Crazy Town: The Rob Ford Story (17 page)

When I explained this problem to Ontario’s information and privacy commissioner, Ann Cavoukian, she was aghast. “That offends me, because people hide behind privacy. That has nothing to do with privacy. Ultimately, the information is accessible, if you have the right key.”

This isn’t the way it works in “best practices” countries. When news broke about Rob Ford’s 1999 drunk driving arrest in Florida, reporters immediately contacted the Miami-Dade courthouse. Within a few hours, a clerk emailed us a PDF of the police affidavit, along with details of the sentencing.

As for police documents, every jurisdiction has restrictions on access because of the sensitive nature of the information, when no charges are laid. But few are as secretive as Canada. In the United States, for instance—which ranks forty-second out of ninety-five countries in the 2013 annual access rankings— even in sensitive cases journalists are usually able to obtain some information. In New York State, if police are called to someone’s home, it is a matter of public record. The address
and the nature of the call must be disclosed, and if someone is charged, then the arrest report and the names of those involved become public. In Ontario, if police investigate an incident, it can be kept entirely secret, including whether the call occurred, whether officers were sent to investigate, and the names of any suspects.

Months earlier, after I began hearing about a handful of incidents at the mayor’s home through various emergency services sources, I filed a freedom-of-information request for a summary of all the 911 calls made on the mayor’s street over a five-year period. The document I got back was twenty-nine pages of a heavily redacted list of calls. There were no addresses and no dates.

Camille Jobin-Davis, the assistant director of New York State’s Committee on Open Government, was shocked when we spoke about the challenges of crime reporting in Canada. So police in Canada wouldn’t even confirm if they had gone to a house? Nope. Or why they were called? Nope. “That doesn’t quite make sense to me, because I can tell when there’s a police car driving through my neighbourhood. There’s nothing private about that.… Our logic is that by merely indicating the nature of the call, we’re not releasing anything about who was present or what the allegations are,” Jobin-Davis said. “I think the checks on use of public resources is a valuable one, and I think the checks on the behaviour of those officials who have police authority over our lives is also a valuable one.”

I wish Canadian lawmakers felt the same way.

On December 29, 2011, when I phoned Toronto police for details about the Christmas Day incident at Mayor Rob Ford’s home, I was told they could not confirm or deny anything,
because that information was private. I contacted the ranking officer in the Fords’ Etobicoke North ward, who also happened to be a friend of the family.

“Anyone, if it’s you or I, they have a right to privacy if someone calls the police and it’s a domestic related issue,” Superintendent Ron Taverner said. “We don’t go around talking about that. That’s their personal business. I don’t think anybody would want that.”

I, of course, was expecting this. And by the time I phoned Taverner, I’d already confirmed that the service was investigating an incident at the mayor’s Etobicoke home that took place early Christmas morning. I had also confirmed that they were looking into a separate domestic complaint involving the mayor on October 25, the call I had heard about in Mexico. That was the one made hours after the mayor had phoned 911 on CBC comedian Mary Walsh. I learned that the investigating detective was Jacqueline Baus, who was with the Youth and Family Violence Unit. When I got her on the phone, all she would say was that the cases were open. She refused to give details. I would need to dig those up on my own.

Over the next few days, I met a source in a coffee shop, then another in a downtown bar. They allowed me to read an official synopsis of the Christmas morning incident, and a high-ranking police source gave me an account of the October call.

Two sources with knowledge of the October incident said it was Renata who called 911, at 10:17
P.M.,
after she and Ford got into a shouting match. On Christmas morning, it was Renata’s parents who had phoned. The Brejniaks said the mayor had been drinking, and he was heading to the airport with his children.
He planned to take them to Florida against Renata’s wishes. My sources were clear that, as far as the police knew, Renata had not accused Ford of being violent.

