The Senator looked pained. 'I'd rather not put it on that basis, my boy.'
'But I would,' Alan said bluntly. He waited for an answer. 'I suppose ... in certain circumstances ... I might be obliged to reconsider.'
'Thank you,' Alan said. 'I just wanted to be clear.'
With bitterness, he thought: he had been shown the promised land, and now...
For an instant he weakened; temptation beckoned him. The Senator had said: no one ... not even Sharon ... need ever know. It could be done so easily: an omission, a laxity in argument, a concession to opposing counsel... Professionally, he might be criticized, but he was young; inexperience could be a cloak. Such things were quickly forgotten.
Then he dismissed the thought, as if it had never been.
His words were clear and strong.
'Senator Deveraux,' he declared, 'I already intended to go into court this morning and win. I would like you to know that I shall still win, except that now I am ten times more determined.'
There was no answer. Only the eyes uplifted, the face weary as if drained by effort.
'Just one more thing.' Alan's voice took on a cutting edge. 'I wish to make it clear that you are no longer retaining me in any capacity. My client is Henri Duval, and no one else.'
The door to the dining-room opened. Sharon appeared, a slip of paper in her hand. She inquired uncertainly, 'Is something wrong?'
Alan gestured to the cheque. 'You won't be needing that. I suggest you put it back in the Consolidated Fund.'
'Why, Alan? Why?' Sharon's lips were parted, her face pale.
Suddenly, unreasonably, he wanted to hurt and wound.
'Your precious grandfather made me a proposition,' he answered savagely. 'I suggest you ask him about it. After all, you were included in the deal.'
He brushed rudely by, not stopping until he had reached his battered Chevrolet in the driveway. Turning it, he drove swiftly towards town.
Chapter 2
Alan Maitland knocked sharply at the outer entrance of the Hotel Vancouver suite reserved for Henri Duval. After a moment, the door opened partially, behind it the broad, bulky figure of Dan Orliffe. Opening the door fully, the reporter asked, 'What kept you?'
'I had another engagement,' Alan answered shortly. Entering, he glanced about him at the comfortably appointed living-room, unoccupied except for Orliffe. 'It's time we were moving. Is Henri ready?'
'Just about,' the reporter acknowledged. 'He's in there dressing.' He nodded towards a closed bedroom door.
'I'd like him to wear the dark suit,' Alan said. 'It'll look better in court.' They had purchased two new suits for Duval the previous day, as well as shoes and other accessories, utilizing money from the small accumulated trust fund. The suits were ready-mades, hastily adjusted but well-fitting. They had been delivered late yesterday.
Dan Orliffe shook his head. 'He can't wear the dark one. He gave it away.'
Alan said irritably, 'What do you mean - gave it away?'
'Exactly what I say. There was a room-service waiter about Henri's size. So Henri gave the suit to him. Just like that. Oh yes, and he threw in a couple of the new shirts and a pair of shoes.'
'If this is a joke,' Alan snapped, 'I don't think it's very funny.'
'Listen, chum,' Orliffe cautioned, 'whatever's biting you, don't take it out on me. And for the record, I don't think it's funny either.'
Alan grimaced. 'Sorry. I guess I've a sort of emotional hangover.'
'It happened before I got here,' Orliffe explained. 'Apparently Henri took a shine to this guy, and that was it. I phoned downstairs to try and get the suit back, but the waiter's gone off duty.'
'What did Henri say?'
'When I asked him about it, he sort of shrugged and told me there will be many more suits and he wants to give away a lot of things.'
'We'll soon straighten him out on that,' Alan said grimly. He crossed to the bedroom door and opened it. Inside, Henri Duval, in a light brown suit, white shirt, neatly knotted tie, and polished shoes, was studying himself in a long mirror. He turned to Alan, beaming.
'I look pretty, no?'
It was impossible to ignore the infectious, boyish pleasure. Alan smiled. Henri's hair had been trimmed too; now it was neatly combed and parted. Yesterday had been a busy time: a medical exam; press and TV interviews; shopping; a fitting for the suits.
