| "HOUSTON V. HOUSTON ET AL." CONTINUED |
Graham Phillips' first contact with me was in the form of a package that contained a demand letter
dated December 12, 2000 requiring that I hand over a lengthy list of documents relating to my
father dating back some four years. The letter was explicit in its urgency.
The interesting thing is, the documents he wanted did not exist. And my father knew they did not
exist. He knew before his stroke anyway. The fact that someone claiming to represent my dad was
asking for nonexistent papers could mean only that dad was still suffering from serious memory
loss or a tactic of prevarication was being used -- or both. Also included in the package were
copies of financial statements of companies that I own and operate and the results of searches
Phillips had conducted with both the Registrar of Companies and the Land Title Office to assess my
personal business and property holdings respectively. The degree of transparent exploration into
my life was disconcerting.
Phillips is with the law firm Harrop Phillips Powell & Gray located in Vancouver's Gastown area.
Vancouver, an unfamiliar city to my father, was a ninety minute drive from his Surrey home. I
was at a loss as to where this latest lawyer had been dug up from.
The morning of Thursday, December 14, 2000 there was a knock on the door. Opening the door I
found myself looking up at a huge, dark-skinned man. This guy looked like a thug.
"Good morning," I said warily.
"Hi. Is this house the registered office of..." he looked through a page of notes that he was holding
and then continued, "...Alco Enterprises Ltd.?"
"Yes."
"Okay, good. I have been asked to examine the records of the company. I would like to come in
and take a look, please."
"Uh, hold on a minute here. Just who do you think you are that you can come up to my door off
the street and come into my home to 'examine' private material? Who are you?"
"Who am I? My name is Terry."
Terry. Not Terry from So-and-So Company. Just Terry. I closed the door and bolted it.
The morning of Tuesday, December 19, 2000. The phone rings. I answer it.
"Hello."
"Good morning. Mr. Callum Houston, please."
Phillips.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Houston is unavailable."
"Callum, I know this is you I'm talking to," Phillips said in a forced and affected British accent.
"Listen, this is an extremely urgent matter you're facing here. It is important that we discuss it
summarily."
"I'm sorry but Mr. Houston is not available to talk to you."
I hung up. Within thirty seconds the phone rang again. Knowing it was likely Phillips calling back I
didn't pick up.
That afternoon Phillips had a messenger send me a letter stating that he was the one who had sent
"Terry" to our home. He also repeated the demands that were made in his first letter of December
12, 2000. Finally, he stated that "unless there is prompt response to our demand for access" he
would engage in litigation.
That week I received a copy of a letter that the accounting firm I use had sent to Phillips. Phillips
had contacted them too, looking for information. Their reply stated that they were in receipt of
none of the material he wanted.
On Thursday, January 4, 2001 I received a letter by courier from Phillips demanding that I contact
him by "the close of business on January 9th either to confirm that I may attend upon you to
inspect and copy such records or to advise me why access is not possible or should be delayed."
Phillips went on to say that if he didn't hear from me by the 9th then court action would be taken.
On Monday, January 22, 2001 I received a letter by courier from Phillips that said: "Unless I
receive your assurance by the close of business tomorrow, January 23rd that such records will be
made available for inspection by me, an appropriate action will be commenced against you on
January 24th."
For the next three weeks I was pursued by another of Phillips' hired guns. The man came to the
house repeatedly. When I wouldn't answer the door he would wait out in his car. In his search for
me my mother was contacted. He even came to my house at nine o'clock one Sunday morning
while my wife was enjoying her weekly viewing of Coronation Street. This upset her, and in turn
upset me. This individual never did make contact with me, but on Thursday, February 15, 2001
365 pages of photocopies was squished through our front door mail slot.
On Monday, February 26, 2001 I received a letter from Phillips stating that "We have the Affidavit
of our process server that you were served."
On Thursday, March 1, 2001 another missive from Phillips arrives. The letter states that a court
order had been made that day before Master Alan Patterson of the British Columbia Supreme
Court for production of the nonexistent documents. Again he demanded that I contact him
immediately to arrange for pick up of the papers. He also said that I was expected to personally
pay his firm for the proceedings.
Couldn't he take a hint? I was not going to deal with this man. He dumped more paper at our front
door than the paperboy. If he had been a woman I might have been flattered. No, I probably
would have been scared to death. How many more letters would he send? How many more
people would come to the door? How many more times would he phone the house? When would
it end? It felt like I was dealing with a skip tracer or a collection agent, not a solicitor. If the tactic
was to wear me down through continued, unending pursuit it was only serving to piss me off.
