“Is there a problem?” one officer asked sternly as soon as we made eye contact.
“No, no problem,” I responded.
“You sure were staring at us like you had a problem,” he said.
“I didn’t think that the direction of my gaze was an issue.”
The other officer stepped closer. “We’re going to need to see some identification,” he said.
I thought for a moment. I didn’t have to provide identification unless I was under arrest. I had been learning about the basic rights of citizens for three years in law school, and I strongly believed that it was just as important to exercise those rights as it was to study them. So I made a choice.
“Sorry, officer, but I’m not going to provide you with my identification,” I said.
I could instantly see their body language change. Both officers stepped closer.
“Sir, we need to see your identification right now. We need to know what you’re doing here and whether or not you live in the area. You need to provide some ID and answer our questions right now!” The officer raised his voice until he was basically issuing commands at me. I knew I could just give in to the aggression and answer their questions. I had nothing to hide. But I knew my rights.
I stood up and looked the officer squarely in the eye. Here goes nothing, I thought.
“Officer, I am not going to provide you with identification, and I’m not going to answer any of your questions. This conversation is over,” I said.
I turned away and started walking. With each step I took, I imagined that I was going to get tackled to the ground. I started planning out how I would break my fall with the tumbling exercises I had learned in aikido. I imagined being struck by the police and how I could protect my head. But nothing happened. I got to my car safely, turned the ignition, and started driving toward the exit. Then I saw that the police officers had blocked the driveway with their bikes.
“You seem to know a lot about your rights,” one officer said. “So I’m sure you’ll know that, since you’re operating a motor vehicle, under the Highway Traffic Act, you must provide us with identification, as well as proof of insurance and registration.”
Damn it, I thought. They’re right.
I waited while the officer ran my information in the system. While I sat there, a cruiser pulled up. Why did they call for backup? I wondered. To my surprise, out of the car stepped a turbaned, bearded Sikh police officer. He spoke with the two bicycle officers and then came over to my window.
“Here are your documents,” he said, handing me my licence, registration, and insurance.
“Thanks,” I said.
“I just wanted you to know that this wasn’t racial profiling. It was just a routine stop. You’re free to go—take care now.”
My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe the bicycle police officers had called a racialized officer to tell me that their stop wasn’t racially motivated. Even if I hadn’t already interpreted the stop that way, the fact that he said it wasn’t only confirmed it was.
I said as much to the officer.
“If I didn’t think it was racial profiling before (and I did), the fact that you had to come here and say it wasn’t only highlights how much it really was,” I said.
The cops went on their way. My friend, who had been observing everything from a little distance away, finally got in the car and we headed out. As we drove away, I thought about how I’d worked hard through my undergrad, hustled to get into law school; was about to become an attorney, a professional; and despite that, the police treated me like the same kid in Windsor who got pulled over for nothing. Always just “a routine procedure.”
After leaving the courtroom, I kept thinking about how O’Brien revealed the officer’s abuse of power by peeling away at the truth. As I drove home, I wondered how many other people were regularly pulled over, people who didn’t know their rights—who maybe didn’t have access to law, or didn’t really understand the law. How many of them had to put up with this? How much more intimidating was it for them? Did they ever feel, as I sometimes did, like they didn’t belong? I wanted to speak for them the way that defence lawyer spoke for that young black man.
I finally knew what type of law I wanted to practise: criminal law. I visited the Law Society of Upper Canada website and found a link to all of the recognized criminal law specialists in the province. I started making calls to every name on the list, asking for a meeting. I had dreams of working at a big law firm and learning from the country’s greatest criminal law minds, and I hoped that my outreach might lead to an articling opportunity. But I was willing to start with anything that helped me get a foot in the door.
I didn’t get a big break, but I did get a couple of calls back. One in particular stood out for his warmth and willingness to meet: Thomas Carey.
Thomas—or Tom, as he preferred—was a gregarious Irishman, tall and balding, with a grey moustache. We met up for lunch near the Peel Courthouse.
“I’ve always thought there was a missing link between Irish and Panjabi people,” he said. “Why else do we share so many last names? Gill, Dillon—”
“Mohan,” I added.
“That’s right!” he exclaimed. “Somewhere down the line, I’m sure you and I have a distant cousin or two.”
Though Tom wasn’t able to take on an articling student, he let me shadow him for a couple of weeks. His hustle amazed me. Even though he was quite experienced, he worked as defence counsel and per diem prosecution for public services, as well as being a part-time small claims court judge on civil matters. I thought it was pretty impressive that he worked all three positions—defence, prosecution, and judge.
After one of the days when I was shadowing him, Tom invited me to a get-together at the office of Carey and Associates. The other associates at the office, their friends and partners, and the administrative staff made an intimate group.
As we sat around the table chatting, Tom turned to me and said the words I’d been dying to hear. “I have a case tomorrow, and I don’t think I can make it. Would you be able to go for me?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
He laughed. “I haven’t even told you about the case.”
“Doesn’t matter, I’ll do it.”
