Simms looked up.
“This is boring,” she said. “Constitution. Blech. Where’s the channel changer?”
“No,” said Balusi. “It won’t be boring to anyone who lived through Meech Lake. When Mulroney tried and failed to recognize Quebec as a distinct society, the country almost fell apart.”
She looked at him impassively.
“Remember the referendum in 1995?” he said. “That was in reaction to the collapse of Meech Lake and the Charlottetown accord. This stuff will drive the western Conservatives nuts. Especially since he says that he’ll do it without campaigning on it. It’s secret backroom politics, and it will explode in Donahoe’s face.”
“Okay,” she said. “I see. It is a story. Donahoe proposes secret deal to appease Quebec.”
“Yeah,” said Balusi. “If you don’t want it, I’ll give it to someone else. This is big. This could lead the news.”
“No,” she said. “I get it. I want it. It’s good. I was wrong.”
“You have the audio file?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “I can email it to you later. But in no way must this be linked to me. Very important. Would cost me my job.”
Simms smiled. “Don’t worry. I get it. Won’t say a word to anyone, ever.”
“Hey,” she said, looking out the window. “Look. It’s Macdonald.”
Macdonald was getting into a cab.
“Oh yeah,” said Balusi. “The Newfie.”
“He creeps me out,” said Simms.
“Yeah?”
“You remember how I went to talk to him the other night at Hy’s? I asked him about his story.”
“Yeah?” said Balusi.
“He was weird,” she said. “Creeped me out.” She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.
“Did he say anything scary?”
“Not really,” said Ellen. “Anyway, who recorded the tape?”
Jack’s BlackBerry rang when he got to the corner.
“This is your new friend,” said the same male voice. “I want you to get in a taxi and meet me in Vanier, just in case someone’s watching you.”
“Are you sure that’s necessary?” Jack asked.
“We can call this off,” the man said. “I can give this to someone else.”
“No,” said Jack. “What’s the address?”
“Tell him to take you to Xcitement Lanes, in Vanier, on Cartier Street.”
“You want to bowl?” Jack asked.
“There’s a snack bar.”
“Okay,” said Jack. “On my way.”
It was a sad bowling alley, across the street from a sad mall. The owners had spent some money to spruce it up, installing flashy neon signs and a big sound system, neither of which were geared up during the day, to Jack’s relief. A francophone seniors’ group was quietly bowling in the lanes nearest the snack bar. He ordered a cup of bad coffee and watched them.
By the time he started to get interested in their competition, admiring the footwork and accuracy of one blue-haired woman, he was pretty sure that someone had sent him on a wild goose chase. Maybe Detective Sergeant Ashton.
Then the man arrived.
He was a big guy with a bushy black moustache, and short salt-and-pepper hair. He had a deep scar on his right eyebrow. He wore a dark blue wool overcoat and carried a briefcase. He looked like a cop.
“Jack?” he said.
“Hi,” said Jack, and stood to shake the guy’s hand.
“Easy there, big fellow,” he said, and shook his crushed hand in the air. “Quite a grip you got there.”
“Sorry,” said the big guy, and sat down. He smiled and nodded at the server behind the counter.
“Un café, s’il vous plaît, madame.”
He put his briefcase on the counter, rubbed his hands together and waited for his coffee.
Jack introduced himself.
“I’m Sergeant Michel Castonguay,” said the guy, and he dug into his breast pocket for a business card. It identified him as an investigator with the RCMP’s commercial crime unit.
“Commercial crime?” said Jack
Castonguay laughed. “You are an investigative reporter. Let me save you some time. I wasn’t always here in Ottawa.”
He opened his briefcase and removed a tan envelope and rested it in front of him on the counter.
“Fifteen years ago, I was stationed in Swift Current, Saskatchewan,” he said. “I was a constable, doing routine small town policing: highway patrol, breaking up fights, and, of course, every cop’s favourite call, domestic disputes.”
