can do it the easy way or the hard way. Please extend your arms towards me.”
I was handcuffed, cold and tight. They felt like they were crushing my wrists—a metaphor for the crushing of every dream I’d ever had. I caught glimpses of my neighbours emerging from their houses to gawk at me and to whisper in each other’s ears, while my family wept in the driveway at the sight of me being arrested.
Why is this happening? What have I done?
They tossed me into the back of the paddy wagon, known affectionately as the “meat wagon” by those who pay it frequent visits. I sat down onto the cold metal floor.
After a few mind-numbing days between the interrogation room and the holding cell, I was scheduled to transfer to the pretrial detention centre from the former Vancouver jail behind the provincial court. By that time, I was exhausted beyond anything I’d ever imagined possible. I could smell the reek of my body odour wafting up from my white jumpsuit. I’m sure I smelled a lot like the downtown eastside folks who’d mocked and catcalled me as I was escorted into the station. I was sat down to wait for my ride at 7:00 a.m. The bus came to get me at about 3:00 p.m.
While we were on the road, scenes of what had transpired in the last few days flooded my mind in slow motion. I played and replayed all that I had lost: the singing career, the beautiful girl, the cover of a magazine. Now all I could confidently say I possessed was a throbbing headache.
I couldn’t eat. I had no appetite. But even if I had, the dry baloney sandwiches they slid through the door slot were only sustenance at best. I was completely overcome by the anxiety and uncertainty of what lay ahead of me. I know this sounds a bit strange, but I literally pinched my thighs over and over again to make sure that I wasn’t just having a bad dream.
Suddenly the vehicle took a sharp turn to the right, and I was thrown across the cab, hitting my head on the left wall. The shackles prevented me from bracing myself properly with my arms and legs.
Ouch! That hurt.
Reality was validated again.
After two hours of driving east, the vehicle came to a stop, and the officers came around to the back of the wagon. The door opened with an annoying high-pitched creak, and I was ordered to step out. My feet hit the ground, and I shuffled up to the gates.
Surveillance cameras protected by a bubble of bulletproof glass were in every corner. Lifeless tall grey concrete walls were everywhere. I was at the North Fraser Pretrial Centre in Port Coquitlam. They led me into the building and down a sterile looking corridor lit by the irritating glow of bad fluorescent lighting, unlocked my shackles in front of a door, and ordered me into the holding tank with room for about six to ten detainees.
“ARRRGGH! I’m gonna kill you all!” A bald prisoner exploded from the bench as we entered the room, making a run at the correctional officer who was escorting me. Smack, SMACK! I heard the sound of fists connecting with flesh. Within 20 seconds a backup squad rushed into the room and subdued him. They pinned his head to the tile floor, his face contorted, red, panting, and sputtering. Between breaths he would spew profanity and abuse at them. He was entirely undeterred. My heart was pounding while witnessing this whole thing that happened before my eyes.
What kind of place is this? What just happened? I kept asking myself.
“Pigs! Let go of me! SH*T! ARRRRRGGGH!” The guy was using all his might trying to prevent the officers from cuffing his hands behind his back, but it was no use. His strength was no match against four of them. To my surprise, they left the guy on the ground, walked out the door, and locked it behind us. I was left behind with my new best buddy.
What I observed next was so disturbing to me. While screaming at the top of his lungs, he made his way onto his feet without using his arms. He was beet red and looked entirely possessed. Running to the door, he head-butted the metal bars full force over and over. He was like a malfunctioning robot from Terminator who’d gone into self-destruct mode. I couldn’t believe what was happening. For over 15 minutes he kept banging his head on the door, screaming from the top of his lungs, before someone came and took him away. Releasing my fingers from my ears, I sat there entirely speechless. This was my introduction to prison life, and “frightened” didn’t begin to describe it.
Time seemed to stop behind bars. I was under 24-7 surveillance and always wearing the bright red two-piece uniform. My world came to a complete standstill. I was moved to a concrete cell with a double bunk and a toilet, a single roll of thin scratchy toilet paper, and a musty smelling uncomfortable wool blanket—the kind people toss in their trunks for emergencies.
I slept on the upper bunk. My roommate was a tall Caucasian teen who was all tattooed up and very proud of his gang activity and drug life. The room was dark, always dark. Every day we had a few hours to go out of our cell to the mess hall in the middle of the unit where meals were served, and we’d get locked up again shortly after eating. When we were out of the cell, the lights were on. Once we were called to go back to our cells, the lights went off and stayed off. There was a small courtyard beside the mess hall with four tall concrete walls and fencing at the top to prevent escape. There were showers, and we could ask for a tiny square of soap from the guard station. At night we got locked up around 7:45 p.m. until 7:00 a.m. the next day for breakfast.
After a week or so, the door opened at an uncharacteristically early hour, and two guards were waiting for me to get out of bed. They told me I had a bail hearing that day. After I made my bed, I was escorted to the holding tank. Waited there for another few hours until all the paperwork was done. Then the guards came into the room to shackle my hands and feet and took me along with a few other inmates to the vehicle. We then headed off to the provincial court on Main Street.
Upon my arrival, I was dumped into the holding cell as usual. By then I was accustomed to this procedure. After about an hour, the judge’s secretary called me in. An officer escorted me into the courtroom.
In the booth for the accused, I was put beside Blade and the rest of the gang. I was the last one to arrive. My parents and my aunt and uncle were there, and from a distance, I could tell that they had all been crying. My heart sank. I felt entirely helpless.
The process took about two hours because the lawyers kept going back and forth with the judge. The language they used was so specialized and formal that its meaning was lost on me. Once the pretrial hearing was over, my parents put their house up as collateral for my bail, which was about $200,000. As promised by the judge, I was released that same day after surrendering my passport.
Sitting in my parents’ sedan, I started to gain perspective of the scope of what I had involved myself in. It wasn’t just me who was affected but my whole family. They had put their house on the line. I only knew one thing for sure: I had no idea where to begin starting to mend the damage I had caused.
_______
When I was out on bail I treasured the temporary freedom. People who have never been incarcerated don’t realize how wonderful freedom is. The most boring day as a civilian is filled with excitement compared to a day alone staring at a cell wall. The other challenge was the way I felt inside. I was carrying baggage so heavy that I could hardly bear it.
Of course, the music came to a screeching halt again. My music crew was justifiably angry with me. I had been extremely unwise in my decision making, and all of their careers would be affected by my bad choices.
Ironically and painfully enough, while I was away, EMI Music Taiwan was offering us, as a group, a record deal. They promised to make us the next megahit group in Asia. They played it up like we would be the Chinese Black Eyed
