The Raids

by Mick Lowe

  Spike nodded, and shot a glance at his guests.

  Bluestein was already on the move, towards his coat, which was hanging beside the door. “If you don’t mind, Mister—ah—Alaavo, is it? I’ll just write some of this down if you don’t mind …” The lawyer fished a pen and notepad out of his coat pocket.

  Alaavo looked at Sworski, who nodded reassuringly.

  “No, sir, no problem at all, you go right ahead,” the big man replied.

  Bluestein returned to the table and sat down. “Now who exactly did you say was at this meeting?”

  The nocturnal visitor repeated his story, which left no doubt that a conspiracy was already afoot to turn Local 598 into a Steel affiliate.

  Bluestein nodded his head, scribbling as fast as he could. Spike and the national vice-president peppered Alaavo with a few clarifying questions, and then thanked him. Solski ushered Alaavo to the door, and returned to the table. The trio exchanged glances of disbelief at this sudden turn of events.

  Bluestein shook his head. Hard to believe, the boldness of it all! But that was Sudbury. Raw, big-shouldered, in-your-face Sudbury.

  Sworski glanced at the lawyer, could practically see the wheels turning. “So, Abe, where does this leave us?”

  Bluestein suppressed a chuckle. “Well, it’s the very evidence we were looking for that would allow us to file for an ex parte injunction from the court declaring that the Hall and all the other properties up here are still the property of the Union of the Mine, Mill and Smelter Workers.

  “I’ll dictate this,” he tapped his notepad, “to one of the girls in the office in the morning, get her to type it up, get Mr. Alaavo back into the Hall to review and sign his deposition, get him to swear to it before me, as a Commissioner of Oaths, and we’ll have an affidavit that should be admissible as evidence in a court of law …”

  “So in the morning,” Sworski spoke first to the vice-president before turning to Bluestein, relishing the words, “you turn up to relieve the executive of their duties, while you,” he turned to Bluestein, “go into court to have them evicted!”

  “Anyone for more coffee?”

  Sworski’s blueprint unfolded according to plan the next day—the new executive was caught completely off guard by the trusteeship, while Abe Bluestein’s labours on the Alaavo affidavit were also completed. The Toronto lawyer even found time for a quick call to his Sudbury counterpart, Leonard Pharand, who often acted on Local 598’s behalf on the more frequent, minor matters when the national office opted to forego Bluestein’s hefty hourly fee in favour of more local, and less expensive, legal representation. Pharand agreed to appear when Bluestein filed his ex parte application the next day.

  Bluestein, who had never set foot in the Sudbury courthouse, was relieved to have a local colleague in his corner. The pair had agreed to meet “at the docket,” the roadmap, posted daily, to the day’s proceedings in a highly visible location in every Canadian courthouse. But even there Bluestein was at a loss, and forced to ask directions in the swirl of activity as solicitors, in their long, black flowing robes, and their sketchy-looking, twitchy clientele, arrived to begin another day that would determine the fate of dozens of accused, and that would conclude with many of them sitting behind bars.

  Abe Bluestein was relieved to find Len Pharand at last, peering over the docket. He turned to Bluestein on the broad grin with a look of wonder on his face.

  “We’re in Courtroom A.” And then, in a whisper “You must have a horseshoe up your ass, Abe. You drew Judge Carson!”

  The name meant nothing to the Toronto lawyer.

  “Judge Otto Kearns Carson!” Pharand explained, still in a whisper. “‘Okay’ Carson! He’s known as Judge ‘Okay’ Carson because he’s never been known to deny a motion! Well, hardly ever, anyway. Here, follow me.”

  Courtroom A was the most spacious, and by far the most formal, courtroom in the Sudbury courthouse, as Bluestein could see. High-ceilinged and trimmed in handsome hardwood, the room was illuminated principally by the abundant natural light that streamed in through stately windows that lined the west wall of the big room.

  Most of Courtroom A was furnished with rows of dark wooden seats, which reminded Bluestein of the pews at Synagogue, or, he supposed, inside a Christian church. The courtroom was beginning to fill up with burly, awkward men—clearly uncertain about being in a courtroom. Some wore Mine Mill jackets, others Steelworkers’ parkas.

