Brother M. looked straight at the accused. “On the date in question, that you knowingly violated your oath of membership in this union by continuing to perform your duties as an employee of a company against which a lawful primary strike had been authorized by this union.”

The accused was expressionless.

“Brother M., please present any witnesses you may have to support the charges.”

Two witnesses were called. Both described an evening of uncertainty and rumors – a midnight strike deadline approaching; union leaders in near-constant communication with the company representatives, last-minute phone calls to legal counsel, and the frenetic preparation of picket signs, handbills, phone trees, and the support apparatus that successful strikes require. Midnight came but no strike was called; workers showed up to work their shifts and walked past union representatives standing outside the gates, not picketing or leafleting, but unmistakable evidence that a labor dispute was brewing.

Fifteen minutes later, the gates opened and the first of the employer’s trucks started to leave, driven by the man who was now on trial for breaching his oath. He was greeted by the union’s top elected officer, who told him that a strike had been called. It was time to stop working. The worker was to park the truck, turn off the ignition, exit the vehicle, and join his fellow workers on a picket line.

He didn’t. Instead, he drove past his fellow union members, ignoring their protests, and drove towards the heart of the city, where he was to make his deliveries. Nobody called him a rat or a scab, but a picketer jumped into a car and followed him and for the rest of that night, whenever the big man stopped his truck to perform his job duties, the other man was right in his face, waving a sign, telling him he was making a big, big mistake.

When Brother M. finished putting on his last witness, it was the accused’s turn to swear to tell the truth and testify.

“I apologize,” he said. “I panicked, and I made a mistake.”

The trial committee looked stunned. One person asked the accused how long he’d been a member of the union.

“Twenty-one years.” Twenty-one years since he’d been initiated into the union; 21 years since he took his oath of membership; 21 years without reproach.

Had he ever been on strike before, or been in a situation where his bargaining unit had been called out on strike?

“Never.”

What had he been thinking, when he drove his truck past the picketers?

“I didn’t know what to do. It was a brand-new job for me, and I didn’t want to lose it.”

Didn’t the union’s secretary-treasurer tell him that he was legally protected, that the employer couldn’t fire him for honoring the picket line?

The big man slumped just a little in his chair. “Yes.” But, he explained, he just hadn’t had time to really incorporate that information, to understand it, and to trust it.

Did he know what his fellow workers, following him out of the facility, did when they came across the picket line?

He did: they honored the line, every last one of them. Everybody but him.

“Didn’t he think that his co-workers were equally concerned about their job security? But they took that risk, didn’t they?”

The accused didn’t have anything to say in response to that.

Did he have anything to add?

“Just that I apologize. I made a mistake. That’s all I can say.”

The big man was excused, and the trial committee commenced its deliberations. Guilt was clear; the only thing uncertain was the punishment.

The strike had lasted for just eight hours, one work shift. It had been a huge success, at least in the short run; the employer had caved in to the union’s demands. Every worker who had honored the strike had received the equivalent of their lost wages in the form of strike pay from the union. The man on trial had received his regular day’s pay from the employer.

The penalty could be a fine, either equal to the amount of pay the accused had earned when he crossed the line, or even double or triple that amount; it could be a “censure” or admonishment, or it could involve expelling the man from membership, an act that would have mostly symbolic significance – he wouldn’t be able to vote in internal union elections or on any proposed new contract with the employer, but it wouldn’t effect his employment in any way.

“Let’s make him go take his oath again,” one person suggested. “Along with all of the new initiates into the union.”

“And let’s require him to say a few words,” another said. “He can explain to the initiates the importance of his union oath, and that it’s not something they can simply take and forget about.”

Others objected: “That’s not severe enough.” Feelings were still running high among his coworkers. Lack of solidarity threatened the union’s ability to represent its members. An example had to be made.

Still others thought that requiring him to talk about his act, in front of a group of strangers, most of whom would be 25 years his junior, would be too harsh – harsher even than imposition of a reasonable fine. Wouldn’t that just humiliate him, a man who, after all, had had the courage to step forward and admit his mistake to the executive board? Would that serve the overall goal of building a stronger, more united union?

One person suggested, a little nervously, that perhaps the union itself was partially to blame, for having failed to educate its members properly as to the need for solidarity and collective action in the face of employers.

No consensus was reached on that day; no punishment has yet been decided upon. And so I leave it with all of you: what should the penalty be?