Vigilante Season

by Peter Kirby

  “So why my car?” said Vanier.

  He looked at Vanier again. “I told you. It wasn’t me.”

  “Get fucking serious, Serge. You’re in trouble here.”

  “Yeah, big trouble. And I’ve got an alibi too.”

  “How could you know you have an alibi if we didn’t tell you when it happened?” said Saint-Jacques.

  “If I didn’t do it, I must have an alibi, right? If I wasn’t there, I was somewhere else, right? What time was it then?”

  “Yesterday, 10 a.m.”

  “I was with my Mom all morning. Good boy, I am.”

  Vanier picked up one of the photos. There was no question it was Barbeau, but he knew Barbeau was just going to keep denying it. The kid knew the system, whatever they wanted to charge him with, the lawyers would bargain it down to next to nothing. Pay a fine and move on. He knew enough not to make it easy for the police. The lawyers would only be interested in closing the file, and nobody would be going to trial for a tire slashing. Vanier knew this was his one chance to get anything from Barbeau.

  “Just tell me why. Why my car? Anyone ask you to do it?”

  Barbeau stiffened. “I want to see my lawyer. I’ve got nothing more to say.”

  “And why did you tell your mother to call the Colonel?”

  “In case I get hungry, like.”

  “What?”

  “Colonel Sanders. KFC.”

  Before Vanier could respond, the door opened, and Constable Wallach put his head around the door.

  “The Commander wants to see you two upstairs. Pronto.”

  As they were leaving, Barbeau held up a print. “Can I have a copy?”

  Vanier turned back, “I thought you said it wasn’t you.”

  “It’s not. But I like the photo.”

  Vanier stood up. “You stay here. I’ll be back.”

  They left the interview room, locking the door behind them.

  Place Valois is one of Hochelaga’s village squares, half a block of public space designed as a meeting place, with wooden benches and concrete tubs with plants. At four o’clock on a darkening afternoon made gloomy by constant showers, it was filling up. Pot-bangers were wandering in conga lines through the crowd bashing spoons on metal. Pot-banging was the preferred mode of expression because it translated the general malaise so well; slogans are too specific, pot-banging just says: I’m pissed off. And lots of people in Hochelaga are pissed off, most of them with good reason.

  It’s easy to start a fire when you know where to touch the match, and in Hochelaga, the Patriotes knew that as well as anyone. Every group had their activists, and a phone call to one or two quickly became a call to everyone, and the calls had been made to get people to Place Valois. They hadn’t used social media because the police monitored everyone, and a Facebook invitation to a protest was an invitation for the police to get there first. The square was filling quickly with anarchists, anti-poverty activists, women’s rights supporters, union people, and the just plain disaffected who couldn’t resist a chance to let people know, and that covered most of the people in Hochelaga. Most of them were vaguely aware of another arrest, another example of how the police brutalized citizens of Hochelaga. They weren’t particularly interested in the details.

  News spreads fast in a crowd, but it’s rarely accurate. But, before long, everyone knew that one of their own had been lifted off the street in front of his mother by plain-clothes police officers for no good reason. And they knew he was being held in Station 23.

  By five o’clock, protestors had spilled onto Ontario Street and were blocking traffic. They were getting itchy to move and, as though by some unspoken suggestion, a crowd began forming on Valois Street. There were no obvious leaders as people started to wander north on Valois with a vague sense that they were heading for Station 23.

  The crowd grew as it meandered slowly through the streets, picking up anyone who wanted to share the excitement. By the time they got to Hochelaga and turned right towards Station 23, there were about two hundred people. There wasn’t a cop to be seen.

  When word got out about people gathering in Place Valois, Commander Lechasseur had ordered everyone back to the station to prepare for crowd control. Inside the station, they were scrambling. They had alerted headquarters, and the riot squad was gearing up to get to Hochelaga, but it would take time before they arrived. The helicopter was already in the air, tracking the mass of people as they advanced towards the station.

