Deadline

by Maher, Stephen

  Pinsent shook his head, blinking his eyes rapidly. His cheeks coloured.

  “This fits into the pattern of his disdain for Parliament,” he said. “Even now, when he’s announcing his departure, he shows his lack of respect for this chamber. It goes to his hidden agenda.”

  Pinsent looked from Godin to Dumaresque and back.

  “Can you bang out something like that?” he asked.

  Godin sucked hard at his cheeks. “Sure,” he said. “But I’ll have to be fast. We haven’t got much time.”

  Sophie Fortin was waiting on the steps under the Peace Tower when Ashton pulled up in an unmarked police cruiser. Ashton could tell it was Sophie because of her pale face and anxious look. Jesus, Ashton thought. So young and vulnerable. She had to be twenty-five, but she looked twelve, a tiny girl in heavy makeup, high-heeled boots, a fashionably tailored winter coat, looked like it was from Montreal, and a laptop bag slung from her shoulder.

  Ashton got out of the car.

  “Sophie?” she said. “I’m Detective Sergeant Ashton.”

  Sophie stepped down to the car and Ashton opened the passenger door for her.

  “I’m so sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” she said as Sophie settled into the passenger’s seat.

  “How is he? How’s Ed?” said Sophie, looking straight ahead. “I want to see him.”

  “I’m going to take you there now,” said Ashton, putting the car into gear. “It’s probably better that the doctor explain the situation to you. Ed was pulled from the Rideau Canal early this morning. We don’t know how he ended up in the water, but I can tell you that he nearly died and he hasn’t regained consciousness.”

  Sophie started to cry, her face crumpling in sorrow, tears dripping off her nose, her makeup running as she dug through her purse for a tissue.

  Ashton drove in silence for a moment then pulled over in front of the West Block, just before the security checkpoint.

  Sophie was weeping into her tissue, hunched over, her tiny shoulders shaking.

  Ashton put her hand on her shoulder.

  “I know this is hard,” she said.

  Sophie choked and sputtered and pulled the tissue away from her nose, trailing a long string of snot.

  “I’m so scared,” she said.

  “I know,” said Ashton, thinking, Jesus, this never gets easier. Then she remembered, it does get easier. During her first nights, years ago, walking a beat in the Byward Market, she’d often hauled hopeless drunks and addicts to the drunk tank, so pained by their misery that she had to struggle to let go at the end of a shift. To survive in the job, she had had to grow thicker skin, and she now observed the pain of others with professional detachment. Aware of her detachment now, with a crying girl in the car next to her, made her feel a pang of guilt, as though she had somehow let Sophie down. She squeezed Sophie’s shoulder again.

  “You’ve got to be strong right now, though, OK? For Ed. He’d want you to help the police. We’ve got to find out what happened. OK?”

  Sophie nodded and Ashton took another tissue from the package in the girl’s bag. She thought about wiping her nose, but couldn’t manage that level of intimacy. She handed Sophie the tissue.

  “I want to go to the hospital,” Sophie said, drying her eyes and sitting up straight. “I want to see him.”

  Ashton put the car in gear. As they turned from the Hill onto Wellington Street, Sophie was staring ahead, her face rigid.

  “When is the last time you saw Ed?”

  “Last night. We had dinner at the pub, at D’Arcy McGee’s. I had work to do, so I went home, but he stayed on with a friend for more drinks.”

  “Who was the friend?” asked Ashton.

  “Jack Macdonald,” Sophie said. “A reporter.”

  “Were you expecting him home last night?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Sophie. “But I expected him late. When he goes out with Jack, they usually stay out late. When he wasn’t home this morning, I thought he’d crashed at Jack’s.”

  “Do you have contact information for Macdonald?”

  Sophie pulled out her phone. “What’s your email?” she asked, and sent the officer Jack’s coordinates.

  “Sophie, would you say Ed was a binge drinker?” asked Ashton.

  Sophie started crying again. “You said ‘was’ like he’s dead.”

  Ashton grimaced. “I’m sorry, Sophie,” she said. “I spend a lot of time investigating homicides, so it’s a bad habit. But no. Ed is alive. You’re going to see him soon.”

  Sophie choked back her tears. “He is a drinker,” she said. “He likes to drink. Yes. And sometimes he gets drunk. Yes.”

