Richard Joyce and Terry Kennedy were arrested nine days later and charged with first-degree murder. In the trial the following year, it became clear that the murder had not been a robbery gone wrong, as they maintained, but a thrill killing of stabbing and torture with sexual overtones. Both men were sentenced to life with no eligibility for parole for twenty-five years.
After the murder, the gas bar was closed and then demolished. It is now the parking lot of a Shoppers Drug Mart. Some Kingstonians, including me, still find it difficult to drive past without remembering what happened there to Yvonne Rouleau.
I could not reconcile what I knew of the murder with the man I saw regularly in V&C. It was one of those cases where I wished I knew nothing about his crime. When Shane was at Bath, he would sometimes ask me to look up one of the other inmates on the computer to find out what he’d done. Not all of them, particularly the sex offenders, were as open about their crimes as he was. I did it a few times but then refused to continue. My natural curiosity was knocked right out of me. It was much too disturbing to know the truth about some of the men I was sitting beside in V&C, sometimes chatting and joking with them, getting to know their wives and children. I preferred to think they were all just drug dealers, which, on the spectrum of possible offences, had come to seem the least of it. This was a kind of denial, I suppose, but I was there to see Shane, not them, and I had no control over who else happened to be in the room.
Now Shane said the rumour around the prison was that Richard Joyce’s arrest had something to do with the DNA testing recently conducted on all federal inmates. At the time, I’d asked Shane if this was something he was worried about, something I should be worried about. “No, definitely not,” he’d said, and he was right.
The rumours about Richard Joyce were right too. Based on the new DNA testing, he was charged with the kidnapping and savage sexual assault of a nine-year-old girl on February 20, 1990, fifteen months prior to the Nozzles Gas Bar Murder. A week later, he pled guilty to the new charges even before the full DNA analysis had been completed.
The crime had taken place early on a Tuesday evening. The girl and her mother were planning to watch The Wizard of Oz on TV that night, and around six o’clock, the girl walked alone to the corner store to buy a bag of chips to have during the movie. It was a good neighbourhood. The store was three short blocks from her house, barely a five-minute walk in the early dark.
On her way back from the store, passing the public school she attended, almost home, she was grabbed by a man and forced screaming into his vehicle. He beat her into silence and drove her to a remote location northwest of the city, where he brutally assaulted her several times in several ways. By seven o’clock, her mother had called the police and reported her missing. By eight o’clock, the man had returned her to her neighbourhood and released her, threatening to kill both her and her mother if they told the police. He had never been caught. Until now. Richard Joyce was that man.
The street where that little girl and her mother lived is one block south of mine. The corner store to which she walked is my corner store. The public school she attended and near which she was abducted is the public school my son began attending six months later, when he started kindergarten.
It was because of what had happened to that little girl that I walked Alex to school and back every single day until he was twelve years old and in Grade 6. Even then, for the first two weeks, I hid behind a bush so I could see he’d reached the school safely. I only stopped because he caught me and was mortified. It was all because of Richard Joyce.
I could not believe that I had been sitting in the same room as the man who tortured that child and left all of us in my neighbourhood terrified for years. I could not believe that I’d admired him for being so good with his two young daughters. Richard Joyce went on to plead guilty to two other brutal sexual attacks on young girls, one with Down’s Syndrome.
I had often reflected on and tried to explain to my friends how becoming part of the prison community had stretched my mind, had forced me to see criminals as people who were also in need of compassion and understanding. But whatever arrangement I had made in my head to try to make sense of the fact that some of the men I saw regularly in the visiting room had committed horrific crimes, it could not be adjusted to accommodate this.
I was thankful that Alex was not coming to visit anymore.
Shane repeatedly apologized for being the one who’d put me in the position of having to be anywhere near such people. But I don’t think he ever fully understood either the impact the abduction of that little girl had had on me then or the impact the identification of Richard Joyce as her attacker was having on me now.
For him, this case served mainly to confirm three things he already believed.
Never trust anyone.
Never trust anyone in prison.
Never trust anyone in prison who is always smiling.
DESPITE HOW HARD SHANE HAD PUSHED, and despite the fact that I’d had a second positive Community Assessment, we had never been allowed to have Private Family Visits at Bath. The Bath Visitor Review Board had said we did not qualify because of the previous problems in our relationship, our eight-month separation, and the fact that they considered us a couple only since I’d started visiting him in October 2009. But at Frontenac, because now we had been together for another eighteen months with no serious problems, we were approved for PFVs, and I was given a new acronym: CLS. Common-Law Spouse. The standard PFV lasted seventy-two hours, but we would move up to that gradually: first we would have three twenty-four-hour PFVs, then three forty-eight-hour ones, and then, if and when they approved it, we could go all the way to seventy-two. These would take place once every month or six weeks.
Given the fact that we had not been entirely alone and unobserved for one minute since getting back together a year and a half ago, this development had us both beside ourselves with anticipation, more than ready to quit talking about sex and actually have some.
I reported to Frontenac that Monday morning in early March at ten o’clock carrying a small blue bag Brenda from the prison group had given me. With her gift had also come detailed instructions on how to prepare and pack for the occasion. Before the usual cleaning routine, there was now another whole series of steps to be taken. I was happy to do whatever it took to get myself in there. Mostly this involved laundry and plastic bags.
