| "HOUSTON V. HOUSTON ET AL." CONTINUED |
MORE FALSE CHARGES, MORE JAIL
The marriage that my wife and I were attempting to rebuild had collapsed. Immediately upon my
release from prison I moved in with my mother in Brackendale, a small village about a two hour
drive north of Vancouver. In March of 2002 my cousin and his girlfriend arrived from London,
England for a visit. Both are avid skiers and the location in Brackendale allowed them to make
daily trips to the ski resort of Whistler with ease. My mom's home was a small three bedroom
house that is unable to accommodate more than two people comfortably. With this in mind I
rented an apartment in Squamish, five minutes away, as a means of yielding to our guests from the
UK.
It's 10:45 a.m., Thursday, April 11, 2002 and my weekly appointment with the probation officer is
in fifteen minutes. It is this meeting that will give Ahrens the ammunition she needs to undertake
an attempt at sending me back to jail. I get into my car and head down the hill to the probation
office. As I get to the intersection to go onto the highway I notice an older black sedan parked on
the other side of the road. Inside the car are two occupants sipping coffee and watching the traffic
coming from my direction. A shiver runs through me as instinct tells me that they have been
waiting for me.
I arrive at the BC Corrections building in downtown Squamish, a tiny, struggling community on
the fast track to becoming a ghost town. It's a rundown, rustic, musty office that looks like it hasn't
changed much since the seventies. The secretary tells me that my probation officer, Don Petrocco,
is out but he will be back shortly. I take a seat on the wooden bench. Across from me is a rack of
pamphlets with subjects relating to various criminal justice issues. At the top of the rack is a
pamphlet with the title "Are You Being Stalked?". Ten minutes later Petrocco shows up with
another man, a probation officer who I've seen working out of this office. They both take furtive
and concerned glances at me as they walk past.
Petrocco summons me to the counter. He is a skulking animal with long hippy hair done in a pony
tail. This man is a rodent. He has beady eyes that dart about nervously as his brain probes for
useless questions to vocalize, questions that torment me with their banality and inconsequence.
"Okay, uh huh," the rodent replies drone-like as I answer his stupid queries.
"I've seen your car parked at the Westway apartment complex lately. Have you moved?" the
rodent asks.
My instinct was bang on. That was the rodent and his buddy spying on me in the black sedan.
"No," I reply.
"I've seen your car there. Are you visiting someone?"
"No. I haven't moved."
"Okay, uh huh. I've been in contact with your psychiatrist," the rodent states. "He feels you should
be taking anti-psychotic medication. Are you taking medication right now?"
This unexpected interrogation takes me off guard. In an instant I'm defensive and I'm pissed. I
had signed no release allowing my psychiatrist to share my medical information with the rodent.
"You seem to have a cozy dialogue going with my shrink. Why don't you ask him yourself?" I snap
back.
"You're probation order says that if you aren't following your psychiatrist's treatment
recommendation then you are to report to me daily. Do you want to report to me daily?"
"My probation order is two fucking pages of oppressive restrictions on my liberty. I do have the
right to choose what goes into my body, you know. Why are you so concerned with my ingestion
of mind-altering chemicals anyway? The order says that I am not allowed to drink, yet you never
ask me if I've been around the corner to the neighbourhood bar."
"That is because your mental health was a major issue in the crimes you committed."
"My mental health a major issue? My mental health was an excuse. For chrissakes, you know how
the game works. You gotta give the judge some kind of excuse for your actions. My mental health
was no more an issue that the load I pinched off in the shitter that morning. The only issue was a
beef I had with a sonofabitch lawyer making daily visits to my front door. Now he's out of my life
so I have no beefs with anyone. Except maybe you if you keep riding me like this. It doesn't say
anything in that order that I have to answer your questions."
"If you don't answer the questions then how am I to know whether you are abiding by the
guidelines set out in the order?"
"That's one hell of a gaping logic hole, isn't it? But how is the lack of simple logic and rationale
within the justice system my problem? You want me to do your job for you? It's not my job to
prove to you beyond a reasonable doubt every bloody week that I am following the conditions."
I snatch the proof of attendance form from his hand and sign it with the pen chained to the
counter. I tear off the white upper copy and toss the yellow carbon copy at the rodent. Stuffing the
white copy in the front right pocket of my jeans I say "I'll see you in a week" as I'm walking out
the door.
In my car I pull out my cell phone and call the rodent. "Okay, I'll come clean," I say. "Yes that is
my car you've seen parked on Westway Avenue. But I haven't moved. I am in the process of
relocating. I have not yet consummated any kind of relocation. I still get my mail and telephone
calls at my mom's place."
"What's the new address?"
I give him the address.
"Okay, uh huh. Will there be anyone living with you there?"
Yeah, the fucking Queen of England. "No, I'll be alone."
"Okay, uh huh. Thanks for the update."
On Monday, April 22 at 4 o'clock in the afternoon as I am sipping a cup of tea, Frank Sinatra
singing My Way on the radio, I see two police cars pull up and park in front of my apartment
complex. Intuition informed me that they were there for me. My intuition was right. The two cops
came to my door and told me that a warrant had been issued for my arrest on a probation
violation. When I asked what condition was breached they were unable to tell me. After I put out
some food for Joey, my cat, I was handcuffed and taken to the local lockup. In the jail I made a
call to my mother and asked her to find a criminal lawyer for me. The next morning, Tuesday,
April 23, the sheriff transports me down to North Vancouver for a court appearance. The fact that
I was going back to the dungeon when not only is my probation officer in Squamish, but Squamish
has a Provincial Court and a Crown Counsel Office of its own, gave me grave concern. (Canadian
Criminal Code section 733.1(2) states: An accused who is charged with an offence under
subsection .1 (Failure to comply with probation order) may be tried and punished by any court
having jurisdiction to try that offence in the place where the offence is alleged to have been
committed or in the place where the accused is found, is arrested or is in custody.) That I was not
in violation of any of my probation conditions was also an alarming consideration. As I sat
handcuffed in the BC Corrections van, I tried to resolve myself to the possibility that the illogic of
this situation could mean a lengthy revocation of my liberty. The truth is I was doing my
damnedest to restrain my growing anxiety. A return to the hell of prison scared the living daylights
out of me.
