| "HOUSTON V. HOUSTON ET AL." CONTINUED |
JAILED AGAIN -- PROTECTION FOR CAREY D. VEINOTTE
January 16, 2003. Arrested by the army again. After the spying and the arrest and the draining of
the corporate bank accounts I fled Squamish in October 2002 and sought refuge in Langley, a
community about an hour south of Vancouver, very close to the Canada-U.S. border. I show up
ten minutes early for my weekly Thursday 11:00 a.m. appointment with the probation officer in
Langley. As I'm taking a seat in the reception area I see two police cruisers pull into the parking
lot. I've never seen cops show up there before so immediately I prepare myself for the possibility
that they could be there for me. Although I have committed no crime and am not overly
concerned, I have discovered that the commission of a criminal act in British Columbia is a
secondary consideration if someone with the ear of a Crown prosecutor wants you imprisoned. The
criminal justice system is merely another tool used by the Vancouver legal mafia to attempt to
silence their critics.
My P.O., Derek Tangedal, beckons me into his office. I sit down and roll off the usual checklist
without prompting: no police contact, no changes in my personal life of note, living at the same
address, seeing the psychiatrist regularly and in approval of the treatment, in compliance with all
probation conditions.
"That all sounds very good," Tangedal says. "There's one other thing though. A warrant has been
issued for your arrest. The charge originated out of North Vancouver. You are charged with using
threatening conduct. The police are here to arrest you."
Two cops walk through the door.
"Okay," I say without emotion. I am not surprised.
In the police car the cop tells me that the charge in fact originated with the Vancouver Police
Department. The warrant was signed on December 16, 2002, a month previous. The
documentation doesn't indicate who felt threatened by my conduct, but it does say that the alleged
threat took place on December 5, 2002. For the next twenty four hours I rack my brain trying to
remember what I did on December 5 and who this individual could be.
I am transported to the Langley lockup where I spend the next couple of hours. After a lunch of
chicken pot pie and a cup of black coffee I am transported to Surrey jail en route to Vancouver. A
guard tells me that the Vancouver prosecutor will be contacted and the information of my case
might be faxed to Surrey where the matter can be heard, avoiding a trip downtown. After a couple
of hours I am told that I will in fact be extradited to Vancouver. A few hours later I am transported
to Vancouver jail, arriving at about 7 p.m. At Vancouver jail intake I am told to strip naked. I
am forced to submit to a full body cavity search: The guards tell me to run my hands through my
hair, to open my mouth up, to pull my ears forward, to raise my testicles, and to turn around and
bend over and spread my buttocks to expose my anus. I get dressed again, minus shoes, belt,
wallet, watch, and jacket, all removed back in Langley. After photographs and fingerprints I am
given a bagged supper of a sandwich and bean salad and juice and I am led to a cell. I am double
bunked with a ragged, bearded young man charged with reselling SkyTrain tickets - a charge that he
had already been granted bail on earlier in the day. The guard lets me call my wife who arranges
for my cats, Joey and Mojo, to be fed at my apartment. In the cell the guard gives me and my
cellmate a thin blanket each that does little to shield us from the freezing temperature. I'm wearing
only jeans and a light t-shirt. From now on I will dress warmly when I go to see my P.O. After an
icy night of sporadic, fitful, short periods of sleep we are awakened at 5:45 a.m. and our blankets
are taken from us. Two more prisoners are tossed into our cell. Now there are four of us in this
tiny room. The air is filled with the sour, bitter tang of stale perspiration. We are given a breakfast
of orange juice, cereal, and a muffin. Then we lie down, two to a bunk, as we wait to talk to duty
counsel. The other prisoners quickly fall asleep. These men are physically ill. Their snoring is
interrupted by bouts of coughing, snorting, sneezing, and wheezing. I find the escape of sleep an
impossible objective. I lie down, get up, pace back and forth, lie down again, get up, repeating this
cycle over and over. The mental anguish and trauma inflicted on the mind when you are trapped,
locked up in a small concrete ice box breathing recycled air, unable to negotiate your way to
freedom is like having your skull locked tightly into a vice so it is immovable and motionless and
then unseen demons use a hacksaw to rip and tear through the bone and create a skullcap that is
lifted off your head to reveal your exposed brain. The demons take a spoon and dig it into the grey
matter and scrape the brain tissue, pushing down hard, grabbing as much flesh as possible,
dragging the utensil along as though they are scooping chocolate ice cream for a hot flesh sundae.
When you are to be let out of the concrete box they put the skullcap back on and suture it up but
who knows when it will heal and what's to be done about those disgusting unsightly mental scars.
