Lighting the Torch

I arrived at the courthouse around 8:20 am on a rainy Monday, March 5th, and started gathering signatures on a petition for Betty Krawczyk, which we planned to submit to the judge during the morning's sentencing. The Attorney General was asking that Betty, 78 years old, serve between nine and 15 months in prison for refusing to apologize for protecting wildlife at Eagleridge Bluffs from a faster road to the Whistler Olympics. The petition declared that Betty should not be imprisoned because she is an elder and peaceful Earth protector, but that, if she is sentenced, we will share her punishment since we are united in our desire to protect wilderness. By signing, we would be injecting democracy into the anti-democratic injunction process.

In this context, the term "injunction" is synonymous with "court order" and I use the terms interchangeably. I explain the injunction process in the 'Conclusions' section.

I made my rounds as the crowd grew larger, swelling to perhaps 200 strong--the largest I'd ever seen at a court appearance. Some held signs demanding an inquiry into Native sovereigntist Harriet Nahanee's death after serving time at Surrey Pretrial Services Centre for the same reason Betty faced prison. Betty showed up around 8:30 and the crowd went wild. People applauded and chanted "Betty! Betty! Betty!" She spoke with people and engaged with the media for a few minutes before going inside. People followed and lined up outside the courtroom while others milled about outside. Weaving between the ever-growing mass of people in line for the courtroom and those who remained outside, I added signatures to the petition.

In short order, a woman came out and announced that the bailiffs were searching everybody quite thoroughly and that it was taking a long time to get into the courtroom. Some people around me expressed annoyance and frustration at the fact that there was such a slow and thorough screening process at the sentencing of a peaceful environmentalist. I used the time to my advantage. gathering as many signatures as I could.

As I continued to make my rounds, I heard a commotion around the courtroom door. As I approached, I saw people coming out of the courtroom, declaring that Betty's sentencing was already over. She had received ten months, case closed. Some people started crying; everyone looked shocked. We were all surprised that the judge had started the proceeding without waiting until the courtroom was full.

I went into the vestibule in front of the courtroom where the bailiffs had been searching people and checking bags. I saw a door-frame shaped metal detector and two bailiffs returning bags to people exiting the courtroom. I asked one of the people retrieving his personal items if he'd been in the courtroom. He said yes. I asked him if there were empty seats in there. He said there were lots. I then asked the bailiffs behind the counter why the proceedings started with so many people outside and so many empty seats inside. They looked quite frustrated and harried; it appeared I wasn't the only one asking that question. One bailiff shot out that they weren't the ones to ask; if I wanted an answer, I'd have to go to counter 212. I thanked him and left in search of an answer.

I asked one of the bailiffs outside the courtroom where I could find counter 212. He directed me outside and around the building. I asked if I couldn't get there from inside the building and he said yes, I could take the elevator down to the 2nd floor and into the court registry area. As I walked to the elevator, another bailiff approached me and told me I couldn't solicit petition signatures inside the building. "That's fine," I said, and carried on.

When I got to counter 212, I asked the bailiff sitting behind the desk why so many people were left outside the courtroom during sentencing when there were so many empty seats inside. He said it was because, despite warnings from the bailiffs, people didn't line up until ten to nine, leaving too little time to get everyone through. I thanked him and left. As we walked away, my partner, Siobhan, said "That's not true!" "I know," I said. She asked me why I accepted that as an answer if I knew it wasn't true. I told her that I just had to follow through and get the bailiffs' version of events. In contrast with the bailiff's information, Siobhan and I saw people starting to line up around 8:30 am.

The march and sit-in

I returned to the crowd who had been denied access to the courtroom. People were energized and frustrated. Many people were crying. A few First Nations women were drumming and people in the crowd sang with them. Others were shouting "shame! shame! shame!" over and over again, some pointing at the courthouse, some fists raised in the power sign. One man jumped up onto a large concrete planter and told the crowd that our exclusion from the courtroom was one more example of the courts operating undemocratically, favouring corporations and slighting citizens. He suggested we march around the building.

I let people know that I had gone down to room 212 as the bailiff had suggested and told them the answer I got. People informed me that people had been waiting a long time to get in and that that answer was bull. I said I quite agreed and if they wanted a real answer, we should go down to counter 212 and ask for one.