  The original plan had been to get half a dozen cars down to Place Valois to calm things down, but now the crowd was coming to them. The Commander hadn’t expected that. He watched from a second floor window as twenty officers in flak jackets took up position outside the station. Squad cars blocked the street at each end, and all the doors to the station were locked, except one in back. A riot was never good, but a march on his station was a disaster. He knew if he didn’t handle things properly he’d be finished, and no PowerPoint of declining crime statistics would change that.

  “Shit,” he said, turning to Wallach. “What the hell is this about?”

  “They’re mad because we picked up some kid.”

  “Kid? What kid?”

  “Inspector Vanier and his partner arrested a kid about an hour and a half ago. They’re interviewing him downstairs.”

  “About the murder?”

  “Not even. Apparently the kid slashed the tires on Vanier’s car.”

  “Jesus Christ. Since when are we arresting people for vandalism?”

  “Seems the Inspector doesn’t take kindly to someone vandalizing his car.”

  “Get both of them up here. Right now. I want that kid released.”

  “I’m not sure you can do that, sir. It’s Vanier’s arrest. Maybe it’s better the decision comes from him.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. Get him up here so I can tell him what goddamn decision to make.”

  Wallach turned and left, and the Commander kept himself busy shouting orders, glancing out the window every few seconds. A flash of movement caught his eye. A large camera truck from TVQ pulled up opposite the front door. Then a CTV truck pulled into the entrance of the parking lot, taking up a prime spot for a wide view of the street.

  Three blocks away, two men were sitting in a stolen car, its motor idling. The passenger was listening on his cell phone to a play-by-play commentary from someone in the advancing crowd.

  He turned to the driver. “They’ll be here in five or ten minutes.”

  The driver said, “It’ll be dark in about half an hour. Fuck, I love riots.”

  Just before the crowd crossed Jeanne d’Arc, fifteen youths walked out of an alleyway and blended into the front half of the crowd. They all had their faces covered, some almost casually, with scarves, others were wearing ski masks. People felt the tension mount, but what do you do to someone in black and a ski mask who wants to join the mob?

  You do nothing.

  Serge Barbeau was sitting in the front seat of an SUV like he belonged there. He didn’t know the driver’s name, but he had seen him around. He had wanted to stick around for the riot, but the guy refused, said Barbeau’s job was done. So now they were driving away from the station in the opposite direction from his home. Barbeau didn’t care. He was part of things now.

  The driver turned to him. “You did well, Serge, you’re a hero. A fucking symbol.”

  Barbeau wasn’t sure what he meant, but he grinned. He felt like he had been allowed into the big boys’ club.

  “I didn’t say fuck to the police. Man, they were pissed. You should have seen their faces.”

  “All those people back there. They were there for you.”

  Barbeau laughed the kind of laugh that begs for company, and the driver joined in. “You’re one of us now. You’ve got a future. Like I said, Serge, you’re a hero.”

  �
�Thanks.”

  “But it’s not finished, not by a long shot.”

  The car slowed on Sicard Street and pulled into a narrow alley. It was dark, brick walls with no windows on both sides, and the only lamp was broken.

  “You can count on me.”

  “We know that. But there’s one more thing. It’s not personal, it’s part of the plan. It’s going to be rough. You ready?”

  “Anything.”

  “It wasn’t good that the police let you go so easily. We should have forced them to do it.”

  “Yeah, but still, they only did it because of the crowd.”

  “We lost the advantage. We had a bunch of people on their way to demand your release and they let you go before we could get there.”

  “Yeah, but they knew you were coming. That’s enough, no?”

  “We looked stupid. So the boss had an idea. They let you go alright, but they beat the shit out of you beforehand.”

  Barbeau turned to face the driver just in time to see the fist aimed at his face. The first punch broke his nose and blood began pouring down onto his jacket. The second burst his lip and loosened a tooth. Before he had time to get a grip on the door handle, two more blows landed on the side of his face.

