'It seems they've been hearing a good deal more in Ottawa.' Prowse consulted a sheet of paper in a file he had brought in.
Howden fumed, 'Haven't people anything else to occupy their damn fool minds? Don't they know there are other things -- more important issues -- going on in the world?' Announcement of the Act of Union, he thought, would effectively wipe anything about immigration out of the news; when word came, the newspapers would have room for nothing else. But it was too soon yet...
'I can't answer that, sir.' Prowse had a habit of always taking questions literally, rhetorical or not. 'But I do have figures on telegrams and mail received on the subject so far.'
Tell me,' Howden grunted.
'Since you left Ottawa, and up to this morning, there've been two hundred and forty telegrams and three hundred and thirty-two letters addressed to you. All but two telegrams and eighteen of the letters are in favour of the man on the ship and critical of the Government.'
'Well,' Howden growled, 'at least there are twenty people with sense.'
'There have also been some new developments.' Elliot Prowse consulted his notes again. 'The man on the ship apparently has a lawyer who, the day before yesterday, obtained an order nisi for habeas corpus. The application is down for hearing in Vancouver this afternoon.'
'The court will throw it out,' Howden said wearily. 'It's an old legal dodge. I've used it myself.'
'Yes, sir; I understand they hold that opinion in Ottawa. But Mr Richardson is very concerned about newspaper coverage. It seems there's been a good deal. He asked me to report that the news stories are increasing in size and most of them are on page one. Some of the Eastern dailies now have their own reporters in Vancouver covering the case. There were fourteen critical editorials following your own remark before leaving for Washington. Mr Bonar Deitz is also making statements attacking the Government at every opportunity. In Mr Richardson's words, "the Opposition is making hay".'
'What the hell did he think they'd do?' the Prime Minister said angrily. 'Come out to cheer for us?'
'I don't really know what he thought about that.'
Howden snapped irritably, 'And why the hell do you have to answer every question?'
'I always assumed you expected an answer,' Prowse said.
The young man's tone expressed polite surprise and despite his own anger Howden released a smile. 'It isn't your fault. It isn't anybody's fault, except...' His thoughts were on Harvey Warrender.
'There's one other thing,' Elliot Prowse was saying. 'Mr Richardson asked me to warn you there'll be more press questioning at the airport on landing. He says he doesn't see how you can avoid it.'
'I won't do any avoiding,' James Howden said grimly. He looked at his assistant directly. 'You're supposed to be a bright young man. What do you suggest?'
'Well...' Prowse hesitated.
'Go on.'
'If I may say so, sir, you're quite effective when you lose your temper.'
Howden smiled again, then shook his head. 'Let me warn you: never, never lose your temper with the Press.'
But later, forgetting his own advice, he had.
It happened after landing at Ottawa airport. They had taxied, as incoming VIP nights usually did, to the public side of the airport instead of the RCAF side from which the Vanguard had taken off. In the private cabin, with Elliot Prowse gone and his own recent anger shelved for the time being, James Howden basked contentedly in the mental glow of a triumphal homecoming, even though, for the moment, his success in Washington could be shared only with an inner few.
Peering from the window, Margaret observed, 'There seems quite a crowd on the observation deck. Do you think they're waiting for us?
Releasing his own seat belt, he leaned forward across Margaret. It was true, he saw at once; several hundred people, most with heavy overcoats and scarves protecting them from the cold, were tightly packed against the guard rail and behind. Even while they watched, others arrived to swell the numbers.
'It's entirely possible,' he said expansively. 'After all, the Prime Minister of Canada does have a certain status, you know.'
Margaret's expression was non-committal. 'I hope we can get through it all quickly,' she said. 'I'm a little tired.'
'Well, it shouldn't be too long, but I expect I'll have to say a few words.' His mind toyed with phrases: ... extremely successful talks (he could say that much without being premature) ... an announcement on practical achievements within the next few weeks ... striving for closer, cordial (better not say intimate) relations between our two countries ... happy to renew my own long-standing friendship with the President...
Something on those lines, he decided, should suit the occasion well.