  A low railing separated the spectators from the Court’s active participants. Bluestein and Pharand took their place at the Plaintiff’s table, which was at the front of the room, directly beneath the bench. The Defendant’s table was vacant. Bluestein’s surprise legal manoeuvre, much less his presence, had apparently caught the Steelworkers’ legal team unawares. Bluestein frowned at this development. Any conscientious judge might adjourn the proceeding forthwith as a fundamental violation of due process—with only one side represented.

  At that moment the Clerk called the Court to order, ushering Judge Carson into the room. Everyone rose as Carson climbed onto the bench. Bluestein studied him closely. Carson was an older man, his stocky build and ample girth evident even beneath his all-concealing judicial robes. His balding head was ringed by a retreating fringe of dark brown hair. Not the sort of man to stand out in a crowd. Not the sort of man, Bluestein judged, who would be much of anything stripped of the awe-inspiring trappings of office—the judge’s robes, the quaint wing-collared white shirt, the commanding heights of the judicial dais. But, even still, Bluestein caught Carson’s eyes surveying his domain, noting at once the empty table where the counsel for the defendants should have been.

  To Bluestein’s relief, Carson gavelled his court to order nevertheless.

  Carson cleared his throat and studied a sheaf of papers that had been laid out for him by the Clerk. “So, what have we here, Mister—Mister?” He looked uncertainly down at Bluestein and Pharand.

  Abe jumped quickly to his feet. “Abraham Bluestein for the plaintiffs, your Honour, along with my co-counsel, Leonard Pharand. We’re here this morning to seek an ex parte injunction declaring the Mine Mill Hall, 198 Regent Street, Sudbury to be solely the property of the Canadian Division of the International Union of Mine, Mill and Smelter Workers’ Union, in fee simple, with all the usual privileges and rights that attach thereto …”

  “I see, I see …” Carson nodded gravely. “But are these rights in any way in jeopardy, Mr.—ah, Mr. Bluestein?”

  “Yes, we believe that they are, your Honour. As you are doubtless aware, sir, the property in question, as well as several other ancillary properties throughout the Sudbury District as enumerated in our application, have been purchased over the years by the Mine Mill Union through the accrual of dues lawfully paid by the members of Local 598 to the union. But we now have reason to believe that the newly elected executive board members of Local 598 are engaged in an active, sub rosa conspiracy to alienate these properties from their rightful owners.”

  “But these executive board officers have only just been democratically elected, have they not, Mr. Bluestein? This court is normally loathe to interfere in the internal affairs of any legal, democratically run organization. Have you any evidence to adduce to prove the existence of this alleged conspiracy, as you call it?”

  “We have, your Honour.” Bluestein nodded to Pharand, who rose to deliver the Alaavo affidavit to the Clerk. “If it please the Court I now enter the sworn affidavit of one Risto Alaavo, as taken by me, and dated just yesterday, in the Judicial District of Sudbury. If it please the Court, we would enter this as Plaintiffs’ Exhibit A, your Honour.”

  Carson quickly scrutinized the document, which had been handed up to him by the Clerk. “I see, I see … and is the deponent here in this Court?”

  “He is, your Honour.” Bluestein nodded, bowing slightly at the waist. He turned to the rows of benches behind him, caught Alaavo’s eye, and motioned for him to come forward.

  The burly smelterman, clearly out o
f his element, shambled through the gate in the low railing into the well of the Court where he was duly sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth before entering the witness box.

  “Now, Mr. Alaavo I have just a few questions for you.” Carson lowered his voice genially, apparently out of deference to Alaavo’s uneasiness with his unfamiliar surroundings.

  To Bluestein’s pleasure, Alaavo turned out to be an excellent witness, answering most questions with a simple “yes” or “no” while refraining from any tendency to fence with the Judge.

  It was unusual, but not unheard of, for a Judge to cross-examine a witness from the bench. The absence of counsel for the defence made the practice all the more acceptable to Bluestein, who witnessed Judge Carson’s cross of Alaavo with mounting admiration for Spike’s informant. Outwardly, however, Bluestein remained absolutely deadpan as he watched his only witness in the box. But Alaavo kept shifting his weight from one foot to another—the result of his nervousness at this entire affair, Abe realized. Alaavo’s constant swaying bothered him nonetheless.