After about four hours I finally talk to a lawyer. I give him a thirty-second thumbnail background
sketch of the events that have seen me absorbed into a broken down corrections system that
refuses to eject me until I am sucked dry - both mentally and financially. The lawyer has received
no particulars of the charge so he doesn't know who the supposed victim is either.
At 11:00 a.m. I am summoned to court. I wait in a holding tank for fifteen minutes then I am
ushered into the arena. I stand in the prisoners box, guards on either side of me. There are two
court clerks sitting in front of the elevated judge bench. The courtroom has a faded atmosphere;
it is stale, dark, grey. While not rundown, this room is undoubtedly past its glory days. It reminds
me of a conference hall, an auditorium with the audience seating descending down to the bench.
The judge is a middle-aged woman with brunette hair. The prosecutor is a youngish-
looking, dark-haired man. He outlines the charge. The complainant is Carey D. Veinotte. Of
course. Who else? In this attempt to shut me up Veinotte claimed that the letter I had sent him
demanding that he immediately cease and desist his pursuit of me or I would engage in legal action
-- a letter I had sent him on January 13, 2002, a year previous - had caused him to fear for his
safety. The date of December 5, 2002 that the police mentioned when I was first arrested was a
red herring. My guess is the cops give you misleading information to confuse and demoralize you.
Veinotte fully briefed the prosecutor on the Phillips incident of March 2001. This creates a
situation where I am judged not on the merits of the current allegation but on an isolated event of
two years previous, an event for which I paid dearly and continue to pay to this day. Veinotte
paints a picture for the court where Callum Houston is not a human being, Callum Houston is an
object that broke into a lawyers residence, and nothing more; an object who is now owned by the
state and is to be mined and exploited until there is nothing left to be extracted. Like his call to
Ahrens when I attempted to retain Davis & Company, this is Veinotte utilizing the criminal courts
yet again to suppress me. It appears Mr. Carey D. Veinotte has some serious pull in the offices of
Vancouver's Crown prosecutors. No one says "no" to this guy. He picks up the phone -- I go to jail.
Thankfully the prosecutor is no Marie Louise Ahrens. Ahrens is an effective attorney. Too
effective. She's an overwhelming emotional hurricane. My duty counsel is a tired and impatient-
looking man in his late forties. He has no insight into my personal back-history. Based on the
previous fiasco of perceived mental health issues, the Crown requests overnight detention for a
fitness assessment. The prosecutor also claims that I had been convicted of a breach of probation
charge for not following through with psychiatric treatment.
"I only pled guilty to a residence breach," I say correcting him. "Can I speak?" I ask the judge.
It is at this point that a very odd phenomenon took place, something I had never encountered
before in a BC law court - for the first time ever a judge actually said: "Yes. You may speak."
Well I'll be goddamned. I looked across the lengthy room at the prosecutor.
"I believe Mr. Veinotte may be utilizing the criminal courts to have me subdued," I said.
I looked up at the judge.
"Secondly, I don't live in Vancouver. I have no reason to come to Vancouver. I never come to
Vancouver. I live in Langley. I have no reason to leave that area. I would gladly agree to
conditions that restrict me from leaving the Langley area. Also, the date on the charge is December
5. That is over one month ago. Clearly that space of time indicates that I am a threat to no one."
The duty counsel lawyer interjects on my behalf and says, "See, look your Honour. This man is
lucid. You can send him for a fitness assessment but clearly he is going to come back tomorrow
being deemed completely mentally fit."
"What about your medication. Is there anyone that can confirm that you are taking it?" the judge
asks.
"I am purchasing my medication. You can verify through pharmacy records. No one can prove
that I'm taking the medication because I live alone. I take it every night. Except last night because I
was locked up in jail."
The judge seems convinced. She adjourns the matter until 2 p.m., instructing the prosecutor to
contact my P.O. and to come back with suggested bail conditions. "Thank you, your honour," I
say as I am removed from the courtroom.
At 2:30 p.m. I am back in court. A list of bail conditions is drawn up that exile me from entry into
Vancouver. Fine by me. Where do I sign? The more mileage between me and this hopelessly
crooked town the better. Another fine example of the insane logic that rules Vancouver's justice
system bureaucracy - I am arrested and hauled into their city only to be told to get out and don't
come back. A couple of hours later I sign for my release with a justice of the peace electronically
through a video link up. I get a bag with my effects. The guard permits me to put on my shoes. I
am released out the back door of the jail with three others. I stand at the curb and lace and buckle
up my belt, pocket my wallet, put on my denim jacket, wind up my still ticking vintage Heuer
Carrera chronograph and make off into the dark, chilly, empty streets of Chinatown in search of a
cab.
