by Mary Moylum
“All righty,” replied Dubois. “I’ll see you in two hours.”
“Where’re you now?”
“Airport. I’m handing the attendant my boarding pass as we speak. Meet you at that Irish pub down the street from your office in two hours. I’m counting on huge rush-hour traffic on the 401.”
Nick continued chipping away at the files in his office.
Dubois was sitting at the bar, nursing a double on the rocks, when Nick walked in.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, and ordered a Molson Dry.
Dubois was inspecting him, critically. “You look bloody tired.”
Nick didn’t deny it. He shrugged.
“You’re working too hard, Nick. You’re starting to put on a little weight there, buddy boy. If you don’t take care of yourself, you’ll start looking like me.” Dubois grabbed his love handles. “Me, I’ve been trying to lose forty pounds for the past ten years. Do I look like I’m succeeding? Not one bit.”
“Your problem is grease. My problem is too many files.” Nick gulped down his beer. “Do we have a table?”
Dubois was scowling into his Scotch. “We had one, but you weren’t here and it’s gone. I flew in and got here on time. You’re just around the corner, and still you’re late.”
“Sooorry.”
“Sitting at the bar’s fine with me.” Dubois raised his empty glass at the bartender. Turning to Nick, he said, “About your girlfriend. I thought you should hear this from me.”
So that was it. What the hell had she done now? “Grace? What about her?”
“She said someone who looked like Li Mann tried to kill her last night. Instead, he killed someone else. Dead man was Harry Kitchin. Turned out he was Crosby’s killer. Kitchin’s gun was a perfect ballistic match from the slug taken from Crosby’s body.”
Dubois filled Nick in on what he knew of Harry’s history, adding, “My guess is, she walked in on Harry just after he whacked Crosby. She says she didn’t see anybody but he coulda been hiding in the house. Him wanting to get rid of her was his way of tying up loose ends.
“Problem two. No weapon at the crime scene. No idea who Kitchin’s partner is. That means he’s still on the loose.” Dubois reached into the second bowl of peanuts. He stuffed his mouth and chewed furiously. He eyed a group of students as they noisily filled the table across from them.
The bartender slid two more drinks down towards them. Nick knocked back the last of his beer before passing the empty mug to the bartender. Then said, “I follow you so far. Why do I get the feeling that there’s a lot more to all this?”
“Back to Li Mann. Tire tracks show that there were three vehicles. Why does he want to kill her? He doesn’t know her? And you’re the one tracking him. So why’s he targeting her? Are he and Sun using her to get to you? We know your girlfriend went through some confrontation because she fell down the parkway embankment, and twisted an ankle. Got a few scratches on herself from the brambles and bushes.”
Nick nodded as he pointed at the empty peanut dish to the female bartender.
“We’re missing a piece of the puzzle here. Maybe Grace knows something that she’s not aware of herself. That’s why her life’s in danger,” said Nick, instinctively coming to Grace’s defence.
Dubois shrugged as he started on the bowl of olives. “If she’s got people trying to kill her, she’s knee deep in shit of some kind. Maybe you should talk to her. Find out what she knows and why people want her dead?”
While Nick was thinking about that possibility, a waiter reappeared.
“How about some food?” Nick said, changing the subject.
They ordered a large pizza with every known variety of protein. It took less than twenty minutes for it to arrive. When it did, they stopped talking. They only resumed speech after they had eaten at least four slices each.
Dubois wiped his fingers on a napkin, then pulled out a pad from his jacket pocket. “I got RCMP officers at all our embassies in Asia on the lookout for this Wa Sing character. They’re all putting in double time. But you know that already. This is what I want you to see.” Inside the pad was an unsealed envelope with a folded document inside. “This was sent to me by the RCMP officer at the Hong Kong embassy. I thought you would find it interesting.”
Nick took the document out and laid it flat on the table.
“It’s your copy to keep,” said Dubois, “but don’t read it here. Level V clearance. Don’t lose it, ’cause my ass could be in a sling.”
As they parted company, Dubois said, “I got an e-mail from Kappolis that Sun Sui was flying up to Ottawa this weekend to prepare for his hearing. He asked if the RCMP would take over the surveillance. I already assigned two squad cars to the guy.”
“Thanks.”
A half moon dominated the late-summer, dead-of-night sky. It hung low and forbidding under the dark-inked canvas of midnight. For a long time Nick watched the night sky from his balcony. Stretched out on the couch, he finally picked up Dubois’ document and read it.
Law enforcement and intelligence officials on both sides of the border had launched a secret operation to gather evidence of Chinese interference in American and Canadian politics through political donations. So far, the FBI had already investigated over 500 American companies to determine whether they were being used by the Chinese government to funnel illegal campaign contributions to politicians they favoured. The Communists liked to use this strategy to increase the power of their own lobby groups and to buy influence in North America. What else was new? He did not find the report shocking. Maybe he had been in the job too long. Or had lived too many lives.
On the second read-through, he allowed the implications to sink in. The information was explosive, no doubt about it. The theft of technological and political information by Chinese spies was accelerating. Not only that, but the Communist Party leadership clearly had links with triads and Asian tycoons who were thought to be infiltrating and gaining influence in important sectors of the North American economy by buying up companies.
