| "HOUSTON V. HOUSTON ET AL." CONTINUED |
MAJOR JAIL TIME
It's Thursday, March 15 at about 10:30 at night. I'm lying in bed reading Tom Wolfe's The
Bonfire of the Vanities. Just as Yvonne comes upstairs and joins me under the covers, two South
Surrey police officers show up at our house. One of the cops tells me I'm going across the bridge
for questioning. He says to prepare for cab fare as I'll be coming home later that night.
He lies.
I'm handcuffed in the street and pushed into the police car. I notice on the video screen in the
cruiser there is a text profile of me. It states that I have an "explosive" personality. We drive to the
south end of the Port Mann Bridge where Constable Whalen picks me up. He then proceeds to
squish me into the back of his car, into a seating compartment that is too tiny for a person. I'm not
a big man, I have a pretty small build. Still, the seating area in the back seat of the cruiser is so
minute that my knee is hanging out when he closes the door. The reason for the small space is
because there is a dog caged beside me that takes up four-fifths of the back seat. I would have had
more room in the trunk.
At the North Vancouver police station Whalen jokes, "How 'bout that? More room for the dog
back there than for you."
I am photographed and my shoes and my wallet and my watch and my wedding ring are taken.
The only other prisoner is a very worn looking intoxicated native Indian man. Whalen tells me that
I will be asked to sign a peace bond tomorrow, an order to stay away from the alleged victims
(victims who now include my sister and her husband), and then I will be sent to Vancouver to face
charges of criminal harassment.
He lies.
I tell Whalen that I take important medication for mental difficulties and that I will need it. He asks
me what I take. I tell him and he says he will have it provided.
He lies.
I am led into a white tiled cell with a high ceiling and an ever-burning light that shines down
mercilessly. The ventilation system hums loudly and there is a constant drip in the plumbing. I am
tossed a blanket and shown a bench that is to be my home for the next ten hours -- ten hours of
solitary confinement.
At nine the next morning, Friday, March 16, I am transported to the jail that lies beneath the
North Vancouver courthouse. It is a dungeon: rusty and old, dank and dirty, ancient and smelly.
As I don't have a criminal lawyer I choose to be represented by duty counsel, a man called Glen
Paruk. At the end of a brief pre-court meeting Paruk asks, "Do you have assets?" "Yes, I have
assets," I reply. Then I sit in a tiny cell until five o'clock in the afternoon when I finally get to
make an appearance before a judge. I am sent up a long flight of stairs to a small holding tank
where I wait. Now I know what a bull feels like when ushered into the coliseum to face the
taunting matador. I am feeling a dreadful anxiety rush of claustrophobic stage fright. I walk around
in nervous circles to burn off energy. It doesn't help.
A weary looking native Indian old-timer with a long mane of greying hair leaves the courtroom and
enters the cell.
"Watch out, this prosecutor likes to lock people up fer as long as she can," he warns.
I hear footsteps behind the courtroom door, keys in the lock, the handle rotates -- my turn -- I am
out of the grubby dungeon and into the plush, air-conditioned opulence of the law court.
Prosecutor Marie Louise Ahrens is short, blond, in her late thirties or early forties, with a puffy
and pallid face. While dressed professionally, she wears a dowdy skirt that flashes ample portions
of ankle, calf and thigh. The judge is an old man called William J. Diebolt. Back in 1989 Bill
Diebolt was appointed chief judge for all of British Columbia's provincial courts and he held the
post for more than five years. Diebolt is pronounced Dee-bolt, but in my head I could only think
of him as The Deadbolt.
Ahrens describes Phillips' tunnel-vision version of what happened. She requests an order to send
me for psychiatric remand to determine if I am mentally fit to stand trial. The Deadbolt agrees and
has me sent for a three day assessment after which the subject of bail would be brought up. I still
didn't know what crime I was being detained for. I had not received any formal written notice of
charges. Where was this peace bond that Whalen said I would be asked to sign? I never was
charged with criminal harassment in Vancouver. I wasn't even questioned in Vancouver.
I guess the crime rate in the city was high at this time because there were no regular units available
in Vancouver Pre-Trial jail. Instead I was assigned a cell in what is euphemistically called overflow.
Overflow is the segregation unit, solitary -- "the hole." Because it's located on the sixth floor, the
top floor of the jail, sometimes the hole is jokingly referred to as the "penthouse." For five days
my meals were given to me through a slot in the door. I was permitted to leave the cell for a
couple of hours a day to join a unit one floor below.
My next court appearance is on Wednesday, March 21. The psychological assessment is done and
I am deemed completely mentally competent. I am taken back to the dungeon to discuss bail. The
courtroom is filled to capacity with spectators. Who are these people? Ahrens hijacks the bail
hearing, instead seeking an order of Judge J. B. Paradis to have me sent to the Forensic Psychiatric
Institute for another psychiatric assessment under the assumption that I am not guilty of the
charges -- charges that don't yet exist -- by reason of mental disorder, this one for up to thirty days,
in custody. Paradis denies the application. Ahrens then opposes my request for bail -- again, on
non-existent charges -- on the grounds that I am a risk to the community. Ahrens is spinning on her
high heels. She is vehement, desperate even, in her shrill verbal attack. She continually repeats the
series of actions that I am accused of engaging in, taking particular time to repeat the profanity that
I supposedly used. She seems to be using the words for the same reason as me -- shock value. As
Ahrens talks, the court clerk looks up from her keyboard, glances across at me, then looks back
down at the keys, shaking her head in disgust. I still have some faith that Paradis is enlightened and
rational enough to be able to get beyond the emotional jolt that one may feel when hearing a
prosecutor use words like "fuck" and "asshole" that describe the events that see me in court before
him. He is a judge after all. Rationalization is his business.
