Twenty-Six (37 page)

The inquiry commissioner’s face is a mask of neutrality, his gaze so blank he appears set to doze off. He glances briefly at the commotion in the room, then settles back to look at Gavin. But he keeps a pad of yellow paper in front of him, and though he never looks down at it, a cheap plastic pen in his left hand scratches non-stop across the paper, pausing only long enough to flip to a new page.

“So Eastyard hired Argon,” Gavin continues. “And they surveyed the site and made their plans as to the best way to safely get at that coal. Part of their plan was the method of tunnel construction itself, considering that the Eastyard seam is surrounded by soft rock and is unstable and prone to rock falls. They recommended a system of arches and screens be set up, and that this be sprayed with Quikrete, a super-fast-drying concrete that would keep the tunnels from caving in. But as soon as Argon left the site, after Eastyard workers had been trained in this method of tunnelling, management ordered an end to the Quikreting of the tunnel roofs. It was too costly and time-consuming, they said, and they said it was unnecessary.”

“Did you witness any rock falls yourself underground?”

“Regularly. Large and small rock falls were happening all the time.”

“Did the rock falls occur in the areas that had been left without Quikrete?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever witness or know about a rock fall that took place in a tunnel where arches, screens,
and
Quikrete had been applied according to specifications?”

“No.”

Silence. Gavin is conscious of the dramatic effect of this pause. He’s giving people, perhaps across the entire country, time to process what he’s said.

“Someone else could testify about shortcuts Eastyard made in the execution of the tunnel plan Argon laid out. I’m no expert there.”

“What exactly do you mean by shortcuts?”

“I’m not a tunnel expert, and I don’t know the specifics. But it was pretty common knowledge that changes had been made in the tunnelling company’s original plans for the layout of the tunnels.”

“What was the purpose behind these changes?”

“Well, Argon designed a system for getting the coal out safely. But the safest way of doing something is not always the quickest and the cheapest way of doing it.”

“So the design of the tunnels was changed for the sake of saving money at the expense of safety?”

“There’s no other reason for changing the tunnelling company’s plan. They’re the tunnel experts. They’ve done the complete assessment of the site to determine exactly how a safe modern mine could be built under local conditions. But as for exact details, you’ll have to ask someone else.”

Gavin becomes aware of the sounds around him. People breathe, they shift in their seats. They whisper and scratch on paper. The inquiry chairman is hunched over his notepad, scribbling something in point form.

“Now,” the commissioner continues. “What about maintenance of the mine?”

“Maintenance.”

“You identified that earlier as one of the areas where you thought there were safety concerns at Eastyard.”

“The biggest maintenance problem was dust.”

“Coal dust.”

“Yes. It’s explosive. It’s a concern in any mining operation, but the coal we mined at Eastyard was especially bad for producing large quantities of dust.”

“What exactly is the explosive hazard of dust?”

“From what I understand, and I’ve read a fair bit about this, now, but I’ve never conducted a scientific study, and, well, the fact I’m sitting here proves I’ve never seen coal dust ignite in any appreciable quantity. But I understand that coal dust on its own won’t blow, but if there’s a gas ignition, the presence of dust will turn a small rumble into a giant explosion. And because the dust can be present everywhere throughout the mine, it creates a domino effect. A gas explosion alone would normally be localized, especially with the kind of detectors and ventilation available now. If gas ignites, it’s not likely to be widespread. But dust can turn the whole system of shafts into a rifle barrel.”

Someone in the room makes a guttural noise that sounds close to a deep cough. Gavin looks up at Ziv Burrows. Now that he’s closer, it is obvious he’s recently been in a fight. Aside from the bruise on his face, he’s holding his body in a delicate, wounded manner. His face is framed by his hands. He is staring so intently at Gavin that the blue of his eyes appears almost aglow.

“If you saw pictures of the portal of the number-one deep at Eastyard, right after the explosion,” Gavin continues. “Remember how the roof over the portal was all blown to bits, and there was debris scattered everywhere?
That’s
what happens when dust ignites.”