My previous experience with my lawyers having been so disillusioning, my intention was to
represent myself in the courtroom. Then, at about midday, a sheriff came to my cell and told me
that my counsel was here to see me. This meant my mother had managed to find a criminal lawyer
for me. I wouldn't be representing myself after all. When I went into the solicitor/prisoner meeting
room I found myself looking at my previous lawyer Michael Sanders. Feeling completely desolate,
once again inexplicably imprisoned within a system of lunacy, it was reassuring to see Sanders'
familiar, smiling face.
I was charged with two counts of breach of probation.
Count 1: Callum Houston failed to take reasonable steps to maintain himself in such
condition that his mental health will not likely cause him to conduct himself in a manner
dangerous to himself or anyone else.
Count 2: Callum Houston failed to reside where directed by his probation officer.
Both charges were bogus. The pettiness of the charges both relieved and astonished me. After the
surprise afternoon arrest and the night in jail I had been anticipating the gates of hell opening and
the devil-hounds being released to ravage and devour. Still, Ahrens wasn't deviating from her hard-
line, balls to the wall prosecutorial approach. The first thing Ahrens did in the bail hearing was pull
out the condemning pre-sentence report authored by Derek Tangedal. That incendiary and
libellous document was Ahrens' most powerful weapon. When Judge William J. Rodgers agreed to
read it I thought for sure I was doomed. Exhausting her artillery in trying to send me back to prison,
Ahrens tried a number of approaches that afternoon. She told the judge that a Surrey probation
officer called Leah Fawcett who I had reported to upon my release from prison felt that I was a
liar. She said that I had confessed to the rodent that I had changed my place of residence. She
told Rodgers that I was now unrepresented in the Veinotte civil matter, thus in violation of a verbal
promise I had made to The Deadbolt to hire a lawyer. (Ahrens' knowledge of this fact would
indicate that she is talking to Veinotte. Additionally, I had noted on one of my Thursday 11 a.m.
visits to the rodent that he was in possession of a letter I had sent to Veinotte.) Ahrens then
accused me of terminating my psychiatric visits and of refusing to take the medication prescribed.
She provided no evidence or proof, only a false statement from the rodent who claimed that I had
told him I was off my meds. Somehow in Ahrens mind this meant that my mental health had
deteriorated to a level where I am likely to commit violent crimes. And Ahrens didn't stop there.
She told the court that I was not responsible for the alleged probation breaches by reason of mental
disorder - that I was criminally insane. Ahrens beseeched Judge Rodgers to send me back to jail
for a thirty-day psychiatric assessment to determine my mental state. Ahrens meant business. She
wanted me gone, put away. Post-haste. I'm sensing a hateful hysteria seething behind her veneer
of professionalism. In typical Ahrens fashion she chose to flat-out ignore condition 5 of the
probation order (an order created essentially at her behest) that states: "If you do not consent to
the form of medical treatment or medication which is prescribed or recommended you shall report
to your probation officer daily." At no point did the rodent ever ask me to make daily visits to his
office. But condition 5 notwithstanding, the reality was that I was seeing the psychiatrist regularly
and I was in approval of his medical treatment. I denied the allegation. Rodgers said he wouldn't
release me without proof that I had been seeing the psychiatrist. Ahrens requires no hard evidence
to file a criminal charge that puts me in a concrete box, cages me like a dog at the pound, yet I am
automatically deemed a liar who is required to come up with evidence to refute her claim so I can
get let out. I instructed Sanders to get on the phone and have my psychiatrist draw up a statement
that showed I was telling the truth. After a recess of a couple of hours, during which Rodgers read
the pre-sentence report, we're back in court. Sanders produced the statement from my psychiatrist
(thank God he wasn't on vacation - once you're in jail it gets harder and harder to get out) and
Rodgers agreed to grant bail. I was spared a return visit to the penthouse, at least for now. Rodgers
should have dismissed the mental health charge on the spot but instead he tells me that if I deviate
from my psychiatric treatment in any way during the bail period he'll lock me up and never let me
out. The two breach charges still stood. They would have to be dealt with. A page of bail
conditions is drawn up, condition 3 forcing me to report to the RCMP every day if the rodent so
wishes; condition 9 placing me under house arrest between the hours of midnight and 6 a.m.
Judge Rodgers also stipulates that I am to report weekly to him personally in North Vancouver
Provincial Court with updates about my mental health treatment.
Unfortunately, I didn't live in their godforsaken city. The bastards hauled me out of my living
room, cuffed me, locked me up for twenty-four hours, and then dumped me in an alien city. I
ended up dropping $110 on cab fare to get back to my apartment. What if I didn't have any
money to get home? That's my problem, I guess. In the taxi on the way back to Squamish it
occurred to me that with two pages of twelve probation conditions, Ahrens was afforded the
luxury of cherry-picking vague conditions that could be used to level more criminal charges. She
was showering charges on me like confetti at a wedding.
And sure enough, the next day Ahrens came back to take another swing at me.