We marched around the building and entered the courthouse on the Robson Street side. As I attempted to enter, a bailiff met me at the door, pushed me outside and physically held one of the doors shut. I pulled the door open hard and told him that we, as members of the public, have a right to enter the courthouse. He wavered for a moment, which was long enough for the crowd to march through the doors, at which point he was powerless to stop our entry.

As we approached the doors to the court registry, through which counter 212 was located, a few more bailiffs assembled, called for backup and blocked our access by standing in front of the doors. I told them that, as members of the public, we have a right to access our judicial system and a right to go through the doors they were blocking. I also made it clear to them that the bailiffs sent us here to ask why we hadn't been allowed into the courtroom. They did not respond and physically blocked any attempt anyone made to enter.

People started to leave the courthouse. A few people suggested a sit-in. I agreed, and communicated the plan to the crowd. A group of about 12 assembled a few feet in front of the line of stoic bailiffs at about 9:55am, leaving several feet of space in every direction for people to get by. A bailiff blocking the door directed a contingency to stop anyone in the crowd from using cameras (later, the police used a video camera to record the identities of the people in our circle). I repeatedly let the bailiffs know that we were not any sort of threat, that we were there on the instruction of a bailiff and were sincerely there to ask why we weren't allowed into the courtroom. I let them know that we didn't even have to go in if they had concerns; we'd be perfectly happy if someone came out and spoke with us.

Many people asked the bailiffs why they were blocking our access, but no one received any response. Someone asked them who told them to stop us from going through. Silence. They were like stones. They wouldn't speak to us, they wouldn't look at us; they pretended we just weren't there as they stared intensely at invisible points in the distance. They wore only numbers for identification; some didn't even wear those. The bailiffs who blocked the door were numbers 971, 615, 45, 895, 884, 971, 917, 594, 775 and, apparently, 940. (I say apparently because this bailiff didn't display a number and wouldn't give it until he felt the rising pressure of the crowd who repeatedly demanded it and told him he was obligated to disclose it. I'm taking him at his word that he is in fact bailiff 940.)

One woman in our circle said "Treat us like humans! Acknowledge us like we're humans! Look at us like we're humans!" This stirred the bailiffs out of their trance and number 615 started to engage with us a limitedly. I asked him if we could go in or if anyone was coming to speak with us. He said that he was told that, yes, someone would come out shortly to answer our questions. I asked him when this would occur and he said he didn't know; all he knew was that someone would come out shortly.

The bailiffs let some people in suits into the court registry. When we asked why they were letting some people in but not others, they informed us that they were only letting lawyers in. When a woman approached, one of the bailiffs said she'd been in before, so they opened the door and let her in. When I asked why they let her in, they answered that she was a lawyer. When I pointed out that she didn't identify herself as a lawyer, bailiffs 615 and 775 explained that they were letting in lawyers and staff. Police sporadically came and went freely though the bailiffs' barricade. As others approached the door and got into the registry, the bailiffs asked for identification, so I stood up, pulled out my wallet and approached the barricade, offering to give them my identification. They declined and didn't let me in.

My friend, Kelli, made several physical attempts to enter. Bailiffs 971 and 917 responded by grabbing her and pushing her away. On one attempt, she asked number 615 "Why can't we go in?" He said "We'll address that in a few minutes." Others approached the bailiffs and asked why they were not letting the public into the court registry. The inquiries were met with stone silence.

Someone in the crowd of onlookers found out the bathrooms were locked. We asked the line of bailiffs why this was so. No response. I got up from the circle to try the men's washroom; it was locked. Bailiff 893 appeared suddenly in the narrow washroom passage between me and the sit-in circle. I asked him why the bathroom was locked. He said "It's locked." I said "But why is it locked?" "Do I have to give you an answer?" he asked. "You don't have to, but I would like one" I said. He said nothing more.

