by Peter Kirby
Seven
Barbeau’s press conference was being held in the Patriotes’ storefront office on Ontario Street. The three desks had been pushed together to form a line in front of twenty folding chairs for the press. The previous nights’ riot was the morning’s lead story on all the news programs, and the room was overflowing. Serge Barbeau had become the day’s star attraction.
Barbeau was centre stage, behind the desk, grinning madly under the bandages that held his nose in place. His favourite New York Yankees baseball cap was perched sideways on his head, and his matching white quilted jacket was slung over his shoulder, covering his arm in a sling. His lawyer, Dufrene, was on one side, and his mother and the Colonel on the other. Dufrene was doing his best to look like a crusading lawyer protecting the downtrodden. He knew that television could do wonders for his career.
The Colonel started to talk, and the room hushed.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and thanks for coming. Last evening the peace and tranquility of Hochelaga was shattered by a spontaneous outpouring of protest from its beleaguered citizens. Once again, as happens too often around here, one of their own was snatched off the street by a police force more interested in showing their authority than in using that authority for the good of the community.
“Mr. Serge Barbeau was arrested in his home where he was quietly watching television. He was handcuffed, pushed into an unmarked car and whisked off. All this because he was a suspect in a minor vandalism incident.
“The brutal arrest and disappearance of Mr. Barbeau was one incident too many, and the people of Hochelaga decided they had had enough. They were successful in obtaining Mr. Barbeau’s release. If they had not been, who knows what would have happened to Mr. Barbeau?
“But Mr. Barbeau was not allowed to walk out the front door. No, he was hustled out the back entrance under darkness, as though the authorities were ashamed. Now we know why. On his release, Mr. Barbeau ran. He was badly injured and scared. He was found shortly after, unconscious in an alleyway. He was treated for four hours at hospital, and the conclusion is obvious. While he was in police custody, he was severely beaten, resulting in a broken arm, nose and rib.”
He turned to Barbeau, who was still grinning at the crowd, and then continued. “The Police Service of Montreal will be held to account. Not just for this incident, but for their continual disregard for the rights of citizens in this neighbourhood.
“The Patriotes are ready and willing to continue to work with the police to ensure that Hochelaga is a peaceful and crime-free neighbourhood, but cooperation with us must be the rule, not the exception. We will not stand by and let our people be brutalized. I am, therefore, calling on the Mayor to instruct the Police Service to work through us to ensure that law and order is maintained with the consent of the people. Anything else is oppression, and the people will no longer accept oppression. Times have changed.
“Now Mr. Barbeau will read from a prepared statement, and we will then field some questions.”
The room went silent. Barbeau continued to scan the crowd with a big grin on his face until Dufrene touched him on the shoulder and whispered, “Read the statement, Serge.”
Barbeau picked up the single sheet of paper and squinted in concentration. His grin disappeared. He spoke haltingly, with long pauses between each word. When he wasn’t saying anything, he realized there were thirty people waiting for his next word. He had never been good at reading.
Dufrene was getting nervous and stopped making eye contact with the journalists. Nobody had thought to check Barbeau’s reading skills.
“I was arrested last night by two people that I later … discovered … were police officers … ”
He knew he was having trouble and began focusing on the silence between his words, on the long pauses when people were waiting for him and he had nothing.
“While I was in … custony … no, in custody. While I was in custody, I was subject … subjected to a several … a severe beating at the hands of the police. I … suffered a broken nose – ” he pointed to it – “and a broken arm – ” he pointed to the arm in a sling – “and numerous …”
He leaned over to Dufrene pointing out the word. Dufrene whispered in his ear. “Abrasions.”
“What’s that?”
“Cuts.”
“Oh yeah.” Barbeau turned back to the journalists. “Fuck this,” he said, dropping the page onto the desk. He looked up at the room full of reporters. “Like it says, I was arrested and then I had the shit kicked out of me by the police. I didn’t do nothing. The pigs, man, they just like to beat up on anyone. And you can’t do nothing. You fight back, you get worse!”
Dufrene put his hand on Barbeau’s shoulder and squeezed, sending a searing pain through Barbeau’s arm. Barbeau winced and shut up.
Dufrene addressed the audience. “We’ll take a few questions, but Mr. Barbeau is obviously very tired and still suffering from his ordeal.”
A journalist from La Presse was first. “Mr. Barbeau. You were found in an alleyway a good distance from the station. How come you didn’t ask for help as soon as you were released?”
Barbeau looked to Dufrene as though asking for help. “I dunno. I was scared. Running. I just ran.”
“Mr. Barbeau, did they tell you why you were arrested?”
“No … Yeah. They said vandalism. That’s bullshit.”
“Have you been charged?”
“Yeah. They said they’d send it in the mail. Vandalism. That’s it. It’s bullshit, you know?”
“Mr. Barbeau, getting back to your running away from the station.”
“Yeah?”
“So, you’re bleeding from the nose. You’ve got a broken arm and a broken rib and you’re running along the street. Where were you running to?”
