A tale in which an organizer for the Ontario Coalition Against Poverty is exposed to a good-cop, bad-cop interrogation — as performed by one single man!

On the afternoon of February 19, 2002, I crossed the Bluewater Bridge from Sarnia, Ontario to Port Huron, Michigan. I was due to give a talk at the Michigan State University. At the customs booth, I told the officer that this was my destination.

He wanted to know whether I would be paid. I said I’d receive an honorarium. The officer was concerned that this meant I was coming to the United States to work. The officer decided I needed to be checked out further. I parked my car and made my way to the offices shared by customs and U.S. Immigration. There, I handed over my identification.

The computer must have said something unfriendly, because the officers inside suddenly developed a keen interest in me. One asked me about my intentions in the U.S. What anti-globalization protests had I attended? Was I opposed to the “ideology of the United States?”

I was taken to a room and frisked. My car was searched. I was told that I would be denied entry, and that the Federal Bureau of Investigations and the State Department wanted to speak to me. An agent was driving up from Detroit.

About an hour and a half later, a big man in a big hat with a big pile of files passed me in the “controlled reception” where I was being kept. He talked with the local officers, telling them that his resume included a stint of service in Yemen. I avoided speculating about how he employed his talents there. Then I was taken into an interrogation room to formally meet him.

The man gave me his card. He was Special Agent Edward J. Seitz of the United States Department of State Diplomatic Security Service. He was a highly skilled interrogator and, over the next few hours, I got a glimpse of this art form.

He began with some very basic questions about my background. He was friendly, and took on a pose of mild confusion, which reminded me of Peter Falk as Lieutenant Columbo. But Seitz’s strategy was to get me to say something untruthful, so that he could accuse me of violating U.S. law.

He asked about the Ontario Coalition Against Poverty (OCAP). He told me that it sounded like we did good work. But wasn’t there a group called OCAP that had been involved in a confrontation at the Ontario Legislature a while back? That wasn’t us, was it?

When I said it was, he moved over to the role of bad cop. With another officer there to make the small room smaller, Seitz moved his chair over and leaned into me. Who was involved with OCAP? Where was anti-capitalist activist Jaggi Singh? Does OCAP advocate violence? What acts was I on my way to perpetrate?

He pulled out flyers for meetings I had spoken at in the U.S. He knew the name of the man I stayed with the last time I was in Chicago. He wanted to know who I knew in that city’s Direct Action Network.

The bad cop behaviour went on for a long time.

Then, suddenly, Special Agent Seitz returned to his friendly style. He told me I was a gentleman, and that he didn’t want to lock me up. But, while I was okay, he couldn’t understand how I worked with a “violent man like Mr. Singh.” (He presented no evidence of how, exactly, Jaggi was “violent.”) Then he told me he would have to ban me from the U.S., but that I could go to the American consulate in Toronto and apply for a waiver.

He asked me to go back to the waiting room while some papers were drawn up. I had not been sitting there long, however, before Seitz came out trying a new tack. This was the “this interrogator is a maniac” approach.

He walked into the waiting area and sat down beside me, right there with other people around. He said that an OCAP chequebook in my bag proved I intended to stay in the U.S. illegally.

Out of the blue, Special Agent Seitz demanded to know where Osama bin Laden was hiding. He was sure I could tell him. He added that, if I grew a beard, I would even look like bin Laden.

Then he said that I either admit what I was really going to the university for or I was off to jail. When this failed to produce a torrent of confession, he laughed, telling me there were no problems. Did I drink tea or coffee? Would I have a coffee with him if he came to Toronto?

For the first time, I lied: I said I would. He gathered up his files and left.

A little over five hours after coming over, I grabbed the only perk that comes with deportation — a free ticket for the bridge — and returned to Canada. The official on this side took the form showing that I’d been kicked out of the U.S. He said, “You’re John from OCAP, aren’t you? I’ve been at some demonstrations with you.” No concessions to nationalism, but a little furtive solidarity felt good at that moment.