by Peter Kirby
“How so?”
“I won my case.”
“No, I mean, when you say she had bad luck with her previous lawyers. How so?”
“She told me bits and pieces of her story over the last two years. I don’t understand how someone with a good refugee claim like hers can get rejected. She paid a fortune to two different lawyers. They were supposed to be experts, but they got nothing. They didn’t even answer her calls most of the time.” Delaney was picking at the fabric of the sofa with a broken fingernail.
“How did you know Sophia?” Saint Jacques asked.
“She was my tenant.”
“Here?”
“Yes. It’s my house. My parents left it to me.”
“Which apartment did she have?”
“She didn’t have an apartment. She had a small room in the basement. It doesn’t have its own address, but there’s a private entrance on the side. She said it was all she could afford.”
“If she didn’t have a mailing address, do you know if she kept a post office box?”
“No. At least I don’t think so. All her mail came to me, and I’d give it to her.”
“So, just to be certain. And this is very important. She didn’t give you any idea why she was looking for a lawyer?”
“No. We didn’t discuss it. I just assumed it was for her refugee claim. I told her that I didn’t think Maître Bélair did refugee claims. I don’t suppose that matters too much.” She stopped picking at the fabric, looked at Saint Jacques. “It’s better to find someone you trust than an expert who just wants to take your money, isn’t it? Anyway, I figured if he didn’t do immigration, he could probably recommend someone who could.”
“And?”
Delaney thought for a moment. “Now that we’re talking about it, maybe it is odd. I remember she wasn’t fazed when I told her that Maître Bélair didn’t do immigration. She said it didn’t matter, she was just looking for an honest lawyer. We both laughed at that, like it was the hardest thing in the world. When I think back on it, it might have had nothing at all to do with the immigration. It could have been anything, maybe something to do with her work. Not immigration at all.”
“Her work?”
“Yes. She was a journalist. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“We barely know anything about her. Anything you can tell us would help.”
“I don’t want to get her in any trouble. But she used to do some small jobs, freelance assignments.”
“Did she tell you what she was working on?”
“The last time I saw her was about a month ago. She didn’t say anything about work.”
“A month ago? But I thought you had recommended Maître Bélair recently.”
“No. I mean, yes. I gave her his name over the phone. She called to ask if I knew someone and I gave her his name. Since she left here, we used to meet for coffee every once in a while. At first it was just so I could give her whatever mail had come in. Sometimes cash a cheque for her. Then we seemed to just get into the habit. We’d have coffee and chat about all kinds of things. She’s a good person.”
“Did she ever mention what she was working on?”
“She said mostly things were quiet. But she had some good leads on a story about human trafficking and prostitution. She just talked about it in general, nothing specific.”
“Did she mention any names, places?”
“No. Like I said, it was all very general.” Delaney looked down at the carpet, then lifted her head quickly. “Girls from Eastern Europe. I remember she said that. Boys too, sometimes. Apparently they are brought here and forced into prostitution. But you must know more about that than me.”
She looked at Saint Jacques for confirmation. Saint Jacques nodded noncommittally. “Anything else?”
“Not really.” Delaney was remembering the conversation. “She mentioned movies too. Apparently, these people were forced to do things on camera.”
Saint Jacques turned around and looked at Vanier. She raised her eyebrows as if to ask, You have any questions?
Vanier sat up and leaned forward. “Did she ever mention anyone she was working with?”
Delaney thought for a moment. “No. In fact, I don’t think she knew that many people in Montreal.”
“You said you were cashing cheques for her. Who were the cheques from?”
“The cheques? Oh, right. She didn’t have a bank account, I guess because of her status, so everything had to be cash. Since I’ve known her, she probably gave me ten cheques from The Gazette. Always $250. I remember that it was the always exact amount. I would give her the cash and she would sign the cheque over to me so that I could deposit it.”
“Anyone else?”
“I remember The Gazette because that’s easy. I was impressed she was working for them. And there was also a translation company. I guess she did work for them too, but I have no idea what the name was.”
“When she called to ask about a lawyer, did she sound worried?”
“Honestly, she didn’t sound any different. This refugee business had her scared all the time, like she could be picked up and deported at any moment. She was really afraid of going back to Guatemala. She said she would be killed if she was sent back.”
“So she did sound scared?” Saint Jacques said.
“Yes. But that’s the way she always was. In the café, she was always looking around her. Every time the door opened she would look up to see who was coming in. So I can’t say that she was any more scared when she called than she had been in the previous six months.”
Back at headquarters, the images from the hospital had arrived as promised, and Saint Jacques set about going through them carefully. She was staring at her computer screen, isolating every moment when the Adidas man was in the frame, or when Roberge was taking a break. Vanier sat down opposite Laurent’s desk.
“So you went there last night?” Laurent asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I dropped you at the parking lot and went straight home to bed.”