  The driver reached for Barbeau’s chin and turned his face. The boy seemed groggy.

  “Listen kid. I’m going to call an ambulance soon. Listen to me.” Barbeau opened his eyes and stared at the driver. “The police did this to you during the interrogation. Got it?”

  Barbeau didn’t answer, and the driver squeezed his cheeks until pain brought him back into focus.

  “Remember the story. Get it right and you’re one of us. You understand?”

  Barbeau nodded.

  “I’m sorry kid, I really am.” He pulled back and drove his fist into Barbeau’s ribs. On the second blow, he felt a bone give. Barbeau groaned.

  “That’s all.” He whispered into the kid’s ear. “Now, what’s the story?”

  Barbeau didn’t say anything, his head lolling around like a newborn. The driver grabbed his face again and turned it, bringing his own within inches of the kid’s, and screamed, “What’s the fucking story, kid?”

  “The police did this.”

  “More. Make it believable.”

  “Huh?” was all Barbeau could manage.

  “Details. Tell me the story.”

  “I don’t remember much, but the police started beating me in the interview room. Then they let me go. Told me not to tell anyone, or they’d kill me. Please, I need an ambulance.”

  “Not the police. Only one guy. Who did it?”

  “The guy who picked me up?”

  “That’s right. The guy who picked you up. He was pissed at you because you slashed his tires. So he beat the shit out of you and then pushed you out the back door. You ran as far as you could go but then you collapsed. That’s the story. Got it?”

  Barbeau nodded.

  “Say it.”

  “The guy who picked me up.” Barbeau was whistling through the gap from the missing tooth. “He started to punch me. I couldn’t fight back. It was awful. Then he brought me to the back door and pushed me out. So I ran. I don’t remember much more.”

  “That’s it kid. Remember. You’ll be a hero for this.”

  Barbeau nodded, again.

  The driver reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. He punched numbers one-handed and spoke.

  “Call an ambulance to the alley between Sicard and Leclair, south of Adam. Got it? Tell them you don’t want to give your name, but you just saw someone collapsed on the floor. Tell them it’s an emergency. And call from one of the disposables. Don’t use your own phone.”

  He reached past the kid, and opened the passenger door.

  “Now, get out and lie down. Don’t move until the ambulance gets here. Remember the story.”

  Barbeau struggled out of the car and slumped to the wet ground, moaning. He curled into a foetal position and bled into puddles. The driver got out, leaving his door open, and went around to where the kid was lying. He pushed the passenger door closed.

  “Don’t forget the story. We’ll have lawyers all over this before you’re seen in the emergency room. Nothing to worry about.”

  Barbeau moaned that he understood, and the driver pulled a short black cosh from his pocket. He raised his arm and brought the cosh down hard on Barbeau’s head.

  Barbeau grunted into unconsciousness.

  The driver was three blocks away when the speeding ambulance passed him, rushing to respond to the emergency call.

  Commander Lechasseur had ordered two patrol car parked at each end of the block to keep the protesters away from the front of the station, where the temptation to throw rocks would have been too great. Ten uniformed police in flak jackets formed a barricade in front of the squad cars and stared down the approaching crowd. The mob stopped moving forward, except for a few kids who would run out in front to taunt the police and then run back into the crowd.

  The driver of the stolen car that was now parked half a block away clicked his phone closed and pushed it into his pocket.

  “They’re coming,” he said to the passenger as he leaned forward to pop the trunk. They both got out and went around to the trunk as five kids in ski-masks came running up.

  The driver said, “Come on, quick. They’re in the trunk.”

  The kids lifted their masks, there was no need to hide their faces. The passenger pulled a beer case out of the back filled with twelve primed Molotov cocktails. He handed it to the first kid and then handed out the other three cases. Forty-eight Molotovs in all.