Even after it was obvious as far back as December 19 of 2000 that I wanted no contact with him,
not only did he continue, his pursuit was becoming increasingly predatory. Observation of ethics
seemed nonexistent: The idea that my father was in a position to give lucid direction to legal
counsel was absurd. And the continued pestering of my wife and me, the hounding for material I
did not have, was becoming an unsettling irritation. I'm not a prosecutor, but I have read the
criminal code. In my opinion there could be a case made for harassment based on these actions.
As Phillips expected me to foot the bill for all of this wasted time and paperwork, it seemed to me
that in fact it wasn't my father who was his client, rather, I was his client. And as his client I would
never condone this kind of conduct. But if I'm expected to pay my solicitor, shouldn't I at least get
a look at him and see what my secret admirer looks like? He had spent the better part of four
months baiting me for a reaction. He seemed desperately to want to see me, to meet me, with his
persistent shower of legalese love letters. Maybe now is the time to find out exactly who this
faceless enigma is.
On Friday, March 2, 2001 I saw him. I think.
That afternoon I grabbed one of the countless envelopes that had his company address on it, got in
my red '92 Mazda MX-3, and with the turgid riffs of Saxon's 1980 breakthrough recording Wheels
Of Steel providing the perfect soundtrack, I blazed down Highway 99 into Vancouver, making my
way into the Gastown area, the location of his office.
I parked in an underground parking lot and sat in quiet reflection amid the concrete darkness. Just
what the hell was I doing here? I'm going to go to his office and do what? And what am I going to
say to him if I see him? The facts with regard to the legal matter at hand had not changed, so there
would not be any kind of negotiation or meaningful dialogue. I know! I'll leave something behind
for him, a calling card of some kind. I scoured my car for something appropriate. The passenger
seat was scattered with cassette tapes that I listen to while driving. There was one tape in particular
that I had a duplicate of because the original was worn out. I could part with that one. It was Fair
Warning by Van Halen. Released in 1981, Fair Warning was their fourth album and their fourth
consecutive platinum seller. It featured the wild-man antics of singer David Lee Roth and the
dazzling guitar pyrotechnics of virtuoso Eddie Van Halen. Fair Warning is Van Halen's darkest
album musically, and to many hardcore fans it is their greatest work. I love Fair Warning, but if
push ever came to shove I would have to go with Van Halen's self-titled debut as their masterpiece.
How appropriate, I thought. Phillips had been sending me warnings of court action for months. I'll
turn the tables around in a harmless manner, putting him on notice that I wanted him to back off.
That will be that.
His office address was Two Gaoler's Mews. I asked the parking attendant where it was located.
He told me and I was off. I walked through Blood Alley and found the entrance. I took the
elevator up and asked the receptionist if Mr. Graham Phillips was in. She said she would find out
(find out? She didn't know? It's a pretty small office) and asked me to wait. I watched her open
the door to an office off to the right of the room. She was halfway through the doorway, her head
inside talking to someone, Phillips I assumed. I walked behind the counter, secretaries staring in
disbelief, strode up to the door and pushed my way in, the receptionist trying her best to hold me
back. Now I was standing in his small office, the receptionist at my back, an alarmed Graham
Phillips gaping across at me from behind his desk. Without saying a word I reached into the inside
of my jacket, pulled out the tape and tossed it onto his desk. He must have thought it was a live
grenade because his chair snapped out from behind him like a cannon, hitting the wall with a loud
thud as he fell to his knees, taking cover under his desk. The brave receptionist who had tried to
protect him from my entrance had no such overblown reaction. I left and went home.
A person generally feels most safe and comfortable in their home. A person's home is their
sanctuary, their refuge, their shelter from life's harsh realities. At least it should be. My home had
been my sanctuary until Phillips set his cross hairs upon me. It seemed to me only fair that as he
had made it open that he knew where I lived, I should be granted the corresponding privilege of
knowing where my solicitor lived.
Midday, Saturday, March 3, 2001. On the TV Charlton Heston's George Taylor is standing before
an ape tribunal led by Dr. Zaius in Franklin J. Schaffner's brilliant 1968 sci-fi classic Planet of the
Apes. Out of passing curiosity I picked up the telephone directory to see what listing it had for
Graham Phillips. I could not believe me eyes. I was astonished. Phillips' address was proudly
displayed in dark bold type for all to see. It leapt out at me like a flashing neon billboard. What
kind of person was he? Was he naïve? Was he thick? A fool? Was he so egotistically arrogant that
he felt himself untouchable? Was he harbouring some kind of twisted death wish? What kind of
man would make it his business, his livelihood to aggravate and prod another man, and yet leave
himself so openly exposed -- both professionally and personally? It felt like an invitation. I decided
to take him up on it. I picked up a map of the lower mainland and looked for the location of his
street. He lived on Owl Court in North Vancouver.
It was starting to look like either a joke or a set-up.
Owl Court is a tiny cull-de-sac in the most northern tip of North Vancouver at the base of Grouse
Mountain. Maybe he thought having a residence at the top of the world looking down upon all
others ensured safety. If so I would be doing the man a favour by making him reconsider his
comfort level.