Laurent rolled his eyes. “Anyway, we’ve got some leads,” Vanier continued.
“Shoot.”
“First, Sophia Luna was a failed refugee claimant. So that means there’s a trail. Immigration is going to have a file on her, and she appealed her case as far as she could, so there’s going to be court records. We need copies of everything. She was getting occasional cheques from The Gazette, so they would have a record. See who she was working for and what she was doing. That might lead us somewhere.”
Laurent was scribbling notes.
“I’m going up to see the chief. I want to get the pictures from the hospital out to the press. Have you seen this man, that sort of thing. I need his sign-off.”
Six
Katya was still waiting. But this was a different kind of waiting. Every night she waited, lying on her bed, waited for hell to begin.
Pavlov never knocked. He just unlocked the door and stood in the entrance with a man. Waving the man into the room, he’d say the same thing every night.
“She’s all yours. One hour. Have fun.”
Then it was her and the man. Some were shy, and she let them take their time undressing. Most were in a hurry, not wanting to waste a second, pulling themselves out of their pants as they crossed the room to the bed, holding themselves out to her mouth for immediate attention. She had become numb. Shutting down her mind and simply being present physically, doing what she was told.
Most of the men didn’t care. She was a soft body. Smiling, or looking like she was enjoying herself, didn’t matter. A few craved reaction, and could only get it by being rough, by hurting her until fear showed in her eyes. They choked her until she stopped breathing, and bent her arms almost to the breaking point. The fear brought her back, forcing her to be there. But she would never smile.
That night, the door opened and Pavlov stood there alone. “Get up. It’s tattoo time.”
The other girls had one. All the same design, and always on the forearm, a double-headed Russian eagle. Katya had watched hers grow over two sessions. Now it was almost finished, except a blank scroll held in the eagle’s talons. Katya hated it. Not just because it was crudely drawn, but because it was a symbol. She was being marked, against her will, and she would have to wear it forever.
She rose from the bed and followed Pavlov down the hallway to a large room that was set up as a movie studio. The man with the needles looked worse than ever, the sweat on his face glistening in the bright light he used to illuminate his work. She figured Pavlov was paying him in drugs, and he would only be paid when he was done. He was always rushing to finish, not caring what his work looked like.
She took a seat at the table and rested her arm on an ink-stained towel under the lamp. He didn’t acknowledge her, just leaned forward to inspect the half-finished tattoo, like he was trying to remember where he had left off. He grunted and picked up the needle. The machine kicked into action with a low hum, and he started to work. It was black ink this time. He was filling in the empty scroll. He picked up a dirty rag, splattered with blood and ink from previous customers. Katya looked away, trying to get her mind to drift.
More and more she was living in the past, digging up memories. The present was too painful, and she had no dreams left for the future. She closed her eyes, tried to ignore the drone of the machine and the stabbing of the needle. She had an image in her mind, no more than a flash. She tried to hold onto it, to go back to the beginning.
A heavy thump of boots announced their father was at the door. Her mother’s eyes lit up at the sound, and Katya rushed to be the first to greet him.
She smiled up at the giant bulk of her father. He had a basket slung over his shoulder with a leather strap. In his right hand he held a fishing rod. He bent down and scooped her up with his free hand. “Anna, see what I’ve got!”
His wife came out of the kitchen and kissed him on the lips. “That’s all you’ve caught? A little girl?”
“Just wait.”
He pulled the chair away from the table and placed Katya standing on it. Then he looked around, pretending he couldn’t see the boy clutching at his leg. “Stephan, Stephan. Where’s my boy?”
“I’m here, Papa. Down here.”
He reached down and hoisted the boy up and onto another chair. Putting the basket down in the centre of the table, he reached out for the clasp and slowly raised the lid. “Tah-dah!”
“Oh, they’re beautiful.” Anna put her hands up to her mouth.
He reached into the bag and pulled out a fish, its scales glistening in the light. He laid the fish on the table and reached into the bag for another one, six in all.
“Can I touch, Papa? Please!” Stephan yelled.
“Here. Hold your hand out.” Katya’s father picked up one of the fish and laid it in the boy’s outstretched hands.
“Me too. Me too,” Katya begged, holding her hands out, palms up.
Stephan’s fish fell to the floor, then Katya’s.
“Quick. They’re trying to escape.” The father got down on his hands and knees and the two children jumped to the floor. He stood up with a fish in each hand. “Kids, into the kitchen with them. Into the sink!”
The children watched him place the fish gently into the sink and turn the tap on.
“Go get their friends.” Anna said, “before they escape.”
Katya and Stephan ran back into the living room and each returned with a fish. They dropped them into the cold water and ran back for the others. When the six fish were safely under water in the sink, the father lifted the children up to look into the water.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” said Anna.
“But they’re dead,” said Stephan.
“Of course they’re dead. They’re for supper. We’re going to eat them,” said Anna.
Both children were silent, looking down into the water.
