We'd organized no such open meeting since the election, so I was forced to concede we were due. I suggested he might consider wearing a raincoat and a catcher's mitt in case cantaloupes were still on special at the c.u.mberland Food Mart. I booked the West a.s.sembly Hall of the c.u.mberland United Church for Friday evening. I then called Andre Fontaine, and he hooked me up with the advertising manager. I placed a quarter-page ad in The Crier, selecting a virtually unreadable font and the most boring layout imaginable in the hopes that no one would notice it. Luckily, Andre Fontaine wrote an entire article, promoting the upcoming meeting. Bless him.

At nine-thirty on Tuesday morning, Sid Russell, the unofficial leader of the workers at Ottawa River Aggregate Inc., arrived in our Centre Block office. He was tall and lean about 50 years old and styled his hair in a brush cut. He appeared to be solemn and tense. In the past five years, he and a few others had attempted to organize the workers but had not been successful. Through threat and intimidation, the management at head office had quashed the fledgling union drive well before it had left the starting blocks. We got him seated with coffee in hand before Angus took over.

"Well, Mr. Russell, I'm precious little good at gildin' the lily, so let me deliver the blow bare knuckled so it's quick and clear."

Sid Russell was fishing in his backpack for something, but stopped when he processed what he'd heard.

"Mr. Russell, I regret to say that I dinnae think yer aggregate operation will be foulin' the river for much longer. We've heard from the rogue who runs it that someone sittin' at head office in Cleveland has his finger on the b.u.t.ton. 'Tis only a matter of time before the place closes. I'm sorry, but I cannae support suspendin' the effluent discharge rules just to keep the doors open or even to expand the facility. It just isnae right."

I braced myself for the reaction, and by the look of Angus, he did, too.

"Mr. McLintock, I'm way ahead of you. I brought this to show you," he said, waving a VHS tape he'd finally extricated from his pack. "This has gone on long enough. Someone's going to get hurt, and I'm tired of shoveling dead fish into the dumpster."

Sid Russell had shot the tape himself with a Hi8 video camera concealed in a gym bag he had carried around the site. Grainy but clearly discernible images flashed across the screen. The scene was the interior of the facility, perched on the sh.o.r.es of the Ottawa River. It looked like my old residence common room at university after Homecoming weekend. Well, perhaps not quite that bad. We were looking at a workplace out of the early days of the Industrial Revolution. Workers straddled large holes in what appeared to be a rotting floor as they monitored the large and loose conveyor belt that bore mud and rocks from the riverbed. Windows were boarded up, leaving the works.p.a.ce dim. Some workers wore hard hats and safety boots, but most did not. Sid Russell shook his head as he watched.

"We combine river water with chemical cleansers to wash the mud and sediment off the aggregate we excavate from the sh.o.r.eline. Then, we dump the waste water right back into the river. The process has been approved by Ontario's Ministry of the Environment, but only if we limit our effluent discharge to a provincial standard set when the operation was first certified," Sid explained.

"So what's the problem if MOE has approved it?" I asked.

He pointed back to the screen. At that moment, a pair of hands opened a padlocked door, and the gym-bag cam descended a rickety set of stairs. The camera steadied in front of a large-diameter pipe that angled down through the floor and into the ground below just at the northern wall.

"Well, we're pumping way too much s.h.i.t into the river," he said matter-of-factly. He then pointed to the screen. "That there, gentlemen, is what we call the shadow pipe. We discovered it a month ago when a set of keys was 'borrowed' and copied so we could open that mystery door. The suits are so thick over there that they still don't know we've discovered their dirty little secret." He pointed again to the screen. "That there 24-inch pipe feeds effluent right into the river. There's another 24-inch pipe that runs along the outside wall of the building that also delivers c.r.a.p to the water. The outside pipe is the one the Environment Canada guys test every month or so. They know nothing about the shadow pipe running beneath the floorboards right under their noses."

"Are you telling me you're dumping twice as much chemically laced waste water into the river as you're permitted to?" I inquired.