The only thing that struck Nick as significant was why Jon Keiler hadn’t brought this investigation or report to his attention?
Guilt, maybe. That he and every visa officer in every embassy had accepted one gift too many from grateful and successful visa applicants.
He knew that his people were short-staffed. But backlog or no backlog, his immigration officers were doing sloppy work, cutting corners way too often. He wondered if he should recall every officer home for retraining, with Jon’s name at the top of the list.
chapter twenty-three
Monday was the first day of Sun’s hearing, and the Immigration and Refugee Commission building had become a security nightmare. Anti-immigration demonstrators had staked out their turf on the north side of the street in front. Ethnic representatives, refugee advocates, and hangers-on milled around on the other side, waiting for their five minutes of televised fame.
Every parking spot was taken. News crews from CNN, CBC, ABC, and all the others were parked and double-parked wherever they could find room. In the first floor lobby, studios with pull had set up television cameras. A pack of newshounds, baying for blood, greeted Grace the moment she appeared. She had to run the gauntlet of flashing lights all the way from the taxi to the lobby, into the elevator and to the door of the hearing room.
She kept an expression of bland calm on her face but inwardly she was swearing at Jean Cadeux. This was what the commissioner had dumped on her. The press would be sticking like burrs to any aspect of the case that they could use to generate controversy. At least until a new crime scandal emerged. She prayed that would happen soon.
Counsel for the claimant had asked for a last-minute prehearing conference. Seated on the bench, she took the opportunity to study Donald Verster, Sun Sui’s high-priced hired gun. In the cab, she had done a quick-and-dirty scan of Nick’s notes on Verster. He was not what she had expected. From everything she had read, she had envisioned a big man, with the height to
match his ego, but standing before her was a bantam rooster in a good suit wearing the male version of platform shoes.
“Counsel, how are we today? I trust you had a pleasant flight up to Ottawa.”
“No, I drove up on the weekend. Thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. Do a little sightseeing before the case started.”
They smiled tensely at each other. Grace had always believed in the value of exchanging social pleasantries; it was important to set the tone of the judge-lawyer relationship, to keep things cordial over the next two weeks. But she disliked Verster on sight.
Her ally, in-house counsel, known as the refugee claims officer, or RCO, sat across from the claimant’s table. This morning, it was Piraro, an eager but inexperienced, young lawyer. His role was to present evidence pertaining to the claimant’s background and conditions in the country from which he fled. Like the prosecutor in a criminal trial, he prepared the Crown’s case, but his role was not adversarial.
The hearing room was wired for sound. Electronic technology had taken place of the traditional court reporter. Grace turned on the system and began. “Counsel, we’re now on the record. You mentioned in your fax that you had a few concerns going into this hearing?”
“I do, Your Honour. But the minister’s representative, Nick Slovak, isn’t present. Should I proceed?”
“Mr. Slovak has informed my office that he intends to forgo the first, and possibly the second, hearing. He’ll be here to present exclusion evidence. In my opinion, this will make for a more expeditious hearing.”
“I agree,” said Verster. He and his client exchanged smiles.
“I think we can proceed to swear in the claimant and the witnesses. Counsel, we don’t need to hear oral evidence from each and every one of those witnesses who have submitted affidavits. I find the affidavits are sufficient. I would suggest that you select two or three witnesses for cross-examination. And I’ll leave the choice to you.”
“Your Honour, in regard to Mr. Slovak’s package of documents, I wish to point out that the Provincial Court and Immigration Appeals Division have rendered a decision favourable to my client — ”
“Counsel, save your arguments,” she interrupted, rudely cutting him off. Then, mindful that every word was being recorded, she paused to choose her words carefully. The last thing she wanted was to lose the case because counsel for the claimant had misconstrued some innocuous remark as biased. Mildly, she continued, “Immigration has raised exclusion and the evidence is sufficiently serious in nature. Given that the minister’s representative isn’t present at the first hearing due to his workload on other pressing cases, I’m asking you to save your arguments pertaining to exclusion until the end, when we’re canvassing the exclusion issues.”
“In that case, I would like to instruct my client and witnesses to a date when they could present evidence to counter the allegations and charges made by Mr. Slovak in his deportation order.”
“Fair enough. Let’s proceed with the inclusion issues and the evidence. The time factor depends on you, counsel. Let’s be thorough but efficient in our examination.”
Verster and Grace exchanged meaningful looks.
After the prehearing and a fifteen-minute break, Grace formally opened the proceedings. “Counsel, you may now begin your examination in chief.”
Grace listened to the evidence with a straight face and inscrutable expression. She would have to try like the dickens to keep an open mind and bleach Wa Sing’s conversation about Sun’s business activity in China from her memory banks.
“In 1988,” Sun was saying, “Zang, one of my classmates at the University of Beijing, asked me if I wanted to become an active member of the Student Democracy Movement. Zang made me membership secretary.”
“What did you do as membership secretary?” asked Verster.