He slid the envelope in front of Jack. Jack opened it.
“One summer night, I forget the date, but it’s in the report, I went to a nice suburban house, really nice place, to respond to a domestic dispute. There was a lady there, and, oh boy, she was upset. She was soaking wet, fully dressed, sitting on the front step, and she started talking to me as soon as I got out of the car. She said she and her husband had been sitting by the pool after dinner, having an argument about her daughter, who was dating a boy that they didn’t like, and her husband got so mad, he grabbed her by the neck and threw her in the pool. She said it was like he was a stranger suddenly, and he held her under for a long time. She was kicking and screaming and waving her arms, but he held her under until she ran out of air and gulped water. She said she started to black out. Said she saw stars. That’s what she said. ‘I saw stars.’ I guess the husband must have realized then what he was doing, and he pulled her out of the water and she got a breath of air. He hopped in his car and drove off.”
Jack was looking at the report while the guy was talking.
“Her name was Maude Mowat,” said Jack.
“That’s right,” said Castonguay. “And her husband was Greg Mowat.”
The two men sat there looking at each other for a minute.
“Scary, eh?” said the cop. “Long story short, I took a statement right there on the front stoop, got all the details, then I asked her to change into dry clothes, so we could go down to the station and sign an affidavit. She said she’d be right back. Then I guess while she was getting changed, she started to have second thoughts. She comes back, says, what will happen? I don’t want my husband to go to jail.”
“She decided not to press charges?” asked Jack.
“That’s right,” said Castonguay. “I’m talking to her, asking if she’s sure, and then the husband comes back. Oh boy he was sorry. He was really sorry. They got down and prayed together right there. It was really something. I did my job, told her that we couldn’t do anything to protect her if she didn’t press charges, but she told me no, and he was still apologizing. I had no choice but to get in my car and go back to the station and type it up.”
“Did you know who Mowat was then?” asked Jack.
“He was in the insurance business,” said Castonguay. “And he was deputy mayor. Not the big shot he is now.”
“Why did you decide to go public now?” asked Jack.
“Well, I’ve thought about it over the years, and watched his career, and it made me uneasy to think that a man who could almost drown his wife would be in a position of authority, but when I joined the force I took an oath to follow the law,” he said. “The law says that report in your hand is not to be made public. Obviously, I’m breaking that law now, but I don’t think I have any choice. I mean, someone tried to drown that young man. I’m afraid it might be Mowat. I mean, look at it.”
He was quiet for a minute. “You know, I don’t make a big fuss about it, but I’m a proud Canadian. I get a lump in my throat when I stand for the anthem. I take pride in my country. Even if Mowat didn’t have anything to do with trying to drown this boy, I don’t like the idea of my kids living in a country governed by a prime minister who would do that to his wife.”
Jack stared at him. “You’re doing the right thing,” he said. “I admire you. Jesus.”
“I hope I’m doing the right thing,” said Castonguay. “And I hope it d
oesn’t cost me my job.”
“It won’t,” said Jack. “Nothing will make me say where I got this. I’ll go to jail before I give up your name.”
Jack called his editor on the cab drive to the Hill.
“I’ve got a big one,” he whispered, so the driver wouldn’t hear said.
“What is it?”
“I just met with a source, a Mountie, and he leaked me a police report that says Greg Mowat, the public safety minister, tried to drown his wife in 1996.”
“Fuck,” said Brandt.
“He held her under the water until she blacked out,” said Jack. “She called the cops, described the whole thing, but then the husband came back and she had a change of heart, wouldn’t press charges.”
“Jesus. It makes you wonder if he had anything to do with putting the kid in the canal.”
“I know,” said Jack. “It’s a fucking doozy. But I don’t think we even have to hit that, maybe mention the Sawatski case at the bottom, but don’t even draw the link.”
“Readers will do that on their own.”