"More than three times the limit," replied Russell. "The shadow pipe empties at twice the flow rate of the approved pipe. Every morning, three of us gather the dead fish before it gets light. Besides that, one of my guys tore up his knee pretty good last week when he went through the floorboards again. The place is a workers'-comp commercial waiting to be shot."

"Can you leave us the tape, Mr. Russell?" asked Angus. "We'll need it to show the environment officials. You do realize we have to take it to them, don't you?"

"You can have the tape. That's why I brought it. It's just gone too far. What do you figure's going to happen?"

"Well, I cannae imagine they'll let the plant operate after seein' yer little doc.u.mentary. I am sorry," Angus said. "But dinnae fret yourself just yet. You may not be out of a job for long if providence is with us."

I wasn't sure what Angus had in mind, but held my tongue.

Sid Russell left half an hour later. He gave us the tape and agreed to bring the workers together that night for a clandestine meeting at c.u.mberland United Church. I called as soon as he left, and the elderly woman in the office was able to move the weekly senior's tae-kwon-do lesson to the Minister's lounge. She'd taken a shine to me when I had called earlier about the mini-budget town-hall meeting. This liberated the West a.s.sembly Hall for our impromptu gathering of aggregate workers. If we survived the next month, I pledged to visit the church for a Sunday service and not just to book another room.

Angus and I spent the rest of the morning at the Department of the Environment in Hull. Our meeting with the director general of regional enforcement was arranged on very short notice. There's nothing like the promise of a whistle-blowing videotape to advance a meeting that might normally take weeks to coordinate. Our session with the director general started off slowly, but gathered steam when we played the tape. They'd known something was amiss on the river but hadn't been able to prove it. Their frequent effluent test readings all fell within acceptable limits. They were stumped. The videotape revealed the smoking gun a parallel but hidden effluent-discharge system that tripled the chemical concentrations released into the river.

The director general smacked his forehead in self-flagellation. He admitted his whole department had been duped by one of the oldest scams in the environmental degradation handbook. He looked angry.

The health and safety violations revealed on the videotape were sufficient alone to shut down the company, but the legal procedures through the Department of Labour would take a couple of weeks. So we opted for the much shorter environment route. Pending the signature of the Minister on a shutdown order, which they expected to secure by late afternoon, the gates to Ottawa River Aggregate Inc. would be padlocked the following morning indefinitely. There'd be no warning. Cleveland would not be pleased with Mr. Haldorson. And Mr. Haldorson would certainly not be coming to the McLintock New Year's levee.

When we made it back to the Hill, it was nearly time for question period and the first day of debate on the mini-budget. Awaiting me was a voice-mail message: "Addison, it's Bradley Stanton. Look, one of our more generous corporate donors is holding onto a big cheque for us until we clear up a little misunderstanding they seemed to have had with your boy, Angus. This has got to stop, Daniel. I'm now officially calling him 'Anguish' 'cause that's all he's meant to me since he arrived. Just sort out this aggregate company's environmental problem so they'll release the cheque, okay? You know we've got a big-a.s.s debt to pay off from the campaign. Don't make me come down there, Danny boy. Are you reading me? Peace. Out."

Fabulous, just fabulous. I had just flushed what little was left of my political career down the secret secondary effluent-discharge pipe.

On Tuesday afternoon, debate resumed in the House on the following motion as dictated by Standing Order 84.(1): "That this House approve in general the budgetary policy of the Government." As a budget motion, it was, in fact, a vote of confidence in the Government. Defeat the motion and the Government would fall.

The Leader's office had already decided to try to bring down the Government based on its opportunistic, economically devastating, and utterly deceitful mini-budget. Christmas be d.a.m.ned and tax cuts, too. I knew of few, if any, dissenters in the Liberal camp.

During the debate, Angus spoke with pa.s.sion for the full 20 minutes allotted to each speaker under the Standing Orders. It was not difficult for him to muster emotion when ripping the Government for leading us all on with the progressive Throne Speech only to pull the carpet out from under us with the tax-cutting mini-budget. He called it "duplicity of the first order." Tory MPs heckled like loud drunks at a down-market strip show. Hansard ensured the accuracy of my memory: "Go ahead, make our day. We dare you to defeat these tax cuts!" (inaudible) "Canadians want their money."