“What can be done to reduce this risk of dust ignition?”

“The coal dust can be removed, or it can be neutralized by mixing it with stone dust.”

“This is what’s called liming.”

“That’s right. The stone dust used is powdered limestone.”

“Could you describe the liming process to us?”

“Well, like most procedures we carried out at Eastyard, I’m sure there are better ways to do it. But we just used to haul in
fifty-pound bags of lime on a pallet, break open the bags with the nose of a shovel, and shovel the lime right onto the floor. A little bit like spreading salt on your driveway in the winter.”

“So this procedure, liming the dust, it
was
performed at Eastyard.”

“Well, I’ve seen it done. I did it myself a couple of times. Once I spent half a shift liming dust.”

“Was this a regular procedure at Eastyard?”

“No.”

A buzz in the hearing room. Gavin reaches for the glass of water on the table near him.

“To the best of your knowledge, how often was this procedure carried out at Eastyard.”

“I know of two or three times that it took place in the nine months I worked there, but it might have been done more.”

“In your estimation, how often
should
it have been carried out?”

“Liming dust should be an ongoing thing. There should be a little bit going on every day or every couple of days.”

“When the liming took place that you were aware of, what were the circumstances of the liming?”

“On both occasions, it was on the day before a visit by the mine inspector.”

More rumblings in the hearing room.

“Did you keep a diary, or another written record of these events?”

“A diary! Lord, no. My memory is all I’ve got in that regard. But I’ve been told it’s a pretty good one.”

“Part of the mine inspector’s job is to meet with workers at the job site. To your knowledge, did these meetings take place?”

“Yes. The inspector visited people while they were working and spoke with them.”

“To your knowledge, did anyone on these occasions express concerns to the inspector about workplace safety?”

“I doubt very much anyone did.”

“Why is that?”

“Because the mine inspector was always accompanied by a member of Eastyard management.”

“Eastyard management accompanied the department inspector?”

“Yes.”

“Was there any time when the inspector was alone and could have spoken privately with an Eastyard worker?”

“Not at the job site,” Gavin takes in a breath, lets it out. “But I met with him myself once, face-to-face, one-on-one.”

The inquiry commissioner sits up straight. He cocks his head sideways and raises both eyebrows. The inquiry counsel has been sitting at her desk, rummaging back through some transcripts of previous testimony. She stops and looks up at the witness chair. No one at these hearings has so far mentioned a one-on-one meeting with the inspector. The inspector himself, testifying from the same stand, denied any complaints were ever made to him by an Eastyard worker.

The day of Gavin’s meeting with the mine inspector came only a week or two after he’d quit his job at Eastyard. He knew from talking with the few guys from his old shift that Bill Reynolds, mine inspector for the province of Nova Scotia, would be in Albion Mines for a couple of days. He’d be meeting with management and looking at paperwork and plans on the Thursday,
and on Friday he was scheduled to go underground to look at operations there. The men from Eastyard that he met and spoke with at Tim Horton’s told Gavin they’d spent several shifts cleaning up and liming dust to put on a show for the inspector.

On Thursday night, Gavin walked through town to the Heather Motor Hotel. It was one of the first truly cold evenings of late fall, an overcast night when a few dry flakes of snow might waft before your eyes in the darkness and be gone so quickly that you’d wonder whether you’d actually seen them. Gavin stood on the orange carpet in the hallway and knocked on the door of Reynolds’s room. The sound of the
TV
came blasting through the door, and Gavin pounded several more times before the latch clicked and the door opened to let him in.

Bill Reynolds’s complexion was ghostly white and he walked back and back from Gavin as Gavin entered the room. He sat in a stuffed chair beside the blaring television and motioned to Gavin to sit in a straight-backed wooden chair positioned on the other side of the television. As Gavin took off his coat, he saw Reynolds scanning him carefully, looking him up and down, as though searching for the bulge of a concealed weapon.

When Gavin sat in the chair and edged it closer to Reynolds, Reynolds scraped his own chair backwards.

