In High Places

Senator Deveraux sighed. 'It's hard, hard, with a government as inflexible as the one in office. But tell me, do you really believe there is nothing that can be done for this unfortunate young man – in a legal sense, I mean?'

Alan hesitated. 'It's an off-the-cuff opinion, of course.'

'Naturally.'

'Well, assuming the facts to be reasonably true as the newspaper had them, this man Duval has no rights at all. Before he could get a hearing in court – even if it would do any good, which I doubt – he would have to be officially landed in the country and, the way7 things are, that seems unlikely.' Alan glanced at Sharon. 'What I expect will happen is that the ship will sail and Duval with it – the way he came.'

'Perhaps, perhaps.' The Senator mused, his eyes on a Cezanne landscape on the wall facing him. 'And yet occasionally there are loopholes in the law.'

'Very often.' Alan nodded agreement. 'I said it was just an off-the-cuff opinion.'

'So you did, my boy.' The Senator had withdrawn his eyes from the painting and was businesslike again. 'That's why I want you to probe into this whole affair more deeply to see what loophole, if any, exists. In short, it is my wish that you act as counsel for this unfortunate young man.'

'But supposing he…'

Senator Deveraux raised an admonitory hand. 'I entreat you: hear me out. It is my intention to pay legal fees and any expenses you may incur. In return I shall ask only that my own part in the affair be kept confidential.'

Alan shifted uncertainly on the settee. This moment, he knew, could be important, to himself as well as others. The case itself might come to nothing, but if handled properly it could mean connections for the future, leading to other cases later on. When he had come here this morning he had not known what to expect; now that he did, he supposed he should be pleased. And yet, uneasily, there was a stirring of doubt. He suspected there was more below the surface than the older man had revealed. He was aware of Sharon's eyes upon him.

Abruptly Alan asked, 'Why, Senator?'

'Why what, my boy?'

'Why do you want your part in this kept secret?'

Momentarily the Senator seemed nonplussed, then brightened. 'There is a text in the good book. I believe it reads:

"When thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth".'

It was dramatically done. But something had clicked in Alan Maitland's brain. He asked quietly, 'Alms, sir, or politics?'

The Senator's brows came down. 'I'm afraid I don't follow you.'

Well, Alan thought, here we go; here's where you blow the deal and lose the first big client you almost had. He said deliberately, 'Immigration right now is a top political issue. This particular case has already been in the papers and could stir up a lot of trouble for the Government. Isn't that what you had in mind. Senator – just using this man on the ship as a kind of pawn? Isn't that why you wanted me – someone young and green instead of your regular law firm, who'd be identified with you? I'm sorry, sir, but that's not the way I plan to practise law.'

He had spoken more strongly than he intended at first, but indignation had got the better of him. He wondered how he would explain to his partner Tom Lewis and whether Tom would have done the same thing. He suspected not; Tom had more sense than to throw away a fee quixotically.

He was conscious of a rumbling sound. Surprised, he became aware that Senator Deveraux was chuckling.

'Young and green, I think you said, my boy.' The Senator paused, chuckling again, his waistline heaving quietly. 'Well, you may be young, but certainly not green. What's your opinion, Sharon?'

'I'd say you got caught out, Granddaddy.' Alan was aware that Sharon was looking at him with respect.

'And so I did, my dear; indeed I did. This is a smart young man you have found.'

Somehow, Alan realized, the situation had changed, though he was not sure in which way. The only thing he was certain of was that Senator Deveraux was a man of many facets.

'Very well; so all our cards are face up on the table.' The Senator's tone had changed softly; it was less ponderous, more as if directed to an equal. 'Let us suppose that everything you allege is true. Is this young man on the ship still not entitled to legal help? Is he to be denied an aiding hand because the motives of an individual, to wit, myself, happen to be mixed? If you were drowning, my boy, would you care if the one who swam to save you did so because he considered you might be of use to him alive?'

'No,' Alan said. 'I don't suppose I would.'

'What, then, is the difference? – if there is a difference.' Senator Deveraux leaned forward in his chair. 'Allow me to ask you something. You believe, I assume, in the correction of injustice.'

'Of course.'

'Of course.' The Senator nodded sagely. 'Let us consider, then, this young man on the ship. He has no legal rights, we are told. He is not a Canadian, or a bona fide immigrant, nor even a transient who has landed and will leave soon. In the law's eyes he is not even present. Therefore, even though he may wish to appeal to the law – to plead in court for admittance to this or any other country – he cannot do so. Is that correct?'

'I wouldn't put it quite in those terms,' Alan said, 'but in substance that's correct.'

'In other words, yes.'

Alan smiled wryly. 'Yes.'

'And yet supposing tonight, on the ship in Vancouver Harbour, this same man committed murder or arson. What would happen to him?'

Alan nodded. He could see the question's point. 'He'd be taken ashore and tried.'

'Exactly, my boy. And if guilty he would be punished, and never mind his status or the lack of it. So that way, you see, the law can reach Henri Duval, even though he cannot reach the law.'

It was a neatly packaged argument. Not surprisingly, Alan reflected, the old man had a smooth debater's skill.

But skilful or not, the point he made was sound. Why should the law work only one way – against a man and not for him? And even though Senator Deveraux's motives were political, nothing changed the essential fact he had pointed out: that an individual, present in the community, was being denied a basic human right.

Alan pondered. What could the law do for the man on the ship? Anything or nothing? And if nothing – why?

Alan Maitland had no callow illusions about the law. New as he was in its service, he was aware that justice was neither automatic nor impartial, and that sometimes injustice triumphed over right. He knew that social status had a good deal to do with crime and punishment, and that the well-heeled who could afford to make use of all the law's processes were less likely to suffer direly for sinning than those, less wealthy, who could not. The law's slowness, he was sure, at times denied the innocent their rights, and some who deserved redress failed to seek it because of the high cost of a day in court. And at the other end of the scale were the case-loaded magistrates' courts, dispensing pressure-cooker justice, often without proper care for the rights of an accused.

He had come to know these things in much the same way that all students and young lawyers gradually and inevitably become informed of them. At times they pained him deeply, as they pained many of his elder colleagues whose idealism had not rubbed off through their years at the bar.

But with all the law's faults it had one great virtue. It was there.

It existed. Its greatest merit was its availability.

Existence of the law was an acknowledgement that equality of human rights was a worth-while goal. As to its defects, in time reform would come; it always has, though it lagged behind the need. Meanwhile, to the humblest and greatest – if they chose – the courtroom door was always open as, beyond it, were the chambers of appeal.