“Exactly. It’s an amazing story even without the Sawatski angle. Mowat won’t be prime minister. I think he’ll have to resign. I think this will put him out of politics.”
“Shit,” said Brandt.
“Exactly,” said Jack.
“Okay,” said Brandt. “Any way to confirm this?”
“No. But I have the original police report. And I interviewed a Mountie who is familiar with the case. I don’t see how they can go after us on this.”
“Sounds pretty tight. You’ll have to get comments from the Mounties and from Mowat’s office.”
“I know. But I want to do that just before we go with the story. I think we should get the denials, and bang, put it online.”
“Before they can go after you, or leak another version of the story to someone else.”
“They’ll be desperate. I don’t know what they might do. Fuck. Might throw me in the canal.”
“Okay,” said Brandt. “You in the office?”
“Headed there now.”
“Bang out a first draft and send it to me, with lots of quotes from the police report.”
Balusi sent Simms the audio file once he got back to the office, and she listened to it right away, following along in the English transcript. It was hard work, since her French wasn’t very good, but she got the gist. A group of Quebec Tories was asking Donahoe about his plans for the country if he were to become prime minister, and he was answering, in his accented but serviceable French. They would clap after each of his answers.
She found it boring, but went through it all to make sure that she didn’t overlook an angle that would make her look stupid later. Her mind drifted off at times, but by the time she got to the end, she was pretty sure that she hadn’t missed anything important.
She was listening to the bit about Meech II quite closely, reading along with the transcript when she got a PIN from Balusi saying that he’d sent her the wrong file and asking her to delete it. The right mp3 file was attached. She saved it on her desktop, next to the first file and sat back to look at them.
She sent Balusi a PIN saying that she’s deleted the first and was listening to the second. Then she sat back and wondered how to find the difference between the files.
Jack sat at his desk with the police report next to his keyboard and started typing.
Eds: Raw version. Not for publication.
By JACK MACDONALD
Ottawa Bureau Chief
OTTAWA – Public Safety Minister Greg Mowat held his wife under the water until she “saw stars” in a 1996 domestic assault, according to an RCMP incident report obtained by the Telegram.
After an argument about their daughter, Mowat threw his wife, Maude Mowat, into the pool in the backyard of their home in Swift Current, Sask., and held her under water until she blacked out, the report says.
“The victim reported that she struggled violently until she swallowed water and lost consciousness,” the report says. “Victim said she ‘saw stars.’ When she recovered, she was alone on the ground next to the pool. She went to house and called police.”
Mowat pulled his wife out of the pool and drove away in anger, the report says, at which point an RCMP officer arrived to take her statement.
“Victim was in wet clothes, very distressed and frightened when officer arrived,” the report says. “She said her husband wanted to kill her.”
But after Mowat returned, Mrs. Mowat decided not to press charges.
“Suspect apologized profusely to wife and begged her to pray with him,” the report says. “Suspect and victim got on knees and prayed for guidance.”
The report says the officer tried to convince Mrs. Mowat to press charges, but she refused.
“Victim said she didn’t want her husband to go to jail,” the report says. “Victim said the Lord would help them.”
At the time, Mowat was an executive with Great Canadian Farm Assurance, an insurance company headquartered in Swift Current, and also deputy mayor of the town.
Because Mrs. Mowat did not press charges, the police report was not made public until now. In 2000 Mowat was elected as a Member of Parliament for the Reform party. In his first term, he was forced to apologize to women’s groups after referring a Regina women’s group critical of his party as a “a gang of radicals and lesbians.”
Mowat was an important backer of the Conservative leadership campaign of Bruce Stevens. Stevens appointed Mowat as president of the Treasury Board in his first cabinet and as public safety minister in 2008. Mowat is a strong advocate of tough law-and-order policies, spearheading the Conservatives’ legislation to provide for mandatory minimum sentences for violent crimes.
Earlier this week, he was heavily criticized by pundits and opposition critics for calling on Liberal MPs to apologize to victims of violent crime under their government.