"Morons." (inaudible) "I smell a majority."

"Go on, vote it down, you " (inaudible)

"We call your bluff, buffoon boy " (inaudible)

Ah, the high dignity of parliamentary debate. We should all be so proud.

While Angus made some last-minute calls, Pete2 and I arrived at the church early to make sure it was set up as I'd requested. In other words, we set out the 75 chairs in theatre style and laid out four boxes of doughnuts on arthritic trestle tables at the back. We put another table at the front of the room from which Angus would preside over the proceedings. The fluorescent lighting buzzed above. By seven o'clock, 53 of the 82 workers had arrived, the most we could expect, as the remaining 29 employees were toiling on the four-to-midnight shift. Most of the workers were men, but about a dozen women attended, too. The workers consumed the coffee but not the doughnuts. Anxiety and appet.i.te were not very compatible.

Sid Russell and Angus were among the last to arrive and at 7:20 took their places at the front table. The murmuring died away. Much to my surprise, Norman Sanderson slipped into the room and stood at the back. He was smiling as he surveyed the room. So was Angus. He gave me a quick thumbs-up and got to his feet. Pete2 and I stood along the east wall, working our way through the doughnuts.

"Good evenin', all. I'm Angus McLintock, and I've finally accepted that I am, in fact, the Member of Parliament for c.u.mberland-Prescott. We're here this evenin' through the courage of Sid and many of you. We're here this evenin' to blow the whistle on an unsafe and irresponsible industrial operation that jeopardizes yer health and yer lives, not to mention our beloved Ottawa River. Now, I ask only one thing of you tonight. I need you all to wait until I've finished what I have to say before you rush to judgment. Can I count on yer patience to stay with me until I'm done?" A hum of a.s.sent accompanied nodding heads. "Very well, I'll not sugarcoat our news tonight. Yer lives are goin' to change tomorrow mornin'. You may not believe me straight off, but yer lives are goin' to change for the better. At eight o'clock tomorrow mornin', officials from Environment Canada will arrive at Ottawa River Aggregate Inc. and shut it down, probably forever." Angus paused to let that sink in. A smattering of gasps and head shaking ensued, but no one leaped up to challenge Angus.

"Now stay with me. Under the terms of the shutdown order, you'll all be owed severance as required by provincial labour statutes. I'd not bank on seein' that money any time soon, but it will eventually make its way to yer pocket. None of us should lament the long overdue pa.s.sin' of this particular industrial blight. And we should hoist a gla.s.s that there'll be no expansion to make the curse worse. So ends the bad news." Angus again paused. Sid sat impa.s.sively with his hands clasped in front of him.

I figured Angus had just about exhausted the patience and self-control of the a.s.sembled future ex-employees of Ottawa River Aggregate Inc. He resumed his calm and clear soliloquy.

"Let me introduce the gentleman at the back of the room. He brings with him good news tonight to offset the bad. He is Norman Sanderson, who, until two weeks ago, owned and operated the Sanderson Shoe Company. When his factory reopens in about five weeks, shoes will no longer be rollin' off the a.s.sembly line. I'll let him tell you the rest. Norman?"

I'd figured it out before Angus had pointed out Sanderson at the back. I now knew who Angus had been calling as I'd left to pick up Pete2 to make it to the church on time. Norman Sanderson carried himself to the front of the room with a confidence, even a swagger, that had not been part of his repertoire when we'd first met him two weeks earlier.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I took over the Sanderson Shoe Company from my father 20 years ago. My best year financially was my first year, and even it wasn't so great. Ever since, I've managed a declining business in a declining industry. What it says to me is that modern nations with advanced economies probably don't need to be making their own shoes any more. I had difficulty seeing that for a very long time, but it's crystal clear now thanks largely to Mr. McLintock. In five weeks, the Sanderson Shoe Company will officially become Sanderson Technologies. In five weeks, we'll stop making shoes and start manufacturing an advanced, wireless, Internet wave router developed at the University of Ottawa. As of last Tuesday, I won't be able meet my year-one production targets unless I add another full shift right from the start. You see, the high price of oil has eliminated the import cost advantage our offsh.o.r.e compet.i.tors have always enjoyed. So we've just finished negotiating exclusive supply contracts with another six computer manufacturers, giving us deals with the top eighteen. Long story short, we're going to have trouble meeting demand, and we haven't produced a single unit, yet." The room was growing a bit restless.