I got in my car and made the journey across three municipalities, over two bridges and up the base
of Grouse Mountain to Owl Court. He lived in a townhouse complex. I drove in. I was
surrounded by rustic three story homes on all sides. It was like being inside a fortress. I felt
watched. I found his place. I checked the address twice, three times, didn't want to disturb
innocent people. I rummaged through the scattering of cassette boxes lying on the passenger seat. I
hated to part with it, could be hard to find another, but I picked up the box of Ratt's 1985 release
Invasion of Your Privacy. It contained the hit single You're In Love. To me, Ratt was the USA's
answer to Germany's Scorpions. Fronted by lead singer Stephen Pearcy, Ratt featured the
formidable hi-tech twin guitar attack of Warren DeMartini and Robbin Crosby.
I left the car running, the door open, made my way down into the shadowed alleyway that led to
the entrance, got to the door and put the box through the mail slot. I had made contact with my
lawyer. I left and went home.
The next day, March 4, was Black Sunday.
It was about noon. I was watching The Naked and the Dead, the 1958 Raoul Walsh filmic
adaptation of Norman Mailers book of soldiers in the Pacific during World War II starring Aldo
Ray and Cliff Robertson. Getting up to grab a cup of coffee, I looked out the front window and
saw four people, two men and two women, standing across the street, staring at our home. They
were milling around a vintage, tuxedo black 1967 Corvette Stingray convertible, one of the most
sought after collector cars of all time. Occasionally one of them would walk up to the property line
of the driveway and stand there for a while. I was sure that one of them, a heavyset man wearing a
black jacket, was Phillips. He looked just like the man I had seen in the law office two days
previous.
All I could think was that the depths of evil knew no bounds. What in God's name did he think he
was doing? I was livid, infuriated. I was also scared. This was not a rational situation. Someone
could end up doing something precipitous and dumb. This had simply gone too far. Although I
didn't know it at the time, if it was him, then it was also unquestionably criminal conduct. Police
presence seemed like a good idea. I got the phone book, looked up the number of the Surrey
RCMP and punched in the number.
"Where are you calling from?" the operator asked.
"Crescent Beach in Surrey," I replied.
"And what is the nature of your concern?"
"There's some suspicious-looking people down here and I'd just like to have one of your guys do a
drive by."
"Okay, I'll ask you to hold on for moment, please," she said.
Yvonne came downstairs from the bedroom. "Who are you talking to?" she asked.
"I'm on hold with the police. I'm concerned about those people loitering outside at the driveway."
"Callum, you're overreacting. Hang up the phone. Please, hang up the phone now!" she implored.
Yvonne was unaware of the events that I had been dealing with. The idea that people with ill-
intent might be targeting us was not a concept that registered in her brain. These kind of
unscrupulous people were completely alien to her. They didn't exist except on television.
After waiting on hold for about five minutes I hung up the phone. No support from my wife. No
support from the police. I got the message. It looked like this was a battle I was going to have to
fight alone.
The fiend and his demons spent three hours lurking around that afternoon. It had to stop.
Especially now that he was intensifying his rapacious predation. A wooden stake had to be
embedded deep within the cold, dead heart of this bloodsucking, vampiric prince of darkness
before any further terror could be unleashed on innocents. Mere garlic cloves at our windows and
crucifixes on our bosoms were not enough. Swift action of surgical precision was required to put
an end to his sinister reign. I was Van Helsing to his Vlad the Impaler.
I had Chinese for lunch the next day, Monday, March 5. My mind was ablaze with thoughts of
how my family had been torn apart by the greed of money-hungry, parasitic outsiders, of how my
sick father had been victimized, as had my misguided sister, my wife, my mother, and me. At the
end of the meal I cracked open the fortune cookie. It said: Today you will embark on an important
excursion.
I was filled with emotion. I had my marching orders. There was no backing out now. I had been
bestowed the duty of protector of the people from sinister corruption.
The slaying of nosferatu is a ritualistic process that involves the recanting of verse and then the
depositing of symbolistic objects at the crypt of the undead. First I went home and picked up some
of my more dark, extreme prose, about a minute or so of material. Then I went for a drive, found
a payphone and called Phillips' number. I got an answering machine which gave his name and the
name of someone called Susan.
"Hey guess what! You've won the lottery. Yep, that's right. We're selling fire insurance and your
household has been selected for a one-time, bargain deal. Sign up within the next twenty-four hours
and you'll receive a twenty per cent discount. Call now! 1-888-666-FIRE. That's 1-888-666-FIRE."
I hung up and dialled again.
"You know, I killed a man the other night. Sliced his head clean off. Yeah, decap. I shucked his
eyeball right out of the socket and squished it like a grape. Then I skullfucked him, the HIV
infected blood flowing warm and sweet, baby."