“I was running home. To my mother.” He grinned again, happy to have found the right answer.
“But why go past dozens of people and then into a dark alley. What were you thinking?”
Barbeau jumped to his feet. “You calling me a liar? You calling me a liar, fuck?”
Dufrene tried to calm Barbeau, but the kid wasn’t having it. “You heard him. He’s calling me a liar.”
The Colonel turned to Brasso. “Get him upstairs. Now.” Then he addressed the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen. As you can see, Mr. Barbeau’s still in shock. This has been a traumatic experience for him. The press conference is ended. Thank you all for coming.”
He had done it before. But it didn’t get easier with time. Vanier resisted the urge to give the two men sitting across from him a smile. Two Detective Sergeants from Internal, Brisette and Pilon. He was in anger-control mode, doing his best to look calm, but not particularly friendly. It’s just business, he told himself, just get through it and move on.
Brisette fiddled with the recording device and looked up. “This is Detective Sergeant Brisette. It’s 2 p.m., April 6, and I am beginning an interview with Detective Inspector Vanier. I’m accompanied by Detective Sergeant Pilon. Inspector Vanier has been advised of his rights to be accompanied by a lawyer and he has declined to exercise that right.”
“Inspector Vanier, could you confirm that?”
“I am Inspector Vanier.”
“No. That you have been advised of your rights to a lawyer and have declined to exercise that right.”
“I have been advised of my right to have a lawyer and I have declined.”
“Thank you.”
Bisette opened a file in front of him and began. “Inspector Vanier, we’re investigating an allegation made by Serge Barbeau that you beat him severely while he was in custody during the afternoon of April 5th. Have you read his statement?”
“Yes. I have read his statement.”
“And what’s your response to it?”
“It’s not true. I questioned Mr.
Barbeau for about half an hour and then I was called away. I returned about twenty minutes later and told him he was free to go. He left through the back door of Station 23. He was unharmed while he was in custody.”
“Let’s start at the beginning, from when you picked him up.”
Vanier went through the entire afternoon. He spoke in a monotone, placing words on the transcript carefully, like the footsteps of a hockey coach crossing the ice to an injured player. It was a stilted and unnatural way of talking, but Vanier knew it would look crisp and confident in the written transcript, no faltering or wandering, just a straight story from start to finish. The story ended was when he left Saint-Jacques with the Station Commander and went down to get Barbeau out of the interview room and send him home. He didn’t tell them about Barbeau mocking him as they went down the stairs. How Barbeau had been laughing at him.
“Why the back door? Why not the front?” asked Brisette.
“The front entrances were locked. There was a crowd of angry people outside. I thought it was safer for the kid.”
“But the crowd was there to get Barbeau released, wouldn’t that have defused things? If they saw Mr. Barbeau walking out the front door.”
“I don’t know what the crowd was looking for. And I wasn’t about to predict how the crowd would react. He might’ve got hurt.”
“So you led him down the stairs to the back door and shoved him out?”
“I didn’t shove him out. I led him down the staircase, opened the door, and he left. It was 5:30 p.m.”
“How do you know it was 5:30?”
“I called Saint-Jacques to let her know he was out the back door. The call was logged on my cell phone.”
“Did anyone see you escort Mr. Barbeau out of the building?”
“I don’t think so. Everyone was either out front or looking out the windows. There was a riot going on.”
“Did anyone see him as he left the building?”
“Me.”
“Anyone else?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Who made the decision to release him?”
“He was my witness. So it was my decision. I told you, Saint-Jacques and I were questioning him in the interview room, and I got a call to go see the Station Commander. We left Barbeau where he was and went upstairs to the Commander’s office. There were three of his men with him. The Commander told me that a crowd was marching on the station to demand Barbeau’s release. He asked if it was important to hold him. He said if it wasn’t, to let the kid go. That’s all. I said I’d let him go and went back to the room. When I left the interview with the Station Commander, the rest of them were looking out the window to see what was happening in the street. The community relations officer, Wallach, said to let him know when the kid had left the building and he would make some calls to the crowd outside. He thought it would defuse things.”
They took him through the story three times, and Vanier was careful to make each telling as close to identical as the last. Then they moved to his past.
“Inspector Vanier, this is the fifth complaint of brutality made against you. That’s quite a lot.” Brisette looked at Vanier, waiting for a response.
“Is that a question?” said Vanier.
“An observation, I suppose. What do you think?”
“About your observation?”
“About the fact you’ve had five complaints against you for getting too physical with members of the public.”
“They were all investigated, and I was cleared. They’re closed.”
“Perhaps. But at some point, people might think there’s a pattern.”
Again the wait. He knew he had to keep focused on the transcript. In real-time, the silence filled the room with tension, but on the transcript there would be nothing until the next word was spoken. So he waited. If there wasn’t a question, he didn’t have to answer.
Brisette rephrased his observation. “Do you think there is a pattern to your actions generating complaints from members of the public?”
