In High Places

Chapter 1

The Supreme Court of the Province of British Columbia closed the ponderous oak doors of its Vancouver Registry office promptly each day at 4 PM.

At ten minutes to four on the day following his second shipboard interview with Captain Jaabeck and Henri Duval (and at approximately the same time – ten to seven in Washington, DC – that the Prime Minister and Margaret Howden were dressing for the White House state dinner) Alan Maitland entered the courthouse Registry, briefcase in hand.

Inside the Registry, Alan hesitated, surveying the long, high-ceilinged room with one wall occupied entirely by file cabinets, and a polished wood counter top running most of its length. Then he approached the counter, opened the briefcase, and removed the papers inside. As he did, he was aware that the palms of his hands were more than usually moist.

An elderly clerk, the Registry's only occupant, came forward. He was a frail gnome-like man, stooped as though years of closeness to the law had set a weight upon his shoulders. He inquired courteously, 'Yes, Mr…?'

'Maitland,' Alan said. He passed across a set of the papers he had prepared. 'I've these for filing, and I'd like to be taken to the chamber judge, please.'

The clerk said patiently, 'Judge's chambers are at 10.30 AM and today's list is finished, Mr Maitland.'

'If you'll excuse me' – Alan pointed to the documents he had handed over – 'this is a matter of the liberty of the subject. I believe I'm entitled to have it brought on immediately.' On this point at least, he was sure of his ground. In any proceedings involving human liberty and illegal detention the law brooked no delay and, if necessary, a judge would be summoned from his bed in dead of night.

The clerk took rimless glasses from a case, adjusted them, and bent to read. He had an attitude of incuriosity, as if nothing surprised him. After a moment he lifted his head. 'I beg your pardon, Mr Maitland. You're quite right, of course.' He pulled a cloth-bound ledger towards him. 'It isn't every day we get an application for habeas corpus.'

When he had completed the ledger entry the clerk took a black gown from a peg and shrugged it around his shoulders. 'Come this way, please.'

He preceded Alan out of the Registry, along a panelled corridor, through double swing doors, and into the courthouse hallway where a wide stone staircase led to the upper floor. The building was quiet, their footsteps echoing. At this time of day most of the courts had risen and some of the building's lights were already turned out.

As they climbed the stairs, treading sedately one step at a time, an unaccustomed nervousness gripped Alan tautly. He subdued a childish impulse to turn and run. Earlier, in considering the arguments he intended to present, they had appeared plausible, even if some of the legal ground was shaky. But now, abruptly, the structure of his case seemed witless and naive. Was he about to make a fool of himself in the august presence of a Supreme Court judge? And if he did, what of the consequences? Judges were not to be trifled with, or special hearings demanded without good reason.

In a way he wished he had chosen another time of day, with the courthouse busy, as it usually was in the morning and early afternoon. The sight of other people might have been reassuring. But he had chosen this time carefully, to avoid attention and any more publicity which at this point might prove harmful. Most of the newspaper court reporters would have gone home by now, he hoped, and he had been careful to give other newspapermen who had phoned him several times today no hint of what was planned.

'It's Mr Justice Willis in chambers today,' the clerk said. 'Do you know him, Mr Maitland?'

'I've heard his name,' Alan said, 'but that's all.' He was aware that the roster of chamber judges changed regularly, each justice of the Supreme Court taking his turn to be available in chambers outside regular court hours. Therefore whichever judge one drew was mainly a matter of chance.

The clerk appeared about to speak, then changed his mind. Alan prompted him, 'Was there something you were going to tell me?'

'Well, sir, just a suggestion – if it isn't presumptuous.'

'Please go ahead,' Alan urged.

They had come to the head of the stairway and turned down a darkened corridor. 'Well, Mr Maitland' – the clerk lowered his voice – 'his lordship is a fine gentleman. But he's very strict about procedure and especially interruptions. Take as long as you like over your argument and he'll give you all the time you need. But once he's begun to talk himself he doesn't like anyone to speak, not even to ask questions, until he's finished. He can get very annoyed when that happens.'

'Thanks,' Alan said gratefully, 'I'll remember.'

Stopping at a heavy door, marked with the one word PRIVATE, the clerk rapped twice, his head cocked forward to listen. Faintly from inside a voice called 'Come!' The clerk opened the door, ushering Alan in.

It was a large, panelled room, Alan saw, carpeted, and with a tiled fireplace. In front of the fireplace a portable electric fire had two of its elements turned on. A mahogany desk, piled with files and books, occupied the room's centre, with more books and papers on a table behind. Brown velvet draperies were drawn back from leaded windows, revealing dusk outside, with lights of the city and harbour beginning to wink on. Within the room a single desk lamp burned, providing a pool of light. Outside the lamp's radius an erect lean figure had been putting on an overcoat and hat, preparing to leave, as the clerk and Alan entered.