“It’s a guilty plea for a conditional discharge. It’s already been arranged for my client,” Tom said. “You just have to confirm the client is entering into the plea voluntarily and that he understands he’s giving up a right to a trial. The judge will then have the final say on the sentence. It’s very simple. You’ll be fine.”
The next morning, I drove to court wearing my favourite suit. I got there hours early so that I could observe how other, more experienced lawyers made guilty pleas on their clients’ behalf. I didn’t want to be caught off guard, and even though my instructions from Tom were clear, I felt a responsibility to ensure I was doing everything I could for our client.
After a couple of hours of watching how other lawyers had played their hands, I had an idea. I approached the Crown during an intermission between cases.
“I understand the agreement for your client is a conditional discharge,” the Crown said, barely looking up from their papers.
“That’s correct,” I said. “But I would like to have the judge consider an absolute discharge. Do you have any concerns with that?”
The prosecutor thought about it for a few seconds and shrugged. “No, that’s fine. We’ll be asking for a conditional discharge, but you’re free to argue for the absolute—it’s the judge’s decision at the end of the day.”
I found my client in the pews. “We’re ready to go,” I said, and walked him to the front table.
Listening to other lawyers in the court, I had concluded that this judge was open to considering lighter sentences if the details of the case merited it. The judge seemed to have a strong inclination toward giving first-time offenders a break, especially if they had the potential to return to work.
After entering the plea, I m
ade my argument.
“Your honour, you’ll note that this is the first offence for my client. He has no other antecedents. In addition,” I said, gesturing to the opposing Crown counsel, “I’ve already shown a copy of a job letter to my friend, which I can provide to you as well. The letter confirms that my client has secured employment and has a promising career as a skilled tradesman. Based on sentencing guidelines, I submit it’s in his best interest as well as those of the community that he continue to be a productive member of society. An absolute discharge will protect his current as well as future employment.”
The judge thought it over and looked over the exhibit I had submitted.
“What is the Crown looking for in this case?” the judge asked.
“A conditional discharge, your honour,” the Crown counsel said.
“You’re not that far off,” said the judge. He considered the letter a moment longer and said, “Absolute discharge granted.”
“Thank you, your honour,” I said.
My client nodded appreciatively. I kept my cool, but inside I was glowing. I immediately raced back to Tom’s office to tell him what happened.
“How’d you do that?” he asked when I delivered the news.
“I just listened to what other people were doing and thought, I might as well ask for something better.”
“That’s impressive.”
“Seeing as how you think that,” I said, “I’m looking for an articling position. What do you think?”
Tom hadn’t budgeted for a student salary, but he agreed to take me on and cover my gas and parking. He even promised to let me keep the retainer for any new clients I picked up. For eight months, I skidded by with cases of summary offences—the less serious and non-indictable crimes—while I slowly picked up a few clients here and there.
Tom probably didn’t think it was right to ask too much of someone he wasn’t paying, so he never worked me too hard. As well as articling for Tom, in my spare time, I continued to spectate at Greater Toronto Area courts, furthering my informal education in different counsel styles and skills. I was quickly realizing that the minutes I spent in the courtroom were as valuable as every one I’d spent in class.
There was one such “teacher” who I followed more than anyone else. Whenever Reid Rusonik’s name appeared on a courtroom docket, I made sure I was in the front row to watch him perform. A managing partner with Pinkofskys, Reid’s intensity was theatrical. He’d go all out to defend his client’s interests, leaving no stone unturned. He had a stare that bore into a witness’s soul. Reid believed in taking legal aid certificates—helping those who couldn’t afford legal representation—and Pinkofskys as a whole strongly believed in giving their clients the best legal defence, not just taking a guilty plea, to ensure that everyone received their right to trial. I admired that approach. It fit with my idealized view of law as a means of defending the interests of anyone—of everyone—around me, no matter how disenfranchised or dispossessed they might be.
I watched Reid so often that I eventually became noticeable as a regular at his trials. One afternoon, I saw him outside the courthouse by himself. This is my chance, I thought. I had no plan, no script, no professional approach. In hindsight, I probably could have benefitted from thinking things through a little more. Instead, I walked up to Reid and blurted out, “Hi, my name’s Jagmeet. I’d like to work for you.”
As the last word tumbled out of my mouth, I thought, Did I really just walk up to Reid and ask him for a job? This was not a good idea.
Reid looked at me with the same stare I’d seen him use against witnesses, officers, and experts to tear them apart. He wasn’t just looking into my soul, but through it, into my soul’s soul. He seemed to say without saying, Did you just do that? I stared right back, trying to seem confident. Yup, I just did.
He shook his head slowly. It was time for me to leave. I turned away, and then he said, “You know what? I’d like to hire you.”
I didn’t immediately process what he said. I was about to apologize when my mind played back his words and I finally got it.
“That’s incredible,” I said.
He gave me his card. “Send me your résumé, and we’ll follow up with a meeting.” We met up and Reid offered me a job to start with the firm as soon as I was called to the bar.
