An articling student from Greenspan’s office visited him the day after the sentencing and found him bitter and downhearted. But a man who ended up on the same range two days later found him in a different mood, cheerful and optimistic. Playing cards, Molony would look at his watch and say, “Five o’clock. Time to lock the safe and go home.” Board games were a popular way of killing time, and he was invited to play Monopoly with members of a motorcycle gang awaiting trial on charges of drug trafficking. Someone had to handle the money while players bought and sold Atlantic City real estate.
“Who’s going to be the banker?” said one of the bikers.
“I will,” Molony volunteered.
“You will? Like fuck you will.”
“As I was saying,” Molony said through the laughter, “you’ll be the banker.”
Six years was difficult to imagine; even a third of it seemed an eternity. But any sentence was better than tortuous uncertainty, and Molony was hopeful his term would be reduced on appeal. Between unpleasant moments — being threatened, strip-searched, assailed by rock music, splashed with a cellmate’s urine — Molony found himself thinking of the people who had stood by him, risking careers. He thought of Brenda, her steadfast love and loyalty, and wondered how he could have endured without her support.
On the phone he asked Stu Butts to buy a ring and have Brenda’s father present it on her birthday. By Wednesday, her twenty-eighth birthday, she had already used up her two visits. Brian had to wait until Sunday for her response. As always, the visiting room was buzzing with urgent talk and stifled emotion. Brenda’s expression was unfathomable — was she restraining joy or bracing herself? Brian took the seat opposite and picked up the receiver.
“Well,” he said, behind shatterproof acrylic. “What’s your answer?”
“You haven’t asked me yet.”
“Will you marry me, Bren?”
“Yes. Yes, yes. You owe me a great big hug.”
“I love you. As of today, your hug’s collecting interest.”
11
AFTERMATH
“Trials never end, of course.”
– Robert Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
rom the Don Jail, Molony was transferred to Metro East Detention Centre, an overcrowded holding facility in Scarborough, Ontario. Everyone on the penitentiary range was awaiting shipment to a federal institution; the atmosphere was more settled. Molony scribbled questions and ideas about the software company, to keep himself occupied. When a girl from the office came to see him, he used the visit to determine which cheques should be released and contracts executed. One of the principals arranged a special visit to discuss the company’s long-term strategy. When Dr. Molony came to offer encouragement, Brian tried to cheer him up. Hopeful his sentence would be reduced on appeal, Molony carried on as if bars and guards were a brief inconvenience.
A month after the sentencing, Eddie Greenspan filed an appeal on the grounds that Judge Rogers had failed to consider the guilty plea as a mitigating factor. Greenspan argued that the six-year sentence was harsh and excessive and asked that it be reduced. The appeal was eventually dismissed by G. Arthur Martin — ironically, Greenspan’s mentor at law school — who said: “The offence itself was as grave a crime of fraud as can well be imagined.”
Molony, meanwhile, had been transferred to Joyceville, a medium-security prison set on 1,300 rural acres midway between Toronto and Montreal. Federal prisons in Canada are ranked on a scale of 1 to 7, S1 being minimum security and S7 maximum. Joyceville is rated S4 and, despite the double fencing and guard towers, considered one of the better places to do time. Constructed around an interior courtyard, it’s bleak, noisy, and daunting. Each range contains thirty cells and a common room where the men prepare coffee and play cards. The cells are dark and claustrophobic, the doors solid steel with peepholes. Among the 500 inmates are violent offenders serving life terms and burnouts more suited to psychiatric care. The inmate population is older than at many prisons, which makes for a more sedate environment. Still, the population is surprisingly youthful. Tattoos and muscular upper bodies abound; the air is charged with thwarted energy. Here, as Molony oriented himself, the reality of what he was facing hit home.