'Sure you look pretty.' Alan tried to make his voice sound stern. 'But that doesn't mean you can give away new suits, bought for you specially.'
Henri's face took on an injured look. He said, 'The man I give, my friend.'
'As far as I can make out,' Dan Orliffe put in from behind, 'it was the first time they'd met. Henri makes friends pretty fast.'
Alan instructed, 'You don't give your own new clothes away, even to friends.'
The young stowaway pouted like a child. Alan sighed. There were going to be problems, he could see, in adapting Henri Duval to his new environment. Aloud he announced, 'We'd better go. We mustn't be late in court.'
On the way out Alan stopped. Looking around the suite, he told Duval, 'If we are successful in court, this afternoon we will find a room for you to live in.'
The young stowaway looked puzzled. 'Why not here? This place good.'
Alan said sharply, 'I don't doubt it. But we don't happen to have this kind of money.'
Henri Duval asserted brightly, 'The newspaper pay.'
'Not after today,' Dan Orliffe shook his head. 'My editor's already beefing about the cost. Oh yes, and there's another thing.' He told Alan: 'Henri has decided that from now on we must pay him if we take his picture. He informed me this morning.'
Alan felt a return of his earlier irritability. 'He doesn't understand these things. And I hope you won't print that in the paper.'
'I won't,' Dan said quietly. 'But others will if they hear it. Sometime soon, I suggest you have an earnest talk with our young friend.'
Henri Duval beamed at them both.
Chapter 3
There was a milling crowd of people outside the courtroom in which this morning's hearing would be held. The public sears were already full; politely but firmly, ushers were turning newcomers away. Pressing through the throng, ignoring questions from reporters close behind him, Alan steered Henri Duval through the centre courtroom door.
Alan had already stopped to put on a counsel's gown with starched white tabs. Today's would be a full dress hearing with all protocol observed. Entering, he was aware of the spaciously impressive courtroom with its carved oak furnishings, rich red carpet, and matching crimson and gold drapes at the high arched windows. Through Venetian blinds sunlight streamed in.
At one of the long counsel's tables, Edgar Kramer. A. R.
Butler, QC, and the shipping-company lawyer, Tolland, were already seared in straight-backed leather chairs, facing the canopied Judge's bench with its royal coat of arms above.
With Henri Duval, Alan moved to the second table. To his right the Press table was crowded, Dan Orliffe, the latest arrival, squeezing in among the others. The clerk of the court and court reporter were seated below the judge's bench. From the packed spectators' seats, behind counsel, came a low-pitched buzz of conversation.
Glancing sideways, Alan observed that the other two lawyers had turned towards him. They smiled and nodded, and he returned their greeting. As on the earlier occasion, Edgar Kramer's eyes were studiedly averted. A moment later Tom Lewis, also gowned, dropped into the seat beside Alan. Looking around, he remarked irreverently, 'Reminds me of our office, only bigger.' He nodded to Duval. 'Good morning,
Henri.'
Alan wondered when he should break the news to Tom that there would no longer be a fee for the work which they were doing; that through impetuous pride he had brushed aside payment to which they were properly entitled, whatever his quarrel with Senator Deveraux might be. Perhaps it might mean the end of their partnership; at the very least there would be hardship for them both.
He thought of Sharon.
He was sure now that she had had no knowledge of what her grandfather proposed this morning, and that was the reason she had been sent from the room. If she had stayed, she would have protested as he himself had done. But instead of having faith, he had doubted her. Suddenly, miserably, he remembered the words he had used to Sharon: You were included in the deal. He wished desperately that he could call them back. He supposed that she would not wish to see him again.
A thought occurred to him. Sharon had said she would be in court this morning. He craned around, surveying the public seats. As he had feared, she was not there.
'Order!' It was the clerk of the court.
The officials, counsel, and spectators rose as, robes rustling, Mr Justice Stanley Willis entered and took his seat upon the bench.