January 16, 2003. Arrested by the army again. After the spying and the arrest and the draining of
the corporate bank accounts I fled Squamish in October 2002 and sought refuge in Langley, a
community about an hour south of Vancouver, very close to the Canada-U.S. border. I show up
ten minutes early for my weekly Thursday 11:00 a.m. appointment with the probation officer in
Langley. As I'm taking a seat in the reception area I see two police cruisers pull into the parking
lot. I've never seen cops show up there before so immediately I prepare myself for the possibility
that they could be there for me. Although I have committed no crime and am not overly
concerned, I have discovered that the commission of a criminal act in British Columbia is a
secondary consideration if someone with the ear of a Crown prosecutor wants you imprisoned. The
criminal justice system is merely another tool used by the Vancouver legal mafia to attempt to
silence their critics.
My P.O., Derek Tangedal, beckons me into his office. I sit down and roll off the usual checklist
without prompting: no police contact, no changes in my personal life of note, living at the same
address, seeing the psychiatrist regularly and in approval of the treatment, in compliance with all
probation conditions.
"That all sounds very good," Tangedal says. "There's one other thing though. A warrant has been
issued for your arrest. The charge originated out of North Vancouver. You are charged with using
threatening conduct. The police are here to arrest you."
Two cops walk through the door.
"Okay," I say without emotion. I am not surprised.
In the police car the cop tells me that the charge in fact originated with the Vancouver Police
Department. The warrant was signed on December 16, 2002, a month previous. The
documentation doesn't indicate who felt threatened by my conduct, but it does say that the alleged
threat took place on December 5, 2002. For the next twenty four hours I rack my brain trying to
remember what I did on December 5 and who this individual could be.
I am transported to the Langley lockup where I spend the next couple of hours. After a lunch of
chicken pot pie and a cup of black coffee I am transported to Surrey jail en route to Vancouver. A
guard tells me that the Vancouver prosecutor will be contacted and the information of my case
might be faxed to Surrey where the matter can be heard, avoiding a trip downtown. After a couple
of hours I am told that I will in fact be extradited to Vancouver. A few hours later I am transported
to Vancouver jail, arriving at about 7 p.m. At Vancouver jail intake I am told to strip naked. I
am forced to submit to a full body cavity search: The guards tell me to run my hands through my
hair, to open my mouth up, to pull my ears forward, to raise my testicles, and to turn around and
bend over and spread my buttocks to expose my anus. I get dressed again, minus shoes, belt,
wallet, watch, and jacket, all removed back in Langley. After photographs and fingerprints I am
given a bagged supper of a sandwich and bean salad and juice and I am led to a cell. I am double
bunked with a ragged, bearded young man charged with reselling SkyTrain tickets - a charge that he
had already been granted bail on earlier in the day. The guard lets me call my wife who arranges
for my cats, Joey and Mojo, to be fed at my apartment. In the cell the guard gives me and my
cellmate a thin blanket each that does little to shield us from the freezing temperature. I'm wearing
only jeans and a light t-shirt. From now on I will dress warmly when I go to see my P.O. After an
icy night of sporadic, fitful, short periods of sleep we are awakened at 5:45 a.m. and our blankets
are taken from us. Two more prisoners are tossed into our cell. Now there are four of us in this
tiny room. The air is filled with the sour, bitter tang of stale perspiration. We are given a breakfast
of orange juice, cereal, and a muffin. Then we lie down, two to a bunk, as we wait to talk to duty
counsel. The other prisoners quickly fall asleep. These men are physically ill. Their snoring is
interrupted by bouts of coughing, snorting, sneezing, and wheezing. I find the escape of sleep an
impossible objective. I lie down, get up, pace back and forth, lie down again, get up, repeating this
cycle over and over. The mental anguish and trauma inflicted on the mind when you are trapped,
locked up in a small concrete ice box breathing recycled air, unable to negotiate your way to
freedom is like having your skull locked tightly into a vice so it is immovable and motionless and
then unseen demons use a hacksaw to rip and tear through the bone and create a skullcap that is
lifted off your head to reveal your exposed brain. The demons take a spoon and dig it into the grey
matter and scrape the brain tissue, pushing down hard, grabbing as much flesh as possible,
dragging the utensil along as though they are scooping chocolate ice cream for a hot flesh sundae.
When you are to be let out of the concrete box they put the skullcap back on and suture it up but
who knows when it will heal and what's to be done about those disgusting unsightly mental scars.
