In High Places

‘Nevertheless,’ the Prime Minister insisted, ‘you did go to court, and you lost your case.’

Alan admitted ruefully, ‘Yes, we lost. And that’s why I’m here – to beg.’ The smile flashed again. ‘If necessary I’ll get down on my knees.’

‘No.’ Howden smiled in response. ‘I don’t want you to do that.’

‘I’d like to tell you, sir, about Henri Duval.’ If his time were short, Alan thought, he would at least make the most of it. ‘He’s a good little man, sturdy, a hard worker; I’m convinced he’d make a good citizen. True, he doesn’t speak English well; he’s had no education…’

‘Mr Maitland,’ the Prime Minister interrupted firmly, ‘the reason this man cannot be admitted is quite simple. The world is full of people who, on the surface of things, are perhaps worth helping. But there must be some order to the help; some plan, some scheme of action. It’s the reason we have an Immigration Act…’

Besides, he thought obstinately, he would not give way to this absurd and disproportionate public clamour. The indignity at Ottawa airport still rankled. And even if he ignored the threat of Harvey Warrender, a concession now would seem weak and ridiculous. As Prime Minister he had made his decision known; surely that should count for something.

Alan Maitland was arguing, ‘Henri Duval is in Vancouver, Mr Prime Minister. He isn’t in Hungary, or Ethiopia, or China. He’s here and now.’ He added, with a trace of bitterness, ‘In a country where the underprivileged are supposed to get a break.’

The underprivileged. For an instant James Howden had a troubled memory of the orphanage; the outside, unexpected chance, won for himself through one man – his own Alan Maitland, long ago. But at least he had been born here. He decided the interview had gone on long enough.

‘The Immigration Act is the law of this country, Mr Maitland. No doubt it has its faults, but the way it is, is the way the people of Canada choose to have it. Under the law I regret the answer to you must be no.’

The concluding, speedy civilities were observed. Standing, James Howden shook Alan’s hand. ‘Allow me to wish you great success in your profession,’ he remarked. ‘Perhaps one day you’ll enter political life. I’ve a notion you’d do well.’

Alan answered quietly, ‘I don’t think so, sir. There are too many things about it I don’t like.’

When Alan Maitland had gone, the Prime Minister selected a second chocolate bar and nibbled it thoughtfully. After a while he summoned his executive assistant and irritably demanded the draft of his evening speech.

Chapter 2

In the Hotel Vancouver lobby Dan Orliffe was waiting for Alan Maitland. He asked expectantly, ‘Any change?’

Alan shook his head.

‘Well,’ Orliffe said cheerfully, ‘you’re keeping the case before the public, and that’s worth something.’

Alan asked dourly, ‘It is? Just tell me what the public can do when the Government won’t budge.’

‘Haven’t you heard? The public can change the Government; that’s what.’

‘Oh, great!’ Alan said. ‘We’ll wait for an election, then send Henri a postcard with the news. If we can find out where he is.’

‘Come on,’ Dan told him. ‘I’ll drive you to your office. On the way you can tell me what Howden said.’

Tom Lewis was working in his own small cubicle when Alan came in. Dan Orliffe had driven away after their session in the car, presumably to the Post. Once more, for Tom’s benefit, Alan repeated what had transpired.

‘I’ll say this,’ Tom said. ‘You don’t let go of the bone once your teeth are in.’

Alan nodded. He wondered if he should call Sharon; or perhaps there was really no reason. They had not talked since their telephone conversation two days earlier.

‘By the way,’ Tom said, ‘a parcel came for you – chauffeur-delivered and all. It’s in your office.’

Curiously Alan went in. A square, wrapped package was in the centre of the desk. Untying it, he drew out a box and removed the lid. Under layers of tissue paper was a clay-moulded figure – head and shoulders. A note beside it read: ‘I tried to make it like Mr Kramer, but it kept coming out the way it is. So, please, no pins – ever! With love – Sharon.’

He lifted the figure. It was, he saw glowing, a passable imitation of himself.

Chapter 3

Less than a quarter-mile from the Prime Minister’s suite in the Hotel Vancouver, Mr Justice Stanley Willis of the British Columbia Supreme Court paced restlessly, as he had for more than an hour, his private Judge’s chambers.

Mr Justice Willis, stern-faced, severe, and outwardly imperturbable, was waging an inward mental battle.

The lines of battles were clearly drawn. On one side was his judicial integrity, on the other his personal conscience. Both were focused upon a single subject: Henri Duval.

Edgar Kramer had told the Prime Minister’s executive assistant: ‘There is nothing further legally that the man’s sponsors can do.’ Alan Maitland, after a week-long search for legal precedents, had reached the same opinion.

Mr Justice Willis possessed knowledge demonstrating both to be wrong. The knowledge was such that, if used promptly, it would free Henri Duval from his shipboard prison, at least temporarily, and possibly for good.

The key to the situation lay in a heavy, bound volume – BC Reports, Vol 34, 1921 – on the judge’s desk. It was open at a page headed Rex vs A hmed Singh.

The paper upon which the words – and those which followed – appeared was faded and yellow. But the proposition of law – ratio decidendi – was as binding as if enunciated yesterday.