  Carson drew from Alaavo a detailed repetition of the meeting he’d attended a few days earlier in Sturgeon River.

  “And how was it you came to be at this meeting in the first place, Mr. Alaavo?”

  The big man hesitated, and looked down at the floor, blushing slightly. “Well, sir, Mister Sworski asked me last summer, sir, to work close to these fellers, stay close to ’em, kinda like …”

  “So you were spying on them?” Carson observed mildly.

  “Well, yes, sir, I guess you could say that,” Alaavo conceded, blushing still more deeply.

  “Very well, then, Mr. Alaavo, I have no more questions. You may step down, sir.”

  The case for the Plaintiff was now complete, and, in the absence of counsel for the defence, the matter was now concluded.

  Bluestein fully expected Carson to reserve his decision, but what happened next came as a complete surprise.

  “I’d like to thank counsel for the plaintiff for making its case with such speed,” Carson intoned. “The Court is prepared to render judgment in this matter shortly. I now declare a fifteen minute recess.” Carson rapped his wooden gavel on the bench sharply.

  Bluestein looked at Pharand in surprise. “This is how he works,” the Sudbury lawyer shrugged, once again with a broad grin. The two lawyers left the Courtroom to have a quick smoke out in the hallway. They had barely finished their cigarettes when the Clerk approached them. “He’s back!” he announced.

  Carson was still settling into his chair as they re-entered the Courtroom, after pausing at the doorway to offer the customary bow from the waist.

  Carson looked down at them from his throne-like perch, and gravely cleared his throat before beginning to speak.

  “Gentlemen, I have given this matter careful consideration, and it does appear that the Plaintiffs have met the onus as required by the Statute. Since a prima facie case has been established, I do hereby grant the requested ex parte remedy, as requested by the Plaintiffs.”

  “Yes!” exulted Bluestein, who suppressed his strong impulse to yell out the word and pump the air with his fist. Instead, he turned calmly to Pharand and smiled, offering his hand. Bluestein was so excited he was barely conscious of a rustle, a movement, in the spectators’ bench behind him.

  Abraham Bluestein declined Pharand’s offer of a lift back to the Mine Mill Hall, opting instead to walk the two city blocks from the courthouse up the Elm Street hill to the Union Hall. He wanted to be alone to savour this moment, and to let the fresh spring air fill his lungs and clear his head during the brisk uphill walk. He drank in the irony of the moment along with the refreshing air: how many times had he lost defences against the same legal manoeuvre he had just used? The ex parte injunction was a standard legal weapon, usually wielded by the employing class against organized labour, and usually granted with the same alacrity as that just displayed by the aptly nicknamed Honourable Mr. Justice ‘Okay’ Carson. It was routinely invoked any time employers wanted to clamp down on the number of strikers allowed to picket outside their plant gates, or to clear out a messy plant occupation. In Canada, Bluestein had long since come to realize, “the rule of law” meant first and foremost the protection of private property, the careful preservation and guardianship of the power and privilege enjoyed by the wealthy few who sat atop the commanding heights of the national economy. And now, the totally unexpected—and, for Abraham Bluestein, the unprecedented—day had finally come when he was able to wield the ruling class’s own weapon against it on behalf of a union client! Brilliant! The flukiness of it—his luck in drawing ‘Okay’ Carson to hear his case in the first place—was all but forgotten as the Toronto lawyer reached the corner of Elm and Regent. So deep in thought was he that Abraham Bluestein was almost oblivious to the steady mid-afternoon exodus that was taking place as he neared the Mine Mill Hall.

