| "HOUSTON V. HOUSTON ET AL." CONTINUED |
On Tuesday, March 6 I received my final direct communication from Phillips. In the letter he says
that his firm is withdrawing from representation of my father. "But," he goes on to scold, "this
does not mean you can continue to ignore the order."
On Thursday, March 8 Constable Dave Whalen of the North Vancouver RCMP requested my
attendance at the police station for questioning. I obliged and made the trip. The interrogation
lasted an hour.
"I'm sure you've already noticed the camera up in the corner. There's a person two rooms over
monitoring and pushing all the buttons for us," Whalen begins.
"Okay."
"You'll find that I'm not a typical police officer."
"You're not typical?" I answer.
"I think the police are evolving from the knuckle draggers we used to be twenty-five, thirty years
ago. There wasn't a Charter of Rights. We used to be able to take 'em out back and pound the
crap out of them and get our con, you know. Then we see what they're going to say after that.
Those days are far and gone. I'm a not a hard guy. I like to sit and talk with people."
"Right."
Whalen grilled me with questions about fine dining in the White Rock area, questions about my
personal business dealings, questions about my marriage and questions about the incident at
Phillips' home.
"There's this lawyer here that lives in North Vancouver. He had somebody pay a visit to him on
Monday."
"Okay."
"They destroyed the front door of his place, broke all the windows and burned the doorbell to the
house."
"Yeah?"
"They made entry to the house. They've got a burglar alarm that went off and we think that
whoever it was took off after that. Did you show up at this guy's house and break all his windows
and burn his doorbell?"
"No."
"Do you want me to believe you?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Do you want me to believe you?"
"Do I want you to believe me? I don't care either way."
"I understand there was some kind of lawsuit between your father and you."
"My dad's had a lot of problems. There's been a succession of lawyers."
"What are they demanding?"
"Company records that I don't have."
"So you're business partners with your father in some companies?"
"We were partners but we're not anymore."
"So your father has nothing to do with the businesses?"
"He's got nothing to do with them."
"I talked to your sister and she said your father has some medical problems."
"He had a stroke."
"When did he have his stroke?"
"'96."
"My father-in-law had a stroke too and he's blind in one eye. Your father suffer any kind of stuff
like that?"
"Yeah. He suffered some paralysis. On his right side."
"So has that affected the business relationship or the partnership that you guys had? You guys
were in business together and then he has a stroke and suffers paralysis. Obviously he's not able
to be much of a partner if he's not able to function all that well. And now you're the - what word
do you call yourself -- the..."
"The president."
"The president? Are there shareholders or anything like that?"
"Yeah. You're lookin' at him."
"You're the main shareholder?"
"You got it."
"So as a result of him not being able to be a business partner, is this how you became partners
with, or the main shareholder of the business, is that fair to say?"
It appears that someone has planted the idea in this cop's head that I have exploited my father's
illness to obtain control of my companies, that I have committed fraud.
"No more business questions."
"Fair enough. Okay. What kind of person do you think would do something like this to Graham
Phillips' house?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? Have you ever thought of doing something like that in your life?"
"Absolutely not."
"No?"
"No."
"What do you think would cause someone to do something like that?"
"I don't know."
"When we catch this person what do you think should happen to him?"
"I don't care."
"You don't care? Should they go to jail? Should they do probation?"
"I'm not a judge."
"You're right. Judges are so much wiser than us. Is there any reason that we're going to find
physical evidence that would be attributed to you?"
"Why would there be? I wasn't there."
"If I hook you up to a polygraph machine and ask you, 'Were you at Graham Phillips' house on
Monday and did damage to his house?', what is the polygraph going to tell me?"
"I know for a fact that polygraphs are unreliable, so I don't know what it's going to tell you. I'm
telling you I didn't do it."
"All right. Let me tell you about another piece of evidence. There was a whole bunch of messages
left on Phillips' voice messaging system. I believe that it's the same person that went to the house.
What's going to happen if I take the audio cassette from this interview here down the hall to the lab
and compare it to the audio from the voice message?"
"You tell me."
"Well, I'm asking you. What is it going to tell me?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"Are you asking me if I was the one who left the messages? Is that what you're asking me here?"
"No. I'm asking you what results am I going to get if I compare the two tapes."
"I didn't leave the messages."
"Okay. All right. What time did we start here?"
"About 7:30."
"It's 8:30 now. I want to go check my tapes. I'll be back in two minutes. Can I get you anything?"
"No. I'm fine. Thank you."
Whalen leaves. A minute later he's back. I think I was supposed to believe that he had done a sixty
second comparative analysis of the voice recordings.