After about four hours I finally talk to a lawyer. I give him a thirty-second thumbnail background
sketch of the events that have seen me absorbed into a broken down corrections system that
refuses to eject me until I am sucked dry - both mentally and financially. The lawyer has received
no particulars of the charge so he doesn't know who the supposed victim is either.
At 11:00 a.m. I am summoned to court. I wait in a holding tank for fifteen minutes then I am
ushered into the arena. I stand in the prisoners box, guards on either side of me. There are two
court clerks sitting in front of the elevated judge bench. The courtroom has a faded atmosphere;
it is stale, dark, grey. While not rundown, this room is undoubtedly past its glory days. It reminds
me of a conference hall, an auditorium with the audience seating descending down to the bench.
The judge is a middle-aged woman with brunette hair. The prosecutor is a youngish-
looking, dark-haired man. He outlines the charge. The complainant is Carey D. Veinotte. Of
course. Who else? In this attempt to shut me up Veinotte claimed that the letter I had sent him
demanding that he immediately cease and desist his pursuit of me or I would engage in legal action
-- a letter I had sent him on January 13, 2002, a year previous - had caused him to fear for his
safety. The date of December 5, 2002 that the police mentioned when I was first arrested was a
red herring. My guess is the cops give you misleading information to confuse and demoralize you.
Veinotte fully briefed the prosecutor on the Phillips incident of March 2001. This creates a
situation where I am judged not on the merits of the current allegation but on an isolated event of
two years previous, an event for which I paid dearly and continue to pay to this day. Veinotte
paints a picture for the court where Callum Houston is not a human being, Callum Houston is an
object that broke into a lawyers residence, and nothing more; an object who is now owned by the
state and is to be mined and exploited until there is nothing left to be extracted. Like his call to
Ahrens when I attempted to retain Davis & Company, this is Veinotte utilizing the criminal courts
yet again to suppress me. It appears Mr. Carey D. Veinotte has some serious pull in the offices of
Vancouver's Crown prosecutors. No one says "no" to this guy. He picks up the phone -- I go to jail.
Thankfully the prosecutor is no Marie Louise Ahrens. Ahrens is an effective attorney. Too
effective. She's an overwhelming emotional hurricane. My duty counsel is a tired and impatient-
looking man in his late forties. He has no insight into my personal back-history. Based on the
previous fiasco of perceived mental health issues, the Crown requests overnight detention for a
fitness assessment. The prosecutor also claims that I had been convicted of a breach of probation
charge for not following through with psychiatric treatment.
"I only pled guilty to a residence breach," I say correcting him. "Can I speak?" I ask the judge.
It is at this point that a very odd phenomenon took place, something I had never encountered
before in a BC law court - for the first time ever a judge actually said: "Yes. You may speak."
Well I'll be goddamned. I looked across the lengthy room at the prosecutor.
"I believe Mr. Veinotte may be utilizing the criminal courts to have me subdued," I said.
I looked up at the judge.
"Secondly, I don't live in Vancouver. I have no reason to come to Vancouver. I never come to
Vancouver. I live in Langley. I have no reason to leave that area. I would gladly agree to
conditions that restrict me from leaving the Langley area. Also, the date on the charge is December
5. That is over one month ago. Clearly that space of time indicates that I am a threat to no one."
The duty counsel lawyer interjects on my behalf and says, "See, look your Honour. This man is
lucid. You can send him for a fitness assessment but clearly he is going to come back tomorrow
being deemed completely mentally fit."
"What about your medication. Is there anyone that can confirm that you are taking it?" the judge
asks.
"I am purchasing my medication. You can verify through pharmacy records. No one can prove
that I'm taking the medication because I live alone. I take it every night. Except last night because I
was locked up in jail."
The judge seems convinced. She adjourns the matter until 2 p.m., instructing the prosecutor to
contact my P.O. and to come back with suggested bail conditions. "Thank you, your honour," I
say as I am removed from the courtroom.
At 2:30 p.m. I am back in court. A list of bail conditions is drawn up that exile me from entry into
Vancouver. Fine by me. Where do I sign? The more mileage between me and this hopelessly
crooked town the better. Another fine example of the insane logic that rules Vancouver's justice
system bureaucracy - I am arrested and hauled into their city only to be told to get out and don't
come back. A couple of hours later I sign for my release with a justice of the peace electronically
through a video link up. I get a bag with my effects. The guard permits me to put on my shoes. I
am released out the back door of the jail with three others. I stand at the curb and lace and buckle
up my belt, pocket my wallet, put on my denim jacket, wind up my still ticking vintage Heuer
Carrera chronograph and make off into the dark, chilly, empty streets of Chinatown in search of a
cab.
9 / 45