A Canadian judge had ruled: Ahmed Singh in 1921… and therefore Henri Duval today… could not be deported solely to a ship.

Any individual (the long dead judge had declared in 1921) must be deported to the country from whence he came, and not to any other place.

But the Vastervik was not destined to Lebanon… the country whence Henri Duval had come… where be had boarded the ship. The MV Vastervik was an ocean-going tramp, its next port of call Belfast, its routing beyond that point uncertain…

The deportation order against Henri Duval was therefore unlawful and invalid.

Rex vs Ahmed Singh said so.

Mr Justice Stanley Willis had elicited the facts about the Vastervik discreetly, as he had followed other details of the case discreetly.

He had received word of the search by Alan Maitland and Tom Lewis for legal precedents which would prevent the deportation of Henri Duval. He had learned also of their failure and it did not surprise him.

He had no criticism of the two young lawyers for failing to discover Rex vs Ahmed Singh. The case was wrongly summarized and indexed in Canadian Abridgements, a not unusual happening. The judge himself would not have known of it, except that years before he had stumbled across the old report by merest chance, and it had remained in mind.

Knowing what he did, Mr Justice Willis reflected, if he were Henri Duval’s lawyer he would apply at once – this afternoon – for a new writ of habeas corpus. And, as a judge, if confronted by the application he would immediately accede -not with the half-measure order nisi, as earlier, but with full habeas corpus which would free Henri Duval from the Vastervik at once.

But he was a judge; and he was not a lawyer. And no man could be both.

The business of a judge was to deal judicially with matters brought before him. It was no part of his function to meddle directly in legal cases or to initiate action favouring one litigant over another. Occasionally, to be sure, a judge might nudge counsel, hinting at steps to be followed which, in his opinion, would advance the cause of justice. He himself had done this with Alan Maitland at the nisi hearing affecting Henri Duval.

But beyond that point judicial interference was reprehensible. More, it was betrayal of a judge’s role.

Once more Mr Justice Willis paced the rug between the window and his desk. Today the wide, bony shoulders were stooped over the spare body, as if responsibility weighed heavily upon them. The long, angular face, tense with thought, was troubled.

If I were not what I am, Mr Justice Willis thought, it would be so simple. I would pick up the telephone on the desk and ask for Alan Maitland. When he answered I would simply say: Look at BC Reports, Volume 34, 1921, page 191, Rex vs Ahmed Singh. Nothing more would be needed. He is an astute young man and before the court Registry closes today he would be here with a habeas corpus writ.

It would prevent Henri Duval from sailing with the ship.

And I care, he thought. Alan Maitland cares. And so do I.

But because I am what I am, I cannot… directly or indirectly… do this thing.

And yet… there was the inarticulate major premise.

It was a phrase he remembered from law school long ago. It was still taught, though – in the presence of judges – seldom mentioned.

The inarticulate major premise was the doctrine that no judge, whatever his intention, could ever be impartial. A judge was human; therefore he could never hold the scales exactly even. Consciously or unconsciously his every thought and action were influenced by the events and background of his life.

Mr Justice Stanley Willis accepted the postularion. He also knew that he himself possessed a major premise. It could be summarized in one word.

Belsen.

It had been 1945.

The law career of Stanley Willis, like that of many others of his generation, had been interrupted by the years of World War II. As an artillery officer he had served with the Canadians in Europe from 1940 until the war’s end. And, near its end. Major Stanley Willis, MC, liaison officer with the British Second Army, had accompanied the 63rd Anti-Tank Regiment in its liberation of the Nazi concentration camp of Bergen-Belsen.

He had remained at Belsen a month, and what he had seen had been the single most haunting experience of his life. For years afterwards, and sometimes even now, the horror of those thirty days could return to him in feverish, vivid dreams. And Stanley Willis – a scholarly, sensitive man beneath an austere facade – had departed from Belsen with an avowed intention: that, in the years left to him, whatever he could personally do to relieve the wretchedness of mistreated and afflicted human beings, that much he would do.

As a judge, it had not been easy. There had been occasions when despite inner misgivings he had been obliged to pass sentence on the guilty where instinct told him that society, and not individuals, was the principal ‘offender. But, sometimes, some hapless miserable felon, dismissed by most as beyond salvation had received a light or mitigated sentence because a shadow of the past… the inarticulate major premise… had touched the mind of Mr Justice Willis.

As now.

The plight of Henri Duval, as it had before the nisi hearing, continued to stir him deeply.

A man was incarcerated. A man could be justly freed.

Between the one and the other stood the judge’s honourable pride.

With humbled pride the lesson just, he thought. And he crossed to the telephone.

He must not call Alan Maitland directly; that much, discretion demanded. But there was another way. He could speak to his own former law partner, a respected senior counsel who was astute and would understand the implications of a conversation. The information conveyed would be relayed promptly, without revelation of the source. But his former law partner was also a man who held strong views on judges’ meddling…

Mr Justice Willis sighed. In conspiracy, he thought, there was no perfect pattern.

The connexion was made. He announced, "This is Stanley Willis.’ /

A deep voice on the telephone said affably, ‘It’s a pleasant surprise. Your Lordship.’