Sometimes Grace’s friends would ask her what it felt like to sit in judgement of others seven hours a day, five days a week, to hold other people’s future in her hands. When she was first appointed a judge on the Immigration and Refugee Commission, she had been excited to think that she could be the one who gave desperate people the chance to make a new life, granting them asylum and citizenship in one of the most prosperous countries in the world. She would be the one who deported false refugee claimants back to the place they came from. The stars in her eyes were long gone, but she still honestly tried to give every asylum seeker a good kick at the can.
And when she was asked what it felt like, holding the lives of others in the palm of her hand, the answer depended on who was asking. To the public and press, her response was, “My determination is based upon my findings of fact and the relevant legal issues.” To friends and family, she was more likely to confess that it scared the hell out of her. Every day, she was in the hot seat. She never knew which case would land her on the front page of the morning paper. And the worst of it was that a wrong decision could send a failed asylum seeker home to face uncertainty, poverty, or even death.
Right now, an hour into the proceedings, the hands of the clock seemed to have stopped. Counsel for the claimant and counsel for the government were engaged in a point-counterpoint match over the admissibility of documents to be entered as exhibit items.
The clerk’s monotonous voice read into the microphone: “The arresting immigration officer was Nick Slovak. However, the minister’s representative is not present. In his place representing the Immigration Department is Rocco Corvinelli.”
Nick’s name went through her like an electric shock, but her impassive expression did not change. She had not disclosed that she knew Nick. In her opinion, that private fact had no bearing on the case, and the last thing she wanted was more excuses for delay in the Vladimirovich case. She endured another hour or so of posturing by the lawyers, which was really only done for the benefit of the claimant — who was paying for the show — to demonstrate that his counsels’ billable hours were the real thing. The unspoken fact was that it made little difference if duplicate or similarly situated evidence was entered as exhibits. All parties had read the documents, and the damage was done.
The fifth package of documents was from Nick’s office. His signature was on practically every piece of paper in the stack. That meant that the claimant’s removal from the country was something that was being taken very seriously by his department, the Enforcement and Investigation Unit of Immigration and Citizenship. The message was that she should give those exhibit items of evidence a full measure of consideration. Nick really didn’t have to emphasize the point so heavily, Grace thought. Cases involving gangsters who thought Canada was a nice, safe place to launder dirty money were not something she took lightly. But that was Nick.
“I’ve got a dozen affidavits, all attesting to my client’s sterling business reputation and his high moral character, that I’d like to enter as evidence,” announced one of the opposing counsel.
She flashed a look of impatience at the young lawyer. “More duplication of evidence we don’t need, counsel. I suggest we enter only those affidavits that will allow for cross-examination of the witnesses.”
A few strands of hair fell across her face. Removing an elastic from a package of documents, she used it to tie her hair back in a ponytail. She rarely thought about her looks these days. It took too much energy and time to look good. As it was, she didn’t have enough time to do all the things she wanted to do in a day. Nor did she have the inclination to spend hours at the makeup counter or beauty salon.
“But, your honour,” the older of the lawyers intervened, smoothly, “these affidavits are from businessmen who live all across the country. They can’t afford to take time to fly in and support my client’s asylum claim, but their statements are very significant to this case.”
As Grace looked down on him from the bench she could feel her lip cynically curling up at one corner. Over the years she had grown to dislike lawyers who earned their living by representing the criminal elements of society.
“Mr. Dalton, the Immigration and Refugee Commission is mindful of the time schedules of witnesses. That’s why we have video conferencing. The video conference calls will be set for next Wednesday.” Turning to the refugee claims officer, she asked, “Any objections, Caldwell?”
“None,” said the RCO, who was obviously pleased at the discomfiture of the claimant’s lawyer, and was trying unsuccessfully to suppress a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
And so for the rest of the morning she continued to allow four grown men to bicker in a kind of intellectual ritual. Corvinelli was there as the immigration department’s police officer and witness. The RCO meant to be impartial but it was important that he uphold his place and retain the respect of his legal peer on the other side. Dalton and the other opposing counsel were vested with defending a man’s right to remain in the country. When a case went south, the claimant would be deported and denied the right to return to Canada. In many cases that meant breaking up a family. His wife and children would have the choice of remaining in Canada or going with him into exile in whatever country would accept them.
Every day, Grace sat on the bench and listened to the terrible stories of the persecuted, and the elaborate lies of the ambitious. Secretly, she rooted for the genuine asylum seekers, hoping their lawyers would not be too incompetent, and delighted whenever their right to stay in the country could be proved. Every day, she was torn between emotions and intellect. On bad days she separated fathers from their children. Other days, she was merely interpreting and enforcing the law. So much depended on the merits of each case; when claimants were charged with crimes in Canada and abroad, she knew, though she tried to be fair, that their fate depended on how hard-hearted she was feeling on that particular day. Sometimes the press lambasted her for cruel, inhumane decisions. At other times she received death threats for her left-leaning sympathies and being too soft on crime.
Grace had long given up trying to please everyone.
chapter three
Walter Martin had been given a funeral befitting a well-respected peace officer. Hundreds of law enforcement officers attended, many on motorcycles. Traffic was snarled up for a good two hours in uptown Toronto. When it was over, Nick headed back to the office. The mood there was grim. He spent the rest of the morning on the phone, talking to his immigration and law enforcement counterparts around the world, seeking information.
When Officer Philip Wong appeared at his door, Nick, still on the phone, held up two fingers. Wong impatiently paced the hall until Nick hung up.
“What is it?” snapped Nick.
“I’ve got an informant who’ll talk about the snakeheads from the Martin operation. He owns a travel agency in Chinatown.”
“Which Chinatown?”
“Little Chinatown, Gerrard and Broadview. I made kind of an informal deal. He’s been charged with trying to bribe an immigration officer for the purposes of buying entry and exit visas. I told him if he talks we drop the charge.”
Shortly after one in the afternoon, Nick and Philip Wong were heading east through the city. Wong navigated the van through heavy traffic and crazy jaywalkers before turning down a side street and stopping in front of a travel agency with a sign reading Adventures to Go. They parked in front of a produce and fish shop; the odour that greeted them bluntly announced that fact.
Gerrard Street East attracted Vietnamese, Laotians, Cambodians, Chinese, Bangladeshis, Pakistanis, and Caribbean immigrants. Nick didn’t belong to any ethnic minority group in this neighbourhood. “Philip, I’m counting on you to do most of the talking if English is a problem.”
The travel agency was empty except for a middleaged man who sat behind a pile of brochures. He rose from his chair and bowed when they entered.
“Hum Byng,” said Officer Wong, speaking Mandarin, “I want you to give my boss a full