The engines were stopped, fuselage door opened, and a stairway wheeled in. As the others aboard waited politely, James Howden and Margaret were the first out.
The sun was shining patchily and a chilling north wind gusted across the airport.
As they paused, sheltered partially from the wind, on the platform above the stairs it occurred to Howden that the crowd, no more than a hundred yards away, was strangely quiet.
Stuart Cawston trotted up to meet them, his hand outstretched, 'Greetings!' he beamed, 'and welcome home on behalf of us all.'
'Goodness!' Margaret exclaimed. 'We were only away three days.'
'It's just that it seemed longer,' Cawston assured her. 'We missed you.'
As Smiling Stu's hand clasped Howden's he murmured, 'A wonderful, wonderful outcome. You've done a great service for the country.'
Moving down the stairway, with Margaret ahead, Howden inquired softly, 'You've talked with Lucien Perrault?' -
The Finance Minister nodded. 'Just as you instructed by phone. I informed Perrault, but no one else.'
'Good!' Howden said approvingly. They began to walk towards the airport buildings. 'We'll hold a full Cabinet tomorrow, and meanwhile I'd like to talk with you, Perrault, and one or two others tonight. It had better be in my office,'
Margaret protested, 'Must it really be tonight, Jamie? We're both tired and I did so hope it could be a quiet evening.'
'There'll be other quiet evenings,' her husband replied with a trace of impatience.
'Perhaps you could drop over to our place, Margaret,' Cawston suggested. 'I'm sure Daisy would be pleased.'
'Thank you, Stu,' Margaret shook her head. 'I think not tonight.'
Now they were halfway to the terminal building. Behind them, others were descending from the aeroplane.
Once more the Prime Minister was conscious of the silent, watching crowd. He observed curiously, 'They're unusually quiet, aren't they?'
A frown crossed Cawston's face. 'I'm told the natives aren't friendly.' He added: 'It's an organized demonstration, it seems. They came in buses.'
At that, as if the words were a signal, the storm broke.
The catcalls and boos came first, intensely fierce, as if pent up and suddenly released. Then there were shouts, with words audible like 'Scrooge!' 'Dictator!' 'Heartless Bastard!' 'We'll get you out!' 'You won't be Prime Minister long!' 'Wait until the next election!'
At the same time, with a kind of ragged precision, the placards went up. Until this moment they had been concealed, but now Howden could read:
IMMIGRATION DEPT:
CANADA'S GESTAPO
LET DUVAL IN,
HE DESERVES A BREAK
CHANGE FIENDISH
IMMIGRATION LAWS
JESUS CHRIST WOULD BE
TURNED AWAY HERE
CANADA NEEDS DUVAL,
NOT HOWDEN
THIS HEARTLESS GOVERNMENT
MUST GO
Tight-lipped he asked Cawston, 'You knew of this?' 'Brian Richardson warned me,' the Finance Minister said unhappily. 'According to him, the whole thing has been bought and paid for by the Opposition. But, frankly, I didn't think it would be this bad.' '
The Prime Minister saw television cameras swing towards the placards and the booing crowd. This scene would be
going across the country tonight.
There was nothing else to do but continue on to the terminal doorway as the angry shouts and booing grew louder. James Howden took Margaret's arm and forced a smile. 'Just act as if nothing is happening,' he urged, 'and don't hurry.' 'I'm trying,' Margaret said. 'But it's a bit hard.' The sound of shouting diminished as they entered the terminal building. A group of reporters was waiting, Brian Richardson hovering behind. More TV cameras were focused upon the Prime Minister and Margaret.
As the Howdens halted, a young reporter asked, 'Mr Prime Minister, have you changed your views at all on the Duval immigration case?'
After Washington ... the parley in high places, the President's respect, his own success ... to have this the first question was a final indignity. Experience, wisdom, caution fled as the Prime Minister declared wrathfully, 'No, I have not changed my views, nor is there any likelihood that I shall. What occurred just now - in case you are unaware - was a calculated political demonstration, staged by irresponsible elements.' The reporters' pencils raced as Howden continued, 'These elements - and I need not name them - are using this minor issue in an attempt to divert public attention from the real achievements of the Government in more important areas. Furthermore, I say to you that the Press, by its continued emphasis on this insignificant affair, at a time when grave and great decisions confront our country, is being duped or is irresponsible, and perhaps both.'