When the court had settled, the clerk announced, 'Supreme Court, January 13th, in the matter of Henri Duval.'
Alan Maitland was on his feet. Speedily he dealt with the preliminaries, then began, 'My lord, for centuries, every individual who is subject to the jurisdiction of the Crown -whether in the country temporarily or not - has been entitled to seek redress from injustice at the foot of the throne. Expressed in essence, in this application of habeas corpus, that is my client's plea today.'
In its correct sense, Alan knew, the hearing would be legally formalistic, with points of abstruse law being debated by himself and A. R. Butler. But he had decided in advance to introduce every ounce of humanity that he could. Now he continued, 'I draw the Court's attention to the deportation order issued by the Department of Immigration.' Alan quoted the words he knew by heart, '... detained and deported to the place whence you came to Canada, or to the country of which you are a national or citizen, or to the country of your birth, or to such country as may be approved...'
An individual, he argued, could not be deported to four places at the same time; therefore there must be some decision as to which of the four was to apply. 'Who is to make this decision?' Alan inquired rhetorically, then answered his own question: 'One would conclude - the authorities issuing the deportation order. And yet there has been no decision; only that my client, Henri Duval, shall be imprisoned on the ship.'
By this action - or inaction - Alan claimed, the ship's captain was being forced to make an impossible choice of the four alternatives. Alan declared vehemently, 'It is as if Your Lordship found an individual guilty of a crime and said, "I sentence this man either to three years in the penitentiary, or to twelve strokes of the paddle, or six months in local jail, and I leave it to someone else outside this courtroom to determine which it shall be."'
As Alan paused, sipping from a glass of ice water which Tom Lewis poured, there was a hint of a smile on the judge's face. At the other counsel's table, A. R. Butler, his distinguished features impassive, made a pencilled note.
Alan continued: 'I submit, my lord, that the deportation order affecting Henri Duval is defective because it cannot be carried out precisely.'
Now -- the strongest pillar of his case - he sketched in the history of Rex vs Ahmed Singh, reading in detail from the volume of law reports he had brought to court, the significant portion flagged. In the 1921 case, stripped of legal verbiage, a Canadian judge had ruled: a rejected immigrant, Ahmed Singh, could not be deported solely to a ship. Nor, Alan insisted, could Henri Duval.
'Under the law,' Alan declared, 'the two situations are identical. Thus, under habeas corpus proceedings, the order should be quashed and my client freed.'
A. R. Butler stirred and made another note; soon he would have the opportunity of rebuttal and initiating argument himself. Meanwhile, Alan's words and reasoning flowed confidently on. He had told Senator Deveraux: I intend to win...
In the seat beside A. R. Butler, Edgar Kramer listened unhappily to the lengthening proceedings.
Edgar Kramer had a working knowledge of the law, and knowledge plus instinct told him that, for the Immigration Department, the hearing was not proceeding well. He also had a secondary instinct: that, if the verdict was adverse, a scapegoat might be found within the department. And there was an obvious one: himself.
He had been aware of this ever since the curt and cutting message two days earlier: 'The Prime Minister ... extremely dissatisfied ... handling of the case in judge's chambers ... should not have offered a special inquiry ... expect better performance in future.' The executive assistant who had relayed the censure by telephone had seemed to do so with especial relish.
Edgar Kramer seethed anew at the bitter, gross injustice. He had even been denied the elementary privilege of self-defence; of explaining to the Prime Minister personally that the special inquiry had been forced upon him by this judge, and that, faced with two impossible situations, he had chosen the least harmful and most expeditious.
It had been the correct thing to do, as everything he had done had been correct from the moment he had reached Vancouver.
In Ottawa, his instructions before departure had been explicit. The deputy minister had told him personally: if the stowaway Duval did not qualify for admittance as an immigrant under the law, then, under no circumstances would he be admitted. Furthermore, Edgar Kramer was authorized to take all necessary legal steps to prevent such admittance, whatever they might be.
There had been another assurance; political pressure or a public outcry would not be allowed to interfere with application of the law. The assurance, he was told, had come directly from the Minister, Mr Warrender.