“Absolutely not. Each case was different, and in every case, there was a full investigation. None of the complaints were found to be justified. I was cleared of any wrongdoing.”
Brisette closed the file before him, shuffled through his notes, and looked at Pilon, who responded by shaking his head back and forth.
“You told us that you knew it was 5:30 p.m. because you made a call to DS Saint-Jacques. Do you have a record of that?”
“I told you, yes.”
“Could you give us that phone so that we can verify the calls that were made?”
Vanier needed his phone. Alex could call anytime, or someone could call about Alex. He pointed at the tape machine, and Brisette leaned over and switched it off.
“You can have the records. I’ll give you permission to look at whatever you want to look at. But I need my phone. Personal reasons.”
Brisette and Pilon exchanged glances, and Pilon gave a faint shrug.
“Okay. Give us the password to your account, and we’ll go online and get the information.”
Vanier didn’t have an online account. He promised to set one up and send them the details. Brisette leaned over again and switched on the machine.
“Inspector Vanier has promised to give us full access to his phone records. One last thing, Inspector. Can I see your hands?”
Vanier held his hands out and Brisette took them, turning them over, back and forth.
“It’s 4:30 p.m., almost twenty-four hours after the alleged incident. I am examining Detective Inspector Vanier’s hands, and they show no obvious indication of bruising.”
He released the hands, and Vanier pointed to the tape machine again. Brisette reached over and switched it off.
Vanier said, “Obvious indications? What the hell does that mean?”
Brisette shrugged and switched the recorder back on. Said, “Correction. Detective Inspector Vanier’s hands show no indication of bruising. I am now terminating the interview with Detective Inspector Vanier.” He looked up at Vanier, “That will be all for the moment Detective Inspector.”
Vanier forced himself, “Thank you. Glad to be of help.”
Another drop for the transcript.
Colonel Alfonse Montpetit knew the importance of morale to any fighting unit. Soldiers had to believe in what they were doing, and they could do anything for the right cause. So he spent a lot of time making sure that they understood the importance of their role. History was strewn with examples of small groups of trained soldiers standing up for what was right, and often history proved them right. The Patriotes were a small group whose time would come. They had to be ready.
According to Montpetit, the West was rotting from the inside, and he was lucky enough to have been chosen to participate in saving it. The Patriotes were starting from zero in their own little patch of Quebec, but they were going to succeed.
Ten of the faithful were relaxing with beer and pizza in the Colonel’s office, lounging over the sofas and armchairs. The storefront below was closed for the day.
Montpetit stood in front of a blank television screen.
“Gentlemen. The job’s well under way. It’s not easy, but you have all shown that you have the will and the strength to do the tough stuff. Across the continent, people like us are organizing for the inevitable day when we can take back society. The institutions are crumbling because the corrupt political class has looted the treasuries until there is nothing left, and now they can’t deliver anything to the people except more taxes. The people know that the current political class has reached the end.
“And in Hochelaga, we’re in the vanguard. We’re an example to our brothers in arms everywhere. We are making government irrelevant, and the leeches are only too happy to see us take up the slack. The people look to us for help before they call the government, and we gi
ve them peace and security. We are making Hochelaga better than it ever was under the thieving bastards in Quebec City and Ottawa.
“We have taken the first steps and we’re making great strides. Much is left to do. Hard work and sacrifice. But the battle is engaged. I salute you, gentlemen.
He raised a can of beer in the air, and the men cheered.
“Yesterday, we showed the people of Montreal and, more importantly, the politicians and police, that they don’t control the streets. We do. From now on, they have to talk to us, to consult us. Or there will be hell to pay. If they want to get elected from Hochelaga, to operate in Hochelaga, they have to go through us. We are the people.”
There was a murmur of support.
“Their Inspector Vanier disrespected us, and he’s paying the price. And he’s going to be an example to his bosses, and to everyone else in the force. We’re in charge of Hochelaga and they have to recognize that.”
The men were listening intently. They knew it wasn’t an illusion, the Patriotes were beginning to matter. They were supplying more and more of the services in Hochelaga, and government from City Hall, or even further away, was becoming irrelevant.
Montpetit picked up a universal remote and pointed it at the screen. “Sergeant LaFleur, the lights, please.”
A tall guy in the back got up and flicked a switch on the wall. The room darkened, lit only by the lights from the street. Montpetit clicked the remote. On the screen, images of battlefield brutality.
First, there were similar scenes, a desert country, or maybe several desert countries, and sand-coloured armoured vehicles moving forward through villages, alongside walls, or out in the open until, time after time, the vehicle lifted, sometimes from the front, sometimes from the back, sometimes straight up or sideways. The clips were short, just enough time for the viewer to register what he was looking at: an armoured vehicle with soldiers inside, then the vehicle lifted into the air or jumped sideways with the puff of an explosion, first the image and then the sound, repeated time and again: Watch your buddies get killed, watch your buddies get killed, again, and again, and again.