One woman in the circle started getting concerned. She asked them to please open the bathroom so she could go. The bailiffs stared on. She said the sit-in was going to be a piss-in if they didn't open the bathroom soon. The circle and crowd burst into laughter. People considered what to do about the washroom issue. Someone had generously donated a case of water and granola bars to the sit-in. Some of the men decided they would use the water bottles, and one woman said she'd try to do the same if it came down to it. Someone eyed a road pilon and, mostly jokingly, suggested we turn it upside-down and pee into it. We met her comment with gales of laughter, though I'm sure for some the idea was sounding better with each passing moment.

I had to visit the facilities soon, too. I asked people around me if the elevators were shut down. Someone told me they were, but I didn't see any bailiffs in front of them, so I tried my luck. The elevator descended and opened. No one stopped me from getting in and I was able to access the 3rd floor washroom. I returned at 10:56, a little lighter on my feet, and let the circle know my mission successful. A few people expressed obvious relief. They got up and made their way to the elevators. Though they managed to get inside the car, bailiffs 944 and 516 pursued them and refused to let them go up. No washrooms for people demanding justice, I suppose.

At 10:55, a woman from the crowd around us stepped forward to let us know that the courthouse was shut down and that a woman was not allowed into a family member's murder trial. A few minutes later the woman who couldn't get into the trial approached us and asked us why we were blocking the doors. We tried to explain that it wasn't us, but the bailiffs who were blocking the door and that we'd rather not be waiting either, but it was futile. She was frustrated, we were frustrated and no real communication transpired. She left, spitting words at us with an animated wave of her hand, and stormed away.

Then it was the media's turn. A woman named Camille from Canadian Press approached us, opening her inquiry with "Why are you not at work today?" To a group of people pondering why elder Harriet Nahanee was given a death sentence by Madam Justice Brown, why a great-grandmother was doing time instead of a corporation, why the public wasn't given full access to the courts, and why we were now being denied a right to ask a simple question, this entrance went over like a lead balloon. People shot out angry retorts: "Since the government isn't doing it, this is our job!" Shouts and applause.

Camille defended herself, saying she had to ask tough questions. She asked why were blocking the public from coming into the courthouse. She was treated to an encore of frustrated shouting. I motioned for her to come over and I explained to her that the bailiffs had actually told us to come here for answers and that when we did we were greeted by a stone wall. I let her know that it's the bailiffs who are doing the blocking, not us, that we've been told that someone will come out and speak with us shortly, and that we'd much rather just find out why we were restricted from the courtroom and leave. She took my name, age and occupation, then left without asking the line of bailiffs any of her tough questions.

At 10:57, one older gentleman challenged the bailiffs' line by standing beside them in front of the door. Bailiffs 516 and 940 jostled and argued with him a bit, but the man remained unbowed, leaning his back against the door, asserting his right to be in that space. After a minute, they just let him be there, the man and the guardians of the door in a stiff-bodied truce.
Four minutes later, Kelli noticed a police officer videotaping the sit-in circle from inside the court registry. She got up and blocked his view by standing against the glass next to the line of bailiffs. Bailiff 615 told her to remove herself. As this is happening, the police move in and form a line in front of our circle.

Arrest and detention

At 11:01 am, the police form a solid line, sandwiching our circle between the line of bailiffs and the police line. From the air, the pattern would have spelled out "101"--less than half the 212 we were seeking. A few moments later, a loud man describing himself as a 'sheriff of the courts' bursts out from behind the bailiffs' line, wafting an air of self-importance, and reads an injunction, giving us 60 seconds to remove ourselves or be arrested.

Everyone leaves except Tavis and I. We interlock arms just before the bailiffs descend on us, pull us behind their line into the court registry and cuff us. One of them has a knee in my back, a couple of others are scuffling over me, one of them saying "You're resisting arrest! You're resisting arrest!" I look up and say "Guys, I'm limp. I'm not resisting arrest!" Nevertheless, one of the bailiffs, either 749 or 989 (the brown-skinned one), uses a pain compliance submission hold on me, making me yell out in pain before someone puts cuffs on me, pulling me to my feet. 749 and 989 walk me through the court registry to the elevators which lead downstairs to the holding cells. We got through the bailiffs' line the hard way. In the elevator, 749 and 989 look bug-eyed with adrenaline, breathing heavily, and the brown-skinned one is holding on to me quite tightly. I say "Guys, you don't need to hold on so tightly, I'm not some violent criminal; you don't need to treat me like one." No response, no change in pressure.