Edgar Kramer had followed instructions conscientiously, as he had always done in the course of his career. Despite what was happening here and now, he had observed the law - the Immigration Act, as passed by Parliament. He had been dutiful and loyal, and not neglectful. And it was not his fault that an upstart lawyer and a misguided judge had thrown-his efforts out of joint.
His superiors, he supposed, would understand. And yet... the Prime Minister's displeasure was something else again.
Censure from a Prime Minister could cut a civil servant down; make him a marked man, with promotion barred. And even when governments changed, such judgements had a way of hanging over.
In his own case, of course, the censure had not been major; and perhaps already the Prime Minister had erased it from his mind. AH the same, uneasily, Edgar Kramer had an instinct that the brightness of his future, compared with a week ago, was slightly dimmed.
What he must guard against was another controversial step. If the Prime Minister were reminded of his name once more...
Within the courtroom the words flowed on. The judge had intervened with questions at several points, and now A. R. Butler and Alan Maitland were politely disputing a minute point of law. '... My learned friend says the order is in the exact terms of Section 36. I submit that the addition of these commas may be important. It is not in the exact terms of Section 36...'
Edgar Kramer hated Alan Maitland's guts. He also had an urge to urinate: emotion, including anger, nowadays had this effect. And there was no denying that lately his affliction had been worse, the pain from delay greater. He tried to shield his mind ... to forget... to think of something else...
He turned his eyes to Henri Duval; the stowaway was grinning, not understanding, his gaze roving the courtroom. Every instinct Kramer possessed ... his years of experience ... told him that this man would never make a settled immigrant. His background was against him. Despite any help he might be given, such a man could not adapt and conform to a country he would never understand. There was a pattern of behaviour for his type: short-lived industry, then idleness; the eager search for quick rewards; weakness, dissolution; trouble ... the pattern always moving downward. There were many cases in department files: the harsh reality which starry-eyed idealists ignored.
'... Surely, my lord, the sole issue on the return of a habeas corpus is the question of the validity of the custody...'
The thought... the urge to urinate, near physical pain ... would no longer be subdued.
Edgar Kramer squirmed miserably in his chair. But he would
not leave.
Anything, anything, rather than draw attention to himself.
Closing his eyes, he prayed for a recess.
It was to be no pushover, Alan Maitland realized. A. R. Butler, QC, was fighting hard, contesting every argument, citing precedents in rebuttal against Rex vs Ahmed Singh. The Judge, too, seemed extremely querulous, questioning minutely 'as if for some reason of his own, he wished Alan's presentation turned inside out.
At this moment A. R. Butler was defending the Immigration Department's actions. 'No individual freedom has been abrogated,' he declared. 'Duval, in the case at bar, has had his rights and now they have run out.'
The older lawyer's performance, Alan thought, was as impressive as ever. The deep, urbane voice continued, 'I submit, my lord, that to admit such an individual, under such circumstances as described, would inevitably open the gates of Canada to a flood of immigrants. These would not be immigrants as we know them. They would be those demanding admittance merely because they cannot remember where they were born, possess no travel documents, or speak in monosyllables.'
Instantly Alan was on his feet. 'My lord, I object to counsel's remarks. The question of how any man speaks...'
Mr Justice Willis waved him down. 'Mr Butler,' the judge said mildly, 'I don't suppose you or I can remember being born.'
The point I was making, my lord--'
'Furthermore,' the judge said firmly, 'I imagine that some of our most respected local families are descended from those who got off a boat without travel documents. I can think of several'
'If Your Lordship will permit--'
'And as for speaking in monosyllables, I find myself doing it in my own country - as, for instance, when I visit the province of Quebec.' The judge nodded equably. 'Please proceed, Mr Butler.'
For an instant the lawyer's face flushed. Then he continued, 'The point I was making, my lord - no doubt badly, as Your Lordship was generous enough to point out - is that the people of Canada arc entitled to protection under the Immigration Act...'