Molony wrote letters, received encouraging mail from strangers all over North America, and looked forward to seeing Brenda and his family, whose visits were deeply affecting despite the bleak surroundings and oppressive supervision. He was assigned to the accounting department of the prison; his banking skills made him useful, though the staff was wary and insisted he not be allowed near the computer. To tire himself enough to sleep, he played sports fanatically. Adjusting to prison routine, learning the ropes, he was struck by the dearth of reliable information about the available services and programs and the bureaucratic process of transfers and parole. This became the worst part of incarceration — his inability to find out how decisions were made. Most new inmates simply asked long-term inmates, who by definition were not experts on how to get out of prison. Some hired lawyers, but most lawyers had only theoretical knowledge. Everyone had a horror story. Molony met a young man named Smith who served months more than he should have because a critical report on another Smith ended up in his file.
Molony was also struck by the gambling in prison. One of the gangs controlled it. Each day betting lines were typed and circulated. You had to choose parlays, give two-run spreads on baseball games, and bet a minimum of a pack of cigarettes daily. Looking at the lines one morning, Molony was asked which teams he liked. “Are you kidding? These odds are atrocious.” A biker’s warning look was a lesson; thereafter he made no comment. Poker was also popular and kept some inmates perpetually in debt. You could buy your way out of canteen debt with cash. If you owed $100 in canteen, you could pay $40 cash. Visitors smuggled in money in bodily orifices. One inmate won eighty cartons of cigarettes, had trouble collecting, and enlisted the help of the bikers, who took a percentage. Some inmates asked to be put in protective custody. Gambling debts led to violence almost as frequently as drug debts.
A banking background proved useful in an unexpected way. Most inmates had to learn approved procedure, orderliness, and confidentiality. To Molony this was second nature. The real key to survival, though, was humour. The trick was to meet hostility with levity. He made this discovery soon after being sentenced, when a ringleader in the yard yelled, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Hey, Molony! If I walked into your bank to rob it, would you finger me?”
The whole yard seemed to freeze, awaiting his response. Yes was the wrong answer; if he said no he’d be called a liar — a direct challenge.
“I would have been too busy with my own thing.”
Only when everyone laughed, in amusement and relief, did Molony realize he had passed a crucial test.
One day at Joyceville his boss phoned downstairs to say Molony was on his way for a haircut and had to be back promptly. Molony found ten or twelve other inmates waiting their turn. “Molony’s next,” said the guard, which drew dirty looks from the others. The barber shop was a training school. The student barber was less than expert, a huge, unkempt, tattooed man wielding scissors and razor. As the guard criticized the barber’s work, Molony became aware of the breath on his neck. He couldn’t help wondering what the barber was in for. The guard kept up a steady stream of criticism; Molony could feel the barber’s rising anger.
“OK,” the barber finally said to the guard.
The guard inspected Molony’s head. “Why don’t you ask your customer what he thinks?”
“Terrific,” said Molony. “Looks great.”
“Only you forgot to do his beard.”
“I never do my beard,” said Molony, jumping out of the chair. He had stopped shaving after getting a rash and swelling on his neck from a communal razor. “Really. I understand the natural look is going to be big this year. This is just right.”
Molony helped with others’ parole applications, wrote letters for illiterates,
and began talking to Herb Smith, a member of the prison staff, about an orientation video for newly arrived inmates. The $4,000 budget was approved by Corrections Canada, and Molony ceased working in accounting to research the film. The half-hour video, One Third of Your Time, was broken into five parts: social and cultural development (a description of each program in the prison, from Alcoholics Anonymous to the Black Inmates and Friends Association); inmate purchasing (“A newcomer is given an advance loan when he enters the institution. Depending on your entry date, the advance loan is the only money you’ll see for up to five weeks. Budget accordingly”); recreation; arts and crafts; visits and correspondence. Once the research was complete, Molony began spending much of his time in the prison library, writing a script. He also found himself doing something he’d never done before — recording his thoughts and observations in a diary.
April 27. I’m a compulsive gambler who hasn’t made a bet in two years. Still suffering withdrawal symptoms. Nightmares, anxiety, claustrophobia.