I hung up the phone and called again, this time remembering the name Susan.
"There was this chick, a real hot piece of ass. I fucked that bitch like the whore she was, up the
ass with my special barbed wire condom. You know, I seem to recall her name was Susan."
Then I made the grim journey once again, across three municipalities and over two bridges and up
the base of the mountain to his lair within the wastelands. In my possession I had a pack of
unopened Player's Light cigarettes and a lighter. I also had a miniature toy rifle, an FN-C1/L1
FAL, still packaged. A real, life-size FN is chambered for .308 ammunition and uses a rear locking,
tipping bolt design. It has a gas piston, tapping gas off the barrel to drive a rod into the bolt carrier
to operate the action automatically. A dial at the gas block sets the amount of gas bearing on the
rod. Pest control time, baby. I left the car running and the door open. AC/DC's Hells Bells
exterminated the silent tranquility. I descended into the dark alleyway entrance to his front door. I
placed the toy and the cigarettes on the stoop. I pulled out the lighter and dragged the flame across
the door, imprinting swirls of dark, smoky mist on the white paint. Then I charred the small
plastic doorbell button and watched it drip molten plastic onto the concrete below.
I had intended to leave at that point, but my little art project seemed incomplete. It needed
something more to get the point across; something to convey the turmoil and tumult that Phillips
was putting us through. Something that said: Phillips, what you see before you is the work of
someone you have pushed to the edge. Leave me and my family be. Goodbye Mr. Phillips!
Goodbye! A THOUSAND TIMES GOODBYE!
I picked up a ceramic vase and threw it at the door. The vase shattered on impact, leaving little
noticeable effect on the door. Then I reached behind me and picked up a metal plant holder rod
and I smashed. I smashed for every single letter and phone call and server that he had sent to my
family home. I smashed for his exploitation of my infirm father. I smashed for his exploitation of
my naïve and gullible sister. I smashed for the degrading subjugation of my mother at the will of
my father's lawyers years ago. I smashed for every poor bastard fucked over by this bloodthirsty
racket that calls itself the legal profession. I felt a rush like I had never felt before. I was tweaking
on a cosmic adrenalin high, dancing in the blinding light of an intoxicated mania. At that moment I
couldn't have stopped myself if I wanted to. I reached through a broken window and unlocked the
front door and entered. Now I was inside. I walked through the small living room, unintentionally
knocking a vase off the coffee table, and opened the glass door to the balcony, the city of
Vancouver visible in the distance. The metal rod still in hand, my mind screamed "Destroy!
Destroy!" Just as I was about to start swinging, to bash everything in sight, to tear that home to
pieces, the high pitch beeping of Phillips' home alarm system filled the room. Like being shaken
awake from a deep slumber, the sound of the siren mitigated my rage and a hint of hard, sober
sense returned. Tears of fury rolling down my cheeks, my right hand bloodied from the force of
the blows to the door, I exited the townhouse. Two windows in the door where broken as well as
two side light windows. My inner emotional chaos was now accurately conveyed in the display. I
left and went home.
I was not proud of my actions. I did not feel good about them. On the contrary I felt sick,
nauseated, ashamed even. I knew I had committed a crime. But there were no regrets. The attack
on my family had to end. If I was to be charged for any crime in my lifetime I chose this to be the
one. I was prepared to pay the price. No one rides for free; I knew there would be a bill to be
paid. I wore no gloves. My fingerprints remained even after my descent from the mountain. This
was not about surreptitiously terrorizing someone and evading the authorities. I wanted Phillips to
know who it was. When communicating with the hard of hearing you sometimes have to speak
very loud. Phillips required a bullhorn to get the message.
When I got home there was another letter from Phillips that had been written and couriered to me
that same day. In the letter he states that he knew it was me who entered his office on Friday and
that he also knew it was me who left the tape box in his mail slot on Saturday. "Regrettably not for
the purpose of complying with the court order," he writes. He also accuses me of making hang-up
calls to his home. Again, he demands the non-existent documents. You sure have one hell of a
surprise waiting for you at home after work, I was thinking.
This letter raises some interesting questions. I had never seen him before Friday, and as far as I
know he had never seen me either. As I did not identify myself at his office, why is he positive
that it was me? And why is he sure I'm the one who put the tape box through his residential mail
slot? There can only be one answer in my mind: Phillips knew he was handling the legal matter in
bad faith and in a manner designed to provoke. And provoke he did.
That night at about seven o'clock I got a call from a North Vancouver police officer saying that
there had been an incident at Phillips' residence. He said Phillips was convinced it was my doing. I
denied any knowledge or involvement. Confessing to criminal activity is not something that comes
natural to me. It wasn't my place to make his job easy for him. And I was curious to see just how
the system actually works in this province. Boy did I ever find out.
dated December 12, 2000 requiring that I hand over a lengthy list of documents relating to my
father dating back some four years. The letter was explicit in its urgency.