My faith was misguided.
Paradis deems me a risk to the community and orders further detention. I was dumbfounded.
People accused of assault -- murder even -- get bail all the time. I was positive that I would secure
bail. I am not a danger. I have no history of any kind of violence. I have never before been
involved in a criminal matter. I did not make any harmful contact with the alleged victims (in fact I
was the only one physically assaulted). Paradis refuses to consider any alternative but custody.
Downstairs in the dungeon I fire Paruk, the duty counsel lawyer. I am cuffed and shackled and
sent back to Vancouver Pre-Trial.
Friday, March 23. Eight days in jail and still no charges. (This is a violation of Canadian Charter of
Rights and Freedoms Legal Rights 9. Detention or imprisonment -- Everyone has the right not to be
arbitrarily detained or imprisoned.) I am transported back to the dungeon. The proceedings,
before Judge R.D. Grandison, are brief, simply an opportunity for Ahrens to deliver some
documentation relating to the case. As I am led out of the courtroom, Ahrens hands me a massive
stack of papers and has me sign an acknowledgement of receipt. These are the particulars, the
witness and police statements. All the lawyers in Phillips' office had submitted versions of my
appearance in their workplace. Also included, finally, are the charges. I am accused of four
separate crimes. I sit in a cell in the dungeon reading them over.
Count 1: Criminal harassment against Phillips. I was floored. The idea that I could be accused
of criminal harassment when Phillips himself had been calling me and sending me notices to come
to his office and meet with him for four months was utterly incredible to me. The more
appropriate charge would have been Criminal Code Offence 175.(1) Causing a disturbance by
shouting, swearing or using insulting or obscene language -- a perfect fit. They should have my
picture next to that one in the law book. Phillips was asked to produce all of the material he had
sent me. Of the 388 pages that were pushed through our mail-slot, only 17 were included in the
particulars. In the police report the officer quotes Susan Phillips, Graham Phillips' wife, as saying
that my father "is incapacitated for business purposes." Here we have an admission that my father
is incapable of conducting business affairs.
Count 2: Break and enter and the commission of the indictable offence of mischief therein.
The Canadian Criminal Code offence of break and enter is dependant upon the accused breaking
into a place with intent to commit an indictable offence, breaking into a place and actually
committing an indictable offence or breaking out of a place after committing an indictable offence.
The allegation here is that I broke into Phillips' residence and then committed the indictable
offence of mischief. In this case, in order for the break and enter charge to stick, it's necessary to
prove that I committed the mischief offence. Yet I wasn't charged with mischief. How could I be
guilty of break and enter and the commission of the indictable offence of mischief therein without
a mischief conviction? I can't. How convenient. If the charge isn't there then there's nothing to
prove. Ahrens had implicitly declared my guilt of criminal mischief by indictment without a charge,
a plea or a trial. In fact, a mischief charge alone would probably have been the correct one, not
break and enter. In his report the police officer who attended the Phillips' front door scene states:
". . . I felt this was not a Break and Enter. There were no missing items from the residence." My
actions formed the offence of mischief and mischief alone. All damage done was external.
Unfortunately the police neglected to take any photographs of the four smashed windows and the
burnt doorbell. No evidence put a dollar figure on the damage. The only evidence connecting me
to the crime is a fingerprint, a left middle finger, on the cigarette package I left on the doorstep,
proving only that at some point I may have touched the cigarette packaging. It does not prove that
I caused the damage. There were no witnesses. Still, Ahrens contradicts the police report, ignores
the facts and Canadian Criminal Code, and levels the much more serious charge against me.
Count 3: Uttering a threat to Tom Bradley to cause death or bodily harm to Lesley
Houston and Ross Bradley. Since when does a heated telephone conversation constitute
grounds for a criminal charge? I had been insulting, offensive, but not threatening. In his statement
to the police Tom says "Callum did not threaten to kill or anything of the sort." This too is ignored
by Ahrens and a charge is laid.
Count 4: Uttering a threat to cause death or bodily harm to Susan Phillips. It's unclear but
this charge may have been derived from my visit to Phillips' office where I said I would "fuck" his
wife. The date given for the offence, Wednesday, March 14, is the same day I went to Phillips'
Gastown law firm and kicked up a fuss. There was no death threat. And even if I was serious
about the ridiculous notion of having sexual relations with Ms. Phillips, the act of sexual
intercourse in and of itself does not automatically denote the infliction of bodily harm -- I did not
threaten to rape her. In their written statements none of the lawyers present for my performance,
including Graham Phillips, accused me of threatening to kill or harm Ms. Phillips. What's more,
the charge states that the threat occurred in North Vancouver. Phillips' law firm is located in the
heart of the city of Vancouver, nowhere near North Vancouver. If Susan Phillips was threatened
on March 14, 2001 in North Vancouver, it wasn't by me, I wasn't in North Van that day. Phillips'
own police statement corroborates this. All of these facts are tossed aside by Ahrens and another
charge is fictionalized.
My lawyer requested some very important discovery items from Ahrens: a transcript of the
messages left on the Phillips' answering machine, a transcript of the 911 call from Phillips' Two
Gaoler's Mews office, and the notes of the Vancouver Police Department officers who attended
Phillips' office. Although Criminal Code section 587.(1)(e) states that particular material describing
writing or words that are the subject of a charge are to be furnished, Ahrens ultimately provided
none of the material my counsel asked for.
The charges were laid by indictment as opposed to summarily, giving the judge much greater
latitude in his sentencing penalties. If I was convicted of the break and enter accusation alone,
because it was in relation to a dwelling house, I could be sent to jail for life. Life imprisonment.