  “I don’t want to upset you,” said Ashton. “But we have reason to believe somebody might have tried to drown him. We can’t be sure of that, but it’s possible. Can you think of anybody who would want to kill him?”

  Sophie shook her head vehemently. “No. Everybody likes him. Nobody would want to kill him.”

  “Okay,” said Ashton. “I suspect he had too much to drink and fell in the canal, but we have to check out all the possibilities.”

  They were getting close to the hospital.

  “I have one more question,” she said. “When he was pulled out of the canal, his BlackBerry was missing. Did he have it with him when you saw him at D’Arcy’s?”

  “Yes,” said Sophie, “and I know that he had it with him later because he used it to send me PINs.”

  “PINs?” said Ashton.

  “Private BlackBerry messages,” said Sophie. “We exchanged PINs all night.”

  Ashton pulled up in front of the hospital.

  “I need you to send me a copy of all the PINs he sent,” she said. “Okay?”

  Jack ignored the vibration in his phone holster as he made his way to his seat in the jammed gallery overlooking the House of Commons. Thanks to the leaked news, there was a full house of reporters today – rumpled print and radio reporters, carefully groomed TV reporters, freelancers and oddballs from strange newsletters – all waiting, pens poised, earpieces plugged in, as the prime minister strolled to his seat just as the Speaker, in his black robe and tri-cornered hat, rose to his feet.

  “Oral questions,” said the speaker. “Questions orale. The Honourable Leader of the Opposition.”

  The Liberal MPs applauded as Pinsent stood up to ask the first question of the day. He waited for their applause to die with a pensive look.

  “Mr. Speaker,” said Pinsent, “today we learned from a media leak that the prime minister intends to step down, and intends to let the country know in a news conference, rather than here in the House of Commons. Obsessive secrecy has been a hallmark of the prime minister’s government, and it is plain that nothing has changed even as he leaves office. Why, Mr. Speaker, did the prime minister not plan to make his announcement in this place?”

  The Liberals all applauded, but the Conservatives reacted in different ways. Some groaned in indignation. Others, who had not heard that Stevens was rumoured to be resigning, strained to look at him, their expressions uncertain.

  Stevens stood and smiled blandly. “Mr. Speaker, I would have thought the leader of the Liberal Party would be delighted by the news.” His MPs laughed and slapped their desks. Stevens smiled his little smile. “I can’t count the number of times the honourable member has called for my resignation,” he said. “At last he is about to have it, but he is unhappy with the manner of its delivery. I suggest the leader of the Liberal Party is very difficult to please.”

  The Conservatives laughed and applauded.

  Pinsent rose from his seat. “Mr. Speaker,” he said. “We have become accustomed to the prime minister dodging questions in this place, but this is ridiculous. We are discussing his own political future. We have often observed that the prime minister is pursuing a hidden agenda, because he knows most Canadians do not support his Republican-style policies. This is surely the worst example yet. He is keeping the news of his own resignation secret!” Pinsent smi
led as if he had landed a good one, and paused to enjoy the moment before he continued. “Again, Mr. Speaker, I ask: Why did the prime minister not plan to make his announcement here, in the House of Commons?”

  The Liberals stood and applauded, but they looked like soldiers doing their duty, and the Tories laughed.

  Stevens wore a big smile as he rose to his feet.

  “Mr. Speaker, I will now reveal my hidden agenda,” he said. “I’d like to announce, as I had indeed planned to do in this place today, that I will step down as prime minister and leader of the Conservative Party of Canada in March.”

  The Tory benches erupted in groans of “No!”

  Stevens held his hand to silence the backbenchers. “I’d like to take a moment to thank my constituents in Whitby for their steadfast support. And my family … All of us in this House know that public life, while rewarding, takes a toll on our families, and I’d like to thank my wife, Karen, for her endless patience.” He waved up to her, and MPs on both sides of the House turned, noticing for the first time that she was sitting in the gallery. She waved back at him, smiling.

  “And I’d like to thank my children. Their dad missed a lot of skating practices, a lot of piano recitals, and that has been hard.” He frowned down at his lectern for a moment. The chamber was still. “So it really does delight me to announce that I will step down on March 9, and I want to let Sarah and Leslie know that they’ll soon be seeing more of their dad than they like.”