He saw Brian Richardson, shake his head urgently. Well, Howden thought, the newspapers had things their own way often enough, and sometimes attack was the best defence. But more moderately, his temper cooling, he continued, 'You gentlemen should remember that I answered questions on this subject, patiently and at length, three days ago. But if you have forgotten, I will emphasize again that the Government intends to abide by the law as embodied in the Immigration Act.'
Someone said quietly, 'You mean you'd leave Duval to rot on the ship?'
The Prime Minister snapped: 'The question does not concern me.'
It was an unfortunate choice of phrase: he had meant that the matter was outside his own jurisdiction. But obstinacy prevented him from changing what was already said.
By evening the quotation had gone from coast to coast. Radio and TV repeated it, and morning paper editors, with minor variations, slugged the story:
Duval: PM 'Unconcerned'
Press, Public 'Irresponsible'
Part 12
Vancouver, January 4th
Chapter 1
The Prime Minister's flight had landed at Ottawa airport a few minutes before 1.30 in the afternoon. Eastern Standard Time. In Vancouver at the same moment -- four provinces and three time zones to the west - it was still morning and nearing 10.30 AM, at which hour the order nisi affecting the future and freedom of Henri Duval was due to be heard in judge's chambers.
'Why judge's chambers?' Dan Orliffe asked Alan Maitland, whom he had intercepted in the bustling upper floor corridor of the BC Supreme Court Building. 'Why not in a courtroom?' Alan had come in a moment earlier from outside where, overnight, a bitter blustering wind had set the city shivering. Now, in the warm building, a press of human traffic swirled around them: hurrying lawyers, gowns billowing; others with litigants in last-minute conclaves; court officials; news reporters - more of the latter than usual today because-of interest the Duval case had aroused.
'The hearing will be in a courtroom,' Alan said hurriedly. 'Look, I can't stop; we'll be heard in a few minutes.' He was uncomfortably aware of Dan Orliffe's poised pencil and open notebook. He had faced so many in the past few days: ever since Orliffe's original news story; then yesterday again, after the news had broken of his application for a habaeas corpus writ. There had been a spate of interviews and questions: Did he really have a case? What did he expect would happen? If the full writ was granted, what next? ...
He had sidestepped most of the questions, excusing himself on professional grounds; and in any event, he had said, he could not discuss a case which was now sub judice. He had -been conscious too of the disfavour with which judges looked on publicity-seeking lawyers, and the press attention so far had made him acutely uncomfortable on this score. But none of this concern had stopped the headlines, yesterday and today; or the news reports on radio and television...
Then, starting yesterday afternoon, there had been the phone calls and telegrams, pouring in from across the country; from strangers - most of them people he had never heard of, though a few big names among them that he had. All had wished him well, a few had offered money, and he found himself moved that the plight of a single hapless man should, after all, cause such genuine concern.
Now, in the moment or so during which Alan had stopped to speak with Dan Orliffe, other reporters were surrounding him. One of the out-of-town men whom Alan remembered from yesterday - from the Montreal Gazette, he thought -asked, 'Yes, what's with this "chambers" business?'
Alan supposed he had better take a minute to spell things out. These were not regular court reporters, and the Press had helped him when he needed help...
'All matters, other than formal trials,' he explained quickly, 'are dealt with in judge's chambers instead of in court. But usually there are so many items to be heard, with a lot of people involved, that the judge moves into a courtroom which, for the time being, becomes his chambers.'
'Hell!' a derisive voice said from the rear. 'What's that old line about the law being an ass?'
Alan grinned. 'If I agreed with you, you might quote me.'
A small man at the front asked, 'Will Duval be here today?'
'No,' Alan answered. 'He's still on the ship. We can only get him off the ship if the order nisi is made absolute - that is, a habeas corpus writ. That's what today's hearing is about.'