Nevertheless, the situation was troubling. Rob Ford was essentially Toronto’s CEO. The mayor—or a designate acting on his behalf—has a seat on the Toronto Police Service’s civilian oversight board. In fact, four of the seven board members are city appointees. By choosing the chair of his budget committee, and through appointments to the board, the mayor has a say in the police budget. In 2011, the service was on the verge of a massive 10 percent cut to its 2012 budget. After Chief Bill Blair paid a personal visit to Rob Ford’s office, the service ended up with a modest increase. Political and police sources said it was the mayor who made that happen.

This dynamic leaves Toronto officers in a quandary when they are called to investigate the man who is, at least indirectly, their boss. According to the letter of the law, Toronto police are under no obligation to disclose any details about an ongoing investigation. But they can, and do, use their discretion. In my experience, in cases where there is heightened public interest, nine times out of ten they will release basic information about an incident. In my two years as a crime reporter, I would often call and ask about a stabbing or break-and-enter. I can’t recall a single time when a police spokesperson refused to provide me with a short synopsis and some vague details about the people involved, such as the age and sex of the victim, or a brief description of a suspect. But when it came to the mayor, it seemed as if he was being afforded more privacy than the average citizen.

When I had the details of the latest 911 calls nailed down,
I put in my official call to Toronto police. True to form, they refused to comment. I asked police spokesperson Mark Pugash whether the police investigating the mayor were placed in a conflict because of Ford’s position. “The procedures don’t take into account the social position or occupation of a person being investigated or charged,” he said.

The story “Rob Ford 911 Calls Raise Questions” ran on the
Star
’s front page on December 30. Later that day, the Fords emailed the
Toronto Sun
a photo of the mayor playing with his children in a swimming pool. The caption read, “Mayor Rob Ford and his children Douglas and Stephanie having fun in Florida this week. (Courtesy the Ford family).”
Sun
columnist Joe Warmington, one of only a handful of writers the mayor will talk to, called Ford at the family’s condo in Hallandale.

My first call was to a cellphone and the familiar voice on the other end answered on the second ring.

“Happy New Year, Joe,” the mayor said jovially from Florida, with his kids laughing in the background.

Turns out Ford had not heard of the media report but said everything was now fine.

“We have had a great couple of days down here,” he said of he and his young children Stephanie and Douglas. “There’s no problem at all.”

His brother Doug, who was with the mayor in Florida and like him returned home Friday, said “Rob was not drinking as reported. It’s just inaccurate.”

In fact, a source close to the investigation told me that while alcohol was an issue none was consumed by the mayor.

For a man who frequently accused the media of going after his family, it was surprising how often Ford seemed to use his wife and children as a political shield.

SEVEN

THE BIER

MARKT

L
eo Navarro was wandering in a daze, not sure if he could trust his eyes. He needed air. A moment to think. Someone could handle his tables for a few minutes. He ducked out of the Bier Markt’s side door and bumped into a server named Jenna sitting by the door, smoking. He seemed rattled.

“What’s up with you?” she asked.

He looked at her.

“I think I just saw the mayor do blow.”

THE BIG RED QUEEN STREETCAR
rolled up to City Hall a little after 8:30
A.M
. I clambered out the rear doors, trying to keep my coffee in its cup rather than on the newspaper tucked under my arm. It was the second day of the March 2012 library strike. Hundreds of kind-looking women and pasty-looking men in Tilley hats were marching in a circle around Nathan Phillips Square, placards draped around their necks, some singing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” to pass the time. The Ford administration was targeting the public sector, but the unions had an ally in Mother Nature. The forecast predicted sunny
weather all week, which was pretty remarkable for Toronto in March.

It was going to be a busy day. In addition to the library strike, top lawyer Clayton Ruby had just launched a lawsuit accusing the mayor of a conflict of interest, which the press was still trying to figure out. Most importantly, city council was about to debate a cornerstone of the Ford administration’s agenda—whether Toronto would build a subway or an above-ground light rail system in the northeast end of the city along Sheppard Avenue. The mayor wanted “subways, subways, subways,” and getting that vote through council would either solidify his authority during a time of turmoil or expose his weakened leadership. It seemed as if everything was at stake. By the end of the day, none of it seemed important.

I was sitting at my messy desk in the press gallery when my land line started to ring.

