of motor oil, the making of tea—interrupted briefly to watch me being thrown into the back of the paddy wagon. I wonder what they were saying. “I told his mom I didn’t like the boys he was hanging around,” or “That’s what the music industry does to people.”
My mom, dad, and aunt were standing in the driveway, all of them sobbing. I’m an only child, and I knew what this was doing to them. I was so ashamed of myself, and I felt absolutely wretched for having dishonoured them so terribly. I didn’t know how I would be able to face anyone I knew ever again. I leaned up against the steel wall of the police van and stared down at my feet. It was a bumpy ride to the station.
Everything I had on my person, including my underwear, was confiscated. In exchange, I got to wear a scratchy white paper jumpsuit and a pair of shoe covers like the ones patients wear in the hospital. Before I was taken to the interrogation room, where I would spend the rest of the evening, two officers fingerprinted me and had me sign a pile of forms. As each of my fingers was pressed into the wet spongy black inkpad and then onto paper, I felt like I was signing my life away. Then, as you see in every crime movie, I was asked to stand against a wall and pose for a mugshot and two profile shots.
I was escorted by two uniformed police officers from the holding cell behind Vancouver Criminal Court on 222 Main Street in Vancouver to the Vancouver Police Department. As I crossed East Cordova Street handcuffed in my white jumpsuit, the homeless folks from the downtown eastside mocked and catcalled me. After entering the VPD building we ascended a long flight of stairs and ended up in a room with one window, one coffee table, and two chairs facing each other. I was left alone in the room for about 20 minutes before an investigator in normal dress walked in.
“Okay, Mr. Poon, I’m going to tell you this straight up. I’m a very experienced investigator. It’s what I do for living. My job here is to get information from you, so that I can report it to my boss. Why don’t we work together, and it’ll make both of our lives easier? After all, it’s getting late. I’m tired, and I’m sure you are too. If you co-operate and tell me the truth, you’ll be home in no time. So let’s not beat around the bush, all right?”
“You’re right. I am extremely tired… What do you mean by I’ll be home in no time?” I hesitated.
“That means if you tell me everything, no lies, no BS, then I can probably get you out of here before this long weekend is finished. Okay? You want to go home, right?”
“Of course I want to go home—”
“I know. I hear you. So why waste more time? Let’s get going!”
At first I thought he was there to help me. He seemed friendly, even gentle, but after a while he changed his approach, becoming more and more aggressive with me, particularly when it didn’t appear that he was getting what he wanted or if he thought I was withholding something from him.
Sitting closer and closer to me, he stared me right in the face and asked the same question the fifth time. “Tell me where you were on the night of April 2. You were at an underground parking lot in Vancouver, right? You and your buddy were looking for someone, right?”
“How many times do I have to repeat myself? I told you already! I was in a recording session at the studio! Go ahead and talk to the guys in my group. Call them.”
“You sure you didn’t get the date mixed up? It was a Friday night. You were at the parking lot. Think again.”
“I’m sure I was at the studio. Call the owner of the studio.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I am!”
“How sure?”
“Very sure!”
“How come you are so sure?”
“Because I was at the studio! How many times do I have to repeat myself?”
The investigator then dropped his pen. “Mr. Poon, you know damn well why you’re here! This is not a random chit-chat. This is something very serious, very very serious! We’ve been after you for a whole week. We have stacks of pictures of you and your buddies. We know everything. So go over it again. Did you kidnap the victim on April 2 at the parking lot?”
He tried to box me into one corner and then into another. If things were not proceeding the way that he liked, he would circle back and start with the same set of questions all over again. You can’t really understand how frustrating this is until you’re in the middle of it, but I guess it must work, because he did not relent.
I had been awake for over 24 hours, my lips were cracking, and my mouth was dry. I knew that however tired I had ever felt in all my life, I had no understanding of “tired” until now. All I wanted was to go home and to collapse into bed, but that wouldn’t happen for a while.
After the questioning ended, I was tossed into a dirty holding cell: three walls of concrete, one steel door, and, naturally, no window. It reminded me of a horror flick called Saw that came out that year. Staring at the light coming from the fluorescent bulbs on the ceiling, I wondered how long I would have to stay in there. It was the Easter long weekend, but there would be no celebrating. This was just the beginning of a long, dark nightmare.
“My son, if sinful men entice you, do not give in to them … These men lie in wait for their own blood; they ambush only themselves!”
(Prov. 1:10, 18)
Chapter 2
In the Beginning
When most kids are little, their parents are their heroes. While this is not always true, it usually is. So being a child is simple: you look up to your parents and follow their example. Hopefully things just work out. You don’t really worry, because life just seems to be something that happens to you—not something you can shape and control.
For me things were a little bit different. While I loved my parents and did look up to them, ever since I can remember I had a fascination with superstars performing on stage. The things that attracted me about the celebrity lifestyle are the ones you’d expect: the adulation, the recognition, the massive sphere of influence. I wanted it all—I wanted to be a star. I wanted to impact people with my voice and the message of my music. But most of all, I just wanted to be famous—camera flashes, fancy hotels, and nice cars. The problem was I didn’t know where to start. For years, I quietly kept the dream tucked away in the back of my mind. After all, why invest so much hope in something that might not come true? In my more conservative moments, I dismissed it all as a pipe dream.
But in my last year of high school, I decided that those who do not try cannot succeed. So, if I didn’t take a crack at stardom now, in the window of my youth, it was never going to happen. I would end up as just another grey suit working a desk job in a cubicle somewhere, typing away under fluorescent lights and giggling at the daily wisdom of Dilbert cartoons—not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Back in those days I was a diehard partygoer, and by chance I was introduced to a Chinese vocal trainer, Miss Mary, by a friend whom I’d met at an outdoor rave. It had been a three-day party held at some remote area east of Langley, BC. The organizer provided school buses to pick us up from the Willowbrook Shopping Centre parking lot. After a short 15 or 20 minute ride, we got dropped off at an entrance to a muddy trail walled with tall trees on both sides. As we walked deeper into the woods, my heart pounded harder and harder as the music got a bit louder with each step we marched forward.
