by Peter Kirby
Then the images changed to ramp-side ceremonies of coffins being loaded onto planes for the trip home. In one, the camera slowed to focus on one of the saluting officers and then faded into his face in a different setting, before the flag of a US militia organization. The man, still in his US Marines uniform, looked into the camera.
“My name is Paul Kerry, Lieutenant Paul Kerry of the US Marines, and I lead the Veterans Militia. Like all of you, I’ve said goodbye to too many unnecessary heroes, too many sons and daughters sacrificed for profit and politics. But, together, we are going to stop the slaughter.
“We were sent overseas to fight someone else’s war, and it’s time that we brought the war back home. If the politicians think that we’re good enough to be blown to bits in some hell hole, for nothing more than the survival of a bunch of criminals, then we’re good enough to have a say in how this country is run. But it can’t be done through the political parties. It has to be us, acting together. Only we can bring about change.”
“In other broadcasts, I’ve talked to you about the need to be ready for armed struggle. We need to arm and train because, mark my words, the government will come after us. Remember Waco? The government will come after us, they will try to seize our guns in violation of the Constitution, and if they cannot disarm us, they will kill us. So we are in a race. A race to arm and to train, and we cannot afford to let up that effort.
“But that is not all. The battle won’t be won by arms alone. As militia organizations, we must become involved in the communities we care about. We have to build grassroots support, not by making promises, but by delivering the goods. We need to be present in our communities. By helping our neighbours we gain the support of our neighbours.
“So my message to you tonight is to build support by providing what the government refuses to provide. You, militiamen and women of America, must find needs in communities where you live and fill those needs, openly and proudly.”
Montpetit pressed stop on the remote and stood up. “Now listen, men. This is where Lieutenant Kerry, and just about all of the US militias go wrong. He sees the militias only in terms of a security force. His vision is limited. Listen.”
Montpetit pushed play and sat down.
“Is there a policing problem in your neighbourhood? Then get out into the streets and solve that. Illegal immigrants taking jobs from Americans? Go into those businesses and tell them to stop. Drug problems? Stop the drugs. You have the power. Use it.
“We will be present for good in the neighbourhoods of America, and we will restore security to American streets. But we have to deliver. We have to succeed where the civil authorities have failed. And to do that we need to arm and train for the war that’s coming.”
They watched for another ten minutes as Paul Kerry delivered his vision of the American Militia movement, an armed police force imposing order. American citizens who would bring America back to what it used to be.
Then the screen switched to pictures of heavily armed men patrolling the Rio Grande border for illegal immigrants, the enemies of the American people.
Montpetit stood up and the lights went back on. He turned off the television with the remote and turned to face the group.
“Much as I admire Lieutenant Kerry, his movement is missing the one ingredient that will take them from the fringe into the heart of society. Before the people will desert the established order and embrace change, we need to show them that we can replace the old order. And we do that, not just by protecting the people from crime and violence, but in providing for them in all the other areas where governments still pretend to be necessary. And that’s what we’re doing in Hochelaga.
“You don’t need force to deliver help to the people. You’ve seen it every day. The goddamn politicians are stepping back and letting us do all the good we want, because that means they can get away with doing even less. It won’t be long before we’re an essential presence, both for the people who depend on us and for the politicians who gladly hand over all the obligations of the state. They won’t object unless we start touching their perks. And by the time we start to do that, it will be too late for them.”
He explained how a grassroots community organization was crucial to wean people off the state and build up loyalty to the Patriotes. The ballot boxes could wait, would have to wait, while they built a loyal following that would be invincible.
Every member of the militia had a job to do, and each job was vital. Yes, some would deliver peace and security in the streets, like the US militias dream of doing. Others would organize community efforts to address economic problems, with everything from childcare to helping the aged.
“Before long, when good, honest citizens need help, they will turn to the Patriotes before they turn to the government. We will become the people’s provider and protector. As the State had replaced the Church, so the Patriotes will replace the State. Not by force, but by presence.
“Eventually, those parasites who use the apparatus of the State to steal from the citizens will have to pay for their criminality, but it is better for the moment that they don’t feel threatened. Let them rely on the Patriotes to fill the gaps where they have failed, until one day the people will realize that the politicians are a cancer that feeds off the common people and give nothing back. And when the time is right, we will cut that cancer out of society.”
Montpetit continued, “It’s important that you understand our goals. The higher goals. This isn’t the Canadian army, where you have to do the bidding of some political fat cat who sends you to die so that he can win points with his friends in the UN or NATO. To belong to the Patriotes means that you’re investing your brains as well as your heart. We will change society. We will bring Quebec back to where it should be. And we will do it together.”
The guys started cheering and popping beer cans.