When I get downstairs, the bailiffs remove my sweater from around my waist, search my pockets and confiscate everything they find. They take mugshots and have me give them my boots and my belt. Tavis follows close behind and we wink at each other as he spells out his name in military phonetics for his mugshot. A bailiff without a badge number walks into the room where I'm being booked, looks at the contents of my pocket spread across the counter, sees a Sharpie marker and says "What's the marker for?" I tell him it was to make a "FREE BETTY K" shirt. He sneers at me and says "Yeah, right!"

This sets me off. I tell him I don't have to answer his questions and I don't care whether he believes me or not. We look directly at each other and he tells me that I'm going to have a hard week in there if I'm going to get smart with him like that. I told him that it was the other way around: he was getting smart with me by being so cynical about my stated purpose for the marker. ( I mean, come on; I'm 34 years old, what am I going to do with a marker? Tag walls?)

I notice he's not wearing a badge number, so I ask him for it. He tells me he doesn't have to give it to me and we descend into a little childish yes-no polemic about it. He leaves the room for a few moments while the booking officer continues documenting my personal effects. When he comes back, he asks me if I'd been 'Chartered.' Chartered? The booking officer looks at me and repeats the question. "I don't even know what Chartered is," I tell them. Then the bailiff tells me I have the right to remain silent. He pauses, then pulls out what looks like a pocket-sized New Testament from his lapel pocket. He pulls a credit-card-sized piece of paper from it and then continues reading me my rights. He pauses after a couple of lines and says "Oh, it says here I do have to give you my badge number." I don't respond. He tells me he's number 929 and I thank him. I appreciate the fact that he was graceful enough to admit his error and from this point on, we get along just fine. But it does concern me that I wasn't 'Chartered' when I was arrested, that I was never told with certainty what I was 'charged' with (929 told me I was "presumably" charged with disobeying a court order), that the bailiff didn't know he had to give his badge number, and that he didn't know my rights beyond the first seven words. He tells me I'll be released at 4 pm and asks me if I want to exercise my right to speak with a lawyer. I affirm unequivocally.

When the booking officer has packed all my belongings into a clear plastic bag, I am escorted to a holding cell in a tee shirt, beltless corduroy pants, and black socks. When I get there, 929 tells me they're putting me in a cell away from the riff-raff. I awkwardly understand this to be a strange compliment as he slams the metal door shut.

About an hour later, a bailiff asks me through the little window in the door if I want to speak with a lawyer. Yes, I say, thinking haven't we been through this before? A few minutes later, a baliff escorts me down the hall to a room with a phone in it. He locks me in the room. I stare at the note on the phone, which reads "touch pad inoperative," and wait for him to tell me to pick it up.

After a few minutes I hear a someone down the hall explode with anger. He's going off on the bailiff who escorted me because someone had picked up the phone and listened to his conversation with his wife. He asks demands my escort "Why did you put him in there? How long has he been in there?" and tells him he's super pissed off. My escort apologizes to the offended party a couple of times. I hadn't picked up the phone and certainly didn't realize the phone line was shared in that manner, so I thought the blow up was over another prisoner. It wasn't until my escort returned me to my cell and asked me if I'd picked up the phone, that I understood that this was about me. He looked me in the eyes and asked me twice pointedly if I had picked up the phone. Both times I looked him dead in the eye and said no. We held each others' gaze for a long moment and then he withdrew, slamming the door behind him. I think he believed me. I was sorry he had to go through that unpleasant experience, especially when he had been berated groundlessly. He had a soft, patient manner about him which showed in his quiet, courteous response to his yelling colleague.

I actually never got to make my call on this eventful sortie, because a bailiff down the hall behind a desk didn't believe the number I had was a lawyer's number because it started with the 778 exchange. I assured him that was the number and suggested they call first and confirm it if they didn't believe me. The bailiff shouted back "Yeah, he'll just say he's a lawyer!" I told him the name of the lawyer I wanted to call--Pivot Legal Society's David Eby, and let him know that Pivot Legal Society is an actual established entity, but he wasn't going for it. He produced a 2007 lawyers' directory, and said "If he is a lawyer, he'll be in there." But neither David nor Pivot Legal was listed.