May 2. Dentist looks like Frankenstein, old, grey-skinned, washed-up guy. His white coat says “Dentist” on the pocket, as if he has to look in the mirror to convince himself. He speaks very deliberately. “I’m here to help you, Brian. Let’s see how strong your teeth are.” He hauls out these oversize choppers and a giant toothbrush. “Now when you brush, go up and down like this, make sure you cover all the surfaces.” It seemed funny, but I guess this is the first time some inmates learn how to brush their teeth.
May 4. Doctor who gave me my mandatory medical said that when there was a killing in the prison, they usually found the guy who’d done it sleeping like a baby.
May 16. Many guys have “FTW” tattoos. FTW used to mean Funds Transferred by Wire. In here it means Fuck the World.
May 20. There’s a guy here called The Hammer. A homosexual propositioned him so he killed the guy with a hammer. When he got out another homosexual propositioned him. Killed him, too, so he’s back in. So the story goes.
June 12. Guy arrives from Millhaven, about sixty years old. Carries a golf ball, plays with it all the time, uses it as a basketball, baseball, football, volleyball. Hits it with his hand and chases it down like a dog. Too much homebrew, they say.
June 21. Father’s Day. One inmate tried to phone home collect with Father’s Day greetings. The family wouldn’t accept the charge. Pathetic, but how can you blame the family? Some of these guys have been inside fifteen, twenty times. Give a guy one chance, maybe two. But twenty?
June 22. One day after payday. Guys already bumming cigarettes. Drug and gambling debts.
June 29. Inmate named Wright. Girlfriend visits him one day, wife the next. He’s always afraid they’ll show up on the same day. Very moody guy, either elated or depressed. I said, “Are you Wilbur today, or Orville?” He liked that. “Wilbur,” he said. “Orville’s the one who gets in trouble.”
July 2. Mr. B. is 88 years old. Got ten years for accepting social security in both the U.S. and Canada. U.S. deported him on the understanding he’d go to a nursing home. But no nursing home would take him because of his criminal record, so he ended up here. So the story goes. Smokes and coughs all day. One day somebody tuned in a different show on TV. Mr. B. got up, shuffled over, changed it back to “The 20-Minute Workout.”
July 5. Got my own cell. Took an hour of cleaning just to find the sink and the toilet. Nice to look up and not see the top bunk.
July 12. An inmate from 1A stares at the TV for two hours, a zombie. He says, “They’re all dead, you know, they’re just images.” When they put the cuffs on him he says to the guard, “Do you really think this is a good idea?”
July 15. There’s a kid here trying to get parole so he can play for his high school basketball team. Good luck. Six years for armed robbery, 18 years old.
July 18. Interesting floor hockey game. On Saturday night I’d say 70 per cent of the population is either drunk or stoned.
July 19. An inmate: “Roses are red, violets are blue, I’m schizophrenic, and so am I.”
July 22. Witnessed a bad beating today. Violence is the first resort of a limited mind. One crack equals one fight.
July 26. An inmate got burned out of his cell. They probably thought he was a stool pigeon. Want a guy off your range? Throw paint remover and a match in his cell.
July 27. There’s a guy here from Montreal who got three years for robbing a couple. They didn’t have any money so they offered him a postdated cheque. He accepted it, giving his real name. So the story goes.
July 29. At 1:45 this morning I was awakened by a three-inch cockroach on my shoulder. Hit him with my shoe 83 times. Not a good night’s sleep.
July 30. The search dogs were in, Dobermans. They go into the cells to find drugs. Somebody told me the way they train the dogs is to addict them. One of the dogs crapped in a guy’s cell. He says to the guard, “You’re going to clean it up, aren’t you?” Good luck.
August 6. S. was grabbed and had his head smashed into the concrete. Started convulsing, tried to swallow his tongue. It’s called “doing the chicken.” All over a card game.
August 8. Strategy for doing time: Make few friends and no enemies.