The interesting thing is, the documents he wanted did not exist. And my father knew they did not
exist. He knew before his stroke anyway. The fact that someone claiming to represent my dad was
asking for nonexistent papers could mean only that dad was still suffering from serious memory
loss or a tactic of prevarication was being used -- or both. Also included in the package were
copies of financial statements of companies that I own and operate and the results of searches
Phillips had conducted with both the Registrar of Companies and the Land Title Office to assess my
personal business and property holdings respectively. The degree of transparent exploration into
my life was disconcerting.
Phillips is with the law firm Harrop Phillips Powell & Gray located in Vancouver's Gastown area.
Vancouver, an unfamiliar city to my father, was a ninety minute drive from his Surrey home. I
was at a loss as to where this latest lawyer had been dug up from.
The morning of Thursday, December 14, 2000 there was a knock on the door. Opening the door I
found myself looking up at a huge, dark-skinned man. This guy looked like a thug.
"Good morning," I said warily.
"Hi. Is this house the registered office of..." he looked through a page of notes that he was holding
and then continued, "...Alco Enterprises Ltd.?"
"Yes."
"Okay, good. I have been asked to examine the records of the company. I would like to come in
and take a look, please."
"Uh, hold on a minute here. Just who do you think you are that you can come up to my door off
the street and come into my home to 'examine' private material? Who are you?"
"Who am I? My name is Terry."
Terry. Not Terry from So-and-So Company. Just Terry. I closed the door and bolted it.
The morning of Tuesday, December 19, 2000. The phone rings. I answer it.
"Hello."
"Good morning. Mr. Callum Houston, please."
Phillips.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Houston is unavailable."
"Callum, I know this is you I'm talking to," Phillips said in a forced and affected British accent.
"Listen, this is an extremely urgent matter you're facing here. It is important that we discuss it
summarily."
"I'm sorry but Mr. Houston is not available to talk to you."
I hung up. Within thirty seconds the phone rang again. Knowing it was likely Phillips calling back I
didn't pick up.
That afternoon Phillips had a messenger send me a letter stating that he was the one who had sent
"Terry" to our home. He also repeated the demands that were made in his first letter of December
12, 2000. Finally, he stated that "unless there is prompt response to our demand for access" he
would engage in litigation.
That week I received a copy of a letter that the accounting firm I use had sent to Phillips. Phillips
had contacted them too, looking for information. Their reply stated that they were in receipt of
none of the material he wanted.
On Thursday, January 4, 2001 I received a letter by courier from Phillips demanding that I contact
him by "the close of business on January 9th either to confirm that I may attend upon you to
inspect and copy such records or to advise me why access is not possible or should be delayed."
Phillips went on to say that if he didn't hear from me by the 9th then court action would be taken.
On Monday, January 22, 2001 I received a letter by courier from Phillips that said: "Unless I
receive your assurance by the close of business tomorrow, January 23rd that such records will be
made available for inspection by me, an appropriate action will be commenced against you on
January 24th."
For the next three weeks I was pursued by another of Phillips' hired guns. The man came to the
house repeatedly. When I wouldn't answer the door he would wait out in his car. In his search for
me my mother was contacted. He even came to my house at nine o'clock one Sunday morning
while my wife was enjoying her weekly viewing of Coronation Street. This upset her, and in turn
upset me. This individual never did make contact with me, but on Thursday, February 15, 2001
365 pages of photocopies was squished through our front door mail slot.
On Monday, February 26, 2001 I received a letter from Phillips stating that "We have the Affidavit
of our process server that you were served."
On Thursday, March 1, 2001 another missive from Phillips arrives. The letter states that a court
order had been made that day before Master Alan Patterson of the British Columbia Supreme
Court for production of the nonexistent documents. Again he demanded that I contact him
immediately to arrange for pick up of the papers. He also said that I was expected to personally
pay his firm for the proceedings.
Couldn't he take a hint? I was not going to deal with this man. He dumped more paper at our front
door than the paperboy. If he had been a woman I might have been flattered. No, I probably
would have been scared to death. How many more letters would he send? How many more
people would come to the door? How many more times would he phone the house? When would
it end? It felt like I was dealing with a skip tracer or a collection agent, not a solicitor. If the tactic
was to wear me down through continued, unending pursuit it was only serving to piss me off.
Even after it was obvious as far back as December 19 of 2000 that I wanted no contact with him,
not only did he continue, his pursuit was becoming increasingly predatory. Observation of ethics
seemed nonexistent: The idea that my father was in a position to give lucid direction to legal
counsel was absurd. And the continued pestering of my wife and me, the hounding for material I
did not have, was becoming an unsettling irritation. I'm not a prosecutor, but I have read the
criminal code. In my opinion there could be a case made for harassment based on these actions.
