 |
| Kurt Suss |
 |
| John L. Hill |
This “picnic” started in 1951. It would grow into one of Canada’s most covert mass surveillance operations: Operation Picnic.
It was called a “picnic,” but there were no family gatherings, no barbecues, no children playing games on the grass. There was definitely no laughter or potato salad. And yet, in some way, it still felt like a picnic.
It was like a picnic because the participants could take whatever they wanted. They could pick and choose. Maybe they would sample or, sometimes, take it all. It was a self-serve buffet of private lives.
It originated from Cold War fears. Canada remained vigilant against spies, communist sympathizers and hidden enemies. It was an operation authorized under a top-secret order supported by Prime Minister Louis St. Laurent. Its authority was derived from the Official Secrets Act, which allowed warrantless wiretaps in the name of national security.
The public was never informed. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police carried out the program, which had an expiry date.
paseven: ISTOCKPHOTO.COM
Not only suspected spies or threats to the state, but also ordinary Canadians were caught in its web. Anyone with access to a telephone line could have their private conversations intercepted.
For decades, no one knew how widespread it was, how many people were being watched or when, if ever, it came to an end. Historian Dennis Molinaro later uncovered fragments of the truth, only to discover that the story had no clear ending. Records were incomplete. Dates were missing. Gaps were filled with silence.
Could it happen again? Maybe not another picnic, but perhaps something else. Maybe something smaller, more portable and less noticeable.
If Operation Picnic had a guest list, Project Potluck did not. There were no rules, no limits and no meaningful oversight — just access. Potluck wasn’t officially recognized until it was exposed in access-to-information requests. Investigators kept referring to the “potluck.” The surveillance machine was attempting to determine “who was going to the potluck.” These were the individuals getting their phones tapped. The potluck was kept quiet because of the massive privacy breach and the people it would expose.
At its core was a device often called a Stingray. It doesn’t tap into a phone line; it acts as a tower. Pretending to be a legitimate cell tower, it forces all nearby phones to connect to it, with the strongest signal winning. Once connected, it can quietly collect identifying data, track movements and, in some setups, intercept communications. It didn’t target just one phone; it could monitor all phones in the area. Intercepted calls might include a lawyer speaking to a client, a doctor discussing a diagnosis or a correctional officer calling home. No one was safe, not even a nearby family making dinner plans.
All of them could be captured without any awareness. It is a dragnet by design. And it carried a straightforward implication: anyone within reach becomes a target.
The existence of such surveillance might have remained hidden if not for a moment of disclosure. It was not a common topic of discussion, but the use of a Stingray device was mentioned unexpectedly, almost casually. The Stingray was used at Warkworth Institution, a medium-security federal penitentiary in rural Northumberland County, Ont.
The presence of a Stingray device at Warkworth Institution was disclosed around 2015-2016, and importantly, not through any official public announcement or court process. The information surfaced during an internal labour-management meeting at the Correctional Service of Canada. A manager revealed that staff cellphones had been monitored using this type of device. This was not intended to be a public revelation. The fact that the device had been used was leaked during a discussion with union representatives.
The revelation was extremely concerning. This was not a standard police operation. There were no clear warrants. There was no transparent legal authority. Instead, the device was allegedly operated by a civilian contractor using equipment usually restricted to the police and subject to strict legal conditions. The unidentified operator was not a law enforcement officer. He mostly worked alone.
Government personnel assisted behind the scenes by installing equipment and providing access. However, the operation itself remained compartmentalized and obscure.
Even those who should have known were not informed of this unique form of surveillance. The police, privacy officials and the public were all kept in the dark.
The goal was to identify inmates who might be breaking prison rules by using a cellphone. However, the surveillance device could not distinguish between suspects and bystanders. It was unable to do so. Every phone within its range was detected during the scan: staff, visitors and potentially anyone nearby. No inmate cellphones were found.
Unlike Operation Picnic, this was not even shrouded in secret law. It seems to have functioned outside of it.
In Canada, the use of such technology is strictly regulated. It usually requires judicial approval and must comply with the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms. Section 8 affirms the right to be secure against unreasonable search and seizure.
Project Potluck did not test that boundary; it appears to have ignored it. The Office of the Privacy Commissioner of Canada later concluded that the surveillance was a serious and unauthorized breach of privacy rights.
Corrections officials investigated themselves and, as might be expected, found no wrongdoing. Police examined the matter, acknowledged potential Criminal Code violations but declined to lay charges, citing the low likelihood of conviction. And so, the matter was settled — not resolved, just quietly set aside.
A picnic involves choice. A potluck involves participation. But in both instances, the public was neither informed nor invited. Operation Picnic asked who might be dangerous and cast its net broadly. Potluck didn’t inquire at all; it simply gathered. And if no one is asking the questions, we may never know who exactly did, and perhaps still is, setting the table.
Kurt F. Suss was a corrections officer with Correctional Service of Canada and a dog handler and trainer consultant. He is the author of Dogman: The Trials and Tribulations. He is currently at work on his second book Why Dogs Bite. He can be reached at isiscanine@hotmail.com.
John L. Hill practised and taught prison law until his retirement. He holds a JD from Queen’s and an LLM in constitutional law from Osgoode Hall. He is also the author of Pine Box Parole: Terry Fitzsimmons and the Quest to End Solitary Confinement (Durvile & UpRoute Books); The Rest of the (True Crime) Story (AOS Publishing) and Acts of Darkness (Durvile & UpRoute Books). Contact him at johnlornehill@hotmail.com.
The opinions expressed are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views of the author’s firm, its clients, Law360 Canada, LexisNexis Canada or any of its or their respective affiliates. This article is for general information purposes and is not intended to be and should not be taken as legal advice.
Interested in writing for us? To learn more about how you can add your voice to Law360 Canada, contact Analysis Editor Peter Carter at peter.carter@lexisnexis.ca or call 647-776-6740.