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And justice for Svend

By G.D. Maxwell "In Canada, we don't kick people when they're down." No we don’t. It’s one of the those things that makes us special.

By G.D. Maxwell

"In Canada, we don't kick people when they're down."

No we don’t. It’s one of the those things that makes us special. Of course, we might well put the boots to someone who’s up, way up, at least if their success has resulted in them becoming both wealthy and well-known. No hesitation there, baby. And if by accident we give them a kick or two too many and they do wind up being down, we’ll quickly change our tune, whip out the teat and provide them succor until they can slide back into that nondescript middle ground we righteously claim as our very own.

But we don’t kick people when they’re down. And if, by chance, we happen to wear judicial robes, we just might reach down to them, administer a cautionary slap on the wrist, a gentle kiss on the cheek and with a nod and wink, shuffle the misunderstood miscreant out of our courtroom without so much as a criminal record. Damn, we’re nice.

That’s pretty much what happened last Friday to former MP Svend "Lightfingers" Robinson.

Even though I have little regard for them – always getting in the way of a good story as they do – let us pause for a moment to revisit the facts of the case, Ma’am. Svend Robinson, Member of Parliament for the past quarter century from Burnaby-Douglas, a small enclave of liberal thought in the sprawling burbs of the Lower Mainland, went to an auction last Good Friday… as though they all aren’t. He was in the market for some bling bling for his long-time love.

A ring of dubious quality, listed in the auction catalogue as being worth something in the neighbourhood of $64,000 but being valued by the RCMP at closer to twenty Gs – and given the way cops appraise the street value of something like pot, probably worth closer to the $5,000 cutoff for a formal charge of theft over that amount – caught his eye. During a moment’s inattention on the auction clerk’s part, the ring, as the media was fond of saying, was slipped into Svend’s coat pocket. Svend took the jacket out to the car, locked it inside, and returned to the auction for half an hour or so of face time.

Then, according to everyone around him, he went apeshit, spent the long weekend frettin’ and fussin’ and finally, on Tuesday, turned himself and the ring into the RCMP, confessed, went on TV and tearfully resigned his seat as MP, stating, "I snapped."

While Svend spent the weekend with Max – not me, another Max – at their cottage in the Gulf Islands doing his impression of a crazy person, the auction people, realizing one of their very valuable rings were missing from its Cracker Jack box, watched the surveillance videos, saw Svend perform his act of legerdemain and called the RCMP. The cops, not knowing he had a cottage, called at Svend’s house and constituency office and, not finding Svend anywhere, went bobbing for Timbits for the rest of the holiday weekend.

At his made-for-TV resignation, Svend offered no reason for his aberrant act of thievery. What could he say? What could a man known for his acts of civil disobedience, environmental activism, outspoken stand on assisted suicide, left-wing, egalitarian, NDP politics possibly say about stealing a ring so garish it would stand out at a Republican fundraiser?

He said he was under stress. Welcome to the human race, Svend. He said he was seeing a shrink. He said he was embarrassed. He said it was out of character. All true.

Then he hired a hot-shot criminal lawyer. I know this because Clayton Ruby’s picture is in the dictionary as a living example of the definition of hot-shot criminal lawyer.

No one except Mr. Ruby and the Crown prosecutor know what spirited negotiations took place between them. One thing is clear though, no agreement was reached. In court last week, Svend pled guilty. His lawyer asked for clemency, citing extreme psychological pressure and his need to travel abroad but giving no particulars as to the storm savaging Svend’s soul or exactly where he may go. The Crown asked for a criminal conviction, arguing the value of the item stolen lifted the crime out of your basic "…hairnet or ballpoint pen," theft. The prosecutor further noted Svend had the presence of mind to hide his wrongdoing, had time to ponder the nature of his crime and had ample motive, to wit, pilfering an engagement ring for Mr. Riveron.

That’s when Judge Ron Fratkin said Canadians don’t kick people when they’re down. He also said Svend had gone through enough. "He has faced public humiliation. He has been vilified…. He’s embarrassed himself, and he has lost the opportunity to do what he does so well," presumably referring to his job.

The judge was further swayed to leniency by letters from prominent Canadians, among them Stephen Lewis, David Suzuki and Peter "The Weasel" MacKay. He gave Svend a conditional discharge, a fine and community service, thus letting Svend avoid the further embarrassment of a criminal conviction.

And the question is, was justice done or did the tired old broad peek out from under her blindfold and fart in public?

Don’t get me wrong. I like Svend. I’ve always admired Svend. If Canada had more politicians like Svend this would be an even wackier country. When Svend fessed up, I was of the opinion something truly inexplicable had happened and that if something like this could happen to him, it could happen to any of us.

But justice is the permanent ink with which the social contract is writ. It’s what keeps a nation from becoming Bosnia or Afghanistan or any number of other places where right and wrong is settled with Kalashnikovs. And for justice to be effective, it has to be seen to be ladled out evenly whether the person in the docket is rich or poor, celebrity or unknown, powerful or weak, black or white.

There are always two things on trial in criminal court: the defendant and the system. In handing down a conditional discharge, Judge Fratkin failed to uphold the integrity of the criminal justice system. Too many people will see the decision as proving what they’ve believed for some time now: that it’s not the crime you commit but who and how important you are that matters when you come before the bench.

A crime was committed. A crime was admitted. State of mind and societal position may be circumstances to weigh in fashioning punishment but they don’t negate the underlying act.

It was the lady with the scale that got the boots put to her last week.

Bad judge, bad.