"Yeah, but we just lost our jobs. Where does that leave us?" shouted a woman from somewhere towards the back. Angus stepped in to rescue Norman.

"Well, madam, if you're interested, it leaves every last one of you gainfully employed by Sanderson Technologies starting in two weeks. The work is safer and cleaner, the pay is better, and yer futures are brighter." Angus stopped to let it sink in.

The workers said nothing for about three seconds; then, they hooted and hollered and rose for a sustained ovation. An hour later, they were still completing applications. As a gesture of good faith, Norman's HR manager arrived to cut advance cheques to cover the new employees' first two-weeks' pay.

Despite the hour, Muriel arrived with Lindsay to witness the historic gathering. She beamed and shuffled over to hug Angus. She even planted one on Norman Sanderson, who looked pleased and shocked at the same time.

Once again, the pieces had all just fallen into place all but one. I stepped out into the parking lot and reached for my cell phone. I dialed Andre Fontaine and bit into my sixth doughnut.

DIARY.

Tuesday, December 3

My Love,

Though I can barely recall it after the day we've had, last night I actually finished the very last stroke of painting on Baddeck 1, including repainting every square inch done (badly) by dear Daniel. Though well-intentioned, what an offence he is to the workshop. Bell complained that he could find no skilled help in his day, too. Ah, Bell to be sequestered on the sh.o.r.es of the Bras d'Or Lakes in that glorious summer home. It must have been idyllic. But I digress. Daniel is about as handy as the Venus de Milo. Yet, he grows on me still. And he does play chess, which compensates for a great many shortcomings.

I've not yet put the hovercraft through its paces after my initial run across the ice. There's simply been no time. None. My mind has been elsewhere, dueling with a sticky problem. Modesty aside, I think we've sorted it out in a way that's beneficial to all but the rascals who caused the crisis in the first place. Alas, I'm too weary to dwell on the day's excitement. Suffice it to say, I think I did my job well today my new job. We actually helped people today. We saved some jobs and protected our river, too. It feels good. Like a cool highland breeze on a sweltering day.

My blood boiled yesterday when the Government released its so-called mini-budget. It was supposed to breathe life into the Throne Speech by unveiling the related policies, programs, and funding. All they unveiled was the Government's duplicity and deceit. Aye, those are strong words, but I trust you were there to see for yourself. Was it not the height of arrogance? Was it not opportunism at its zenith? They're preying on Canadians who can no longer distinguish the blurred lines between self-interest and the national interest. One does not always support the other. The clearest examples of this dissonance are the ill-conceived tax cuts, through which the Government hopes to hoodwink the voters even as it bankrupts the nation. I say again it is duplicitous and deceitful.

I intend to confront my electors later this week to help them to see that we all will pay later for the baubles the Government offers today. Daniel did not wish us to hold such an open and public meeting, but I'm actually looking forward to it. Caring little for how I'm viewed by my own const.i.tuents is freedom itself!

I do confess I am enjoying myself. 'Tis the most interesting sabbatical I've yet pa.s.sed. I keep waiting for the wheels to fall off; but then, I remember that a hovercraft has no wheels, so perhaps I'm safe for a time.

Stay near and lend me your steadying hand when you're able.