August 10. Inmate in PC [protective custody] asks for a haircut. Convict barber goes down and does his hair. In the afternoon the inmate asks for the barber again. His hair isn’t short enough. In the meantime the barber has found out the guy is a rapehound. Shaves his head clean. The rapehound had to sit there and take it. The guards would have turned the other way. The barber would have said, “He tried to grab the razor.”
August 16. New guy on the range, K. He hopes to get out soon. He said, “Things are going real well. I’m in a drug rehabilitation program. They’re going to continue it on the street.” I said, “Have you stopped taking drugs?” He looked at me like I was crazy.
August 17. Way of getting drugs into prison. Fill a dead bird and throw it over the fence. Inmate on yard duty retrieves it.
August 22. Next week I get transferred to Bath.
“I met Brian on the admission range,” recalled Andrew C., who was at Joyceville for drug offences. “I was on the range a much shorter time because I was a repeater. Once you’ve been in the system you proceed fast. Everybody knew who Brian was. You know, ‘That’s the guy, that’s Molony.’ Brian never denied it but he was very low key. There was smaller fish than him, walking around like Mafia chiefs. He didn’t make anything of what he did. He knew how to behave without changing his character. He saw how to do time.
“When you move into the general population it can get heavy, but he didn’t seem scared. The intelligence in jail is a lot lower than his, and he knew how to avoid situations that turn into trouble. If somebody was known as a rat, Brian would treat him like he didn’t exist. He didn’t get too friendly with anybody. A lot of the inmates thought he had money put away. They’d ask him, ‘Where’d you put the bag, Brian?’ He’d turn it into a joke. ‘I wish,’ he’d say, ‘I wish.’
“In jail you see guys who are down, down, down. Brian stayed pretty much on the same level. Oh, he had ups and downs, but never too up or too down. I remember one time, these people came up to talk to him. When they were leaving, one of them asked how he got off with such a light sentence. That upset him — it’s one of the few times I remember seeing him depressed. He considered his sentence pretty heavy. The thing with the bank, it didn’t really go with who he was. I’m not sure he ever saw it as a crime, you know?
“He played tennis, ball hockey, whatever was going. You wouldn’t think so looking at him, but he’s quick physically. I think that’s what he lived off on the inside, sports. We played racquetball, two teams, two guys on each team. Sometimes we’d argue if the ball was in or out. Brian would say, ‘It was in.’ You couldn’t discuss it, he’d made up his mind. He makes this movement with his hand, brushing you aside. End of discussion.
“We played Monopoly and he always had to be the banker. He liked to win, he played hard and usually did
win. Everybody gambles in jail — for cigarettes, money, canteen, whatever — but not Brian. He played card games but he never gambled, even with the other guys who were in for gambling. They tried to seduce him — ‘Let’s play for a pop’ — but he wouldn’t. Like I said, he makes up his mind and that’s it. He started a program for gamblers in the prison and he took it seriously, you could tell. He’d made up his mind he wasn’t going to gamble.
“In jail you have these guys going crazy, betrayed by their women. I have my wife, I know it’s very difficult. Brenda drove down from Toronto every week. She was always there for Brian, but I don’t know if he needs other people that much. He was a banker, right? Well, he’s a banker in his personal behaviour, too. He lets you get so close, but not too close. I think Brenda might be the only person he’s really close to. Most women would have bailed out. She stuck by him and faced up to what he did. I don’t think it hurt their relations because she saw the decent part of him all along.
“Brian’s totally reliable, you don’t meet many guys like him. If he says he’ll do something, it’s done. Even after what he did I’d trust him with my money, no question, and there’s not many people I’d say that about. Youngest loans manager, eh? He judged people, their ability and their honesty, and usually he was right. He has that talent, you could see it in jail. It doesn’t matter that he’ll have this in his background. He’s the type of guy who’ll overcome it. He’ll be successful again. As long as he doesn’t go back to gambling.”
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