Mowat is thought to be the front runner in the campaign for the Conservative leadership.
In a more recent near drowning, early Tuesday morning, in Ottawa, Ed Sawatski, an aide to Mowat’s leadership rival, Justice Minister Jim Donahoe, was pulled out of the Rideau Canal, near death, and taken to hospital. Sources close to the Ottawa Police Service’s investigation say they suspect foul play, and have been interviewing witnesses on Parliament Hill.
Sawatski is originally from Mount Pearl.
Jack read over his story and emailed it to his editor. In a few minutes he had a response, asking him to fax the police report to the newspaper. He sent it immediately, then sat nervously at his desk until his editor called.
“Jesus Christ, b’y,” said Brandt. “This is a crackerjack.”
“It’s strong, eh?”
“By Jesus, I guess so,” said Brandt and laughed. “Christ, that sanctimonious fucker will have to go, like today, when we put this out.”
“Did you lawyer it?” asked Jack.
“No b’y, I’m not even going to bother. This is rock solid. We’ve got the frigging police report. What I will do, though, is put Mowat’s denial at the top, if he does deny it, which I suspect he will. I would.” He laughed again. “So, I’m sending this to the copy desk. I’ll have it ready to go. You need to call the Mounties and Mowat’s office and get the denials. Tell them we’re going on line with this, and if they won’t give us a comment, we’ll print that.”
Simms started by examining the properties of the two files. They were the same length and the same file size. She sat for a while, chewing on her pen and staring at the screen. Then she opened them both in an audio editing program. Both sound files appeared on the screen as sound wave files, with an undulating line showing the pitch of the sound. They looked the same.
She enlarged the .wav files and scrutinized them. They seemed to be an exact match. She clicked along the bar, zipping to the end, to look at the Meech II section. It appeared to be the same.
Her eyes were about to cross when she spotted the difference. The original file e
nded after the second file did. She put on the headphones and listened to the end of the second file. There was a hiss of white noise. It was two seconds shorter.
She was swivelling in her chair, thinking about it, when Murphy caught her eye. He was walking across the newsroom to her, moving fast.
“Ellen,” he said. “Did you see nationalnewswatch?”
“No,” she said, and immediately minimized her sound files in the background and pointed her browser to the popular news aggregator site.
“It’s a hot one,” said Murphy.
There was a picture of Greg Mowat looking smug – it was a shot from Question Period from Tuesday – and a big headline: Mowat Tried To Drown Wife.
She clicked on the link and quickly scanned the story.
“Holy fuck,” she said. “This will kill him.”
“I need you to get down to the Hill now and cover the reaction to this,” said Murphy. “But be careful. We haven’t seen the report. Every time you mention it, call it unconfirmed.”
Jack’s phone started to ring as soon as the story went up online. Most of the calls were from other reporters, congratulating him and asking if he would give them the report. He enjoyed accepting their congratulations and telling them that he couldn’t give them the report, although the appeal started to wear thin after a while, and he started to begin the conversations by saying that the paper was not, at this time, sharing the report.
Simms was the first TV reporter on the story, standing in the lobby, ready to interview MPs as they arrived for Question Period.
Jack watched from his desk, with his digital recorder next to the TV, to gather quotes for a reaction story.
“Lorne, we’re waiting for MPs to arrive to get their reaction to an explosive story that has just gone up on the Internet,” said Simms, looking serious but beside herself with excitement. “A Newfoundland newspaper is reporting that Public Safety Minister Greg Mowat tried to drown his wife in a domestic dispute in 1996. The paper, quoting an RCMP report, says that Mowat held his wife, Maude Mowat, underwater in the pool in the backyard of their home until she saw stars.” The screen showed a picture of Mowat and his wife holding hands at a fundraiser. “According to the report, Mrs. Mowat called police after the attack, but decided not to press charges after the two got down on their knees and prayed together.”
Deadline Page 16