For breaking four windows and charring a doorbell. I'm starting to think conspiracy here.
Canadian criminal law does provide for false accusations. Section 465.(1)(b)of the Criminal Code
deals with Conspiracy to Prosecute Falsely: Everyone who conspires with any one to prosecute a
person for an alleged offence, knowing that he did not commit that offence, is guilty of an
indictable offence.
Ahrens might as well have thrown in Canadian criminal code offence 365.Pretending to Practice
Witchcraft – this was a witch-hunt and the village of North Vancouver was determined to burn me
at the stake.
Having completed what seemed like a grotesque initiation process, I am moved out of the
penthouse and down a floor to Unit Five South on Vancouver Pre-Trial's fifth floor. Five South is a
medical unit for people with serious psychological difficulties. It was also a revolving door of faces
that soon became familiar. The Vancouver Pretrial Services Centre building was located in an area
that is a thriving hub of illicit drug trafficking. A person would get picked up on the street on drug
charges and spend a few days in Five South before making an appearance in front of a judge who
would likely grant bail. Then the addict would be released back into the eye of the narcotics
hurricane only to face being picked up again on similar charges. I would see a lot of people coming
and going and then coming back again. It was disheartening to see these men squander their
freedom, a freedom that I longed for, over and over without seeming to really care.
The water in jail is laced with so much chlorine that it forms a dark green stain in your sink basin
under the tap. You scrub it away but it quickly builds up again. You never saw the guards drink
the jail water. It was rumoured that tranquilizers where mixed in with the meals in order to sedate
the prison population. This idea is not beyond reason. They could put anything into your food, like
a truth serum for instance, and there was nothing you could do about it.
At this time smoking was still permitted in provincial prisons in British Columbia. Eligible prisoners
were allotted a daily ration of tobacco in the evening after supper. One of the most surreal sights
was seeing a group of six or seven mentally disturbed prisoners huddled together in a small open-
air enclosure sharing a cigarette, eyes ablaze on a nicotine buzz, talking to one another in an almost
hysterical frenzy. A door muted their voices, but with the daily ramblings of most of these men
being unintelligible at best, I could only imagine what absurdly beautiful rearrangement of the
English language was occurring.
After about a month or so I am sent down the hall to a unit on the north side. Five North is a
menagerie: people in protective custody, inmates with mental problems, inmates with medical
problems, misfits who can't function in general population -- they are all sent to Five North. When
someone goes to the hole for problem behaviour like fighting they may end up in Five North on
their way back to general population. Both my cell in the hole and my cell in Five South had a
small window that overlooked the city skyline -- an unchanging, static scene that soon became
boring -- so I am pleased to see that the window in my new cell overlooks thriving, human, eastside
street activity. There is a dark, rubbishy alley and beside it a busy Chinese fruit and vegetable store
called Sunrise Market. Most of the denizens appear to be Asian. Across the street past the market
is an older-looking hotel called Lion Hotel. There are messages spray-painted on the wall,
obviously intended to be viewed by jail inmates. One says: "Wes Dennis is a rat." Another: "I Love
U Meathead."
One night as the sun was sinking, I see a native Indian woman clad only in black, dance a drunken
jig down the alley, bouncing off the walls and spinning about like a ghetto ballerina. Soon she
disappears out of sight, losing no energy as she drifts away past dumpsters and lamplights. Another
evening a young girl, twelve or thirteen maybe, buys some crack-cocaine from a dealer at the
entrance to the alley. Then she makes a little spot for herself with discarded cardboard vegetable
boxes beside the now closed market and proceeds to smoke her stuff. The other inmates have seen
her too, for now they are hollering for her to show her tits. Her bony arms eagerly struggle to
untuck layers of shirts in order to present to us her breasts. They are the underdeveloped tits of a
flat-chested teen. It could be a boy. I applaud politely in my window to show my appreciation for
her gesture. Later that night one of my fellow inmates starts shouting at a woman on the street. It
turns out it is his wife (she his hooker, he her pimp) and she is trying to relay her new phone
number to him. As we are up on the fifth floor, she is forced to screech it out. But he can't hear
her properly, or he can't make out all the numbers. So she just keeps yelling. Surely the entire jail
must know her phone number now. Eventually some men come along and she drifts away with
them.
It occurs to me that when the damp, cool weather lifts and warm, dry summer weather arrives I'll
see lots more of the walking dead down damnation alley.
Getting hurt is inevitable in jail. There is always the aura of violence in the air. It is going to
happen. Everyone knows it is imminent and anticipates it. They just hope they are not a part of it
when it occurs. It's much more fun -- and safe -- to be a spectator. But, for some, violence is the
only way they know how to express themselves. It is a form of communication. As far as the
guards are concerned, well, they're just there to clean up the mess after it has happened. One
Sunday morning a young man in our unit charged with second-degree murder got his face
bludgeoned to a bloody, sloppy pulp with a wooden broom head after the cells were opened. This
beating was inflicted while he lay in his bed asleep. His misdeed? He just happened to say the
wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time.
At Vancouver Pre-Trial (as at Surrey Pre-Trial and Fraser Regional) there is no camera in the
elevators that you take to go down to the yard (anyone can go to Radio Shack and buy a tiny
remote camera for fifty bucks, but this is either lost or ignored by BC Corrections). Nor is there
an officer as escort. If someone has a beef with you, they wait until you're both in the elevator and
then they let you have it. It's common knowledge, something you learn as soon as you enter the
facility. The guards know all about it. This has been going on for fifteen years.
I'm sitting down talking to another prisoner in gym one day when a guy comes up to me and says,
"I want you to come for a walk with me."
