Within the courtroom the words flowed on. The judge had intervened with questions at several points, and now A. R. Butler and Alan Maitland were politely disputing a minute point of law. '… My learned friend says the order is in the exact terms of Section 36. I submit that the addition of these commas may be important. It is not in the exact terms of Section 36…'
Edgar Kramer hated Alan Maitland's guts. He also had an urge to urinate: emotion, including anger, nowadays had this effect. And there was no denying that lately his affliction had been worse, the pain from delay greater. He tried to shield his mind… to forget… to think of something else…
He turned his eyes to Henri Duval; the stowaway was grinning, not understanding, his gaze roving the courtroom. Every instinct Kramer possessed… his years of experience… told him that this man would never make a settled immigrant. His background was against him. Despite any help he might be given, such a man could not adapt and conform to a country he would never understand. There was a pattern of behaviour for his type: short-lived industry, then idleness; the eager search for quick rewards; weakness, dissolution; trouble… the pattern always moving downward. There were many cases in department files: the harsh reality which starry-eyed idealists ignored.
'… Surely, my lord, the sole issue on the return of a habeas corpus is the question of the validity of the custody…'
The thought… the urge to urinate, near physical pain… would no longer be subdued.
Edgar Kramer squirmed miserably in his chair. But he would not leave.
Anything, anything, rather than draw attention to himself.
Closing his eyes, he prayed for a recess.
It was to be no pushover, Alan Maitland realized. A. R. Butler, QC, was fighting hard, contesting every argument, citing precedents in rebuttal against Rex vs Ahmed Singh. The Judge, too, seemed extremely querulous, questioning minutely 'as if for some reason of his own, he wished Alan's presentation turned inside out.
At this moment A. R. Butler was defending the Immigration Department's actions. 'No individual freedom has been abrogated,' he declared. 'Duval, in the case at bar, has had his rights and now they have run out.'
The older lawyer's performance, Alan thought, was as impressive as ever. The deep, urbane voice continued, 'I submit, my lord, that to admit such an individual, under such circumstances as described, would inevitably open the gates of Canada to a flood of immigrants. These would not be immigrants as we know them. They would be those demanding admittance merely because they cannot remember where they were born, possess no travel documents, or speak in monosyllables.'
Instantly Alan was on his feet. 'My lord, I object to counsel's remarks. The question of how any man speaks…'
Mr Justice Willis waved him down. 'Mr Butler,' the judge said mildly, 'I don't suppose you or I can remember being born.'
The point I was making, my lord-'
'Furthermore,' the judge said firmly, 'I imagine that some of our most respected local families are descended from those who got off a boat without travel documents. I can think of several'
'If Your Lordship will permit-'
'And as for speaking in monosyllables, I find myself doing it in my own country – as, for instance, when I visit the province of Quebec.' The judge nodded equably. 'Please proceed, Mr Butler.'
For an instant the lawyer's face flushed. Then he continued, 'The point I was making, my lord – no doubt badly, as Your Lordship was generous enough to point out – is that the people of Canada arc entitled to protection under the Immigration Act…'
Outwardly, the words were summoned and marshalled with the same easy assurance. But now, Alan realized, it was A. R. Butler who was clutching straws.
For a while, after the hearing had begun, misgiving had haunted Alan Maitland. He had feared that, despite everything, he might lose; that even at this late stage Henri Duval would be condemned to the Vastervik when it sailed tonight; that Senator Deveraux might believe, mistakenly, his blandishments had worked… But now a sense of assurance was returning.
Waiting for the present portion of argument to conclude, his thoughts switched to Henri Duval. Despite Alan's conviction that the young stowaway was a potentially good immigrant, the incident this morning in the hotel had left him disturbed. Uneasily he remembered Tom Lewis's doubts. 'A flaw somewhere; a weakness… maybe not his fault; perhaps something his background put there.'
It need not be true, Alan told himself fiercely; everyone, whatever his background, took time to adjust to new environments. Besides, the principle was what mattered most: personal liberty, the freedom of an individual. Once, glancing around the courtroom, he had found the eyes of Edgar Kramer upon him. Well, he would show this smug civil servant that there were processes of law more powerful than arbitrary administrative rulings.
The focus of arguments before the court had switched. Temporarily, A. R. Butler had resumed his seat, and now Alan sought to reopen old ground: the matter of the Immigration Department appeal following the special inquiry. At once A. R. Butler objected, but the judge ruled that the subject could be raised, then added casually, 'When convenient to counsel, I believe we might recess briefly.'
About to agree politely with the judge's suggestion, Alan had seen an expression of intense relief cross Edgar Kramer's face.-He had noticed, too, that for the past several minutes the civil servant had been moving, as if uncomfortably, in his high-backed chair. A sudden memory… instinct… made Alan hesitate.
He announced, 'With Your Lordship's permission, before recess I would appreciate completing this single portion of my argument.'
Mr Justice Willis nodded.
Alan continued to address the court. He examined the appeal proceedings, critici2ing the composition of the appeal board with its three members – including Edgar Kramer -fellow immigration officers of the special inquiry officer, George Tamkynhil.
Rhetorically he asked, 'Can it be anticipated that a group, so constituted, would nullify the findings of a close official colleague? Moreover, would such a group reverse a decision already announced in the House of Commons by the Minister of Immigration himself?'
A. R. Butler interjected heatedly, 'My friend is deliberately misinterpreting. The board is a board of review…'
The judge leaned forward. Judges were always touchy about administrative tribunals… It was something Alan had known. Now, his eyes on Edgar Kramer, he realized why he had delayed. It was a vicious impulse – a stroke of malice which, until this moment, he had not admitted to himself. Nor had it been necessary; he knew the case was won. Uneasily, he waited.
Through a tortured mental haze Edgar Kramer had heard the last exchange. He waited, pleading silently for it to end, praying for the recess the judge had promised.
Mr Justice Willis observed acidly, 'If I am to understand it, this so-called appeal from a special inquiry is nothing more than a department rubber stamp. Why in the world call it an appeal at all?' Fixing his gaze on Kramer, the judge continued austerely, 'I say to the representative of the Department of Citizenship and Immigration that the Court harbours grave doubts…'
But Edgar Kramer was no longer listening. The physical pain… the urge begun earlier and now intensified, was all consuming. His mind, his body could encompass nothing else. Brokenly, with anguish, he pushed back his chair and hurried from the courtroom.
'Stop!' It was the judge's voice, sharply commanding.
He paid no heed. In the corridor, still hastening, he could hear Mr Justice Willis bitingly addressing A. R. Butler. '…;