  As he sat down, every Conservative MP stood and applauded. Bloc and NDP MPs joined in, staying in their seats and politely clapping for little Sarah and Leslie. Eventually even Pinsent, red-faced and angry-looking, joined in the applause, followed by his caucus.

  Jack’s phone vibrated again, and he pulled it out of its holster. It is against the rules to talk on a cell phone in the gallery, so he clicked the do-not-answer button, and looked at the screen: Ottawa Police Service. He stepped out into the hallway and called his voicemail.

  “Mr. Macdonald, this is Detective Sergeant Devon Flanagan, of the Ottawa Police Service. We’d like to speak with you as soon as possible about Ed Sawatski. Mr. Sawatski suffered an injury early this morning and we understand you were with him last night. So it’s urgent that you call us.”

  After Pinsent’s questions, when the Opposition critics stood to ask routine questions about their files, in the government staffer gallery above the floor of the House, Ismael Balusi slid down on the wooden bench to chat with Dave Cochrane, chief of staff to Jim Donahoe.

  “Pretty good, eh?” he said.

  Cochrane looked over at him.

  “Jesus, the old guy has some moves,” he said. “I can’t believe Pinsent attacked him on that, today. Are we writing his lines?”

  “I’m not sure we could write lines so dumb,” said Balusi, and stifled a giggle. He looked nervously over his shoulder at the House of Commons constables, who were supposed to make sure everyone in the galleries listened to the debates in silence.

  “Meet you in the hallway in a minute,” he said.

  Donahoe nodded his agreement.

  Balusi was leaning against the wall in the narrow hallway that runs behind the galleries, reading emails, when Cochrane came out.

  “How’s Donahoe doing?” asked Balusi.

  “Good,” said Cochrane. “We think we’re starting ahead.”

  “We ought to be ahead, but that wasn’t great today. ‘I’ll leave speculation to the speculators.’ Mowat looked a lot smoother. He had better lines.”

  Cochrane didn’t respond for a minute. “We didn’t think we’d need lines so early. We didn’t think it would leak.”

  “All the rules are out the window now,” said Balusi. “We’ve got to adjust our thinking. Who do you think leaked Stevens’ announcement today? Cui Bono? Got to be Mowat. We got to be thinking the same way. It’s the difference between the winner and the loser. Having the right lines at the right moment. Controlling the agenda. Looking good when the other guy looks stupid. Today our guy looked stupid and the other guy looked good.”

  Cochrane sighed. “You’re right. We’ve got to pick up our game, but there’s no reason to panic. We’ve got half the cabinet locked up, De Grandpré is going to run. You think those red Quebec Tories are going to go to Mowat in a convention? That family values shit doesn’t go over so good in la belle province.”

  “Yeah,” said Balusi. “I know. But De Grandpré will go with whoever he thinks the winner will be. Right now, he likely thinks he can win, the dumb fuck. Same with Thompson. In the end, these guys will go with the front runner. Right now they don’t know. It would be a good time to give them a sign.”

  Cochrane laughed. “You’re not going to get an argument from me. Got any ideas?”

  “Maybe,” said Balusi. He bit his lip and looked around. “Quebec. There are seventy-five riding associations there. Most of them have a dozen Conservative members at most, and each of those riding associations has as much weight in a leadership race as Calgary Southwest, which has, what, 3,000 members? It’s the easiest way to get a head-start. They should like your guy. He’s an old Tory, like them. They sure won’t naturally gravitate to Pastor Mowat. If I were you I’d send your guy to Quebec, meet with some of the old Bleus, get them on side. You line up enough riding associations, you’ll have Mowat beat before he gets started.”

  Ashton grimaced as she followed Sophie into the hospital room. She wasn’t looking forward to this.

  Ed Sawatski’s parents were beside his bed, the mother looking desperate and scared, holding her son’s hand. Her husband was trying to comfort her, with his hand on her shoulder, rubbing her back.

  “Oh my God,” said Sophie, and ran to the bedside.

  Beverly Sawatski started to cry, and reached to draw Sophie to her. Tom Sawatski tried to put his arms around both of them. “There, there,” he said, but he started to sob too.

