It was Wednesday morning in Toronto when RCMP Constable Greg Dalton finished testifying and stepped down from the stand. He’d caught the look of jubilation from the defence lawyer, heightened further by the Crown prosecutor’s look of consternation. He also caught the scowl directed at him from another Drug Section member sitting in the courtroom.
Dalton had been called in by the prosecution to offer expert witness testimony as to the evidence that had been seized. It was not his case, but due to his years of undercover drug experience, his knowledge and expertise in the field were extensive. This gave him standing in court to offer an opinion about evidence, such as quantity and value of drugs, packaging, credit slips, coded conversations from intercepts, and anything else he felt was pertinent.
Today’s case was not complex. An elderly Chinese man had been arrested in the Toronto airport after returning from Hong Kong with a quantity of opium secreted in cigarette cartons. Drug importation was a serious offence and could warrant a substantial length of time in jail.
Did he look like a drug trafficker? No, but Dalton explained that elderly people were often used as drug mules so as not to attract attention. He also noted that the opium appeared to be professionally hidden in the cigarette cartons; it was not an amateurish attempt in which tampering would have been found in a cursory examination.
“In your opinion, Constable Dalton,” the Crown prosecutor had asked, “does the evidence put forward to you today suggest that this person is a professional smuggler, perhaps working for a drug distribution network?”
Probably, but there’s a 1 percent chance that he isn’t. Dalton cleared his throat. “There’s other evidence that I feel needs commenting on. He was also found to have a small quantity of opium in his pocket.”
“Uh, yes,” the prosecutor had replied. “Is that of any significance?”
“It would be unusual for a paid drug mule to be caught over something as overt as having some of the drug in your pocket. It makes me question whether he is a professional smuggler, or someone who merely purchased the drugs from a professional network simply for his own use.”
The prosecutor’s mouth had flopped open. “You think that quantity is for personal use?”
“The quantity seized from him is large and would normally indicate that it was intended for redistribution, but the price of opium is much lower in Hong Kong. There is a remote chance he purchased it with the idea that it would last him for a very long time.”
“I see. I have no further questions.”
The defence lawyer stood. “I have no questions for this witness, your honour.”
Smart. I’ve given you grounds to seek a much lower sentence. Questioning me might cause the judge to reject the 1 percent notion and go for a higher sentence.
Dalton ignored his colleague’s continued scowl as he exited the courtroom. Yeah, I know. He was probably busted from informant information and has been couriering drugs for years, but I can only comment on the evidence before me.
Once outside the courtroom, Dalton checked his phone for messages. A call from Staffing. Already?
Dalton’s father had recently died, and his mother, who suffered from arthritis, was now living alone in Burnaby. Two weeks ago he’d asked for a compassionate transfer to the Metro Vancouver area so he could help look after her. He’d said he was willing to accept any position, whether it be administrative, uniform, or whatever.
* * *
“Chief Superintendent Quaile from Staffing is on the line,” the secretary said.
Lexton frowned. “Put him through.”
“I have some great news,” Quaile said. “I think you’ll be delighted.”
Why, are you retiring?
“I’ve come up with the perfect candidate to fill the open position in Intelligence. Get this, his performance records say he’s forthright and always does the right thing, even if it puts him at odds with his peers.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Toronto Drug Section. All his service has been back east, so he won’t have any, uh, alliances with anyone here to whom he might feel obligated.”
“Thank you for keeping me informed.”
“I knew you’d be happy.”
Happy? You dumbass. I’d be happy if I didn’t feel I had to do this.