'My lord,' the clerk said, 'Mr Maitland has an application for habeas corpus.'

'Indeed.' The one word, gruffly spoken, was the sole response. As the clerk and Alan waited, Mr Justice Stanley Willis carefully removed the coat and hat, replacing both on a stand behind him. Then, moving into the circle of light by the desk and seating himself, he instructed sharply, 'Come forward, Mr Maitland.'

His lordship, Alan judged, was a man of sixty or sixty-two, white-haired and sparely built, but with wide bony shoulders and a ramrod posture which made him seem taller than he was. His face was long and angular with a dominant jutting chin, bushy white eyebrows, and mouth set firmly in an even line. His eyes were penetrating and alert, yet unrevealing of themselves. The habit of authority sat naturally upon him.

Still nervously, despite his own inner reasoning, Alan Maitland approached the desk, the clerk remaining in the room as protocol required. From the briefcase Alan produced typed ribbon copies of the application and affidavit he had filed in Registry. Clearing his throat, he announced, 'My lord, here is my material and these are my submissions.'

Mr Justice Willis accepted the documents with a curt nod, moved closer to the light, and began to read. As the other two stood silently, the only sound was the rustle of pages turning.

When he had completed reading, the judge looked up, his expression noncommittal. Gruffly as before he asked; 'Do you intend to make an oral submission?'

'If Your Lordship pleases.'

Again a nod. 'Proceed.'

'The facts of the matter, my lord, are these.' In sequence, as he had memorized earlier, Alan described the situation of Henri Duval aboard the Vastervik, the refusal of the ship's captain on two occasions to bring the stowaway before immigration authorities ashore, and Alan's own submission – supported by his personal affidavit – that Duval was being illegally imprisoned in violation of basic human rights.

The crux of the situation, as Alan well knew, lay in establishing that the present detention of Henri Duval was procedurally wrong under the law, and therefore illegal. If this could be proven, the Court – in the person of Mr Justice Willis – must automatically issue a writ of habeas corpus, ordering the stowaway's release from the ship and his appearance before the court for consideration of his case.

Marshalling the arguments, and quoting statutes in support, Alan felt some of his confidence return. He was careful to confine himself to legal points only, leaving the emotional aspect of the stowaway's plight unspoken. Law, not sentiment, was what counted here. As he spoke the judge listened impassively, his expression unchanging.

Turning from the question of illegal detention to the present status of Henri Duval, Alan declared, 'It is argued by the Department of Immigration, my lord, that since my client is a stowaway and allegedly without documents, he has no legal rights and therefore cannot demand – as others may do at any Canadian port of entry – a special inquiry into his immigrant status. But it is my contention that the fact of his being a stowaway and apparently uncertain of his birthplace in no way detracts from this right.

'If Your Lordship will consider certain possibilities: a Canadian citizen by birth, travelling abroad and held unlawfully in custody, with papers taken from him, might find his only means of escape by stowing aboard a ship he knows to be destined to this country. Would he, in such case, because of his description as a stowaway and the absence of papers, be relegated to apparent non-existence, unable to prove his lawful right to enter Canada because an inquiry by the Department of Immigration had been denied him? I suggest, my lord, that this absurd situation could, in fact, exist if the department's present ruling were carried to its logical conclusion.'

The judge's bushy eyebrows went up. 'You're not suggesting, are you, that your client Henri Duval is a Canadian citizen?'

Alan hesitated, then replied carefully, 'That is not my suggestion, my lord. On the other hand, an immigration inquiry might reveal him as a Canadian, a fact which could not be established without the inquiry first.' When you had a weak case and knew it, Alan thought, even straws should be grasped at firmly.

'Well,' Mr Justice Willis said, and for the first time his face had the ghost of a smile, 'it's an ingenious argument, if a little thin. Is that all, Mr Maitland?'

Instinct told Alan: quit when you're ahead. He gave the slightest of bows. 'With respect, my lord, that is my submission.'

In the desk lamp's glow Mr Justice Willis sat meditatively silent. The momentary smile had gone, his face once more a stern immobile mask. The fingers of his right hand drummed the desk top softly. After a while he began, 'There is, of course, a time element involved – the question of the ship's sailing…'

Alan interjected, 'If Your Lordship pleases: in the matter of the ship…' He was about to explain the Vastervik's delay in Vancouver for repairs but stopped abruptly. At the interruption the judge's face had clouded angrily, his eyes beneath the bushy eyebrows bleak. Across the room Alan could sense the clerk's reproach. He swallowed. 'I beg Your Lordship's pardon.'