I told Tom the good news and he congratulated me. I finished up my articles and attended the ceremony where I was officially called to the bar. The following Monday, my dream came true when I walked into the downtown office of Pinkofskys for my first official day of work as a lawyer. I hit the ground running and realized that I still had so much to learn. It made for long days, but I didn’t care—I knew that as long as I kept working hard, all of my family’s financial worries would be taken care of. More important, I could help not just my own family but also others in similar circumstances.
I worked with Pinkofskys for just about a year before leaving and opening my own criminal law practice, Dhaliwal Law. I was glad for the change. With my new practice, I had the opportunity to make more money while working fewer hours, which freed up some time to volunteer my legal services for social justice causes.
Like a lot of people born in the late seventies and early eighties, I’d developed a taste for activism because of the Iraq War. I was still in university when the war began, and although Western University wasn’t known for large campus protests, the injustice was too big to ignore. As hundreds of students formed in the university quad, I shouldered my way to the front of the marches, chanting slogans like “We want peace” and “Drop Bush, not bombs.”
I’d continued my activist streak at York, where there was a more active student body. When we saw that tuition fees were going up unsustainably across Ontario, we took to the streets. I walked out of class in protest, along with thousands of other students. Later, I participated in anti-poverty and pro–human rights demonstrations. Often, the police approach to such protests was to use disproportionate force to manage the crowd. At more than one march, the police would barge in to physically push the protesters out of the way, cementing the feeling it was us against them.
Now, a few years later, I was entrenched in the buttoned-up world of the legal profession and yearning to get involved in social justice causes again. It happened that my brother, while at McMaster, had become involved with an anti-poverty group and another organization that was rallying for universal refugee and immigration rights.
“We could use your help,” Gurratan told me. “The police often give protesters a hard time at rallies. We need someone who knows the law just to be there, keep an eye out, you know?”
I did know—what they needed was a legal observer—but I did him one better. “Put my name on your list of legal representation,” I said. “If someone gets arrested, they can call me.”
Most of the protesters were students in the beginning stages of discovering their ideals and political voices. Though they might be prone to mistakes, they deserved legal services, even if they couldn’t afford them. In the end, I only ever received one call, from a young man charged with criminal mischief—damage to property. The charge could have stained his permanent record, but I spoke with the Crown and worked out an extrajudicial solution. The charges were dropped in exchange for the young man doing community service.
Around this time, my brother also started a group called the Sikh Activist Network. He co-founded it with his friend Amneet Singh, the bright kid from London who I’d known since he was fourteen. Amneet’s brother and sister were close in age to me and his parents were like a second set of parents to me away from home. Gurratan and Amneet organized this collective of youth inspired by Sikhi’s social justice roots. Their core mandate was that, as Sikhs, it was their duty to fight for the betterment of all people. And one major problem that all marginalized people faced, especially in the GTA, was random police checks.
Gurratan asked me to facilitate a series of “Know Your Rights” workshops at southern Ontario school campu
ses. As a lawyer, I could speak with expertise about civilians’ general rights: when we’re not obliged to speak to police, when it’s better to walk away, and when it’s safe or necessary to provide information. Basic dos and don’ts that I felt everyone should know.
I did seminars in lecture halls that were made up mostly of racialized folk. I’d start by quickly summarizing the importance and intention of the seminar before picking volunteers to act out a skit. I gave one a backpack and explained their role.
“You were at a party. There was a fight. Blood splattered on your jacket, so you put it in your backpack and now you’re on your way home.” The other volunteer was a police officer. I told them, “You’re investigating the disturbance, and you think he caused the fight. Your job is to be tough, be aggressive, be belligerent—whatever you think you need to be to search the civilian’s pockets and bag, looking for grounds to press charges.”
I was always impressed with how students might start off shy but would quickly get into character in compelling ways. I wanted young people facing the same problems as me to know how they could protect themselves against abuses of power. Nobody should feel coerced to give statements or hand over their identification or phones. We all have a Charter of Rights that guards us against potential injustice, but we have to know how to use it.
At the end of each presentation, I would open up the floor for questions. Arms shot up.
“I got stopped while walking through a park,” said one, explaining what happened next.
“I got searched outside a 7-Eleven,” said another.
“Police pull me over all the time!”
As they described to me each scenario, we peeled back the layers to expose what was happening in their communities. They were clearly targeted for the colour of their skin and their age. It was apparent, also, that carding and profiling were more widespread among black and Indigenous students than anyone else.
As disheartening as it was to see these prejudices that so many suffered, it filled me with pride to know that my little brother was fighting those very injustices and empowering people, and that he was succeeding in a concrete way. All my life, I’d tried to be a role model to Gurratan, but he’d become a role model to me, too. When I was looking after Gurratan in London, there were many times when I’d thought of him more like a son than as a little brother. Now it was clear he was neither: he was my equal. Soon, he’d become even more than that. Gurratan was about to become my mentor.
Love & Courage Page 20