On Wednesday, April 24, 2002 my lawyer received a fax from Ahrens claiming that the blood
drained from me on August 15, 2001 was insufficient to derive a DNA sample. She demanded my
return to the dungeon for a second bleeding.
For the next six weeks leading up to my final appearance in court I noticed that I was being
watched by the police. Several times when either going to or coming from appointments with my
probation officer there was a police cruiser parked in my parking lot, the cop inside keeping a
watchful eye on me. The rodent had me continue with the usual weekly reporting as opposed to
reporting daily to the cops. He didn't seem to see me as a danger to anyone, he was mostly
concerned with my compliance of the probation order. The only people who claimed to see me as
posing an imminent violence hazard were Ahrens and, behind the scenes, Carey D. Veinotte.
I must look like an easy mark. The matter required my attorney Michael Sanders to make two
court appearances on my behalf - the bail hearing and a five minute sentencing hearing a month
and a half later. I was billed $18,320. This is about $4,000 more than he charged me for handling
the initial charges laid by Phillips back in 2001. And then it got worse.
On Wednesday, May 22, 2002 I discovered that someone claiming to represent my companies as
solicitor had filed paperwork with the Registrar of Companies in Victoria, British Columbia's
capital city. The documents moved the registered office and the records office of the companies
away from my business office to another address. The new address was listed as 4571 Marine
Avenue in Powell River, BC. Some quick investigation on my part revealed that this was the
business address of one Michael R. Giroday. Michael R. Giroday was the lawyer retained by Dina
Drummond to defend against the foreclosure action commenced by my company Alco Enterprises
Ltd. in late 2000. A letter to Giroday informing him that this action represented an egregious
conflict of interest, if not outright criminal fraud, went unanswered.
Hit hard by a merciless downturn in the forestry sector, Powell River, British Columbia is a
community experiencing bleak economic hardship. It seems desperate times create desperate
people who take desperate measures. It was soon revealed that Giroday's firm, Giroday &
Fleming, had in it's possession an instrument designed to gut me of my future; an instrument
designed to rob me of my God-given birthright as designated by my father himself.
After freezing the assets of my companies on September 11, 2001, Carey D. Veinotte (who was
now with a firm called Taylor Veinotte Sullivan) returned to court, this time persuading a judge to
okay an order that kicked me out of my own companies. Veinotte prepared an affidavit, ostensibly
on behalf of my father, claiming that since May 29, 2000 (five days before I received notice that
dad wanted me out of his life) I had conducted the affairs of the companies in a manner unfairly
prejudicial and oppressive to him. I was accused of not including my father in the operations of the
companies and of refusing to share company documents with him. Crazy. During the process of
salvaging the corporate mess that had been handed me I had tried to engage my father with talk of
the business goings-on, showing him the transactions and documents, remembering his love for all
things monetary before his stroke. I even delivered boxes of company documents to him in
September 2000 at the request of lawyer R. Alan Hambrook. He could care less. All that mattered
to him was getting through basic living tasks as he coped with the various physical and mental
effects of his health catastrophe. If this allegation of oppression was accurate - it wasn't - British
Columbia's Company Act could allow my removal as a director of the companies. The affidavit
also falsely stated that my father was the companies' majority shareholder. With the fictitious
affidavit composed, Veinotte contacted Giroday & Fleming who had my handicapped father (who
had been relocated back to his home in Powell River) scratch out his signature and swear to the
document, a document he couldn't even comprehend. Had he been aware of what he was signing
there is no way he would have put pen to paper: Before the stroke, when my father was of sound
mind, he was far from a fool - he knew that perjury was a no-no. This document of deceit was
authored with the aim of putting into place the necessary paperwork to enlist the approval of a BC
Supreme Court Justice. The affidavit signed, on January 28, 2002 Veinotte went to BC Supreme
Court Justice Grant D. Burnyeat and asked him to permanently remove me from my companies
and make my physically incapacitated and mentally infirm father the sole director and manager.
The affidavit, falsely attributed to my dad, was the cornerstone of Veinotte's argument before
Burnyeat. No actual evidence against me was presented.
"My lord, the notice of hearing for these proceedings was served personally upon Mr. Houston,"
Veinotte falsely told the Supreme Court Justice. Like the September 11, 2001 order that froze the
company assets, and to ensure he would get Burnyeat's signature without opposition, Veinotte held
the hearing in secret, without notice to me. The only document I ever got from Veinotte was the
change of solicitor notice at Vancouver Pre-Trial in April 2001. I didn't even receive a copy of the
secret Boyd Order, TD Waterhouse sent me a copy of that one.
As for the letter I had delivered to Veinotte in January 2002 demanding that he cease the action,
Veinotte tells Burnyeat, "After Callum Houston's period of incarceration he does not seem to have
learned his lesson. On January 17th, Callum attended at my offices. He is -- no one says Callum
isn't smart, and he has divined that the probation order upon him by his honour Judge Diebolt is
what's known as a no-go-no-contact order against me at the offices of Walsh & Company which,
for unrelated reasons, dissolved in September of 2001. Mr. Houston delivered some material to my
staff, wanted to see me, was upset that I wasn't there, the material includes if I continue the
harassment of him begun by what he refers to as my associate and what I refer to as my
predecessor, Graham Phillips, he will take action against me personally. So there are some parallel
criminal matters going on..." In other words, Veinotte is pursuing both civil and criminal avenues
against me. This explains Ahrens' vehement approach to the phoney probation breach charges.
Veinotte seems to have the notion locked in his mind that I have no right to oppose this action, that
he is entitled to destroy my reputation and my financial status completely unopposed and with
absolute impunity.
