David as they found themselves arguing over who was going to cut the grass and shovel the driveway.

  She tore open David’s letter. She was glad he was doing okay. It meant an end to any last twinges of guilt she might have felt about her affair and their divorce. She knew from previous letters that he was posted in Budapest, playing the part of the grand Pooh Bah again. But she really didn’t want to hear the details of his romances — he had even sent her photographs of his conquests! This latest one was obviously the Lolita type — she was half his age. Grace tore the photo in half and tossed it in the wastepaper bin.

  After a late dinner, she sat down, intending to work on her case files. But she was too tired to even open the accordion folders. Tomorrow. As she piled the dirty dishes in the sink, she heard a strange sound outside her kitchen window. It sounded like the scraping of branches against the garage. Her imagination? She moved slowly across the room, going from window to window, and listened. No, she told herself. It must have been a little animal — a raccoon or squirrel. She wouldn’t let her mind play tricks on her. Still she remained standing in front of the window, looking out into the darkness.

  She inhaled sharply as she glimpsed a sudden movement in the lilac bushes. Was someone spying on her? Before Crosby was killed, she hadn’t really paid much attention to the death threats the IRC received every time a stay of deportation was granted. Now, just about any little thing was enough to spook her. She stood like a statue staring out the window, hoping and praying that a cat or raccoon scrounging for food would let itself be seen and calm her nerves.

  BJ wanted to smash through her glass windows and kill her with his bare hands. All because his new running shoes were ruined tramping through her backyard. There was the stink of manure to them. At least, the surveillance on Crosby’s workplace had paid off. They now had her name, address and telephone number. That was important if you wanted to whack someone.

  He stood behind the shrubbery and wondered what kind of folks did not put up curtains on their windows. The high and mighty, pretentious folks. Well, they got what was coming to them. No privacy and much more.

  He watched her standing in front of the window.

  Tell me Lady Judge, are you scared? Scared of me or the sound of broken branches?

  BJ saw the cat sitting on the kitchen counter, and wondered what kind of folks allowed animals to prowl on eating surfaces. Middle class folks, he answered back. When he watched middle class folks, BJ was glad that he was raised working class. But he didn’t always feel that way. When he was a kid, the middle class kids at school used to make fun of him and the way he dressed. And the peanut butter sandwiches he brought to school every day.

  Now he was getting his own back. From the house and the street, BJ knew the bitch was middle class. That was reason enough to hurt her.

  Kappolis called him at 4:20 a.m. He ran out of the house and hailed a cab. The cabbie, a recent émigré from Islamabad, barely spoke English, and Nick had the damnedest time giving street-by-street instructions to the Metro Precinct. He gave him a big tip anyway.

  The interior of the precinct, with its bare walls, fluorescent lights and vinyl tile flooring worn by countless footsteps looked much the same in the middle of the night as it did at noon.

  Kappolis was standing behind the public counter. Seeing Nick, he gave a weary wave.

  Nick crossed the lobby. “What happened? The guy’s been out on bail less than a week, and now he’s dead? And in Toronto? I thought he lived in Montreal.”

  “He got on a bus to Toronto, according to a bus ticket stub they found in his jean jacket.
”

  Nick shook his head. “Obviously somebody besides us was watching his movements. They sure didn’t want him to talk. Just like Andy Loong.”

  Detective Kappolis finished marking the report he was working on and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I got the cruiser out back. Let’s go. I’ll fill you in as I drive.”

  “The call came to this precinct?” asked Nick, holding the door open for his friend.

  “Yeah, you just missed the reporting officer who interviewed Gee Tung’s girlfriend. His shift ended half an hour ago. I chatted with him and got a copy of his notes. According to Tung’s girlfriend, she met up with him at the bus station and they took the subway back to her place. Inside, she started cooking dinner. As they were sitting down at the table, two thieves in ski masks broke through the door. According to her, they asked where was the jewellery. When Gee Tung and his date said they didn’t have any, the two assailants shot him several times and fled without taking anything.” Kappolis walked half a step ahead of Nick.

  They walked across the impound yard full of cars last driven by thieves, drunkards, killers, or more moderate citizens who had run afoul of the law.

  “They shot him more than once and didn’t take anything? They can’t even spend the effort to make it look like a real robbery. The Flying Dragons are tying up loose ends. I wonder who’s calling the shots? This Li Mann character or our friend, Sun Sui?” asked Nick, as he climbed into Kappolis’s unmarked cruiser. The downtown streets were still hopping, but as they left the central core the action thinned to empty.

  “The detective down at Metro Division 14 who took the call wrote it off as your average home invasion. Which means they aren’t going to blow resources on finding the perps.”