Briefly Mr Justice Willis stared coldly at the young lawyer. Then he continued, 'As I was about to observe, although there is a time limit involved, namely the question of the ship's departure, this must not interfere in any way with a matter of individual justice.'

Alan's heart leaped. Did this mean that the writ of habeas corpus was to be granted?… that afterwards he could take his time about procedure, moving slowly through successive legal steps while the Vastervik sailed, leaving Henri Duval behind?

'On the other hand,' the judge's voice proceeded evenly, 'as a matter of public policy, and in fairness to the shipping company concerned, which is somewhat an innocent bystander in this affair, it is equally pertinent that everything possible should be done to expedite procedure so as to render a final decision before the ship's normal sailing.'

So the optimism had been premature. Gloomily Alan reflected that not only Edgar Kramer, but now this judge, had seen through his ruse of a delaying action.

'I consider the matter of illegal detention not proven.' His lordship drew the submissions towards him and made a pencilled notation. 'But neither is it disproven and I am prepared to hear further argument. I shall therefore allow an order nisi.'

It was not defeat then, but partial victory, and a wave of relief swept over Alan. True he had achieved less than hoped for, but at least he had not made a fool of himself. The order nisi – the old English legal procedure – meant 'unless'. The nisi writ alone would not free Henri Duval from his shipboard prison and bring him before the Court. But it did mean that Edgar Kramer and Captain Jaabeck were to be summoned here to explain their stand. And unless their arguments -'or those of legal counsel – prevailed, the habeas corpus writ, releasing Duval, would follow.

'In the course of events, Mr Maitland, when will the ship sail?'

The eyes of Mr Justice Willis were upon him. Alan paused, wary before speaking, then realized the question was addressed directly.

'As far as I can learn, my lord, the ship will be here another two weeks.'

The judge nodded. 'It should be sufficient.'

'And the hearing on the writ, my lord?'

Mr Justice Willis pulled a desk calendar towards him. 'We should set the date, I think, for three days' time. If that is convenient.' It was the traditional courteous exchange between judge and lawyer, no matter how junior the latter might be.

Alan inclined his head. 'Yes, my lord.'

'You will have the papers drawn, of course.'

'If Your Lordship pleases, I have them ready.' Alan opened the briefcase.

'An order nisi'?''

'Yes, my lord. I foresaw that possibility.'

The moment the words were out Alan regretted them, as youthful and brash. In the ordinary way the writ would have been typed and submitted for the judge's signature next day. It had been Alan's idea to prepare a final order for signing promptly, and Tom Lewis had suggested the addition of an order nisi. Now, with slightly less assurance, Alan laid the typed pages, clipped together on the judge's desk.

Mr Justice Willis' expression had not changed, except for a slight crinkling around the eyes. He said impassively, 'In that event, Mr Maitland, there will be a time saving and I suggest we bring on the hearing sooner. Shall we say the day after tomorrow?'

Mentally Alan Maitland denounced his own stupidity. Instead of furthering the delay he sought, he had succeeded merely in speeding things up. He wondered if he should request more time, pleading the need for preparation. He caught the eye of the clerk who shook his head imperceptibly.

With inward resignation Alan said, 'Very well, my lord. The day after tomorrow.'

Mr Justice Willis read the order, then carefully signed it, the clerk blotting and gathering the page. As he watched, Alan remembered the arrangements he had made earlier for service of the document if his plan succeeded. Tom Lewis would go to the Vastervik, tonight, with Captain Jaabeck's copy and explain its contents. Tom, in any case, had been keen to see the ship and meet both the captain and Henri Duval.

For himself Alan had reserved what he thought of as a particular pleasure: attendance at the Department of Immigration and service of the order personally upon Edgar S. Kramer.

Chapter 2

Darkness, which had spread damply across the harbour and city of Vancouver, still found lights burning in the superintendent's office of the water-front Immigration Building.

Edgar S. Kramer, though punctilious about beginning each day precisely on time, rarely bothered to end his own working day at prescribed office hours. Whether in Ottawa, Vancouver, or elsewhere, he usually remained for at least an hour after the rest of the staff had gone, partly to disassociate himself from the usual eager exodus, and partly to avoid any accumulation of paper on his desk. A habit of getting things done and prompt handling of paper work were two reasons Edgar Kramer had been a conspicuous success as a career civil servant. Over the years of his progress upward there had been plenty of people who disliked him personally and a few whose antagonisms went deeper. But no one, even in enmity, could reasonably accuse him either of laziness or procrastination,

A good example of Kramer promptitude had been the decision taken today and described in a memorandum with the unlikely subject heading 'Pigeon Guano'. Edgar Kramer had dictated the memo earlier and now, reading over the typed copies which tomorrow would go to the building supervisor and others concerned, he nodded approvingly at his own resourcefulness.