“My first task was to do an informal survey on campus, to find and recruit those who were favourable towards democracy.” The claimant paused to measure the effect of his words.
“What else did you do?”
“I arranged meetings, always at different locations, which would be made known to members only at the last minute, because we were afraid of being raided by the PSB, the Public Security Bureau. These precautions were necessary. At these meetings I would take minutes by hand. My other job was to videotape the student democracy rallies. I was at the demonstration at Tiananmen on June 4th 1989. I filmed the events.”
“Would you please describe what you witnessed that day?”
“I saw many of my friends killed, some rolled over by army tanks. Others shot. After the demonstrations, I ran to hide at my parents’ house. I was worried very much for myself. The next day, the Public Security conducted a mass arrest of demonstrators by coming into the university and seizing the membership list of the Student Movement supporters. I knew I was in danger, because I had already been the subject of frequent inquiries by the local District Public Security Office.”
“Was anyone else in your family under investigation?” Verster intoned.
“Counsel, that’s a leading question,” interrupted the refugee claims officer.
The claimant looked at his lawyer and the RCO before glancing at Grace. Grace indicated that he should go on with his testimony.
Sun explained, “Yes, around August 1989 my father, who worked as a lecturer at the university, was suddenly detained for inquiry. Public prosecution officers came to our house one evening and arrested him.”
“Do you know why this happened to him?” “I think it was because at his workplace he expressed support for me. After all, I’m his son. For that, he spent two weeks in jail and was only released due to poor health. After his release he was demoted at the university to part-time lecturer. This affected his benefits w…”
Grace intervened, “Counsel, this asylum claim concerns Mr. Sui and not his father. Let us limit the evidence regarding the father’s occupation. Particularly when the father isn’t present to give corroborating evidence.”
“Very well.”
Verster turned his attention back to his client.
“When did you come to the attention of the authorities?”
“In November 1989 the PSB came to my parents’ home. They ransacked the house looking for the videotape that I made that June.”
The RCO sprang up from his seat like a jack-in-the-box. “I wish to put the claimant on notice that he made no mention of any videotapes in his asylum application or earlier testimony. I’d like to raise the issue of legal credibility regarding new evidence that is being brought forward only now.”
“You have a point there,” Grace agreed. “But since this is counsel’s examination in chief, I’d prefer to have him lead the questioning as to why this videotape evidence wasn’t mentioned in his asylum application.”
“Thank you, Your Honour,” said Verster. “I’m afraid that I’m to blame for this. I was remiss in not including that bit of evidence. It was an oversight on my part as counsel. In this, I have failed in my duty to the courts and my client.”
Grace wasn’t quite sure what to make of Verster’s confession or of his abject but insincere-sounding apologies. Was he planning to shoulder the blame for other gaps in the claimant’s evidence, to keep credibility from rearing its ugly head? He knew the court had little choice but to accept his explanation. Not a bad strategy.
“Are there any further omissions of evidence, Mr. Verster? If so, I want them brought before the hearing room now. Are there, counsel?”
“No, there are no further omissions or errors in the written evidence, Your Honour.”
Turning towards his client, Verster continued, “Sun, please tell the hearing room how many men from the PSB came to search your house.”
“I think four or five men.”
“Could you give us the general scenario of the event?”
“Yes. It was just after lunch on a Saturday or Sunday. My parents were visiting. My wife was about to serve dessert when the knock on the door came. M
y mother went to the door, and when they asked for me, she lied, saying I wasn’t home. They didn’t believe her. That’s when they burst into the house and started searching. By that time I was hiding in a storage basket in the kitchen. When they found me, they beat me, asking me where was the videotape. I had no choice but to give it to them. After the tape was in their possession, they threw me into the back of their van.”
“Thank you, Sun. Your Honour, I’m finished with the area of evidence concerning my client’s political participation and the aftermath of Tiananmen. I’d prefer to examine area by area in order not to confuse my client over the chronology of events.”
“That’s my style as well, counsel. Mr. Piraro, you may begin your examination on this area of evidence.”
Piraro preferred to stand. He looked straight at the claimant and asked, “Excuse me, Mr. Sui, you were in your own house when the PSB came. Where was your wife?”
“She was there in the house with me but was too terrified to speak.”
Grace arched her eyebrows in Sui’s direction. His oral evidence was incompatible with the written evidence in his narrative describing his wife’s chutzpah in finding a driver and following the prison bus. She noted the inconsistency on paper.
“I’m going to take you back to the events at the Tiananmen Square massacre. What was your role in going to the square?”
“I was there as an organizer.”
“And you made a videotape of the demonstration?”
“Yes. I ran out of tape after four hours. Afterwards, I gave the tape to a friend who showed it to an American journalist.”
“Did you ever get the videotape back?”
“Yes, the journalist made a copy and my original was returned to me. I kept it at home. When I was arrested, they found the videotape in my possession. During my interrogation by the Security Bureau, I was labelled one of the greatest enemies of the Communist government.”
The RCO paused. Then, turning to Grace with a boyish smile, he said, “Your Honour, if you permit, I’d prefer to conduct the remainder of my examination after the lunch break.”