Their mother broke the silence. “Why don’t you go into the living room. If you’re lucky, Papa will tell you how to catch fish one day. Go. I’ll clean the fish, and we’ll have our best supper in months.”
In the living room of their father sank down in his armchair and the two children climbed up onto his enormous thighs.
“Catching fish is not easy,” he said. “You have to be strong and brave, like a great hunter, but most of all you must be able to sing the fish song.”
“Teach me. Teach me the fish song,” said Katya.
The song had only three verses. In the first, you let the fish know you have a basket. In the second, that you have placed it close to the water, and in the third, if they jump into the basket, all their worries will be over.
Katya could still smell the aroma that had filled the apartment. She could hear the laughter. She could still taste the fish.
“Done.”
She was shaken back to the present. The scroll on her arm contained one word: the name Kedrov.
Pavlov looked at her. “Nice, isn’t it? Now there’s no question who owns you.”
Seven
Most of us still believe Canada is open to the world and full of caring individuals. We believe our governments are pretty much like us, and we let politicians get on with government, waking up every few years to rubber-stamp the political flavour of the day. In a conservative Canada, immigration has been redefined as a problem, not an opportunity. Our immigration policy looks more like a job description drafted by a human-resource clerk than a vision for a great country. Maybe we shouldn’t be surprised. For all the smug myths that make up our collective memory, Canada’s past immigration policies have included a head tax on Chinese, a refusal to accept World War I refugees, total bans on groups deemed “undesirables,” and an aggressive no-Jews rule. Even today, we deport Roma refugees back to Hungary, a country with anti-Roma fascists in its government. But we’re too busy binge-watching Game of Thrones and Orange is the New Black to care. Let someone else fight for fairness in lonely battles with the government.
Vanier was standing in the waiting room of Henri Cabana, Luna’s second immigration lawyer. Laurent had gotten his name from court records that showed the court had rejected Luna’s bid to overturn the Refugee Board’s refusal of her claim. Cabana had argued that the first decision should be set aside because Luna’s first lawyer was an incompetent who had done a lousy job of presenting her case. The court had tossed that argument, along with Luna’s hope of remaining in Canada.
In the waiting room, Saint Jacques had taken the last available chair. The others were occupied by two families sitting in silence with the patience of people too used to waiting in line. An old, white-haired man in a light brown kaftan and leather sandals fingered prayer beads and stared off into space. His wife sat rigidly beside him. A couple from Southeast Asia occupied two other seats, both dressed like they didn’t believe the hot weather would last, the man in a thick brown sweater under a tweed jacket and his wife with a cardigan over her turquoise sari, and knee-length wool socks. Their two children were playing on the floor, dressed in shorts and T-shirts, like any Canadian kids.
Vanier passed the time reading the framed documents hanging on the wall, the Magna Carta, the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, and the Quebec Charter.
When Cabana’s office door finally opened, everyone looked towards it. The lawyer filled the entire doorway. He was at least six and a half feet tall and barrel-chested, but he had a soft look about him, like someone who had once been powerful and now was settling comfortably into old age. He looked at Vanier and Saint Jacques. “I might as well see you two first. You’re probably the only ones here with somewhere else to go.”
As the two officers walked towards the door, Cabana stepped out, and leaned down over to the two
kids playing on the floor. They looked fragile under his looming bulk as he tousled their hair with his huge paw. “Won’t be long.”
Vanier and Saint Jacques were already sitting when he came back. Cabana moved around and sat down heavily behind the desk. He leaned forward and rested his elbows in the semicircular clearing that was the only part of the desktop still visible among piles of folders, loose sheets of paper, magazines, and The Gazette. He reached under the newspaper and pulled out the regulation yellow notepad.
“Thanks for seeing us at short notice,” said Saint Jacques. “I’m Detective Sergeant Saint Jacques, and this is Detective Inspector Vanier. We’re looking for information on Sophia Luna.”
Cabana’s face changed, like a thick cloud crossing the sun. “Don’t think I can help you there. But I am surprised that the Montreal police have taken to chasing down refugees. Isn’t that federal jurisdiction?”
“She’s been abducted, sir.”
The news took him by surprise. He leaned back in his chair as though to get a better look at the two officers.
“Abducted. As in kidnapped?” He paused. “Have you checked with CBSA?”
“CBSA?”
“The Canada Border Services Agency. They’re the ones who hunt down failed refugee claimants. If you’re high enough up their list, they’ll do anything to get you. As soon as your appeals are exhausted, they can pick you up wherever you are and take you straight to the airport. But that’s not kidnapping. It’s called executing a removal order.” Cabana leaned forward, looked at Saint Jacques. “You haven’t checked, have you?”
“We don’t believe this was official, that it was a government agency.”
Cabana continued. “After the CBSA, I’d check the Guatemalans. She upset some very important people in Guatemala. That’s why she filed for refugee status.”