  It was the first look Ashton had had at Sawatski since they hauled him from the canal that morning. He was lying on his back, with a tube in his mouth, and an IV in his arm. A heart monitor pinged along steadily next to the bed.

  Sophie clutched his hand and stared at his inanimate face. “Oh, Ed,” she whispered. “Ed. Can you hear me?” But he just lay there, eyes closed, unmoving.

  Ashton slipped out into the hallway and called Flanagan on her cell phone.

  “Hey,” he said. “You talk to the girl?”

  “Yeah,” said Ashton. “I just brought her to the hospital. She’s in there now. Jesus.”

  “She broke up?” asked Flanagan.

  “Pretty distraught,” said Ashton. “I don’t like her for this. No way. And the parents are in there, too. Just flew in from St. John’s.”

  “She knows where he was last night?”

  “Yeah. He was out drinking with a reporter, guy named Jack Macdonald.”

  “That checks,” said Flanagan. “We’ve got a tape from the Chateau, shows two guys walking down from the Hill at 4:40 this morning, going down the stairs by the bridge. Maybe they are our two.”

  “Any chance of getting a solid ID?”

  “The camera is too far away, and the landing at the top of the stairs down under the bridge is on the edge of the frame. You can just see two figures, for about five seconds, walking down the trail that runs along the edge of the bluff, then they disappear down the stairs.”

  “Did you find the cab driver who drove the kids home?” said Ashton.

  “Not so far. It would have been a Gatineau taxi, so it could be couple different firms. They tell me they’re asking all their drivers, but nobody has volunteered any info yet. Maybe later today or tomorrow. The night shift guys might not even be on the job yet.”

  “All right,” said Ashton. “I’d better go in and talk to the parents. Christ.”

  When she walked back in, Sophie was holding one of Sawatski’s hands and his mother was holding the other. The mother was talking to him very quietly.

  “Excuse me,” said Ashton from th
e doorway. “I’m Detective Sergeant Mallorie Ashton of the Ottawa Police Service, and I’m investigating your son’s injury. I’m so sorry about what happened.”

  Tom Sawatski stood to shake her hand.

  “What can you tell us?” he said. “What happened to our son?

  “Ed’s an excellent swimmer,” said Beverly Sawatski. “He was a lifeguard. This just doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know,” said Ashton. “We’re trying to get to the bottom of it. I’d like to take a statement from one of you, if you feel you can manage it.”

  “I’ll give you a statement,” said Tom.

  “Okay,” said Ashton. “I’ll go see if there’s an office here we can use.”

  She turned to Sophie. “And Sophie, if you can forward me those messages now, please.”

  Sophie nodded and pulled out her phone.

  Beverly Sawatski stayed at her son’s side.

  “Oh my God,” she blurted. “Oh thank God.”

  Ed’s eyes were open.

  By JACK MACDONALD

  Ottawa Bureau

  OTTAWA – Liberal MPs stuck up for Len Ramia on Tuesday after the RCMP charged the senator with fraud for allegedly misusing Senate property by using government furniture, art and computer equipment in his home.

  Newfoundland’s Liberal MPs say Ramia should keep receiving his $132,000-a-year salary until the trial.

  “The Senate has its rules,” said Humber-St. Barbe—Baie Verte MP Loyola Quoyle. “And we have to respect the principle of innocent until proven guilty.”

  Ramia was appointed to the Senate by Prime Minister Jean Chretien in 1998 after working as the key Newfoundland organizer in his campaign for the Liberal leadership. At the time, critics described the appointment of the former insurance industry executive as a reward for his work as party bagman.

  Since then, Ramia has been a low key senator, shunning the spotlight and avoiding committee work.

  “Lord Jesus,” said Jack.

  He shook his head, which hurt his neck. He was sweating at his desk, struggling with the Ramia story, and finding it very difficult to concentrate. Since Flanagan had told him that Sawatski had wound up in the canal, nearly dead, Jack could think of nothing else. He had to file his story before he went to the police station, but as soon as he started to write, his mind wandered to the night before. Guilt gnawed at him, as if Ed’s accident were somehow his fault, but he had only the haziest memory of the evening’s events, which left him running over the few moments that he could remember again and again. He had to force himself to type up his story so he could get to the police station.