Still, Burnyeat had no difficulty signing off on Veinotte's request. Burnyeat even declared me
incapable of conducting my own affairs by reason of mental infirmity! (Under BC's Company Act
this too can be used to remove a director.) This incredible declaration was neither argued in court
nor supported by any evidence -- it was simply said to be so. Grant Burnyeat, Q. C. graduated in
law from the University of British Columbia in 1973 and was called to the Bar of British Columbia
in 1974. He practiced law with Davis & Company in Vancouver in the areas of general insolvency
and real estate law. He was appointed as a judge to BC Supreme Court by the federal Liberal party
in 1996. The extent of Burnyeat's scrutiny in the hearing was the following question put to
Veinotte: "Can you give me any reason why I shouldn't grant you the order requested?" "I cannot,"
Veinotte replied. With the Burnyeat Order secured, Veinotte quickly passed it over to Giroday &
Fleming who, on January 29, 2002, the day after the order was obtained, filed paperwork with
Victoria to make their office the official office of my companies. Then, on June 3, 2002, Giroday
& Fleming drew up and had my stroke-stricken father sign a document that appointed my sister
Lesley as his power of attorney. My sister was just another tool whose lack of sophistication made
her ripe for exploitation by Veinotte and Giroday. In July 2002 Lesley, a naive pawn being
manipulated and used, took the power of attorney and, coupled with the Burnyeat order, used it to
transfer $1.1 million in corporate funds out of two TD Waterhouse accounts. Then on July 15,
2002 Giroday's firm stole $85,000 of company cash out of a couple of accounts held at Bank of
Montreal. This arrogant abuse of the legal system can only be described as an outright perversion
of BC's Company Act and of Canadian law in general.
All of the corporate capital, worth $1.2 million, disappeared without a trace, every last cent
stealthily drained away. That kind of money doesn't just evaporate into thin air, though. Some of
the funds resurfaced at the retail brokerage arm of Bank of Montreal, BMO Nesbitt Burns. BMO
Nesbitt Burns is located at 666 Burrard Street in downtown Vancouver -- three floors south of
Davis & Company. Bank of Montreal is a Davis & Company client.
In the sleepy, slow moving town of Powell River, my corporate expulsion was being executed out
of the offices of Giroday & Fleming by Michael Giroday's law partner and wife, a woman called
Shirley E. Giroday. The affidavit attributed to my father used to obtain the September 2001 Boyd
Order was witnessed by Shirley Giroday. Shirley E. Giroday retired as a Provincial Court of
British Columbia full-time judge on January 31, 2001.
On Tuesday, July 2, 2002 I took this information to the RCMP. This proved to be nothing more
than an exercise in frustration. The cop I talked to was condescension personified. As I laid out
my documentation and told her the story she made it clear that any sign of passionate emotion on
my part was considered offensive and rude. After explaining to the cop that the verbal delivery I
was putting forth was actually the way I in fact talked, the way I communicated vocally, the way I
spoke, she reluctantly agreed to open a file. It was a waste of time. Within a week the file was
dismissed and closed.
(This concept of using court orders to extricate company officers and move capital around raises
interesting issues of security and protection from corporate fraud. Unlike creating counterfeit
money, forging a document like a court order would require only modest skill -- court orders are
black and white legalese printed on regular paper with a signature from a lawyer and a judge or a
representative of the court. Court orders don't have passwords or authenticity tests. They have a
court seal but that could easily be scanned, lifted and transposed. And who looks at these things
that closely anyway? With a graphics program one could easily design and print phoney court
orders on a home computer. And with the right inside information about a company's finances --
bank accounts, etc. -- a fake court order could be extremely lucrative. The orders obtained by
Veinotte in BC Supreme Court were worth a fortune in company money. Two pages of paper
was used to squeeze me out of my companies; another couple of pages of paper was employed to
remove hundreds of thousands of dollars of corporate funds. And as far as I know the banks
never questioned the authenticity of the orders. With a wide open security gap like this the
potential for abuse is enormous.)
The justice system experience has aged me. The incompetence, hostility, and collusion I
encountered in my journey was an alarming eye-opener. It was as though my rivals had been able
to enlist an army. An army comprised of no less than a police force, a venomous prosecutor, a
spiteful provincial judge, two BC Supreme Court judges, another ex-judge just entering retirement
(who decides a run at me would be a good way to start private practice), and a malfunctioning
corrections and justice system. This wasn't an eye for an eye. It was an eye for a hangnail, an
attempt to beat me into submission, a lynching of my psyche within the halls of hypocrisy. These
people confined me to a cage and beat me with a club. A club called the Vancouver legal
community, in a clubhouse called a court of law. They tried to break my will and demolish my
spirit. Then, once they had me shackled by the constraints of oppressive sentencing conditions and
court orders, these pirates were able to effortlessly loot every penny of my family's not
inconsiderable financial resources, resources that I had fought tooth and nail to defend. I was
kidnapped and robbed. I had always considered myself capable of putting up a good fight in the
face of idiocy, but what I encountered here was insurmountable. And if they could do this to me, a
person with the intellect and ability to undertake a worthy resistance, I can only imagine what kind
of brutal human rights violations are being put to those less capable of adequate defence.
When it came to the business of Ahrens' criminal charges for the fake probation breaches, my only
concern was somehow getting that tirelessly relentless bitch off my back. In a show of good faith I
said I would provide another DNA sample. And even though both breach charges were false --
manufactured by the rodent, probably under pressure from Ahrens -- on the morning of Thursday,
June 6, 2002 I once again stood before The Deadbolt, Sanders at my side, Ahrens manning her
turret, and agreed to plead guilty to the residence breach. It was 2001 all over again. I was
encircled by a mob of monsters blindly servicing their ministry of extortion. The Deadbolt
sentenced me to a day in jail. I was handcuffed and taken down to the dungeon where I was bled.