The inmate I had been talking to vanishes. Knowing an approach like this can only spell bad news
I respond, "No. Sorry."
Looking slightly dazed, he walks back to a cadre of cons. I decide to go sit down in the weight pit.
Suddenly a couple of skinhead inmates are hovering over me, their bare chests glistening with
perspiration. They start asking me questions about an inmate they don't like. I happened to play
chess with the guy every once in while which they considered a slight against them. (The
corrections system houses some remarkable chess players. Decades in the can has allowed them to
sharpen their skill to a razor sharp point.)
"Gentleman, this is starting to look like a shakedown," I say.
"What clued you in?" one of them says with venomous sarcasm.
Realizing I was in a vulnerable spot because there is no video surveillance in the weight pit, I get
up, grab a basketball and start shooting hoops at the net closest to the camera. I take a couple of
shots and then the two bald-headed, bare-breasted brutes are flanking me once more. I take
another shot.
"I'll ask you again," one says. "What do you know about him?"
The shot misses. I grab the ball and say, "Absolutely nothing."
"You don't know nothing?" the con sneers.
I look him in the eye and slowly say, "Dude, what part of 'absolutely nothing' do you not
understand?"
They hesitate for a moment, not knowing what to do next, and then, with a glance at the camera,
do a quick about-face and leave.
Oh shit.
The other cons know that an attack might happen in the elevator. I can see it in their eyes. A
criminal can smell the potential spilling of blood. It's a sixth sense. You could cut the tension in the
air with a shiv.
Gym ends. As I make my way into the elevator I notice that the other inmates are keeping their
distance. The door closes, the elevator begins ascending, everything is looking calm and peaceful.
Then, before I could even react, one of the skinheads slinks out from between a group of inmate
bodies and starts striking me upside the head with his fist. You would have thought it was just the
two of us in the elevator -- everyone else pushed themselves up hard against the far wall as if we
carried the black plague. I ducked down and brought up my forearm to shield myself from the
pummelling as best I could. I didn't fight back. No point. He would've killed me if I had. Then he
stopped hitting. He had made his point. I was shaken up, but I survived.
Tuesday, April 24, 2001, 4:15 in the afternoon. It's a lockdown period and I'm engaged in a
masturbation session when a guard comes to my cell and tells me I have a visitor. When I get
down to the visiting area a guard places me in front of a man I don't recognize.
"Are you Callum Houston?" the stranger asks.
"Yes," I reply.
"This is for you," he says, handing me an envelope. "Sign here please."
Another process server.
Got me. Tag, you're it. That's heartless. I can't even escape these guys in the joint. Back in my
cell upstairs in Five South I open up the package. It contains a copy of the Patterson court order
demanding the business documents that I don't have and a notice of change of solicitors. In place
of Graham Phillips, who had withdrawn as counsel, a man called Carey D. Veinotte of the firm
Walsh & Company was now handling the action against me in BC Supreme Court.
I was in custody, denied bail, pinned. My time frame as a guest of the British Columbia
government was unknown at this point. The elements were now in place for my enemies to pull
my wallet out of my pocket, open it up, pick through it and walk away with whatever they wanted.
Prison is an unhealthy environment. It's somewhat fascinating initially -- an unknown world, a
hidden society with its own rules and codes and social rankings -- but that wears thin fast. When
you are sitting in the joint not knowing when you will get out, if ever, it is extremely frightening.
After a time you will agree to just about anything for the hope of bringing an end to it all, for the
chance to just go home. After waiting six weeks and still no sign of the particular evidence
requested from Ahrens, I realized I could end up waiting months for all of it to be produced.
Access to the material that I needed for my defence was in the hands of Ahrens. And I knew how
she felt about me. And then if I wanted to defend myself in a trial I could wait months longer just
to get a court date. It was a stonewalling tactic designed to force me to plead guilty. It was very
effective. I decided it was time to plea bargain with North Vancouver.
I had retained a woman called Jai Rai as my counsel. Jai was an extremely attractive lady of about
thirty who worked as a junior lawyer with the Vancouver firm Crossin & Coristine. Slender, stylish
and striking, Jai's exotic good looks made my jailhouse lawyer meetings a sheer delight. Jai was
opposed to any kind of deal with the prosecution without all of the evidence in hand. Academically
(and financially from her viewpoint) she was right, it didn't put me in a position of strength. It put
me at the mercy of Ahrens and The Deadbolt. But she was not the one imprisoned, I was. And I
knew there was no point in attempting to reason or negotiate with the North Vancouver court.
The tide was against me. I couldn't win this one. Any resistance on my part would make Ahrens
dig her high heels even deeper into the courthouse hardwood. Eight days in jail without charges
and then no bail made that fact very clear. I also sensed that Jai's relative lack of experience and
youth would be no match for the Ahrens whirlwind. I was facing a front of advanced and
entrenched age, entrenched age with a mindset and viewpoint locked into another era altogether. I
picked up the phone book, looked up "lawyers" and called the lawyer with the biggest and boldest
ad in the book. On Wednesday, April 25th Michael Sanders went to the table for me. Ahrens
would drop the uttering threats against Lesley and Ross. She refused to budge on the other charges
relating to Phillips. I agreed to plead guilty to the three remaining charges. The Deadbolt ordered a
pre-sentence report. When that was done I was to be sentenced.
On Friday, April 27 they sent me to North Fraser Pre-Trial Centre. North Fraser, a brand new
maximum-security prison located in Port Coquitlam, had just begun taking inmates that month.
In the sheriffs van coming from Vancouver Pre-Trial Centre an inmate sitting across from me
says, "At North Fraser sometimes they take you off your medication for a few days to see how
you'll react." He can't be serious, I thought.