I had seen David speak two nights earlier at the opening for Five Ring Circus, an expose documentary on the myths supporting the Olympics coming to Vancouver. He struck me as a gentle, passionate spirit; a beautifully balanced fusion of lawyer and civil rights activist. I trusted and admired him immediately. One of the women in our sit-in circle gave me his number to write on my arm in the event I was arrested and needed legal help. Sitting in front of the phone with the inoperative touch pad, I thought of trying to find another lawyer, but then I thought against it. I felt I had a right to call a lawyer I felt some confidence in rather than some random name from a directory.

A few minutes pass before a bailiff looks into my phone cubicle. I look up and tell him David Eby isn't listed in the book, but that he is a lawyer. The bailiff behind the desk decides I should be taken back to my cell with no further action: "Get him outta there!" I protest and demand from the desk bailiff his badge number as he wasn't wearing any. He declines to provide it, but I believe him to be bailiff 940 who was blocking the court registry doors earlier. I declare that I'm being denied the right to speak to my lawyer, as I'm being hauled back to my cell. I hear a voice around the corner tell me to shut up.

Another hour passes before the desk bailiff comes back and asks me again for the number. He's more co-operative this time around. He tells me he'll call for me and I thank him. After a couple of updates that the bailiffs left messages for David to call, I'm finally returned to the phone cubicle and patched through to David, who connects me with lawyer Katrina Pacey. She tells me not to communicate about my arrest with Tavis, the guards or anyone who might be put in my cell as, now that I've spoken with a lawyer, I'm fair game for information mining. She says she'll check in to make sure I'm released at 4 pm and asks me to call her when I get out. She asks to speak to Tavis and I tell her I'm not sure how the phone system works, but to stay on the line when I hang up; if that doesn't work, just call back. I sit in the cubicle for another 20 minutes, waiting for someone to return me to my cell. Finally the desk bailiff appears in the window and says "You should have called and I would have taken you out!" I said, "Well, had I known, I would have." We smile awkwardly at each other over the misunderstanding. When he opens the neigbouring phone cubicle, Tavis peers out. He hadn't been connected with Katrina. "That's okay," he says, "we've got nothing but time to wait, now." We're put back in our respective cells.

Before closing the door the desk bailiff asks if I've eaten lunch. I say no as he shuts me into my cell. I realize a little too late he probably wanted to know because he was thinking of getting me something to eat. I realize I should have let him know I'm vegan. In a few minutes, the desk bailiff returns with a big box and prepares to pull out a McDonald's lunch for me. I thank him, but let him know about my diet. He pulls out a container of apple juice for me and tells me he'll go get me something I can eat, like a salad. I thank him and tell him I'll be fine until 4 pm. He hands me two juices before closing the door. That was really nice, I think as I open the juice and dilute it with a little water from the all-metal toilet-sink combination unit in a corner of my cell.

Another couple of hours go by before the door opens again. Tavis and I are removed from our cells for release. We're deposited in a room where a bailiff asks us to prepare to be searched again. A commotion ensues amongst an assembly of several confused bailiffs. Some seem to think we're going to be transferred somewhere as prisoners and others understand we're being released. Tavis and I look at each other quizzically and I say "Crazy, eh?" Before he can respond, two bailiffs guide us back to the rooms where we had checked in our personal effects. I sign my stuff out, put on the sweater that I was sorry to have taken off prior to arrest (I was a little chilly during my brief detention), strap on my boots, and await further instructions. When Tavis is ready in the room next door, the bailiffs take us up to street level and let us go.
My partner, Siobhan, and a couple of friends are waiting for us outside--a welcome sight after being locked down, even for a short while. I call David and Katrina, and let them know we're out. I chat briefly with Tavis, exchange contact info, and head home into the twilight.

Conclusions

It wasn't fun being in jail for the afternoon, but it could have been worse. I was treated far more like a human after my arrest than when we sat in a circle, trying to draw answers from stones, only to be hogtied on the order of a judge who probably didn't have a clue what was actually happening at the registry doors.