The marriage that my wife and I were attempting to rebuild had collapsed. Immediately upon my
release from prison I moved in with my mother in Brackendale, a small village about a two hour
drive north of Vancouver. In March of 2002 my cousin and his girlfriend arrived from London,
England for a visit. Both are avid skiers and the location in Brackendale allowed them to make
daily trips to the ski resort of Whistler with ease. My mom's home was a small three bedroom
house that is unable to accommodate more than two people comfortably. With this in mind I
rented an apartment in Squamish, five minutes away, as a means of yielding to our guests from the
UK.
It's 10:45 a.m., Thursday, April 11, 2002 and my weekly appointment with the probation officer is
in fifteen minutes. It is this meeting that will give Ahrens the ammunition she needs to undertake
an attempt at sending me back to jail. I get into my car and head down the hill to the probation
office. As I get to the intersection to go onto the highway I notice an older black sedan parked on
the other side of the road. Inside the car are two occupants sipping coffee and watching the traffic
coming from my direction. A shiver runs through me as instinct tells me that they have been
waiting for me.
I arrive at the BC Corrections building in downtown Squamish, a tiny, struggling community on
the fast track to becoming a ghost town. It's a rundown, rustic, musty office that looks like it hasn't
changed much since the seventies. The secretary tells me that my probation officer, Don Petrocco,
is out but he will be back shortly. I take a seat on the wooden bench. Across from me is a rack of
pamphlets with subjects relating to various criminal justice issues. At the top of the rack is a
pamphlet with the title "Are You Being Stalked?". Ten minutes later Petrocco shows up with
another man, a probation officer who I've seen working out of this office. They both take furtive
and concerned glances at me as they walk past.
Petrocco summons me to the counter. He is a skulking animal with long hippy hair done in a pony
tail. This man is a rodent. He has beady eyes that dart about nervously as his brain probes for
useless questions to vocalize, questions that torment me with their banality and inconsequence.
"Okay, uh huh," the rodent replies drone-like as I answer his stupid queries.
"I've seen your car parked at the Westway apartment complex lately. Have you moved?" the
rodent asks.
My instinct was bang on. That was the rodent and his buddy spying on me in the black sedan.
"No," I reply.
"I've seen your car there. Are you visiting someone?"
"No. I haven't moved."
"Okay, uh huh. I've been in contact with your psychiatrist," the rodent states. "He feels you should
be taking anti-psychotic medication. Are you taking medication right now?"
This unexpected interrogation takes me off guard. In an instant I'm defensive and I'm pissed. I
had signed no release allowing my psychiatrist to share my medical information with the rodent.
"You seem to have a cozy dialogue going with my shrink. Why don't you ask him yourself?" I snap
back.
"You're probation order says that if you aren't following your psychiatrist's treatment
recommendation then you are to report to me daily. Do you want to report to me daily?"
"My probation order is two fucking pages of oppressive restrictions on my liberty. I do have the
right to choose what goes into my body, you know. Why are you so concerned with my ingestion
of mind-altering chemicals anyway? The order says that I am not allowed to drink, yet you never
ask me if I've been around the corner to the neighbourhood bar."
"That is because your mental health was a major issue in the crimes you committed."
"My mental health a major issue? My mental health was an excuse. For chrissakes, you know how
the game works. You gotta give the judge some kind of excuse for your actions. My mental health
was no more an issue that the load I pinched off in the shitter that morning. The only issue was a
beef I had with a sonofabitch lawyer making daily visits to my front door. Now he's out of my life
so I have no beefs with anyone. Except maybe you if you keep riding me like this. It doesn't say
anything in that order that I have to answer your questions."
"If you don't answer the questions then how am I to know whether you are abiding by the
guidelines set out in the order?"
"That's one hell of a gaping logic hole, isn't it? But how is the lack of simple logic and rationale
within the justice system my problem? You want me to do your job for you? It's not my job to
prove to you beyond a reasonable doubt every bloody week that I am following the conditions."
I snatch the proof of attendance form from his hand and sign it with the pen chained to the
counter. I tear off the white upper copy and toss the yellow carbon copy at the rodent. Stuffing the
white copy in the front right pocket of my jeans I say "I'll see you in a week" as I'm walking out
the door.
In my car I pull out my cell phone and call the rodent. "Okay, I'll come clean," I say. "Yes that is
my car you've seen parked on Westway Avenue. But I haven't moved. I am in the process of
relocating. I have not yet consummated any kind of relocation. I still get my mail and telephone
calls at my mom's place."
"What's the new address?"
I give him the address.
"Okay, uh huh. Will there be anyone living with you there?"
Yeah, the fucking Queen of England. "No, I'll be alone."
"Okay, uh huh. Thanks for the update."
On Monday, April 22 at 4 o'clock in the afternoon as I am sipping a cup of tea, Frank Sinatra
singing My Way on the radio, I see two police cars pull up and park in front of my apartment
complex. Intuition informed me that they were there for me. My intuition was right. The two cops
came to my door and told me that a warrant had been issued for my arrest on a probation
violation. When I asked what condition was breached they were unable to tell me. After I put out
some food for Joey, my cat, I was handcuffed and taken to the local lockup. In the jail I made a
call to my mother and asked her to find a criminal lawyer for me. The next morning, Tuesday,
April 23, the sheriff transports me down to North Vancouver for a court appearance. The fact that
I was going back to the dungeon when not only is my probation officer in Squamish, but Squamish
has a Provincial Court and a Crown Counsel Office of its own, gave me grave concern. (Canadian
Criminal Code section 733.1(2) states: An accused who is charged with an offence under
subsection .1 (Failure to comply with probation order) may be tried and punished by any court
having jurisdiction to try that offence in the place where the offence is alleged to have been
committed or in the place where the accused is found, is arrested or is in custody.) That I was not
in violation of any of my probation conditions was also an alarming consideration. As I sat
handcuffed in the BC Corrections van, I tried to resolve myself to the possibility that the illogic of
this situation could mean a lengthy revocation of my liberty. The truth is I was doing my
damnedest to restrain my growing anxiety. A return to the hell of prison scared the living daylights
out of me.