The problem had come to his attention yesterday. Examining the proposed annual budget of the Immigration Department's West Coast Headquarters, he had queried a number of expenses for building maintenance, including an item of $750 – apparently recurring each year – for 'cleaning eavestrough and downpipes'.

Edgar Kramer had summoned the building supervisor – a bull-necked, loud-spoken man, happier behind a broom than a desk – who responded forcefully. 'Hell, Mr Kramer, sure it's too much money to spend, but it's all that pigeon shit.' Prompted further he had crossed to the office window and gestured. 'Look at the bastards!' Outside, as they watched, the air was thick with thousands of pigeons which nested, flew, and scavenged in the water-front area.

'Shittin', shittin' twenty-four hours a day, like they got the permanent runs,' the supervisor grumbled. 'And if one of 'em wants the can, they fly up to our roof. That's why we have to steam out the eavestroughs and downpipes six times a year -they're full of pigeon shit. Costs money, Mr Kramer.'

'I understand the problem,' Kramer said. 'Has anything been done to reduce the numbers of pigeons – by killing some?'

'Tried shootin' the bastards once,' the building supervisor answered gloomily, 'and there was all hell to pay. Humane Society people down here an' all. They say there's a bylaw in Vancouver says you can't. Tell you what, though: we could try putting poison on the roof. Then when they go there for a…'

Edgar Kramer said sharply, 'The word is guano – pigeon guano.'

The supervisor said, 'In my book it's all…'

'And furthermore,' Kramer interjected firmly, 'if the pigeons are protected by law, then the law will be observed.' He mused. 'We must find some other way.'

He had dismissed the other man and, once alone, considered the problem carefully. One thing was certain: the wasteful $750 expense each year must be eliminated.

Eventually, after several false starts and a number of sketches, he had devised a scheme based on a half-remembered idea. In essence the plan was to string piano wires at six inch intervals across the Immigration Building roof, with each strand supported on several short poles six inches high. The theory was that a pigeon could pass its feet through the strands of wire, but not its wings. Therefore, when a bird alighted, the wire would prevent folding of its wings and it would fly off at once.

This morning Edgar Kramer had had a small experimental section made and installed on the roof. The device worked perfectly. Now the memorandum he had approved was an instruction to put the full scheme into effect. Although the initial cost would be a thousand dollars, it should eliminate permanently the annual $750 expense – a saving to the country's taxpayers, although few would ever know about it.

The thought pleased Edgar Kramer, as his own conscientiousness always did. There was another satisfaction too: the local bylaw had been observed, with even the pigeons treated justly and according to regulations.

It had been (Edgar Kramer- decided) a most satisfactory day. Not least among the matters pleasing him was that his frequency of urination seemed definitely less. He checked his watch. It had been close to an hour since the last occasion and he was confident he could wait longer, even though a slight warning pressure…

There was a tap on the door and Alan Maitland walked in. 'Good evening,' he said coolly, and laid a folded paper on the table.

The young lawyer's appearance had been sudden and startling. Edgar Kramer asked abruptly, 'What's all this about?'

'It's an order nisi, Mr Kramer,' Alan announced calmly. 'I believe you'll find it self-explanatory.'

Opening the folded page Kramer read quickly. His face flushed angrily. He spluttered, 'What the devil do you mean by this?' At the same time he was aware that the mild pressure on his bladder of a moment before had suddenly become intense.

Alan was tempted to reply caustically, then decided not. After all, he had merely gained a partial victory and the next round might easily go the other way. Therefore, politely enough, he answered, 'You did turn me down, you know, when I asked for a special inquiry into the case of Henri Duval.'

Momentarily Edgar Kramer wondered at his own fierce resentment of this callow youthful lawyer. 'Of course I turned you down,' he snapped. 'There was no earthly reason one should be held.'

'It just happens that I don't share your opinion,' Alan observed mildly. He pointed to the order nisi. 'This is to see which view – yours or mine – a court of law will take.'

The pressure was becoming agonizing. Holding himself in, Kramer fumed, 'This is solely a matter for department ruling. No court has any business interfering.'

Alan Maitland's face was serious. 'If you care for some advice,' he said quietly, 'if I were you I wouldn't tell that to the judge.'