It's Thursday, March 15 at about 10:30 at night. I'm lying in bed reading Tom Wolfe's The
Bonfire of the Vanities. Just as Yvonne comes upstairs and joins me under the covers, two South
Surrey police officers show up at our house. One of the cops tells me I'm going across the bridge
for questioning. He says to prepare for cab fare as I'll be coming home later that night.
He lies.
I'm handcuffed in the street and pushed into the police car. I notice on the video screen in the
cruiser there is a text profile of me. It states that I have an "explosive" personality. We drive to the
south end of the Port Mann Bridge where Constable Whalen picks me up. He then proceeds to
squish me into the back of his car, into a seating compartment that is too tiny for a person. I'm not
a big man, I have a pretty small build. Still, the seating area in the back seat of the cruiser is so
minute that my knee is hanging out when he closes the door. The reason for the small space is
because there is a dog caged beside me that takes up four-fifths of the back seat. I would have had
more room in the trunk.
At the North Vancouver police station Whalen jokes, "How 'bout that? More room for the dog
back there than for you."
I am photographed and my shoes and my wallet and my watch and my wedding ring are taken.
The only other prisoner is a very worn looking intoxicated native Indian man. Whalen tells me that
I will be asked to sign a peace bond tomorrow, an order to stay away from the alleged victims
(victims who now include my sister and her husband), and then I will be sent to Vancouver to face
charges of criminal harassment.
He lies.
I tell Whalen that I take important medication for mental difficulties and that I will need it. He asks
me what I take. I tell him and he says he will have it provided.
He lies.
I am led into a white tiled cell with a high ceiling and an ever-burning light that shines down
mercilessly. The ventilation system hums loudly and there is a constant drip in the plumbing. I am
tossed a blanket and shown a bench that is to be my home for the next ten hours -- ten hours of
solitary confinement.
At nine the next morning, Friday, March 16, I am transported to the jail that lies beneath the
North Vancouver courthouse. It is a dungeon: rusty and old, dank and dirty, ancient and smelly.
As I don't have a criminal lawyer I choose to be represented by duty counsel, a man called Glen
Paruk. At the end of a brief pre-court meeting Paruk asks, "Do you have assets?" "Yes, I have
assets," I reply. Then I sit in a tiny cell until five o'clock in the afternoon when I finally get to
make an appearance before a judge. I am sent up a long flight of stairs to a small holding tank
where I wait. Now I know what a bull feels like when ushered into the coliseum to face the
taunting matador. I am feeling a dreadful anxiety rush of claustrophobic stage fright. I walk around
in nervous circles to burn off energy. It doesn't help.
A weary looking native Indian old-timer with a long mane of greying hair leaves the courtroom and
enters the cell.
"Watch out, this prosecutor likes to lock people up fer as long as she can," he warns.
I hear footsteps behind the courtroom door, keys in the lock, the handle rotates -- my turn -- I am
out of the grubby dungeon and into the plush, air-conditioned opulence of the law court.
Prosecutor Marie Louise Ahrens is short, blond, in her late thirties or early forties, with a puffy
and pallid face. While dressed professionally, she wears a dowdy skirt that flashes ample portions
of ankle, calf and thigh. The judge is an old man called William J. Diebolt. Back in 1989 Bill
Diebolt was appointed chief judge for all of British Columbia's provincial courts and he held the
post for more than five years. Diebolt is pronounced Dee-bolt, but in my head I could only think
of him as The Deadbolt.
Ahrens describes Phillips' tunnel-vision version of what happened. She requests an order to send
me for psychiatric remand to determine if I am mentally fit to stand trial. The Deadbolt agrees and
has me sent for a three day assessment after which the subject of bail would be brought up. I still
didn't know what crime I was being detained for. I had not received any formal written notice of
charges. Where was this peace bond that Whalen said I would be asked to sign? I never was
charged with criminal harassment in Vancouver. I wasn't even questioned in Vancouver.
I guess the crime rate in the city was high at this time because there were no regular units available
in Vancouver Pre-Trial jail. Instead I was assigned a cell in what is euphemistically called overflow.
Overflow is the segregation unit, solitary -- "the hole." Because it's located on the sixth floor, the
top floor of the jail, sometimes the hole is jokingly referred to as the "penthouse." For five days
my meals were given to me through a slot in the door. I was permitted to leave the cell for a
couple of hours a day to join a unit one floor below.
My next court appearance is on Wednesday, March 21. The psychological assessment is done and
I am deemed completely mentally competent. I am taken back to the dungeon to discuss bail. The
courtroom is filled to capacity with spectators. Who are these people? Ahrens hijacks the bail
hearing, instead seeking an order of Judge J. B. Paradis to have me sent to the Forensic Psychiatric
Institute for another psychiatric assessment under the assumption that I am not guilty of the
charges -- charges that don't yet exist -- by reason of mental disorder, this one for up to thirty days,
in custody. Paradis denies the application. Ahrens then opposes my request for bail -- again, on
non-existent charges -- on the grounds that I am a risk to the community. Ahrens is spinning on her
high heels. She is vehement, desperate even, in her shrill verbal attack. She continually repeats the
series of actions that I am accused of engaging in, taking particular time to repeat the profanity that
I supposedly used. She seems to be using the words for the same reason as me -- shock value. As
Ahrens talks, the court clerk looks up from her keyboard, glances across at me, then looks back
down at the keys, shaking her head in disgust. I still have some faith that Paradis is enlightened and
rational enough to be able to get beyond the emotional jolt that one may feel when hearing a
prosecutor use words like "fuck" and "asshole" that describe the events that see me in court before
him. He is a judge after all. Rationalization is his business.