My previous experience with my lawyers having been so disillusioning, my intention was to
represent myself in the courtroom. Then, at about midday, a sheriff came to my cell and told me
that my counsel was here to see me. This meant my mother had managed to find a criminal lawyer
for me. I wouldn't be representing myself after all. When I went into the solicitor/prisoner meeting
room I found myself looking at my previous lawyer Michael Sanders. Feeling completely desolate,
once again inexplicably imprisoned within a system of lunacy, it was reassuring to see Sanders'
familiar, smiling face.
I was charged with two counts of breach of probation.
Count 1: Callum Houston failed to take reasonable steps to maintain himself in such
condition that his mental health will not likely cause him to conduct himself in a manner
dangerous to himself or anyone else.
Count 2: Callum Houston failed to reside where directed by his probation officer.
Both charges were bogus. The pettiness of the charges both relieved and astonished me. After the
surprise afternoon arrest and the night in jail I had been anticipating the gates of hell opening and
the devil-hounds being released to ravage and devour. Still, Ahrens wasn't deviating from her hard-
line, balls to the wall prosecutorial approach. The first thing Ahrens did in the bail hearing was pull
out the condemning pre-sentence report authored by Derek Tangedal. That incendiary and
libellous document was Ahrens' most powerful weapon. When Judge William J. Rodgers agreed to
read it I thought for sure I was doomed. Exhausting her artillery in trying to send me back to prison,
Ahrens tried a number of approaches that afternoon. She told the judge that a Surrey probation
officer called Leah Fawcett who I had reported to upon my release from prison felt that I was a
liar. She said that I had confessed to the rodent that I had changed my place of residence. She
told Rodgers that I was now unrepresented in the Veinotte civil matter, thus in violation of a verbal
promise I had made to The Deadbolt to hire a lawyer. (Ahrens' knowledge of this fact would
indicate that she is talking to Veinotte. Additionally, I had noted on one of my Thursday 11 a.m.
visits to the rodent that he was in possession of a letter I had sent to Veinotte.) Ahrens then
accused me of terminating my psychiatric visits and of refusing to take the medication prescribed.
She provided no evidence or proof, only a false statement from the rodent who claimed that I had
told him I was off my meds. Somehow in Ahrens mind this meant that my mental health had
deteriorated to a level where I am likely to commit violent crimes. And Ahrens didn't stop there.
She told the court that I was not responsible for the alleged probation breaches by reason of mental
disorder - that I was criminally insane. Ahrens beseeched Judge Rodgers to send me back to jail
for a thirty-day psychiatric assessment to determine my mental state. Ahrens meant business. She
wanted me gone, put away. Post-haste. I'm sensing a hateful hysteria seething behind her veneer
of professionalism. In typical Ahrens fashion she chose to flat-out ignore condition 5 of the
probation order (an order created essentially at her behest) that states: "If you do not consent to
the form of medical treatment or medication which is prescribed or recommended you shall report
to your probation officer daily." At no point did the rodent ever ask me to make daily visits to his
office. But condition 5 notwithstanding, the reality was that I was seeing the psychiatrist regularly
and I was in approval of his medical treatment. I denied the allegation. Rodgers said he wouldn't
release me without proof that I had been seeing the psychiatrist. Ahrens requires no hard evidence
to file a criminal charge that puts me in a concrete box, cages me like a dog at the pound, yet I am
automatically deemed a liar who is required to come up with evidence to refute her claim so I can
get let out. I instructed Sanders to get on the phone and have my psychiatrist draw up a statement
that showed I was telling the truth. After a recess of a couple of hours, during which Rodgers read
the pre-sentence report, we're back in court. Sanders produced the statement from my psychiatrist
(thank God he wasn't on vacation - once you're in jail it gets harder and harder to get out) and
Rodgers agreed to grant bail. I was spared a return visit to the penthouse, at least for now. Rodgers
should have dismissed the mental health charge on the spot but instead he tells me that if I deviate
from my psychiatric treatment in any way during the bail period he'll lock me up and never let me
out. The two breach charges still stood. They would have to be dealt with. A page of bail
conditions is drawn up, condition 3 forcing me to report to the RCMP every day if the rodent so
wishes; condition 9 placing me under house arrest between the hours of midnight and 6 a.m.
Judge Rodgers also stipulates that I am to report weekly to him personally in North Vancouver
Provincial Court with updates about my mental health treatment.
Unfortunately, I didn't live in their godforsaken city. The bastards hauled me out of my living
room, cuffed me, locked me up for twenty-four hours, and then dumped me in an alien city. I
ended up dropping $110 on cab fare to get back to my apartment. What if I didn't have any
money to get home? That's my problem, I guess. In the taxi on the way back to Squamish it
occurred to me that with two pages of twelve probation conditions, Ahrens was afforded the
luxury of cherry-picking vague conditions that could be used to level more criminal charges. She
was showering charges on me like confetti at a wedding.
And sure enough, the next day Ahrens came back to take another swing at me.
On Wednesday, April 24, 2002 my lawyer received a fax from Ahrens claiming that the blood
drained from me on August 15, 2001 was insufficient to derive a DNA sample. She demanded my
return to the dungeon for a second bleeding.