“I’m …” Gavin began to introduce himself.

“I know who you are,” Reynolds said. He was speaking very softly. Gavin almost had to lip-read the words over the deafening television.

“I want to talk about …” Gavin began.

Reynolds leaned over and turned the television a notch louder. He scanned the room carefully, looked Gavin up and down. He walked to the bed, where Gavin had lain his parka, and picked it
up. He dangled it from one hand and shook it over the bed. One of Gavin’s gloves fell from a sleeve and Reynolds picked it up and turned it over in his hands. He went to the window and opened the curtains suddenly on the black night outside, thrust his face to the glass with his hands shading the sides of his eyes, peered out that way for a second or two, then pulled the curtains quickly back over the window.

He sat back in his chair, turned the volume on the
TV
a little louder still, then cupped his hands to the sides of his mouth as though about to scream. Instead, he began mouthing something wordlessly at Gavin, moving his lips in an exaggerated way.

Gavin gave him a puzzled look and he began again, this time more slowly.

There – is – nothing – I – can – do
, Reynolds said without his voice.
There – is – nothing – I – can – do
.

Gavin finishes relating this story in front of the hot lights of the inquiry and there is a brief silence broken by a scuffling sound. He looks up, past the bright blind spot made by the lights, to see reporters scrambling out the door of the hearing room, some of them mumbling quietly into hand-held recorders, making their way to the lobby, where they can use their cellphones.

The inquiry commissioner seems stumped for a moment. The hum of the public address system swells to the fill the room.

“We’ve already spoken to Mr. Reynolds,” the inquiry counsel says at length.

“I’m aware of that,” Gavin replies. He is expecting a series of questions about the scene he’s just related, but both the commissioner and counsel seem disoriented.

“And you had already quit by this time,” the commissioner says.

“That’s right.”

“You’d already met with Fred Brennan, the underground manager.”

“And with Don Barry, the general manager. They both told me the same thing: put up with conditions or quit.”

The commissioner blinks against the television lights. He draws a folded handkerchief from inside the jacket of his suit and mops his brow with it. He looks down at his yellow pad and scrutinizes some of the notes he has made, then looks up at Gavin.

“This is a strange little incident you’ve just described, Mr. Fraser.”

Gavin nods. “It certainly stands out in my mind,” he says.

“Do you have any thoughts on Mr. Reynolds’s behaviour? How do you explain what happened that day at the Heather?”

“Well, sir, you know that it’s my job to tell you what happened and it’s your job to figure out what it means.”

The commissioner smiles and pours himself a glass of ice water.

“But just look at a timeline of events,” Gavin continues. “Reynolds tells me there is nothing he can do. A few weeks later Eastyard explodes and kills twenty-six of my friends. A few months after that Bill Reynolds retires from the Department of Labour with a full pension.”

“Do you believe Reynolds’s hands were tied?”

“No I do not, sir. No I do not,” Gavin’s voice is rising for the first time in his testimony. “He was a mine inspector. Read the Coal Mines Regulation Act, sir. The inspector has power to enforce the act.”

“Why would he say there was nothing he could do?”

“Well, I could make a few guesses. He was a provincial government employee. The province and the federal government were into the mine for millions. But if you want to know anything about Bill Reynolds, you’d better ask him, sir. I won’t pretend to understand the actions of a man like that.”

“And this meeting took place after you quit.”

“As I said.”

“You were no longer working at Eastyard when you went to see Bill Reynolds about safety underground.”

“That’s right.”

“You had already made your decision about Eastyard. Why bother going to see the inspector when you were no longer working there?”

“Because,” Gavin says calmly and slowly, “there were human lives at stake.”

“If the dangers were so clear at Eastyard, why were you the only one to quit?”

“I wasn’t. There were other guys who quit. They just hadn’t kicked up as much fuss as I did. They quietly up and left.”

“Why didn’t more quit?”

“You’d have to ask them that.”

“A lot of them are dead. What’s your opinion? Why did people work under such conditions?”

“Money.”

“They risked their lives for money?”