My faith was misguided.
Paradis deems me a risk to the community and orders further detention. I was dumbfounded.
People accused of assault -- murder even -- get bail all the time. I was positive that I would secure
bail. I am not a danger. I have no history of any kind of violence. I have never before been
involved in a criminal matter. I did not make any harmful contact with the alleged victims (in fact I
was the only one physically assaulted). Paradis refuses to consider any alternative but custody.
Downstairs in the dungeon I fire Paruk, the duty counsel lawyer. I am cuffed and shackled and
sent back to Vancouver Pre-Trial.
Friday, March 23. Eight days in jail and still no charges. (This is a violation of Canadian Charter of
Rights and Freedoms Legal Rights 9. Detention or imprisonment -- Everyone has the right not to be
arbitrarily detained or imprisoned.) I am transported back to the dungeon. The proceedings,
before Judge R.D. Grandison, are brief, simply an opportunity for Ahrens to deliver some
documentation relating to the case. As I am led out of the courtroom, Ahrens hands me a massive
stack of papers and has me sign an acknowledgement of receipt. These are the particulars, the
witness and police statements. All the lawyers in Phillips' office had submitted versions of my
appearance in their workplace. Also included, finally, are the charges. I am accused of four
separate crimes. I sit in a cell in the dungeon reading them over.
Count 1: Criminal harassment against Phillips. I was floored. The idea that I could be accused
of criminal harassment when Phillips himself had been calling me and sending me notices to come
to his office and meet with him for four months was utterly incredible to me. The more
appropriate charge would have been Criminal Code Offence 175.(1) Causing a disturbance by
shouting, swearing or using insulting or obscene language -- a perfect fit. They should have my
picture next to that one in the law book. Phillips was asked to produce all of the material he had
sent me. Of the 388 pages that were pushed through our mail-slot, only 17 were included in the
particulars. In the police report the officer quotes Susan Phillips, Graham Phillips' wife, as saying
that my father "is incapacitated for business purposes." Here we have an admission that my father
is incapable of conducting business affairs.
Count 2: Break and enter and the commission of the indictable offence of mischief therein.
The Canadian Criminal Code offence of break and enter is dependant upon the accused breaking
into a place with intent to commit an indictable offence, breaking into a place and actually
committing an indictable offence or breaking out of a place after committing an indictable offence.
The allegation here is that I broke into Phillips' residence and then committed the indictable
offence of mischief. In this case, in order for the break and enter charge to stick, it's necessary to
prove that I committed the mischief offence. Yet I wasn't charged with mischief. How could I be
guilty of break and enter and the commission of the indictable offence of mischief therein without
a mischief conviction? I can't. How convenient. If the charge isn't there then there's nothing to
prove. Ahrens had implicitly declared my guilt of criminal mischief by indictment without a charge,
a plea or a trial. In fact, a mischief charge alone would probably have been the correct one, not
break and enter. In his report the police officer who attended the Phillips' front door scene states:
". . . I felt this was not a Break and Enter. There were no missing items from the residence." My
actions formed the offence of mischief and mischief alone. All damage done was external.
Unfortunately the police neglected to take any photographs of the four smashed windows and the
burnt doorbell. No evidence put a dollar figure on the damage. The only evidence connecting me
to the crime is a fingerprint, a left middle finger, on the cigarette package I left on the doorstep,
proving only that at some point I may have touched the cigarette packaging. It does not prove that
I caused the damage. There were no witnesses. Still, Ahrens contradicts the police report, ignores
the facts and Canadian Criminal Code, and levels the much more serious charge against me.
Count 3: Uttering a threat to Tom Bradley to cause death or bodily harm to Lesley
Houston and Ross Bradley. Since when does a heated telephone conversation constitute
grounds for a criminal charge? I had been insulting, offensive, but not threatening. In his statement
to the police Tom says "Callum did not threaten to kill or anything of the sort." This too is ignored
by Ahrens and a charge is laid.
Count 4: Uttering a threat to cause death or bodily harm to Susan Phillips. It's unclear but
this charge may have been derived from my visit to Phillips' office where I said I would "fuck" his
wife. The date given for the offence, Wednesday, March 14, is the same day I went to Phillips'
Gastown law firm and kicked up a fuss. There was no death threat. And even if I was serious
about the ridiculous notion of having sexual relations with Ms. Phillips, the act of sexual
intercourse in and of itself does not automatically denote the infliction of bodily harm -- I did not
threaten to rape her. In their written statements none of the lawyers present for my performance,
including Graham Phillips, accused me of threatening to kill or harm Ms. Phillips. What's more,
the charge states that the threat occurred in North Vancouver. Phillips' law firm is located in the
heart of the city of Vancouver, nowhere near North Vancouver. If Susan Phillips was threatened
on March 14, 2001 in North Vancouver, it wasn't by me, I wasn't in North Van that day. Phillips'
own police statement corroborates this. All of these facts are tossed aside by Ahrens and another
charge is fictionalized.
My lawyer requested some very important discovery items from Ahrens: a transcript of the
messages left on the Phillips' answering machine, a transcript of the 911 call from Phillips' Two
Gaoler's Mews office, and the notes of the Vancouver Police Department officers who attended
Phillips' office. Although Criminal Code section 587.(1)(e) states that particular material describing
writing or words that are the subject of a charge are to be furnished, Ahrens ultimately provided
none of the material my counsel asked for.
The charges were laid by indictment as opposed to summarily, giving the judge much greater
latitude in his sentencing penalties. If I was convicted of the break and enter accusation alone,
because it was in relation to a dwelling house, I could be sent to jail for life. Life imprisonment.