For the next six weeks leading up to my final appearance in court I noticed that I was being
watched by the police. Several times when either going to or coming from appointments with my
probation officer there was a police cruiser parked in my parking lot, the cop inside keeping a
watchful eye on me. The rodent had me continue with the usual weekly reporting as opposed to
reporting daily to the cops. He didn't seem to see me as a danger to anyone, he was mostly
concerned with my compliance of the probation order. The only people who claimed to see me as
posing an imminent violence hazard were Ahrens and, behind the scenes, Carey D. Veinotte.
I must look like an easy mark. The matter required my attorney Michael Sanders to make two
court appearances on my behalf - the bail hearing and a five minute sentencing hearing a month
and a half later. I was billed $18,320. This is about $4,000 more than he charged me for handling
the initial charges laid by Phillips back in 2001. And then it got worse.
On Wednesday, May 22, 2002 I discovered that someone claiming to represent my companies as
solicitor had filed paperwork with the Registrar of Companies in Victoria, British Columbia's
capital city. The documents moved the registered office and the records office of the companies
away from my business office to another address. The new address was listed as 4571 Marine
Avenue in Powell River, BC. Some quick investigation on my part revealed that this was the
business address of one Michael R. Giroday. Michael R. Giroday was the lawyer retained by Dina
Drummond to defend against the foreclosure action commenced by my company Alco Enterprises
Ltd. in late 2000. A letter to Giroday informing him that this action represented an egregious
conflict of interest, if not outright criminal fraud, went unanswered.
Hit hard by a merciless downturn in the forestry sector, Powell River, British Columbia is a
community experiencing bleak economic hardship. It seems desperate times create desperate
people who take desperate measures. It was soon revealed that Giroday's firm, Giroday &
Fleming, had in it's possession an instrument designed to gut me of my future; an instrument
designed to rob me of my God-given birthright as designated by my father himself.
After freezing the assets of my companies on September 11, 2001, Carey D. Veinotte (who was
now with a firm called Taylor Veinotte Sullivan) returned to court, this time persuading a judge to
okay an order that kicked me out of my own companies. Veinotte prepared an affidavit, ostensibly
on behalf of my father, claiming that since May 29, 2000 (five days before I received notice that
dad wanted me out of his life) I had conducted the affairs of the companies in a manner unfairly
prejudicial and oppressive to him. I was accused of not including my father in the operations of the
companies and of refusing to share company documents with him. Crazy. During the process of
salvaging the corporate mess that had been handed me I had tried to engage my father with talk of
the business goings-on, showing him the transactions and documents, remembering his love for all
things monetary before his stroke. I even delivered boxes of company documents to him in
September 2000 at the request of lawyer R. Alan Hambrook. He could care less. All that mattered
to him was getting through basic living tasks as he coped with the various physical and mental
effects of his health catastrophe. If this allegation of oppression was accurate - it wasn't - British
Columbia's Company Act could allow my removal as a director of the companies. The affidavit
also falsely stated that my father was the companies' majority shareholder. With the fictitious
affidavit composed, Veinotte contacted Giroday & Fleming who had my handicapped father (who
had been relocated back to his home in Powell River) scratch out his signature and swear to the
document, a document he couldn't even comprehend. Had he been aware of what he was signing
there is no way he would have put pen to paper: Before the stroke, when my father was of sound
mind, he was far from a fool - he knew that perjury was a no-no. This document of deceit was
authored with the aim of putting into place the necessary paperwork to enlist the approval of a BC
Supreme Court Justice. The affidavit signed, on January 28, 2002 Veinotte went to BC Supreme
Court Justice Grant D. Burnyeat and asked him to permanently remove me from my companies
and make my physically incapacitated and mentally infirm father the sole director and manager.
The affidavit, falsely attributed to my dad, was the cornerstone of Veinotte's argument before
Burnyeat. No actual evidence against me was presented.
"My lord, the notice of hearing for these proceedings was served personally upon Mr. Houston,"
Veinotte falsely told the Supreme Court Justice. Like the September 11, 2001 order that froze the
company assets, and to ensure he would get Burnyeat's signature without opposition, Veinotte held
the hearing in secret, without notice to me. The only document I ever got from Veinotte was the
change of solicitor notice at Vancouver Pre-Trial in April 2001. I didn't even receive a copy of the
secret Boyd Order, TD Waterhouse sent me a copy of that one.
As for the letter I had delivered to Veinotte in January 2002 demanding that he cease the action,
Veinotte tells Burnyeat, "After Callum Houston's period of incarceration he does not seem to have
learned his lesson. On January 17th, Callum attended at my offices. He is -- no one says Callum
isn't smart, and he has divined that the probation order upon him by his honour Judge Diebolt is
what's known as a no-go-no-contact order against me at the offices of Walsh & Company which,
for unrelated reasons, dissolved in September of 2001. Mr. Houston delivered some material to my
staff, wanted to see me, was upset that I wasn't there, the material includes if I continue the
harassment of him begun by what he refers to as my associate and what I refer to as my
predecessor, Graham Phillips, he will take action against me personally. So there are some parallel
criminal matters going on..." In other words, Veinotte is pursuing both civil and criminal avenues
against me. This explains Ahrens' vehement approach to the phoney probation breach charges.
Veinotte seems to have the notion locked in his mind that I have no right to oppose this action, that
he is entitled to destroy my reputation and my financial status completely unopposed and with
absolute impunity.