Mayor Chambord stood behind the bank of microphones that had been set up in the Grand Hall of Montreal’s City Hall. A thicket of reporters was waiting for him to start, and he surveyed them over his glasses, his gaunt features stilled in concentration with the intensity of an egret looking for movement in water.
“Ladies and gentlemen. This morning, I gave instructions for the conduct of a citizen-led inquiry into yesterday’s events in Hochelaga. I have asked five dedicated and respected citizens to examine these events and to report back to me with recommendations within thirty days. The timeframe is short, but the issue is urgent.”
Nobody could have failed to notice the repetition of “citizen.” It had been his Chief of Staff’s idea to show that the Mayor was not relying on a discredited political class. After years of corruption scandals, few people had confidence in City Hall’s ability to do anything honestly, so the Mayor’s office concocted the idea of a citizens’ inquiry, one that looked like it had nothing to do with politicians. Of course, the citizens had been carefully chosen. The Mayor began to read the list.
“Colonel Alfonse Montpetit, the Founder and President of Société des Patriotes de Montréal, a community organization that is doing remarkable work on so many fronts in the community. Madame Lucy Farand, professor of women’s studies at the Université de Montréal and resident of Hochelaga for fifteen years. Mr. Ken Brownie, the President of David’s Gate Developments, whose company has been revitalizing the neighbourhood and investing millions of dollars in new construction. Svetlana Jette, the current President of the Association of Housing Cooperatives of Hochelaga. And, finally, Robert Savoie, a businessman and President of the Ontario Street Merchants’ Association.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, this fine group of citizens, all of whom have lived and worked in the neighbourhood for years, have agreed to take on this important job. They will have thirty days to examine the circumstances of the riot and to report back to me with recommendations to deal with the causes of the public anger we have seen.
“Rest assured, there will be no sacred
cows in this inquiry. I have made it clear that there is to be nothing but the truth. Blame – or praise – will fall where it may.
“I would also like to advise you that I was informed this morning that two officers of the Service de police de la Ville de Montréal have been relieved of all police responsibilities until an internal police inquiry into their actions has been completed. To demonstrate how seriously we and the SPVM take the allegations that have been made against them, the officers will be withdrawn from all police work, effective immediately. They are not simply being transferred to desk duty, as is usually the case. No, we believe this matter is so serious that they must remain outside the police services until all investigations are terminated.”
Vanier pushed the mute button on the remote control and looked around the squad room like someone whose house is on fire, trying to decide what to take with him. Every cop knows his career is in trouble when public officials take a personal interest in it, and Vanier had never seen police officers so publicly held out to dry. Everyone is innocent until proven guilty, except cops.
He turned to Saint-Jacques, expecting tears, but what he saw was fury.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Who the hell does he think he is?”
“He’s the Mayor.”
“And we’re screwed.”
“That bad?”
“Totally. That bastard just pitched us in the garbage.”
“It was an execution, boss,” said DS Laurent. “He just put you two up against the wall. He doesn’t want to be seen pulling the trigger, but wants the job done. And just in case there are any doubts, he gets to write the story.”
“The committee?” asked Vanier
“Yeah. The so-called citizens’ committee. The ones I know are all the Mayor’s friends. The other ones are probably tied to him too. It’s a joke.”
“I know Montpetit. What about the others?”
Laurent leaned forward in his chair. “Ken Brownie, the developer. He’s been making a killing buying up distressed properties. Then he puts up condos. He’s a major donor to the Mayor’s party and basically gets whatever zoning changes he wants. Svetlana Jette is an up-and-comer, she’s in charge of the co-op association. She was really important for the grassroots vote. Oh, and in case you didn’t know it, the Patriotes are big donors to the Mayor’s party.”
Vanier wasn’t surprised. “How do you know this? I thought you lived in NDG.”
“I do. But my sister has lived in Hochelaga for the last twenty years. Every time we have supper, I get the full rundown of what’s happening in Hochelaga.”
“So one of the people we’re looking at in a murder investigation is now on a committee investigating us?” said Saint-Jacques.
“Pretty much,” said Vanier. “But we’re not working any murder investigation. There’s no ‘we.’ We’ve been sent home, remember?”
“So, one of the people you pissed off is now investigating both of us,” said Saint-Jacques.
“Doesn’t sound good, does it?”
The door to the squad room opened, and Chief Bedard walked in with the awkward gait of someone carrying too much weight. DS Brisette from Internal was with him, looking pleased with himself.
“Detective Inspector, Detective Sergeant, I assume you heard the announcement?”
“We heard. You’re quick to implement,” said Vanier.
Bedard grimaced. “Then you know the drill. You’re both off duty. Indefinitely. You need to surrender your guns and badges and leave the premises. While off duty,” he made a show of looking Vanier in the eye, “there will be no police work of any kind. You are both civilians. Understand?”
“Got it,” said Vanier.
The Chief looked at Saint-Jacques for a response.