As Phillips expected me to foot the bill for all of this wasted time and paperwork, it seemed to me
that in fact it wasn't my father who was his client, rather, I was his client. And as his client I would
never condone this kind of conduct. But if I'm expected to pay my solicitor, shouldn't I at least get
a look at him and see what my secret admirer looks like? He had spent the better part of four
months baiting me for a reaction. He seemed desperately to want to see me, to meet me, with his
persistent shower of legalese love letters. Maybe now is the time to find out exactly who this
faceless enigma is.
On Friday, March 2, 2001 I saw him. I think.
That afternoon I grabbed one of the countless envelopes that had his company address on it, got in
my red '92 Mazda MX-3, and with the turgid riffs of Saxon's 1980 breakthrough recording Wheels
Of Steel providing the perfect soundtrack, I blazed down Highway 99 into Vancouver, making my
way into the Gastown area, the location of his office.
I parked in an underground parking lot and sat in quiet reflection amid the concrete darkness. Just
what the hell was I doing here? I'm going to go to his office and do what? And what am I going to
say to him if I see him? The facts with regard to the legal matter at hand had not changed, so there
would not be any kind of negotiation or meaningful dialogue. I know! I'll leave something behind
for him, a calling card of some kind. I scoured my car for something appropriate. The passenger
seat was scattered with cassette tapes that I listen to while driving. There was one tape in particular
that I had a duplicate of because the original was worn out. I could part with that one. It was Fair
Warning by Van Halen. Released in 1981, Fair Warning was their fourth album and their fourth
consecutive platinum seller. It featured the wild-man antics of singer David Lee Roth and the
dazzling guitar pyrotechnics of virtuoso Eddie Van Halen. Fair Warning is Van Halen's darkest
album musically, and to many hardcore fans it is their greatest work. I love Fair Warning, but if
push ever came to shove I would have to go with Van Halen's self-titled debut as their masterpiece.
How appropriate, I thought. Phillips had been sending me warnings of court action for months. I'll
turn the tables around in a harmless manner, putting him on notice that I wanted him to back off.
That will be that.
His office address was Two Gaoler's Mews. I asked the parking attendant where it was located.
He told me and I was off. I walked through Blood Alley and found the entrance. I took the
elevator up and asked the receptionist if Mr. Graham Phillips was in. She said she would find out
(find out? She didn't know? It's a pretty small office) and asked me to wait. I watched her open
the door to an office off to the right of the room. She was halfway through the doorway, her head
inside talking to someone, Phillips I assumed. I walked behind the counter, secretaries staring in
disbelief, strode up to the door and pushed my way in, the receptionist trying her best to hold me
back. Now I was standing in his small office, the receptionist at my back, an alarmed Graham
Phillips gaping across at me from behind his desk. Without saying a word I reached into the inside
of my jacket, pulled out the tape and tossed it onto his desk. He must have thought it was a live
grenade because his chair snapped out from behind him like a cannon, hitting the wall with a loud
thud as he fell to his knees, taking cover under his desk. The brave receptionist who had tried to
protect him from my entrance had no such overblown reaction. I left and went home.
A person generally feels most safe and comfortable in their home. A person's home is their
sanctuary, their refuge, their shelter from life's harsh realities. At least it should be. My home had
been my sanctuary until Phillips set his cross hairs upon me. It seemed to me only fair that as he
had made it open that he knew where I lived, I should be granted the corresponding privilege of
knowing where my solicitor lived.
Midday, Saturday, March 3, 2001. On the TV Charlton Heston's George Taylor is standing before
an ape tribunal led by Dr. Zaius in Franklin J. Schaffner's brilliant 1968 sci-fi classic Planet of the
Apes. Out of passing curiosity I picked up the telephone directory to see what listing it had for
Graham Phillips. I could not believe me eyes. I was astonished. Phillips' address was proudly
displayed in dark bold type for all to see. It leapt out at me like a flashing neon billboard. What
kind of person was he? Was he naïve? Was he thick? A fool? Was he so egotistically arrogant that
he felt himself untouchable? Was he harbouring some kind of twisted death wish? What kind of
man would make it his business, his livelihood to aggravate and prod another man, and yet leave
himself so openly exposed -- both professionally and personally? It felt like an invitation. I decided
to take him up on it. I picked up a map of the lower mainland and looked for the location of his
street. He lived on Owl Court in North Vancouver.
It was starting to look like either a joke or a set-up.
Owl Court is a tiny cull-de-sac in the most northern tip of North Vancouver at the base of Grouse
Mountain. Maybe he thought having a residence at the top of the world looking down upon all
others ensured safety. If so I would be doing the man a favour by making him reconsider his
comfort level.