It was my city editor, Graham Parley. Parley looked exactly how you would expect an old-school print guy to look. He was a gruff-talking Brit, with frizzy grey hair, a thick moustache, and zero tolerance for slackers.

“What’s up?” I said.

“It’s sort of sensitive,” Parley said quietly, which was unusual. “We just got a tip that I want you to look into. Apparently, Ford was at the Bier Markt on St. Patrick’s Day this weekend. Showed up totally hammered. We heard that someone walked in on him snorting coke in some private room and then he got kicked out by security.”

“Wow,” I said. I’d suspected Ford had a drinking problem, and there were always rumours about drugs. But cocaine? In a crowded bar?

“Here’s the thing: the place is on lockdown. Staff aren’t supposed to talk about it. Can you call some police sources and check it out?”

I knew the Bier Markt well. It was a five-minute walk from the
Star
along the Esplanade, a strip of bars and pubs just off Yonge Street. By day, it was one of the nicer and more expensive places to eat in the St. Lawrence Market district. After dark, it transitioned to a trendy nightclub that was popular with young professionals and university students.

I punched out a few cryptic text messages to some police contacts who had been helpful on my stories about domestic calls to the police from the Ford home. No one had heard about the mayor being in trouble. I logged into Twitter. It didn’t take long to find photos from Saturday night of Ford looking woozy in a bright-green tie, linked arm in arm with random groups of people on the street. In one, Ford was standing in front of a coffee shop that I knew was just around the corner from the Bier Markt. I also realized a weekly paper called
The Grid
(which is owned by the same company as the
Star
) was already on the story. Earlier that day they’d published their regular roundup of Ford sightings over the last seven days. The writer, Jonathan Goldsbie, put it together by trawling social media. Apparently, Ford had arrived at the Bier Markt with a group around midnight. They were moved to a private room. “According to a server,” wrote Goldsbie, “the group looked like they had already been somewhere earlier, and said they’d wanted to get out and cut loose for the night.”

Goldsbie had obviously been poking around, which accounted for the “lockdown” our tipster had warned us about. I wanted a bit more information before heading to the restaurant
myself. People are always more likely to talk when they think they’re confirming something you already know rather than digging for dirt you’re not sure is there.

The next afternoon, I walked over to the Bier Markt for lunch and took a seat near the window at a small table draped in white linens. I was one of about a dozen people in the place— not an ideal backdrop for a sensitive conversation.

The waitress came by to take my order.

“Um, I’ll have the cheese fondue please.”

“Great,” she said, starting to turn away.

“Oh, hey.” I scrunched up my nose and whispered, “So, like, what’s all this stuff on Twitter about the mayor? Was he really here on the weekend?”

The muscles in her face tightened. “Sorry, I haven’t heard anything about that.”

I ate my lunch and left. I would need to come back at night when it was crowded. I texted a friend of mine named Will. “Hey. What are you doing Thursday? Think you could sit with me at the Bier Markt for a few hours while I work? The
Star
will buy drinks.” He was in.

We grabbed a bar table just off the dance floor. Every twenty minutes, I’d wander around looking for a staff member who was alone and didn’t seem to be management. No one was very chatty, but bit by bit, pieces started to come together. Ford had arrived “out of it.” He was put in the back, away from everyone, and he stayed there for less than an hour. Eventually, he was urged to leave. On his way out, he “stormed the dance floor,” and there was supposedly security footage of this. As for what happened in the private room, only one person had seen it.

Will and I went back Friday night and then Saturday. By
then I knew I was looking for an olive-skinned bus boy. But I could feel my window was closing. The Bier Markt was big, but my questions were starting to draw attention. I could see bartenders gesturing my way and whispering. Then I saw a young Spanish-looking guy in a black apron walk by with a handful of dirty dishes. Will and I looked at each other. I got up and followed him to the kitchen, where he briefly disappeared. In seconds, he flew back into the busy club carrying steaming plates of something. He was heading to the far side of the room, where a wall divided tables from the nosy bartenders. Now was my chance.