  Big Bill and Jake McCool were not usually the kind of men who would be found in the bar in the afternoon, but this was no ordinary afternoon. Like the old warhorse he was, the elder McCool had been drawn inexorably into town, into the Union Hall, to await news of the outcome of the court case being held at the courthouse just down the hill. Before he’d left home he called Frood Mine to get word to his son to join him for a drink after shift at the Mine Mill Hall, on the off chance there might be reason to celebrate. Within minutes of arriving at the Hall Big Bill learned that the newly elected executive had decamped for Port Colborne nearly at the moment the trustee arrived the day before. The port, on the shores of Lake Erie far to the south on the Niagara Peninsula, was where Inco operated a nickel refinery. It was therefore home to a small sister Local of 598, with whose executive the Sudbury leaders had travelled south to meet, at least ostensibly. There was much speculation that the trio’s real destination had been Toronto, to huddle with their Steelworker masters in light of the sudden new developments in Sudbury, which had now gotten alarmingly out of control.

  Big Bill and his son had just settled comfortably in to enjoy their second round when Dustin Carmody, a Levack miner and long-time Mine Mill loyalist, burst into the room. “We done it!” he announced. Carmody was still breathless from his run up the hill from the courthouse. “We won the case! We’re still in the Mine Mill! Old Judge Carson himself just said so!”

  Carmody’s tidings ran through the cavernous tap room like an electric current. The effects, however, differed markedly from table to table in the big room. In some corners the news was greeted with jubilation, while in others it was met with stunned, sullen disbelief. Suddenly, disgruntled Steel supporters began heading for the exits, like fans leaving a sporting event early because they believed their team was doomed to lose.

  Big Bill was on his feet, too, but for a different reason. He headed straight for Carmody. The portly, bespectacled Levack miner was well known to be hard of hearing, and half blind.

  “Dusty!” Big Bill yelled, to get Carmody’s attention. He reached out and clasped the newcomer’s shoulders in both hands, as if to steady him. “It’s Big Bill McCool! Exactly what did the Judge say? Settle down now, and tell us exactly what Carson said in his ruling!”

  Carmody, who was still hopping from foot to foot with excitement, nodded that he understood. He breathed loudly before responding. “Well, Big Bill, what he said was this here Hall is still ours! Lock, stock and barrel! Still belongs to the Mine Mill, Big Bill, no matter what those Steel bastards says or does! And that there’s the long and short of ’er, by God!”

  “Okay. Dusty, all right! Thanks for bringing us the news!” McCool replied, slapping Carmody on the shoulder one more time before releasing him and returning to his table.

  But the father-son bonding time was to prove short-lived. No sooner had Carmody left the room than another newcomer arrived, bearing still more news.

  “Listen up, everybody!” he blared out to the room, addressing no one in particular. “There’s a meetin’! Spike’s called a meetin’
upstairs! Startin’ right away! Pitter-patter, fellas!”

  One by one the tables in the taproom emptied as the members relinquished their drinks to answer Sworski’s summons.

  Jake looked at his father. “Guess we better go up and see what the fuss is all about,” Big Bill said, rising from the table once again. And so father and son joined the general exodus, about to begin one of the most memorable nights of their lives.

  As they entered the main hall Jake noticed one change right away in the cavernous meeting room: the two blocks of chairs separated by the wide central aisle had given way to a single, rectangular cluster of chairs for the rank and file. There were many fewer chairs overall, but there was now a sense of unity, almost of coziness even, that was entirely novel to Jake as he and his father slipped into their seats. Sworski was waiting up on the stage, at his accustomed post behind the old wooden podium with the venerable Mine Mill crest carved in the front. The newly ousted union president opened the meeting with a brief update of the recent developments: following the last membership meeting where the Local had voted to suspend its payments to the National Office, the National Office had decided to place Local 598 in trusteeship, and had sent the national vice- president, along with special counsel Abraham Bluestein, to Sudbury to take matters in hand on behalf of the Canadian wing of the Mine Mill Union.

  It had also come to their attention that just a few days earlier a secret meeting regarding 598’s future had taken place in Sturgeon River. Sworski went on to detail the attendees at the now notorious meeting, a revelation that triggered a low murmur of disbelief and anger among those surrounding Jake.

  Based on this information, Sworski continued, Abe Bluestein had sought an ex parte injunction against the newly elected executives, enjoining them from any action that might alienate the property of the Mine Mill Union from the members of the Mine Mill. “And only moments ago, I’m happy to tell you, brothers, the Court ruled in our favour!”