AM.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

It all went down the next morning right on script. I found the entire experience somewhat surreal, as if a "movie of the week" were unfolding before my eyes. When Angus and I arrived at the aggregate operation, two OPP cruisers and an Environment Canada car were parked at odd angles in front of the gate as if they'd skidded to a halt like Starsky and Hutch on a raid. As it turned out, they'd just parked that way. A gleaming padlock and chain secured the large drive-through gates, though a small walk-in gate remained open. The official, plastic-laminated shutdown order was fixed to the gate post with duct tape. About 40 workers, most familiar to me from the meeting the previous evening, huddled in small groups outside the gate, hands in pockets, talking quietly.

Notebook and digital recorder in hand, Andre Fontaine sat on the hood of his car off to the side, talking to several other reporters, all waiting for something to happen. Three satellite trucks with dishes elevated were also parked nearby. Three well-dressed and coiffed reporters with mics in hand were facing their cameras. I looked at my watch: 8:01. The reporters were obviously about to go live. I really had no idea how they caught wind of the shutdown story none at all.

As Angus and I stepped from his Camry, the cameras turned towards him. In a stroke of cinematic timing, the director general of Environment Canada then emerged from the decrepit building and walked back to his car, flanked by two OPP officers. He waved to Angus and nodded in a "the deed is done" kind of way. He held a clipboard just like in the movies. Our slick friend, Todd Haldorson, walked four paces behind, waving a now-crumpled piece of paper and hurling obscenities at the DG's back. When the workers spied Angus and me, they started chanting, "Angus, Angus, Angus, Angus, Angus."

Slick looked our way, and suddenly he no longer had the DG in his crosshairs. He rushed to the fence, gripped the steel mesh, and, well, snarled at us I guess that's the best way to describe it. He looked not unlike the Tasmanian devil in a Warner Brothers cartoon hyperventilating, eyes bulging, temples pulsing. His lip curled on one side like a Doberman's.

"You commie b.a.s.t.a.r.d! I shoulda known. f.u.c.kin' red Liberals. You're pathetic," shrieked Slick. He pointed to the locked-out workers. "Their jobs are on your head, mountain man."

Angus seemed almost serene as he looked at Slick. "Their old jobs or their much better new ones?" Angus said quietly, with the slightest trace of a smile. He turned and slid behind the wheel. I got in my side. There was nothing left for us to do there. I'd only suggested we go to make sure Angus was in the media's footage, though that's certainly not what I told him. We then circled the gravel parking lot and headed back towards the road with the workers trotting along side, fists pumping the air.

"Angus, Angus, Angus, Angus."

Yes, the cameras caught the whole thing. I didn't even need to see the coverage. I knew how it would play out. I didn't need to see the coverage, but I kind of wanted to. So I clicked among Newsworld, Newsnet, and CPAC in my office while Angus sat in the Commons on House duty. The media fame machine had latched onto Angus and wasn't letting go.

Call display is a wonderful thing. Four times that morning, "B. Stanton" flashed in the little liquid-crystal window on my phone. The Liberal Party would be short one whopping corporate donation, and I figured Stanton would want to take it out of me in ways I cared not to contemplate. Four times, I let the phone ring and ring.

That afternoon, debate on the mini-budget resumed for the second of four scheduled days. Our Finance Critic, as was traditional, moved an amendment to the motion on the floor to turn it on its head and condemn the Government's financial plan. In addition, again as usual, the NDP introduced a subamendment to the Liberal amendment, which then became the central topic of debate for day two. Hard to keep straight, parliamentary procedure is not noted for its simplicity.

The Liberals and the NDP could not reach agreement on how to play the amendments and subamendments that always attend the central budgetary-policy motion. As a consequence, when debate ended late Wednesday afternoon, the NDP subamendment was defeated to the Government's satisfaction, even amus.e.m.e.nt.

On Thursday morning, the papers reported on the first polls conducted to gauge public support for the Government's tax-cut budget. The numbers spelled out exactly what I expected and what the Government already knew. When Canadians were asked whether they favoured the mini-budget that left hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars (depending on income) in their pockets, a considerable majority said yes.