"My investigation is over here. There is no doubt in my mind that you were at the Phillips' house
on Monday."
"So you're charging me?"
"I think there's more to you and more going on than your letting on."
"Are you charging me or not?"
"We can get to that."
"Do whatever you have to do. If not I'm leaving."
"The door is open. You can leave anytime you want."
"Are you trying to get me to admit to it?"
"It's got nothing to do with admitting. I know you did it. We're way past that. I'm interested in the
truth. I want to know what is going on here. I have two people in a house in North Vancouver who
are scared out of their wits by some crazy lunatic. They're thinking, 'Oh my God, there's
somebody out there targeting us and stalking us.'"
"Well, it wasn't me."
"We're done with that, okay."
"So does that mean I leave?"
"The choice is yours. But I have to go in front of a judge and say, 'I know that Callum Houston
did this. These are the reasons why Callum Houston did this.' Let's deal with the reasons. Okay?"
"I guess this interview's over. You're going to go to a judge to charge me? Is that what you’re
saying?"
"No."
"That's what it sounds like to me. Why else would you go to a judge?"
"Well, I have to go to a judge and tell him what's happening. The charge process is a very different
thing. It's apples and oranges."
How stupid did this cop think I was? Did he really think I was going to waltz into a police station
and start singing like a canary? I may be crazy but I'm not a fool.
"You're not going to get a confession out of me."
"I'm not here for a confession. I'm here for the truth. And we both know what the truth is, don't
we?"
"I guess this interview's over."
"All right. I'll show you out of the office."
At the reception area I ask Whalen, "So am I off the list?"
"Off the list?"
"Yeah. Your list of suspects."
"No. You're not off the list. You're at the top of the list."
I left and went home.
On Tuesday morning, March 13 I got a call from my mom. She was in tears, barely able to talk
through her sobbing. She told me she had just received a phone call from Tom, Lesley's husband.
He told my mother that a brick had been thrown through a window of Graham Phillips' home last
Monday. He was sure it was me and something had to be done to stop my insane rampage
because they were likely next in line.
"Is that true, Callum? Did you throw a brick through this lawyer's window?" my mother asked me
through her tears.
"I did not throw a brick through anyone's window, mom," I answered.
"But everyone thinks it was you. The police are involved. They went to Lesley's work and played
a tape of bizarre messages that were left on the lawyers answering machine to see if it was you."
"What did Lesley say to them?"
"She said it could be your voice."
"Mom, let's just let due process take its course, okay."
I talked to my mother a while longer, until she was feeling better. Then I called Tom.
Adopting a disguised persona of indignation I yelled, "Tom, what the fuck are you doing? I just got
a call from my mother and she's crying! She's fucking crying, Tom!"
"Well, I - ," he tried to answer.
"How dare you call my mother and upset her in this manner. She's sixty years old. She's retired.
She's entitled to exemption from this kind of bullshit at this stage in her life."
"Callum, would you let me speak -"
"Your folks seem to have a peaceful life of contentment. How would you feel if I picked up the
phone and created the same kind of distress that you're causing my mom? You wouldn't like it
would you? Think about it! Leave my mother alone, asshole."
"Is that a threat?"
"Stay out of that which is not your concern, motherfucker."
"I'm not the one who's stressin' your mom out. You're the one that's stressin' your mom out."
"You know what you are Tom? I'm going to tell you what you are. You're a pussy. A fucking
worthless, cowardly pussy who lacks the balls to call me out to my face."
"Would you slow down -"
"Fuck you, Tom. Fuck Lesley. And fuck your little runt of a son."
"You want a piece of me?" Tom asks, inviting some kind of physical confrontation. Contact.
"You're a pussy, Tom. Now fuck off."
End of conversation. I hang up. Moments later the phone rings. I let the answering machine get it.
It's Tom. "Well, where are you? I thought you wanted to talk..."
As I turn down the volume, Tom's voice fading into silence, it occurs to me that these people just
don't know when to give up.
On Wednesday, March 14 I travelled into downtown Vancouver to drop off some financial
material with my accountant whose office is very close to Gastown. When the meeting was over,
and after taking a piss in the underground parking lot of the Canadian Imperial Bank of
Commerce, I drove out of the area. I picked up a tape of Guns N' Roses' Appetite for Destruction
and pushed it into the player. As Axl Rose's siren call bellowed, I found myself a mere half-block
from Phillips' office. It was serendipity. I was so close. Choice became a non-existent option. I
would seek his presence and bid him a final farewell. I got out of the car, went to his office, took
the elevator up and stood before the receptionist.