Still, Burnyeat had no difficulty signing off on Veinotte's request. Burnyeat even declared me
incapable of conducting my own affairs by reason of mental infirmity! (Under BC's Company Act
this too can be used to remove a director.) This incredible declaration was neither argued in court
nor supported by any evidence -- it was simply said to be so. Grant Burnyeat, Q. C. graduated in
law from the University of British Columbia in 1973 and was called to the Bar of British Columbia
in 1974. He practiced law with Davis & Company in Vancouver in the areas of general insolvency
and real estate law. He was appointed as a judge to BC Supreme Court by the federal Liberal party
in 1996. The extent of Burnyeat's scrutiny in the hearing was the following question put to
Veinotte: "Can you give me any reason why I shouldn't grant you the order requested?" "I cannot,"
Veinotte replied. With the Burnyeat Order secured, Veinotte quickly passed it over to Giroday &
Fleming who, on January 29, 2002, the day after the order was obtained, filed paperwork with
Victoria to make their office the official office of my companies. Then, on June 3, 2002, Giroday
& Fleming drew up and had my stroke-stricken father sign a document that appointed my sister
Lesley as his power of attorney. My sister was just another tool whose lack of sophistication made
her ripe for exploitation by Veinotte and Giroday. In July 2002 Lesley, a naive pawn being
manipulated and used, took the power of attorney and, coupled with the Burnyeat order, used it to
transfer $1.1 million in corporate funds out of two TD Waterhouse accounts. Then on July 15,
2002 Giroday's firm stole $85,000 of company cash out of a couple of accounts held at Bank of
Montreal. This arrogant abuse of the legal system can only be described as an outright perversion
of BC's Company Act and of Canadian law in general.
All of the corporate capital, worth $1.2 million, disappeared without a trace, every last cent
stealthily drained away. That kind of money doesn't just evaporate into thin air, though. Some of
the funds resurfaced at the retail brokerage arm of Bank of Montreal, BMO Nesbitt Burns. BMO
Nesbitt Burns is located at 666 Burrard Street in downtown Vancouver -- three floors south of
Davis & Company. Bank of Montreal is a Davis & Company client.
In the sleepy, slow moving town of Powell River, my corporate expulsion was being executed out
of the offices of Giroday & Fleming by Michael Giroday's law partner and wife, a woman called
Shirley E. Giroday. The affidavit attributed to my father used to obtain the September 2001 Boyd
Order was witnessed by Shirley Giroday. Shirley E. Giroday retired as a Provincial Court of
British Columbia full-time judge on January 31, 2001.
On Tuesday, July 2, 2002 I took this information to the RCMP. This proved to be nothing more
than an exercise in frustration. The cop I talked to was condescension personified. As I laid out
my documentation and told her the story she made it clear that any sign of passionate emotion on
my part was considered offensive and rude. After explaining to the cop that the verbal delivery I
was putting forth was actually the way I in fact talked, the way I communicated vocally, the way I
spoke, she reluctantly agreed to open a file. It was a waste of time. Within a week the file was
dismissed and closed.
(This concept of using court orders to extricate company officers and move capital around raises
interesting issues of security and protection from corporate fraud. Unlike creating counterfeit
money, forging a document like a court order would require only modest skill -- court orders are
black and white legalese printed on regular paper with a signature from a lawyer and a judge or a
representative of the court. Court orders don't have passwords or authenticity tests. They have a
court seal but that could easily be scanned, lifted and transposed. And who looks at these things
that closely anyway? With a graphics program one could easily design and print phoney court
orders on a home computer. And with the right inside information about a company's finances --
bank accounts, etc. -- a fake court order could be extremely lucrative. The orders obtained by
Veinotte in BC Supreme Court were worth a fortune in company money. Two pages of paper
was used to squeeze me out of my companies; another couple of pages of paper was employed to
remove hundreds of thousands of dollars of corporate funds. And as far as I know the banks
never questioned the authenticity of the orders. With a wide open security gap like this the
potential for abuse is enormous.)
The justice system experience has aged me. The incompetence, hostility, and collusion I
encountered in my journey was an alarming eye-opener. It was as though my rivals had been able
to enlist an army. An army comprised of no less than a police force, a venomous prosecutor, a
spiteful provincial judge, two BC Supreme Court judges, another ex-judge just entering retirement
(who decides a run at me would be a good way to start private practice), and a malfunctioning
corrections and justice system. This wasn't an eye for an eye. It was an eye for a hangnail, an
attempt to beat me into submission, a lynching of my psyche within the halls of hypocrisy. These
people confined me to a cage and beat me with a club. A club called the Vancouver legal
community, in a clubhouse called a court of law. They tried to break my will and demolish my
spirit. Then, once they had me shackled by the constraints of oppressive sentencing conditions and
court orders, these pirates were able to effortlessly loot every penny of my family's not
inconsiderable financial resources, resources that I had fought tooth and nail to defend. I was
kidnapped and robbed. I had always considered myself capable of putting up a good fight in the
face of idiocy, but what I encountered here was insurmountable. And if they could do this to me, a
person with the intellect and ability to undertake a worthy resistance, I can only imagine what kind
of brutal human rights violations are being put to those less capable of adequate defence.
When it came to the business of Ahrens' criminal charges for the fake probation breaches, my only
concern was somehow getting that tirelessly relentless bitch off my back. In a show of good faith I
said I would provide another DNA sample. And even though both breach charges were false --
manufactured by the rodent, probably under pressure from Ahrens -- on the morning of Thursday,
June 6, 2002 I once again stood before The Deadbolt, Sanders at my side, Ahrens manning her
turret, and agreed to plead guilty to the residence breach. It was 2001 all over again. I was
encircled by a mob of monsters blindly servicing their ministry of extortion. The Deadbolt
sentenced me to a day in jail. I was handcuffed and taken down to the dungeon where I was bled.
7 / 45