I got in my car and made the journey across three municipalities, over two bridges and up the base
of Grouse Mountain to Owl Court. He lived in a townhouse complex. I drove in. I was
surrounded by rustic three story homes on all sides. It was like being inside a fortress. I felt
watched. I found his place. I checked the address twice, three times, didn't want to disturb
innocent people. I rummaged through the scattering of cassette boxes lying on the passenger seat. I
hated to part with it, could be hard to find another, but I picked up the box of Ratt's 1985 release
Invasion of Your Privacy. It contained the hit single You're In Love. To me, Ratt was the USA's
answer to Germany's Scorpions. Fronted by lead singer Stephen Pearcy, Ratt featured the
formidable hi-tech twin guitar attack of Warren DeMartini and Robbin Crosby.
I left the car running, the door open, made my way down into the shadowed alleyway that led to
the entrance, got to the door and put the box through the mail slot. I had made contact with my
lawyer. I left and went home.
The next day, March 4, was Black Sunday.
It was about noon. I was watching The Naked and the Dead, the 1958 Raoul Walsh filmic
adaptation of Norman Mailers book of soldiers in the Pacific during World War II starring Aldo
Ray and Cliff Robertson. Getting up to grab a cup of coffee, I looked out the front window and
saw four people, two men and two women, standing across the street, staring at our home. They
were milling around a vintage, tuxedo black 1967 Corvette Stingray convertible, one of the most
sought after collector cars of all time. Occasionally one of them would walk up to the property line
of the driveway and stand there for a while. I was sure that one of them, a heavyset man wearing a
black jacket, was Phillips. He looked just like the man I had seen in the law office two days
previous.
All I could think was that the depths of evil knew no bounds. What in God's name did he think he
was doing? I was livid, infuriated. I was also scared. This was not a rational situation. Someone
could end up doing something precipitous and dumb. This had simply gone too far. Although I
didn't know it at the time, if it was him, then it was also unquestionably criminal conduct. Police
presence seemed like a good idea. I got the phone book, looked up the number of the Surrey
RCMP and punched in the number.
"Where are you calling from?" the operator asked.
"Crescent Beach in Surrey," I replied.
"And what is the nature of your concern?"
"There's some suspicious-looking people down here and I'd just like to have one of your guys do a
drive by."
"Okay, I'll ask you to hold on for moment, please," she said.
Yvonne came downstairs from the bedroom. "Who are you talking to?" she asked.
"I'm on hold with the police. I'm concerned about those people loitering outside at the driveway."
"Callum, you're overreacting. Hang up the phone. Please, hang up the phone now!" she implored.
Yvonne was unaware of the events that I had been dealing with. The idea that people with ill-
intent might be targeting us was not a concept that registered in her brain. These kind of
unscrupulous people were completely alien to her. They didn't exist except on television.
After waiting on hold for about five minutes I hung up the phone. No support from my wife. No
support from the police. I got the message. It looked like this was a battle I was going to have to
fight alone.
The fiend and his demons spent three hours lurking around that afternoon. It had to stop.
Especially now that he was intensifying his rapacious predation. A wooden stake had to be
embedded deep within the cold, dead heart of this bloodsucking, vampiric prince of darkness
before any further terror could be unleashed on innocents. Mere garlic cloves at our windows and
crucifixes on our bosoms were not enough. Swift action of surgical precision was required to put
an end to his sinister reign. I was Van Helsing to his Vlad the Impaler.
I had Chinese for lunch the next day, Monday, March 5. My mind was ablaze with thoughts of
how my family had been torn apart by the greed of money-hungry, parasitic outsiders, of how my
sick father had been victimized, as had my misguided sister, my wife, my mother, and me. At the
end of the meal I cracked open the fortune cookie. It said: Today you will embark on an important
excursion.
I was filled with emotion. I had my marching orders. There was no backing out now. I had been
bestowed the duty of protector of the people from sinister corruption.
The slaying of nosferatu is a ritualistic process that involves the recanting of verse and then the
depositing of symbolistic objects at the crypt of the undead. First I went home and picked up some
of my more dark, extreme prose, about a minute or so of material. Then I went for a drive, found
a payphone and called Phillips' number. I got an answering machine which gave his name and the
name of someone called Susan.
"Hey guess what! You've won the lottery. Yep, that's right. We're selling fire insurance and your
household has been selected for a one-time, bargain deal. Sign up within the next twenty-four hours
and you'll receive a twenty per cent discount. Call now! 1-888-666-FIRE. That's 1-888-666-FIRE."
I hung up and dialled again.
"You know, I killed a man the other night. Sliced his head clean off. Yeah, decap. I shucked his
eyeball right out of the socket and squished it like a grape. Then I skullfucked him, the HIV
infected blood flowing warm and sweet, baby."