"Phillips. I want to see him. Get him out here," I demanded in my soft-spoken manner. I decided
to take a tour of the office. I walked down the hall. A man appeared. Then another. They tried to
break my path.
"Who are you? What do you want here?" one of them asked.
"You are one ugly fuck, you know that?" I said belligerently, taunting him. He tried to grab me but
I pulled out of his reach. "Hey, hey, that's assault, buddy."
"What is it that you want?"
"I'm here to see that asshole piece of shit Phillips."
"Leave our office. Get out now."
"Leave? After all the paper and men you sent to my home trying to get me here? Well – guess
what? – you finally got me."
I sat down on the leather couch in the reception, both of them standing over me. Then I picked up
a newspaper from the coffee table, opened it and pretended to start reading. Another man
appeared from the hallway. It was Phillips.
"Well, well, if it isn't the big man who lives up there on the mountain," I said, grinning. I put down
the newspaper. "You think you're a fucking big shot, don't you? I'm going to bring you down."
"Okay, this has gone far enough," Phillips replied anxiously. "Would you leave?"
"This woman Susan, who is she? Your wife? Your girlfriend? What a fine piece of ass she is.
Looks like she'd be a good fuck. I'm going to fuck your woman, pal."
"Call 911 now," one of them instructs the receptionist. She picks up the phone and dials.
Hmm, the police may be coming. This would be an appropriate time to depart.
"This office is populated with nothing but a bunch of ugly motherfuckers."
I got up from the couch and headed for the exit but Phillips, a huge man, much larger than me,
was blocking the way. He grabbed me by the left upper arm and shoulder and held me. I struggled
and managed to free myself. (In the medical examination when I was taken into custody the doctor
commented on the bruising on my shoulder and bicep.) I got into the elevator and pushed the
ground floor button. The door closed but the elevator wasn't moving. The lawyers were holding it
frozen with the button in the hall. The elevator door opened again. I got out and frantically looked
around for an alternate escape route. A red exit sign down the hall caught my eye. I began walking
backwards towards freedom.
"A little advice guys, your security here is fucking pathetic. I'd step it up a notch if I was you.
Phillips, I know where you live, motherfucker. Oh, by the way, I'm a paranoid schizophrenic. This
is what we do for fun."
I managed to escape through Blood Alley. I left and went home. I was to be abducted the next
night.
that his firm is withdrawing from representation of my father. "But," he goes on to scold, "this
does not mean you can continue to ignore the order."
On Thursday, March 8 Constable Dave Whalen of the North Vancouver RCMP requested my
attendance at the police station for questioning. I obliged and made the trip. The interrogation
lasted an hour.
"I'm sure you've already noticed the camera up in the corner. There's a person two rooms over
monitoring and pushing all the buttons for us," Whalen begins.
"Okay."
"You'll find that I'm not a typical police officer."
"You're not typical?" I answer.
"I think the police are evolving from the knuckle draggers we used to be twenty-five, thirty years
ago. There wasn't a Charter of Rights. We used to be able to take 'em out back and pound the
crap out of them and get our con, you know. Then we see what they're going to say after that.
Those days are far and gone. I'm a not a hard guy. I like to sit and talk with people."
"Right."
Whalen grilled me with questions about fine dining in the White Rock area, questions about my
personal business dealings, questions about my marriage and questions about the incident at
Phillips' home.
"There's this lawyer here that lives in North Vancouver. He had somebody pay a visit to him on
Monday."
"Okay."
"They destroyed the front door of his place, broke all the windows and burned the doorbell to the
house."
"Yeah?"
"They made entry to the house. They've got a burglar alarm that went off and we think that
whoever it was took off after that. Did you show up at this guy's house and break all his windows
and burn his doorbell?"
"No."
"Do you want me to believe you?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Do you want me to believe you?"
"Do I want you to believe me? I don't care either way."
"I understand there was some kind of lawsuit between your father and you."
"My dad's had a lot of problems. There's been a succession of lawyers."
"What are they demanding?"
"Company records that I don't have."
"So you're business partners with your father in some companies?"
"We were partners but we're not anymore."
"So your father has nothing to do with the businesses?"
"He's got nothing to do with them."
"I talked to your sister and she said your father has some medical problems."
"He had a stroke."
"When did he have his stroke?"
"'96."
"My father-in-law had a stroke too and he's blind in one eye. Your father suffer any kind of stuff
like that?"
"Yeah. He suffered some paralysis. On his right side."