For breaking four windows and charring a doorbell. I'm starting to think conspiracy here.
Canadian criminal law does provide for false accusations. Section 465.(1)(b)of the Criminal Code
deals with Conspiracy to Prosecute Falsely: Everyone who conspires with any one to prosecute a
person for an alleged offence, knowing that he did not commit that offence, is guilty of an
indictable offence.
Ahrens might as well have thrown in Canadian criminal code offence 365.Pretending to Practice
Witchcraft – this was a witch-hunt and the village of North Vancouver was determined to burn me
at the stake.
Having completed what seemed like a grotesque initiation process, I am moved out of the
penthouse and down a floor to Unit Five South on Vancouver Pre-Trial's fifth floor. Five South is a
medical unit for people with serious psychological difficulties. It was also a revolving door of faces
that soon became familiar. The Vancouver Pretrial Services Centre building was located in an area
that is a thriving hub of illicit drug trafficking. A person would get picked up on the street on drug
charges and spend a few days in Five South before making an appearance in front of a judge who
would likely grant bail. Then the addict would be released back into the eye of the narcotics
hurricane only to face being picked up again on similar charges. I would see a lot of people coming
and going and then coming back again. It was disheartening to see these men squander their
freedom, a freedom that I longed for, over and over without seeming to really care.
The water in jail is laced with so much chlorine that it forms a dark green stain in your sink basin
under the tap. You scrub it away but it quickly builds up again. You never saw the guards drink
the jail water. It was rumoured that tranquilizers where mixed in with the meals in order to sedate
the prison population. This idea is not beyond reason. They could put anything into your food, like
a truth serum for instance, and there was nothing you could do about it.
At this time smoking was still permitted in provincial prisons in British Columbia. Eligible prisoners
were allotted a daily ration of tobacco in the evening after supper. One of the most surreal sights
was seeing a group of six or seven mentally disturbed prisoners huddled together in a small open-
air enclosure sharing a cigarette, eyes ablaze on a nicotine buzz, talking to one another in an almost
hysterical frenzy. A door muted their voices, but with the daily ramblings of most of these men
being unintelligible at best, I could only imagine what absurdly beautiful rearrangement of the
English language was occurring.
After about a month or so I am sent down the hall to a unit on the north side. Five North is a
menagerie: people in protective custody, inmates with mental problems, inmates with medical
problems, misfits who can't function in general population -- they are all sent to Five North. When
someone goes to the hole for problem behaviour like fighting they may end up in Five North on
their way back to general population. Both my cell in the hole and my cell in Five South had a
small window that overlooked the city skyline -- an unchanging, static scene that soon became
boring -- so I am pleased to see that the window in my new cell overlooks thriving, human, eastside
street activity. There is a dark, rubbishy alley and beside it a busy Chinese fruit and vegetable store
called Sunrise Market. Most of the denizens appear to be Asian. Across the street past the market
is an older-looking hotel called Lion Hotel. There are messages spray-painted on the wall,
obviously intended to be viewed by jail inmates. One says: "Wes Dennis is a rat." Another: "I Love
U Meathead."
One night as the sun was sinking, I see a native Indian woman clad only in black, dance a drunken
jig down the alley, bouncing off the walls and spinning about like a ghetto ballerina. Soon she
disappears out of sight, losing no energy as she drifts away past dumpsters and lamplights. Another
evening a young girl, twelve or thirteen maybe, buys some crack-cocaine from a dealer at the
entrance to the alley. Then she makes a little spot for herself with discarded cardboard vegetable
boxes beside the now closed market and proceeds to smoke her stuff. The other inmates have seen
her too, for now they are hollering for her to show her tits. Her bony arms eagerly struggle to
untuck layers of shirts in order to present to us her breasts. They are the underdeveloped tits of a
flat-chested teen. It could be a boy. I applaud politely in my window to show my appreciation for
her gesture. Later that night one of my fellow inmates starts shouting at a woman on the street. It
turns out it is his wife (she his hooker, he her pimp) and she is trying to relay her new phone
number to him. As we are up on the fifth floor, she is forced to screech it out. But he can't hear
her properly, or he can't make out all the numbers. So she just keeps yelling. Surely the entire jail
must know her phone number now. Eventually some men come along and she drifts away with
them.
It occurs to me that when the damp, cool weather lifts and warm, dry summer weather arrives I'll
see lots more of the walking dead down damnation alley.
Getting hurt is inevitable in jail. There is always the aura of violence in the air. It is going to
happen. Everyone knows it is imminent and anticipates it. They just hope they are not a part of it
when it occurs. It's much more fun -- and safe -- to be a spectator. But, for some, violence is the
only way they know how to express themselves. It is a form of communication. As far as the
guards are concerned, well, they're just there to clean up the mess after it has happened. One
Sunday morning a young man in our unit charged with second-degree murder got his face
bludgeoned to a bloody, sloppy pulp with a wooden broom head after the cells were opened. This
beating was inflicted while he lay in his bed asleep. His misdeed? He just happened to say the
wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time.
At Vancouver Pre-Trial (as at Surrey Pre-Trial and Fraser Regional) there is no camera in the
elevators that you take to go down to the yard (anyone can go to Radio Shack and buy a tiny
remote camera for fifty bucks, but this is either lost or ignored by BC Corrections). Nor is there
an officer as escort. If someone has a beef with you, they wait until you're both in the elevator and
then they let you have it. It's common knowledge, something you learn as soon as you enter the
facility. The guards know all about it. This has been going on for fifteen years.
I'm sitting down talking to another prisoner in gym one day when a guy comes up to me and says,
"I want you to come for a walk with me."