I hung up the phone and called again, this time remembering the name Susan.
"There was this chick, a real hot piece of ass. I fucked that bitch like the whore she was, up the
ass with my special barbed wire condom. You know, I seem to recall her name was Susan."
Then I made the grim journey once again, across three municipalities and over two bridges and up
the base of the mountain to his lair within the wastelands. In my possession I had a pack of
unopened Player's Light cigarettes and a lighter. I also had a miniature toy rifle, an FN-C1/L1
FAL, still packaged. A real, life-size FN is chambered for .308 ammunition and uses a rear locking,
tipping bolt design. It has a gas piston, tapping gas off the barrel to drive a rod into the bolt carrier
to operate the action automatically. A dial at the gas block sets the amount of gas bearing on the
rod. Pest control time, baby. I left the car running and the door open. AC/DC's Hells Bells
exterminated the silent tranquility. I descended into the dark alleyway entrance to his front door. I
placed the toy and the cigarettes on the stoop. I pulled out the lighter and dragged the flame across
the door, imprinting swirls of dark, smoky mist on the white paint. Then I charred the small
plastic doorbell button and watched it drip molten plastic onto the concrete below.
I had intended to leave at that point, but my little art project seemed incomplete. It needed
something more to get the point across; something to convey the turmoil and tumult that Phillips
was putting us through. Something that said: Phillips, what you see before you is the work of
someone you have pushed to the edge. Leave me and my family be. Goodbye Mr. Phillips!
Goodbye! A THOUSAND TIMES GOODBYE!
I picked up a ceramic vase and threw it at the door. The vase shattered on impact, leaving little
noticeable effect on the door. Then I reached behind me and picked up a metal plant holder rod
and I smashed. I smashed for every single letter and phone call and server that he had sent to my
family home. I smashed for his exploitation of my infirm father. I smashed for his exploitation of
my naïve and gullible sister. I smashed for the degrading subjugation of my mother at the will of
my father's lawyers years ago. I smashed for every poor bastard fucked over by this bloodthirsty
racket that calls itself the legal profession. I felt a rush like I had never felt before. I was tweaking
on a cosmic adrenalin high, dancing in the blinding light of an intoxicated mania. At that moment I
couldn't have stopped myself if I wanted to. I reached through a broken window and unlocked the
front door and entered. Now I was inside. I walked through the small living room, unintentionally
knocking a vase off the coffee table, and opened the glass door to the balcony, the city of
Vancouver visible in the distance. The metal rod still in hand, my mind screamed "Destroy!
Destroy!" Just as I was about to start swinging, to bash everything in sight, to tear that home to
pieces, the high pitch beeping of Phillips' home alarm system filled the room. Like being shaken
awake from a deep slumber, the sound of the siren mitigated my rage and a hint of hard, sober
sense returned. Tears of fury rolling down my cheeks, my right hand bloodied from the force of
the blows to the door, I exited the townhouse. Two windows in the door where broken as well as
two side light windows. My inner emotional chaos was now accurately conveyed in the display. I
left and went home.
I was not proud of my actions. I did not feel good about them. On the contrary I felt sick,
nauseated, ashamed even. I knew I had committed a crime. But there were no regrets. The attack
on my family had to end. If I was to be charged for any crime in my lifetime I chose this to be the
one. I was prepared to pay the price. No one rides for free; I knew there would be a bill to be
paid. I wore no gloves. My fingerprints remained even after my descent from the mountain. This
was not about surreptitiously terrorizing someone and evading the authorities. I wanted Phillips to
know who it was. When communicating with the hard of hearing you sometimes have to speak
very loud. Phillips required a bullhorn to get the message.
When I got home there was another letter from Phillips that had been written and couriered to me
that same day. In the letter he states that he knew it was me who entered his office on Friday and
that he also knew it was me who left the tape box in his mail slot on Saturday. "Regrettably not for
the purpose of complying with the court order," he writes. He also accuses me of making hang-up
calls to his home. Again, he demands the non-existent documents. You sure have one hell of a
surprise waiting for you at home after work, I was thinking.
This letter raises some interesting questions. I had never seen him before Friday, and as far as I
know he had never seen me either. As I did not identify myself at his office, why is he positive
that it was me? And why is he sure I'm the one who put the tape box through his residential mail
slot? There can only be one answer in my mind: Phillips knew he was handling the legal matter in
bad faith and in a manner designed to provoke. And provoke he did.
That night at about seven o'clock I got a call from a North Vancouver police officer saying that
there had been an incident at Phillips' residence. He said Phillips was convinced it was my doing. I
denied any knowledge or involvement. Confessing to criminal activity is not something that comes
natural to me. It wasn't my place to make his job easy for him. And I was curious to see just how
the system actually works in this province. Boy did I ever find out.
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