“Yes, sir,” she said, with a trace of sarcasm that had Vanier thinking that she was finally beginning to understand life on the force.
“The only police officers you are to communicate with are me and Sergeants Brisette and Pilon. You are to use Internal Investigations as your primary contact with the force.”
He turned and walked out, leaving Brisette the pleasure of collecting guns and badges, and of having Vanier and Saint-Jacques sign off officially on the terms of their suspension.
Saint-Jacques carried two coffees to the table by the window where Vanier was staring out.
“Two cream, no sugar, right?” she said, putting the paper cup in front of him. He was distracted.
“Thanks.”
She sat down.
When he turned back from the window, he saw that she was staring at him with that gaze that made most people uncomfortable, it was more effective that a slap on the back of the head at getting your attention. She had pale blue eyes that slipped to grey, depending on her mood, or the light, he could never figure it out. Hard eyes to lie to.
“So you took him from the interview room, down the stairs and let him out the back door.”
“Yes.”
“Anyone see you?”
Vanier thought for a moment. “No, at least I don’t think so. Everyone was either outside or in the front looking out the window, I don’t remember seeing anyone on the way out.”
“It would be good to have a witness,” said Saint-Jacques.
“It doesn’t matter. It’ll all be on camera. There was one in the interview room, and there must be two or three on the way down.”
She put down her coffee. “That’s a problem, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“The cameras. There aren’t any videos. There was a malfunction. All the cameras in the station were down. No pictures.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Saint-Jacques sipped her coffee. “I wish I was.” She studied Vanier’s reaction.
“Shit.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“The kid’s lying, Sylvie. I didn’t touch him.”
“He’s not lying about his injuries. They’re real.”
“He was fine when I let him go. He was sneering at me, and I thought about wiping the stupid grin off his face. But I didn’t, shit, he was a kid. I let him out the back door and went upstairs to join you guys. That was that. If he got beaten up, it was after he left.”
“In forty-five minutes?” said Saint-Jacques. “The ambulance picked him up forty-five minutes after he left.”
Vanier realized his version was hard to believe. He wondered if Saint-Jacques believed it.
“Can you speak to Barbeau?” he asked.
“I’m not supposed to speak to anyone connected with this.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
“That’s not a good idea. You’re not supposed to be speaking to anyone either.”
“I didn’t get the memo.”
“That’s a terrible idea, sir. First, if he is lying, he’s not going to tell the truth just because you ask him to. And, second – ,” she hesitated, not wanting to speak the alternative, that Barbeau wasn’t lying. “Second, your speaking to Barbeau will only dig this hole deeper.”
Vanier said nothing, taking a gulp of coffee. She was right, but it didn’t help. Doing nothing had never appealed to Vanier, particularly when his ass was on the line.
He stood up, decided. “I’m going to find out what’s going on and finish with this.”
“Please, sir. Sit down for a second. We need a plan.”
He sat down and said, “I have a plan. I’m going to figure out what’s going on. The kid’s lying. I know it sounds like bullshit. But it’s the truth. So, the question is, Why? And I’m going to find out.”
“You’re supposed to be off duty.”
“Yeah. And I’m supposed to wait around and hope that someone else solves the problem. I can’t do that, Sylvie. If this drags on, it gets worse, not better.”
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“You don’t think it will work out? I mean. you have nothing to hide.”
“I’ve got nothing to hide. But who’s going to believe me? There’s no evidence to support me, and the punk really was beaten. The bosses will do whatever is necessary to make the problem go away. And, right now, I’m the problem.”
“We’re both the problem. I’m suspended too, remember?”
“Yeah. And we’re supposed to sit on our hands and wait. One day the truth will out. Like hell it will.”
Saint-Jacques knew he was right. Hoping someone else would care enough to spend time coming up with the truth was like buying a lottery ticket. Delusional. Vanier was in deep shit. She was collateral damage. If he couldn’t clear himself, the best she could hope for would be a desk job for twenty-five years.
She picked up her coffee, blew on the surface and sipped, looking at him over the rim of the cup, body language for I’m listening.
“Let’s see what we can find out about the cameras. Are we certain there’s no footage? Why did they screw up? Too much of a coincidence that they all went off at the right time.”
“You think someone at the station – ”
“I’m not thinking anything. Just that I’d like to know for certain there’s no footage, and I want to know why the system screwed up. What was the problem? Did someone flip a switch?”
“I know someone in IT. He’ll tell me who knows what. It’s somewhere to start.”
“And the Patriotes. They come out of this shining. Montpetit is a big hero that saved the day. That’s bullshit. What’s he up to? Who are they? Do they have a grudge against the police?”
Saint-Jacques writing notes. “You think the Patriotes might have done Barbeau?”
“Someone did. I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense, but someone thinks it’s a great idea to make the police look bad. Maybe it’s them.”