I've always thought that a democracy works best when its citizens are prepared to forego personal benefit to protect the collective interest. Unfortunately, with cynicism in our democratic inst.i.tutions running at peak levels, the catchphrases were "everyone for himself," "look out for number one," and "take whatever you can get." This mini-budget symbolized and helped entrench this jaded, me-first mentality.

The poll, covered extensively in all major dailies, not to mention the broadcast media, revealed that Canadians wanted their tax breaks and wanted them now. The numbers softened when the mini-budget was placed in the context of an impending recession but only slightly. If the Government were going to batten down the fiscal hatches as the bottom dropped out of the economy, let it happen after the public had taken back some its hard-earned, begrudgingly paid tax dollars. Putting no stock in supply-side economics, Angus was convinced that not only would the tax cuts fail to stimulate any meaningful economic growth, they would, in one fell swoop, plunge the country back into the dark days of crippling deficits.

Predictably, the Government embraced the new survey, trumpeted it from the rooftops, and flogged it shamelessly. By that evening, two more polls had been released, mirroring the morning survey's results. The regional cross-tabs revealed virtually no differences across the country. The polling results fortified the Prime Minister for the fight in the Commons and crystallized his belief that the Opposition would ultimately back down in the face of such overwhelming public support. With Canadians so strongly behind him, he was convinced his Government would carry the vote.

The debate on the Liberal amendment raged all Thursday afternoon. Dictated by the Standing Orders, the vote on our amendment was called for 6:00 PM. We lost it. The NDP MPs were still angry that we hadn't supported their subamendment and so voted against our amendment. They took their marbles and went home, leaving us alone to play with ourselves. Of course, the possibility existed, though I could never confirm it, that the Tories had bought off the NDP somehow. It had happened before.

We weren't exactly on speaking terms with the NDP, but I had hoped that making up was on the Leaders' agendas for the weekend. We were left with one more opportunity to defeat the Government. By unanimous consent, the fourth and final day of debate on the Government's budgetary-policy motion was set for the following Tuesday, and would conclude with a vote. If we voted together, the Government would fall, and it would be Happy Holidays on the hustings. If not, it would be a Progressive Conservative Christmas with the Finance Minister filling stockings with tax dollars. In either event, our New Year's resolution would have to be to play more nicely with the NDP or get used to life in Opposition.

Friday dawned crisp and clear. I was still having trouble with that evening's town-hall meeting, particularly after poring over the polls. On the drive into Ottawa, I appealed to Angus again while I still had time to shut it down.

"Angus, we now know where Canadians stand on the mini-budget," I opened. "And recent history suggests that support for tax cuts in c.u.mberland is likely the highest in the country. We know what they're going to say tonight. The only question is what are they going to throw?"

"Aye, I grant you that. We know what they're goin' to say. But that isnae why we've called the meeting," said Angus.

On instinct, I nodded in agreement. I eventually stopped nodding as my thinking caught up. "So remind me again exactly why we've called this little gathering if not to solicit your const.i.tuents' views on the mini-budget?"

"I'm not lookin' for their input on this. Quite the contrary. Frankly, I couldnae care less what my const.i.tuents think," Angus countered.

"Friendly suggestion, Angus? Keep that thought to yourself at the meeting," I counseled. "Some voters might not rush to embrace your isolationist perspective on democracy. Crazy as it sounds, some const.i.tuents might even think you should be interested in their views. I know it's a radical notion, but there it is."

"Sarcasm really doesnae become you," Angus chided. "I believe I understand the traditional relationship most MPs have enjoyed with their voters, and I've little interest in perpetuatin' it. I was elected. I will advance my views as I see fit, guided as I always am by my conscience. This budget is a fiscal disaster, poised to wreak havoc on our economy and spill red ink all over the nation's books. Against that backdrop, I care not a fig for the selfish views of greedy const.i.tuents lookin' to cash in their tax cuts."

I held up my hands in surrender, at least until we drifted over the centre line. "Message received loud and clear. But my question stands. Why put yourself through a town-hall meeting that will probably degenerate into nothing but a Salem witch trial with you playing the role of lead heretic?" I asked.