The inmate I had been talking to vanishes. Knowing an approach like this can only spell bad news
I respond, "No. Sorry."
Looking slightly dazed, he walks back to a cadre of cons. I decide to go sit down in the weight pit.
Suddenly a couple of skinhead inmates are hovering over me, their bare chests glistening with
perspiration. They start asking me questions about an inmate they don't like. I happened to play
chess with the guy every once in while which they considered a slight against them. (The
corrections system houses some remarkable chess players. Decades in the can has allowed them to
sharpen their skill to a razor sharp point.)
"Gentleman, this is starting to look like a shakedown," I say.
"What clued you in?" one of them says with venomous sarcasm.
Realizing I was in a vulnerable spot because there is no video surveillance in the weight pit, I get
up, grab a basketball and start shooting hoops at the net closest to the camera. I take a couple of
shots and then the two bald-headed, bare-breasted brutes are flanking me once more. I take
another shot.
"I'll ask you again," one says. "What do you know about him?"
The shot misses. I grab the ball and say, "Absolutely nothing."
"You don't know nothing?" the con sneers.
I look him in the eye and slowly say, "Dude, what part of 'absolutely nothing' do you not
understand?"
They hesitate for a moment, not knowing what to do next, and then, with a glance at the camera,
do a quick about-face and leave.
Oh shit.
The other cons know that an attack might happen in the elevator. I can see it in their eyes. A
criminal can smell the potential spilling of blood. It's a sixth sense. You could cut the tension in the
air with a shiv.
Gym ends. As I make my way into the elevator I notice that the other inmates are keeping their
distance. The door closes, the elevator begins ascending, everything is looking calm and peaceful.
Then, before I could even react, one of the skinheads slinks out from between a group of inmate
bodies and starts striking me upside the head with his fist. You would have thought it was just the
two of us in the elevator -- everyone else pushed themselves up hard against the far wall as if we
carried the black plague. I ducked down and brought up my forearm to shield myself from the
pummelling as best I could. I didn't fight back. No point. He would've killed me if I had. Then he
stopped hitting. He had made his point. I was shaken up, but I survived.
Tuesday, April 24, 2001, 4:15 in the afternoon. It's a lockdown period and I'm engaged in a
masturbation session when a guard comes to my cell and tells me I have a visitor. When I get
down to the visiting area a guard places me in front of a man I don't recognize.
"Are you Callum Houston?" the stranger asks.
"Yes," I reply.
"This is for you," he says, handing me an envelope. "Sign here please."
Another process server.
Got me. Tag, you're it. That's heartless. I can't even escape these guys in the joint. Back in my
cell upstairs in Five South I open up the package. It contains a copy of the Patterson court order
demanding the business documents that I don't have and a notice of change of solicitors. In place
of Graham Phillips, who had withdrawn as counsel, a man called Carey D. Veinotte of the firm
Walsh & Company was now handling the action against me in BC Supreme Court.
I was in custody, denied bail, pinned. My time frame as a guest of the British Columbia
government was unknown at this point. The elements were now in place for my enemies to pull
my wallet out of my pocket, open it up, pick through it and walk away with whatever they wanted.
Prison is an unhealthy environment. It's somewhat fascinating initially -- an unknown world, a
hidden society with its own rules and codes and social rankings -- but that wears thin fast. When
you are sitting in the joint not knowing when you will get out, if ever, it is extremely frightening.
After a time you will agree to just about anything for the hope of bringing an end to it all, for the
chance to just go home. After waiting six weeks and still no sign of the particular evidence
requested from Ahrens, I realized I could end up waiting months for all of it to be produced.
Access to the material that I needed for my defence was in the hands of Ahrens. And I knew how
she felt about me. And then if I wanted to defend myself in a trial I could wait months longer just
to get a court date. It was a stonewalling tactic designed to force me to plead guilty. It was very
effective. I decided it was time to plea bargain with North Vancouver.
I had retained a woman called Jai Rai as my counsel. Jai was an extremely attractive lady of about
thirty who worked as a junior lawyer with the Vancouver firm Crossin & Coristine. Slender, stylish
and striking, Jai's exotic good looks made my jailhouse lawyer meetings a sheer delight. Jai was
opposed to any kind of deal with the prosecution without all of the evidence in hand. Academically
(and financially from her viewpoint) she was right, it didn't put me in a position of strength. It put
me at the mercy of Ahrens and The Deadbolt. But she was not the one imprisoned, I was. And I
knew there was no point in attempting to reason or negotiate with the North Vancouver court.
The tide was against me. I couldn't win this one. Any resistance on my part would make Ahrens
dig her high heels even deeper into the courthouse hardwood. Eight days in jail without charges
and then no bail made that fact very clear. I also sensed that Jai's relative lack of experience and
youth would be no match for the Ahrens whirlwind. I was facing a front of advanced and
entrenched age, entrenched age with a mindset and viewpoint locked into another era altogether. I
picked up the phone book, looked up "lawyers" and called the lawyer with the biggest and boldest
ad in the book. On Wednesday, April 25th Michael Sanders went to the table for me. Ahrens
would drop the uttering threats against Lesley and Ross. She refused to budge on the other charges
relating to Phillips. I agreed to plead guilty to the three remaining charges. The Deadbolt ordered a
pre-sentence report. When that was done I was to be sentenced.
On Friday, April 27 they sent me to North Fraser Pre-Trial Centre. North Fraser, a brand new
maximum-security prison located in Port Coquitlam, had just begun taking inmates that month.
In the sheriffs van coming from Vancouver Pre-Trial Centre an inmate sitting across from me
says, "At North Fraser sometimes they take you off your medication for a few days to see how
you'll react." He can't be serious, I thought.
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