Tom Lewis pushed his short chunky figure through the group. Taking Alan's arm he urged, 'Let's go, man!'
Alan glanced at his watch; it was almost 10.30. 'That's all,' he told the reporters. 'We'd all better get inside.'
'Good luck, chum!' one of the wire service men said. 'We're pulling for you.'
As the outer door swung closed behind the last to enter, the court clerk called 'Order!' At the front of the small, square courtroom, preceded by a clerk, the spare, bony figure of Mr Justice Willis entered briskly. He mounted the judge's' dais, bowed formally to counsel - the twenty or so who would appear briefly before him within the next half-hour - and, without turning, dropped smartly into the seat which the clerk had placed behind him.
Leaning towards Alan beside him, Tom Lewis whispered, 'K that guy is ever late with the chair it'll be Humpty Dumpty all over.'
For an instant the judge glanced in their direction, his sharp angular face austere beneath the bushy grey eyebrows and brooding eyes which Alan had been so aware of two days earlier. Alan wondered if he had heard, then decided it was impossible. Now with a tight, formal nod to the clerk, the judge indicated that chambers procedure could begin.
Glancing around the mahogany-panelled courtroom, Alan saw that the Press had occupied two full rows of seats, near the front, on the opposite side of the centre aisle. On his own side, behind and in front, were fellow lawyers, most clasping or reading legal documents, ready for the moment their business would be called. Then, while his head was turned towards the rear, five men came in.
The first was Captain Jaabeck in a blue serge suit with a trench coat over his arm, moving uncertainly in the unfamiliar surroundings. He was accompanied by an older, well-dressed man whom Alan recognized as a partner in a downtown legal firm specializing in marine law. Presumably this was the shipping company's lawyer. The two took seats behind the reporters, the lawyer - whom Alan had met once - looking across and nodding agreeably and Captain Jaabeck inclining his head with a slight smile.
Immediately following was a trio - Edgar Kramer, as usual neatly attired in a well-pressed pin-stripe suit with white pocket handkerchief carefully folded, a second, stockily built man with a trim, toothbrush moustache, who deferred to Kramer
as they entered - probably an assistant in the Immigration Department, Alan reasoned; and, ushering the other two, a heavy-set distinguished figure who, from his air of confidence in the court, was almost certainly another lawyer.
At the front of the courtroom the day's crop of applications had begun, called one after another by the clerk. As each was named, a lawyer Would stand up, stating his business briefly. Usually there was a casual question or two from the judge, then a nod, signifying approval of the application.
Tom Lewis nudged Alan. 'Is that your friend Kramer - the one with the acid-Jar face?' Alan nodded.
Tom swivelled his head to examine the others, then a moment later turned back, his lips pursed in a silent whistle. He whispered: 'Have you seen who's with him?'
'The fashion plate in the grey suit?' Alan whispered back. 'I don't recognize him. Do you?'
Tom put a hand to his mouth, speaking behind it. 'I sure do. A. R. Butler, QC, no less. They're firing the big guns at you, boy! Feel like running?'
'Frankly,' Alan murmured, 'yes.'
A. R. Butler was a name to conjure with. One of the city's most successful trial lawyers, he had a reputation for consummate legal skill and his examinations and argument could be deadly. Normally he interested himself in major cases only. It must have taken some persuasion, Alan thought, plus a fat fee, for the Department of Immigration to have secured his services. Already, Alan noticed, there was a stirring of interest among the Press.
The clerk called: 'In the matter of Henri Duval - application for habeas corpus.'
Alan stood. He said quickly, 'My lord, may this stand until second reading?' It was a normal courtesy to other lawyers present. Those behind him on the list, and with application requiring no argument could transact it speedily and go. Afterwards the residue of names - those anticipating lengthier proceedings - would be called again.
As the judge nodded, the clerk intoned the next name. Resuming his seat, Alan felt a hand touch his shoulder. It was A. R. Butler. The older lawyer had moved across during Alan's interjection, taking the seat behind. He brought with him a waft of perfumed after-shave lotion.