"So has that affected the business relationship or the partnership that you guys had? You guys
were in business together and then he has a stroke and suffers paralysis. Obviously he's not able
to be much of a partner if he's not able to function all that well. And now you're the - what word
do you call yourself -- the..."
"The president."
"The president? Are there shareholders or anything like that?"
"Yeah. You're lookin' at him."
"You're the main shareholder?"
"You got it."
"So as a result of him not being able to be a business partner, is this how you became partners
with, or the main shareholder of the business, is that fair to say?"
It appears that someone has planted the idea in this cop's head that I have exploited my father's
illness to obtain control of my companies, that I have committed fraud.
"No more business questions."
"Fair enough. Okay. What kind of person do you think would do something like this to Graham
Phillips' house?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? Have you ever thought of doing something like that in your life?"
"Absolutely not."
"No?"
"No."
"What do you think would cause someone to do something like that?"
"I don't know."
"When we catch this person what do you think should happen to him?"
"I don't care."
"You don't care? Should they go to jail? Should they do probation?"
"I'm not a judge."
"You're right. Judges are so much wiser than us. Is there any reason that we're going to find
physical evidence that would be attributed to you?"
"Why would there be? I wasn't there."
"If I hook you up to a polygraph machine and ask you, 'Were you at Graham Phillips' house on
Monday and did damage to his house?', what is the polygraph going to tell me?"
"I know for a fact that polygraphs are unreliable, so I don't know what it's going to tell you. I'm
telling you I didn't do it."
"All right. Let me tell you about another piece of evidence. There was a whole bunch of messages
left on Phillips' voice messaging system. I believe that it's the same person that went to the house.
What's going to happen if I take the audio cassette from this interview here down the hall to the lab
and compare it to the audio from the voice message?"
"You tell me."
"Well, I'm asking you. What is it going to tell me?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"Are you asking me if I was the one who left the messages? Is that what you're asking me here?"
"No. I'm asking you what results am I going to get if I compare the two tapes."
"I didn't leave the messages."
"Okay. All right. What time did we start here?"
"About 7:30."
"It's 8:30 now. I want to go check my tapes. I'll be back in two minutes. Can I get you anything?"
"No. I'm fine. Thank you."
Whalen leaves. A minute later he's back. I think I was supposed to believe that he had done a sixty
second comparative analysis of the voice recordings.
"My investigation is over here. There is no doubt in my mind that you were at the Phillips' house
on Monday."
"So you're charging me?"
"I think there's more to you and more going on than your letting on."
"Are you charging me or not?"
"We can get to that."
"Do whatever you have to do. If not I'm leaving."
"The door is open. You can leave anytime you want."
"Are you trying to get me to admit to it?"
"It's got nothing to do with admitting. I know you did it. We're way past that. I'm interested in the
truth. I want to know what is going on here. I have two people in a house in North Vancouver who
are scared out of their wits by some crazy lunatic. They're thinking, 'Oh my God, there's
somebody out there targeting us and stalking us.'"
"Well, it wasn't me."
"We're done with that, okay."
"So does that mean I leave?"
"The choice is yours. But I have to go in front of a judge and say, 'I know that Callum Houston
did this. These are the reasons why Callum Houston did this.' Let's deal with the reasons. Okay?"
"I guess this interview's over. You're going to go to a judge to charge me? Is that what you’re
saying?"
"No."
"That's what it sounds like to me. Why else would you go to a judge?"
"Well, I have to go to a judge and tell him what's happening. The charge process is a very different
thing. It's apples and oranges."
How stupid did this cop think I was? Did he really think I was going to waltz into a police station
and start singing like a canary? I may be crazy but I'm not a fool.
"You're not going to get a confession out of me."
"I'm not here for a confession. I'm here for the truth. And we both know what the truth is, don't
we?"
"I guess this interview's over."
"All right. I'll show you out of the office."
At the reception area I ask Whalen, "So am I off the list?"
"Off the list?"
"Yeah. Your list of suspects."
"No. You're not off the list. You're at the top of the list."
I left and went home.
On Tuesday morning, March 13 I got a call from my mom. She was in tears, barely able to talk
through her sobbing. She told me she had just received a phone call from Tom, Lesley's husband.
He told my mother that a brick had been thrown through a window of Graham Phillips' home last
Monday. He was sure it was me and something had to be done to stop my insane rampage
because they were likely next in line.
"Is that true, Callum? Did you throw a brick through this lawyer's window?" my mother asked me
through her tears.
"I did not throw a brick through anyone's window, mom," I answered.
"But everyone thinks it was you. The police are involved. They went to Lesley's work and played
a tape of bizarre messages that were left on the lawyers answering machine to see if it was you."
