Bad nightmare. I dreamt my puppy had been stolen from me.
I love my puppy. I keep seeing her in my memory and remembering the stories other people told me about her.
When I was in hospital over night. My puppy is a therapy dog. They put her little doctor coat on her and let her stay in my room. The nurses told me that when I slept they’d go in and see her standing pressing her head onto the bed staring at me, trying to sleep that way. I know she didn’t want me to wake up and not find my dog there.
And the time we had to separate and how she refused to leave the car. She wanted to be someplace where she knew I would find her.
My arm is killing. I’m starting to hope they didn’t do permanent damage to it.
Got my resume updated. Sent out four of them. Classifieds are scary. About half the ads on offer were of the “Make $800 in your spare time at home” ilk.
I tried to stay still. I thought it would help my body heal if not my spirit.
June 22, 2009
So this short fit guy is jabbering at me; about what, I’m not certain. Looking at the logo on his polo style shirt I realize he’s from Immigration. I focus in on what he’s saying despite wondering how a polo shirt could become a uniform.
It seems he had me arrested because I am found to be an undesirable. Scott the cop has dug up an old internet article. I knew the cop was determined to harm me. It was good to know I wasn’t just paranoid. The immigration guy flashes the article at me. I recognize it.
See, I had a friend. He was an MP, a pretty notorious one. He gave evidence at my UK immigration hearing and said one of the most horrifying things anyone has ever said about me and he said it under oath.
He said, “Winston Churchill once said that the best thing for England was milk in the stomachs of babies. I put it to you that the next best thing for England is that man sitting there,” meaning me.
I was pretty mortified. That started what seemed to me to be a deluge of newspaper and magazine stories about me. You know I’m not shy and have a massive ego but these flowery stories were just wrong and presented me as some sort of Mother Teresa style freak.
They missed the point. I was just a guy who loves kids and all I do is teach them how to play a game. I’m good at that. All the things they tried to foist credit on me for had little to do with me. Its the game that teaches them strength, tenacity. Its the game that enables the “social inclusion of youth.” Its the game that opens up a future in education and success in life. The game and not anybody human.
I love credit but this was inaccurate. I wanted money. Three hundred bucks let me kit out a player. Two hundred bucks would let me kit out a flag football team. Praise and Proclamations weren’t going to do that. The advice I got that they would was wrong.
The attention also irritated my enemies. Enemy is not a paranoid term. Not when you believe in something. What I believe in is that children should not be harmed, they should be protected and given every opportunity to maximize their potential to be something greater than we can ever imagine.
A pretty innocuous thing to believe in, you’d think. But there are people who disagree, like the MP who was having an affair with a 13 year old who was pushing through legislation to make the age of consent 12 . . . or the Cabinet Secretary who believes that children should be protected as long as its not too expensive and we don’t get crazy about it and by thunder they’re safe enough as it is. That guy and I were in Parliament yelling at each other, calling each other names.
When you believe in something, even something innocuous you make enemies. Even if all you believe in is the truth.
Then there was the trial. One of my players had been arrested for murder. I testified as to his character and his physical ability. My evidence made a lot of furor. When he was found not guilty of murder a lot of people put the “blame” on me.
So there was an incident. A female coach claimed she was getting dozens of text message claiming she was ugly, stupid, etc. Kid’s stuff and stupid.
The kids came under enormous heat because of it. The Old Bill (London Met) were getting some of their own back.
It got to a point. I talked it over with the people who mattered to me I decided to plead guilty to it. I felt it was my responsibility anyway for letting things get out of hand. My personal opinion was that if people thought I was capable of such shenanigans I didn’t need to know them.
I remember when the article came out. I found it as annoying and inaccurate as anything else that had been written about me. It was one of those where all they do is quote the cop, that way the paper can get salacious and wild and not face a law suit.
I’ve sent the article to at least one person because I thought they should at least know what a bent copper thinks of me. I still think his lies and conjecture are at least as honest as the other stuff they say about me. I guess I’d still rather be thought of as a jerk than as a saint. I’m pretty sure I’m neither.
What surprised me is that I knew what happened after the article came out. It was pretty obvious that the Immigration guy didn’t. He also didn’t seem to wonder why there was such a long article about such a minor offense.
I asked him if the only info he had for all this was a 6 year old news story. He said its not six years old it was printed out last week! He looked at it to show it to me and realized it was printed off the internet last week but it was over 6 years old. He then said it was still enough. He claimed that under Canadian Law the charges would carry a sentence of 25 years.
That shook me. In a country where murders routinely receive a sentence of 15 years this seemed pretty harsh. I mean for a misdemeanor that carried a max sentence of about half a shoplifting charge to get translated to 25 years seemed extraordinary.
I asked him if he was locking me up for 25 years. He became apologetic and said no, he was only arresting me as being undesirable. He then began a strange litany that continued through our brief relationship. He would really appreciate it if I would just plead guilty and then offer to pay my own way home because he was already over budget and it would help him out a lot . . .
I asked for my lawyer and a rep from the US government. He said that was not his job and that the police should already have taken care of that. He then told me I was in a maximum security facility as he had no place else to put me . . . I was considered too dangerous to put in one of the Immigration Detention Centers. Then in his rhythmic cadence he admitted he was the one who made the decision. He then gave me his card and said I should call him if I had any questions. He was K.W. (Ken) McMurtry. I’d never seen a nickname in parenthesis on a business card before.
As I stare at the card I wonder how long it will take them to figure everything out. I wonder if I’ll care or if I’ll even be alive to tell them they messed up.
I don’t spend too much time in meditation because Bob Moriarity comes in. He’s the Social Worker.
He’s a hard guy for me not to like. When I talk to him I realize that my voice is rasping with desperation. I asked him to call my lawyer and to call my friend. I felt a huge wave of relief when he said, “No problem.” It doesn’t take much to not feel so all alone.
Talking to the social worker I forgot the main prison rule of NOT talking, of telling anyone as little as possible. None of these people care about you. Anything they ask is for their benefit and to say it is to help you is a lie. Stay quiet. Wait for a lawyer.
I told Moriarity about the heart attack, about my friend and about my puppy, about the McMurtry and his recent visit. It was not an easy flowing conversation but I was forth right.
It seemed to agitate him. He said he was leaving now to make the calls for me. After he left the guard yelled at me through the door. I don’t know what he yelled but the tone was enough. Probably something about my dark glasses. They let me keep them but they really bugged the guards.
I didn’t sleep well that night. No surprise. I think I was starting to regain consciousness.
The first thing the next morning a guard opened the cell door. “Get you s___ together. You’re moving a__hole.”
I’d been in the infirmary. I was about to experience the sad hell that is Maplehurst Prison proper.