  The kids were eager to get back to the action. The driver said, “Don’t throw them to hit the cops. Drop them in front of them. Nobody’s to get killed. But get rid of them all. Don’t hold back. And get the fucking cars burning. Remember, when the Colonel says to stop and go home. You fucking drop everything and get lost. Got it?”

  The kids had beaming smiles, already leaving while he was talking. One yelled back over his shoulder, “Sure thing. But tell the Colonel to give us time to get the cars burning.”

  The kids ran back up the street pulling the ski-masks back into place, and joined the crowd out of sight of the police. Then they pushed their way towards the front of the crowd, picking up friends on the way. There were three kids to every case of Molotovs; two to guard the case and move it through the mob, and one to throw. They took it in turns to throw.

  The mob and the police hushed and watched as the first lit Molotov traced a slow arc and spun down towards the police line. It fell five feet short, and the crowd cheered as it burst into flames.

  The flames went out quickly, and another kid ran out from the crowd and lobbed a second, its tail trailing sparks in the night sky. It was more accurate. It dropped two feet in front of a cop and exploded in flames, splashing his pants with burning gasoline. He jumped back against the cruiser and started swatting at his legs. He put the flames out easily and looked back at the crowd. Then he looked at the other cops as though checking they were still there.

  The third was on a clear trajectory for the chest of a bulky cop in the middle of the line and he dived out of the way. It missed him and smashed against a squad car. The crowd cheered again as flaming gasoline dripped down the door.

  Before the next one came, there was a shouted order, and the police retreated behind the two squad cars, leaving the empty vehicles sitting like an invitation. The crowd surged forward, and a kid with a scarf wound around his face pulled out a hammer and started hitting the windows. It took three or four blows to each before they gave, but he was methodical. He ran back into the crowd to cheers, and the Molotovs began to fly again. They were breaking inside and around the cars, and in seconds both cars were on fire.

  The cops pulled back further, and more flaming bottles wer
e dropping into their ranks. The mob stayed on the one side of the burning cars, using them as a barricade. From that side the kids with the Molotovs had a clear shot into the Station’s parking lot, and within minutes two more squad cars were burning. Behind the crowd, a fire engine was stopped on Hochelaga Street behind another burning car. The two guys who had handed out the Molotov cocktails had parked the car they had stolen horizontally across the street and used the left over gasoline to torch it.

  The mob was at a pitch of excitement, but everyone knew it was just a matter of time before the riot squad showed up. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Colonel Montpetit was standing at the side of the street, his face bathed in the flames from the fires. He was in full dress uniform, dark pants, crisp white shirt with epaulets, and a Patriotes beret pulled down tight on his head. He held a megaphone up to his mouth and shouted, “Wait.”

  He had to repeat it a few times, but the crowd went quiet.

  “Good news. I have good news. The police have listened to the people of Hochelaga. Thirty minutes ago, they released Mr. Barbeau. We have won!”

  The crowd roared and started chanting: ACAB, ACAB, the acronym plastered on walls all over Montreal, All Cops are Bastards.

  Montpetit struggled to be heard. “Now is the time to show them that we are responsible people. More responsible than the authorities.”

  The mob roared its approval, and watched as another Molotov took a long arc over the parking lot fence and exploded on an already burning squad car.

  Montpetit shouted into the megaphone “No. That’s enough. We’ve won. Now is the time to show them who we are.”

  The crowd quietened down as the SQ helicopter hovered overhead and lit up the street with its searchlight. The Colonel basked in the light.

  “My friends, the riot squad is on its way. Please. Disperse peacefully. And as quickly as possible. We have won.”

  The crowd cheered again, and men and women who had been part of the mob took out berets with the Patriotes insignia and put them on. Then they started breaking up the crowd, paying a lot of attention to the kids, working hard to calm them down.

  People began to leave like fans streaming out of a Habs game in the third period when the Habs are down 3 to 1 – a few at first, then a crush for the exits, leaving only the die-hard fans behind. The Patriotes roughly cleared the remaining protestors from the street while the police watched.