"What did Lesley say to them?"
"She said it could be your voice."
"Mom, let's just let due process take its course, okay."
I talked to my mother a while longer, until she was feeling better. Then I called Tom.
Adopting a disguised persona of indignation I yelled, "Tom, what the fuck are you doing? I just got
a call from my mother and she's crying! She's fucking crying, Tom!"
"Well, I - ," he tried to answer.
"How dare you call my mother and upset her in this manner. She's sixty years old. She's retired.
She's entitled to exemption from this kind of bullshit at this stage in her life."
"Callum, would you let me speak -"
"Your folks seem to have a peaceful life of contentment. How would you feel if I picked up the
phone and created the same kind of distress that you're causing my mom? You wouldn't like it
would you? Think about it! Leave my mother alone, asshole."
"Is that a threat?"
"Stay out of that which is not your concern, motherfucker."
"I'm not the one who's stressin' your mom out. You're the one that's stressin' your mom out."
"You know what you are Tom? I'm going to tell you what you are. You're a pussy. A fucking
worthless, cowardly pussy who lacks the balls to call me out to my face."
"Would you slow down -"
"Fuck you, Tom. Fuck Lesley. And fuck your little runt of a son."
"You want a piece of me?" Tom asks, inviting some kind of physical confrontation. Contact.
"You're a pussy, Tom. Now fuck off."
End of conversation. I hang up. Moments later the phone rings. I let the answering machine get it.
It's Tom. "Well, where are you? I thought you wanted to talk..."
As I turn down the volume, Tom's voice fading into silence, it occurs to me that these people just
don't know when to give up.
On Wednesday, March 14 I travelled into downtown Vancouver to drop off some financial
material with my accountant whose office is very close to Gastown. When the meeting was over,
and after taking a piss in the underground parking lot of the Canadian Imperial Bank of
Commerce, I drove out of the area. I picked up a tape of Guns N' Roses' Appetite for Destruction
and pushed it into the player. As Axl Rose's siren call bellowed, I found myself a mere half-block
from Phillips' office. It was serendipity. I was so close. Choice became a non-existent option. I
would seek his presence and bid him a final farewell. I got out of the car, went to his office, took
the elevator up and stood before the receptionist.
"Phillips. I want to see him. Get him out here," I demanded in my soft-spoken manner. I decided
to take a tour of the office. I walked down the hall. A man appeared. Then another. They tried to
break my path.
"Who are you? What do you want here?" one of them asked.
"You are one ugly fuck, you know that?" I said belligerently, taunting him. He tried to grab me but
I pulled out of his reach. "Hey, hey, that's assault, buddy."
"What is it that you want?"
"I'm here to see that asshole piece of shit Phillips."
"Leave our office. Get out now."
"Leave? After all the paper and men you sent to my home trying to get me here? Well – guess
what? – you finally got me."
I sat down on the leather couch in the reception, both of them standing over me. Then I picked up
a newspaper from the coffee table, opened it and pretended to start reading. Another man
appeared from the hallway. It was Phillips.
"Well, well, if it isn't the big man who lives up there on the mountain," I said, grinning. I put down
the newspaper. "You think you're a fucking big shot, don't you? I'm going to bring you down."
"Okay, this has gone far enough," Phillips replied anxiously. "Would you leave?"
"This woman Susan, who is she? Your wife? Your girlfriend? What a fine piece of ass she is.
Looks like she'd be a good fuck. I'm going to fuck your woman, pal."
"Call 911 now," one of them instructs the receptionist. She picks up the phone and dials.
Hmm, the police may be coming. This would be an appropriate time to depart.
"This office is populated with nothing but a bunch of ugly motherfuckers."
I got up from the couch and headed for the exit but Phillips, a huge man, much larger than me,
was blocking the way. He grabbed me by the left upper arm and shoulder and held me. I struggled
and managed to free myself. (In the medical examination when I was taken into custody the doctor
commented on the bruising on my shoulder and bicep.) I got into the elevator and pushed the
ground floor button. The door closed but the elevator wasn't moving. The lawyers were holding it
frozen with the button in the hall. The elevator door opened again. I got out and frantically looked
around for an alternate escape route. A red exit sign down the hall caught my eye. I began walking
backwards towards freedom.
"A little advice guys, your security here is fucking pathetic. I'd step it up a notch if I was you.
Phillips, I know where you live, motherfucker. Oh, by the way, I'm a paranoid schizophrenic. This
is what we do for fun."
I managed to escape through Blood Alley. I left and went home. I was to be abducted the next
night.
3 / 45