The courthouse met our request for answers with an injunction authorizing force and detention; the same tool used to jail the great-grandmother we were there to support. Due to this tactic, we never got to the bottom of why members of the public were excluded from the courtroom. Consequently, we are left with nothing more than our own speculation, which, in the absence of information, abounded. It went something like this.

Q. Why was the sentencing held in such a small courtroom when Betty always draws a large crowd? And why was an over-the-top security system set up which took people so long to get through, few people could get into the courtroom?

A. Because, despite the fact that the courts are supposed to be accessible to the public, the judiciary and/or administration, wanted to limit our access and diminish our show of support for Betty in the courtroom.

This answer is substantiated by my own experience and by the nature of the injunction process. When I attended Betty's sentencing on February 19th, the judge appeared uncomfortable with the audience. When some onlookers asked for Betty and the judge to speak up, the judge got really flustered and treated the spectators like waywards. It took her a while to realize that the cries were sincere: people just wanted to hear the proceedings. She animatedly left the courtroom, though she did finally get someone to address the sound issue.

The injunction process bypasses the democratic process by taking lawmaking away from elected government officials and placing it in the hands of judges who are not accountable to anyone and untouchable by government.

In theory, judges are at arms length from the government. This distance grants them independence from the political arena in their decision-making. The way in which a democratic system passes laws is by elected officials. Judges at times interpret these laws, but they do not make them.

The exception to this democratic theory is the case of unwritten civil law. Civil law is used to settle civil suits (legal actions that generally entail financial settlements) while criminal law is used to prosecute offences governed by the Criminal Code. The Criminal Code provides specific ranges for sentencing for a given crime, allows the defendant a proper defence and allows jury trials when a defendant faces a maximum sentence of five or more years.

The contempt of court charge environmental protestors face falls under civil law wherein judges can (and do) disallow critical elements for mounting a proper defence, deny trial by jury, are not bound by statutes for length of sentencing, and are not subject to the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms. For example, in 2000, Mr. Justice Parrett arbitrarily octupled the previously-held longest sentence for civil contempt from 7 to 56 days and handed out record-breaking one year sentences for criminal contempt. As Mr. Justice Bouck declared during the Clayoquot mass trials, "we are sort of allowed to make the rules as they [the trials] go along...."
As quoted in Hatch, Ronald B. "The Clayoquot Show Trials." Clayoquot & Dissent. Vancouver: Ronsdale Press,Vancouver, 1994, p. 108.

Using civil law to prosecute environmental protestors has created a method for corporations to silence dissent. If people interfere, or support others in interfering with a corporation's actions, the corporation files a civil suit and gets an injunction order declaring the area of protest off-limits to the public. Since the judge can hear the corporation's case without representation from the protestors' position, these injunctions are often obtained solely on the information provided by the corporation's lawyers. The injunction process is similar to anti-terror legislation such as Bill C-36 in that it subjects citizens to arbitrary power and indefinite sentences without the protection of the Charter or recourse to a fair trial.

The injunction process has been very beneficial to corporations at the expense of the environment. Corporations are able to imprison people for unusually long periods of time, have all testimony relevant to their contested acts disallowed from the courtroom, and have the taxpayers pay for the prosecution through the Attorney General's office.

Rule by injunction wrongly pits citizens against the courts instead of against the corporation. Citizens taking issue with a corporation's environmental practices on a road somewhere suddenly find themselves in a court room, being tried for the very different issue of showing contempt for the court. This confusion of convenience continues. Judges continually refer to preservation of the rule of law as a primary factor in their reasons for sentencing protestors, yet they created the platform on which they stand by subverting the rule of law to the benefit of corporations.

Q. Why did bailiffs block our entry to the court registry and tell us someone was coming out to address our questions, when in fact a judge was approving an injunction against us? Did the bailiffs know this and purposely keep us waiting for purpose of having us arrested? Who gave evidence for the injunction and why was this information not verified, since the sit-in was taking place in the very same building? Why did the courthouse choose to resolve our questions with force and detention? Did someone give the bailiffs orders to block our way to counter 212? Will we ever get a real answer as to why the public was restricted from the courtroom or is injunction the only language the courts are willing to speak? Why did no one ask us to leave the building and see if we were willing to leave on our own accord before escalating matters to the level of a court order? Why were we only given 60 seconds to vacate the area and why, since the court order was for anyone blocking the doors to the court registry, were the bailiffs not summarily arrested so that we, the public, could have our access restored to a public building? Why were Tavis and I arrested on a court order enjoining people from blocking the doors when we weren't blocking the doors? Why did the police act without asking us to leave or finding out what was actually happening? The police didn't ask us one question, didn't say a word to us, but acted as if we were guilty by helping with security and by filming during the court order.

A. It will take time to gather evidence and get some background. The sheriff read the court order but I understand that it was never handed out to anyone. The sheriff certainly didn't give me an opportunity to read it. Though Tavis and I were arrested under the injunction, we were not charged with anything and were simply released later that day. I was already concerned about the arbitrary and unilateral power of injunctions before being arrested in the courthouse. I'm even more concerned, now that we've been denied access to the apparently open halls of justice and arrested for daring to ask perfectly reasonable questions at the very direction of court bailiffs.

This concern is aggravated by the fact that we apparently weren't held under anything other than a judge's say-so; one who, as far as I know, didn't even witness the events. Worse yet, we were just let go, rather than given a court date to contest our detention. That a judge can order people to be arrested and held without charge, without having to serve them a written copy of the order, without having to give a person time to confirm the conditions under which the order applies, without even a few minutes to contemplate the situation and their response, or any way of questioning the order amounts, in my opinion to nothing better than simple abduction.

As I say, from my understanding of the injunction, we weren't violating it, but the bailiffs were. There was a lot of commotion. Some people in the crowd were saying not to listen to the court order; others were yelling over it. Some members of our circle were saying they couldn't hear it, asking the sheriff for repetition. I don't know whether he was able to hear the request over his own and all the other voices, but we didn't get the benefit of a second reading. Since the sheriff gave us a mere 60 seconds to take in what we could hear above the noise, I have had no opportunity to confirm my understanding of the order.

I wish we had been given an appearance date so we could answer to having apparently violated the injunction, because that would give us an opportunity to challenge it. I suspect that is exactly why we have been denied such a reasonable desire. I am going to follow this up by getting a copy of the injunction and look for what options I have available for addressing it in court. After all, if we're arrested and jailed, shouldn't we at least have the opportunity to address our guilt or innocence? Shouldn't we at least be given a trial where the merits of our case can be heard? When did we lose that right? Certainly well before Betty and Harriet were arrested and before the Clayoquot mass trials that shocked anyone who believed in justice.

While we're working toward answers to oh-so-many questions, I think it's important to note a constant

There is no justice for all via our present institutions. The police, the government and the courts publicly state that we have rights, but deny us those rights when it suits them. We should not let our denial into the courtroom and into the registry blur our vision or weaken our resolve. In fact, these events bring into sharper focus how ready the "justice" system is to drop the veneer of truth and justice in favour of force when it's convenient.

Despite the fact that the rest of the country has evolved beyond the use of injunctions, BC seems to be using them more widely to enforce arbitrary, unassailable decisions that convenience corporations to the detriment of citizens. The right to ask questions, as an aspect of free speech, is an important democratic right. When observed, it benefits society by pointing out and addressing weak points in our systems. Unfortunately, important questions that make the state feel uncomfortable are increasingly being answered with the right to use force on the word of a BC judge.

71-year-old Harriet Nahanee is dead after serving time at Surrey Pretrial Services Centre for refusing to apologize for protecting wildlife at Eagleridge Bluffs. 78-year-old Betty Krawczyk is in jail, serving a ten-month sentence for the same reason. Tavis and I are questioning our arbitrary and as-yet unchallengable arrest for simply asking why members of the public were denied access to an apparently public courtroom. All of this might have been different if BC judges did not rule by carte blanche power of injunction. As people continue to protest all levels of government and the IOC for prioritizing the Olympics over remedying poverty, homelessness, and the destruction of Native land, judges will likely increasingly exercise their exclusive power. Though concerned citizens continue to speak truth to power, they find themselves doing so more and more often from behind prison walls.