The first principle was to take in as little as possible, thus lowering the number of items that could set off either the ion scanner or the dog. Wash and dry all clothing to be worn or taken in, hoping that neither the laundry soap nor the dryer sheets contain any chemicals the ion scanner could mistake for heroin, morphine, LSD, or anything else in its repertoire. Upon removing each item from the dryer, drop it directly into a large clear plastic bag hung on the clothesline in the laundry room. Also wash and dry the little blue bag, which is never to be used for any other purpose besides PFVs, and put it into another large clear plastic bag on the clothesline.
Everything else must be wiped down and placed directly into appropriately sized Ziploc bags. This included all makeup and hair products, all personal hygiene items, all books, papers, and so on. I wondered if the plastic bag manufacturers, especially Ziploc, had any idea how important their products were in the carceral world. I imagined a TV commercial demonstrating their extensive use in this context.
Once everything has been washed and bagged, with the little blue bag open inside its large clear plastic bag, carefully transfer all other items into it. When the bag is packed, zip it closed and leave it inside the clear plastic bag. Put this directly into the trunk of the car and leave it there. Do not open the trunk again for any reason.
On the morning of the PFV, after performing the usual cleaning routine, get into the car and drive directly to the prison. Open the trunk. Remove the blue bag from the clear plastic bag. Leave the clear plastic bag in the trunk, nonchalantly sling the blue bag over your shoulder, and stride confidently from the par
king lot to the main building. Once inside, open a locker, put your car keys inside it, insert a quarter, remove the locker key, close the locker, tuck the key into your pants pocket. Do all this without putting the blue bag down on the floor or letting it touch anything around you. Wish you had three hands.
Do not sign in at the main desk as usual, but stand there until someone waves you down the hallway to V&C. Put your bag on a table and sign in on the clipboard beside the bubble. Prepare to be searched.
That Monday, the regular V&C officer, Grant, went through the contents of my bag, tsk-tsking at my Nicorette gum, making no comment on my granny panties or my KISS MY BASS nightshirt. Then he called for the dog handler. I was relieved to be spared the ion scanner this time but dismayed to see that the dog handler was Dwayne, the same angry man who’d yelled at me on the day of the car sweep. We moved to the children’s play area, where Dwayne spread my bag open on one of the low benches, so his dog could reach it. After snuffling through the bag, the dog then sniffed me front and back. He did not even wag his stumpy tail. Dwayne was not angry. The dog was not interested. All was well. Grant called Shane over the intercom and searched his backpack when he arrived.
We loaded up a metal wagon with our bags, a plastic laundry basket of towels and bedding, and a cardboard box marked with Shane’s last name and filled with the food we’d ordered for the visit. We’d spent one Saturday afternoon filling out the food order, choosing from the limited list of items that would then be purchased for us at the Food Basics store right across the road from Frontenac. Cheese, bread, margarine, milk, a can of coffee, two small striploin steaks, mushrooms, broccoli, potatoes, a frozen apple pie. The cost of the food, plus the ten-dollar delivery fee charged by the store to drive the food across the street, would be deducted from Shane’s inmate account. Today the food box was topped with a bouquet of fresh flowers he’d secretly ordered to surprise me. Try as we might to be economical in the months to come, even without splurging on steaks and flowers, the cost for a twenty-four-hour PFV was always at least fifty dollars, more than Shane cleared at his prison job in two weeks.
With Shane now towing the wagon behind him, we followed Grant to the trailers. There were three of them, each in their own small yard behind an eight-foot chain-link fence with a locked gate. In fact, only one of them was actually a trailer, very similar to one I’d lived in briefly in the trailer park in Canmore. The other two were both sides of a small prefab duplex, each with its own yard, entrance, fence, and gate. These two faced away from the prison, overlooking the fields and gardens to the south. Grant led us to the first one, closest to the visiting room, facing the stone wall and the guard tower of Collins Bay. He unlocked the gate, then the door. Shane and I unloaded the wagon and took everything inside. Grant took the wagon away, locking the gate behind him. I was too excited about the prospect of a whole twenty-four hours alone together to be bothered about being locked in. It was almost eleven o’clock. Grant would be back for the four-thirty count.
In what became our usual PFV routine, first we put away the groceries and made a pot of coffee. I arranged the flowers in a plastic water jug and set them on the kitchen table. Then we hung the towels in the bathroom and made the bed. Much as I had been eagerly looking forward to this moment, suddenly I felt a little shy. While clearly not feeling shy himself, Shane was uncharacteristically patient and said, “Maybe we should have something to eat first.” So while he put together a plate of cheese and toast, I snooped.
It was indeed a trailer, long and narrow like a train car, one room after another strung from front to back with a narrow hallway running down the right side. The kitchen was the first room, equipped like an ordinary slightly rundown kitchen anywhere with a double sink below one window that looked onto V&C and the cell area of Frontenac, and a small table and three chairs below a second window looking out at Collins Bay.
Between the fridge and stove was a stack of drawers: cutlery in the first, cooking utensils and many wooden spoons in the second. I laughed out loud when I opened the third drawer to find a collection of knives of all sizes—from a pair of humble paring knives to a set of gleaming black-handled butcher knives with blades two inches wide and nearly a foot long. The logic of the Correctional Service of Canada could always be counted on to boggle the mind. For all their endless fussing around about safety and security, did they not see anything peculiar about locking up inmates and their families with a dazzling and deadly array of knives?
“Good point,” Shane said, laughing. “But don’t mention it to anybody else.”
Beyond the kitchen, in an open concept layout, was the living room, furnished with a large couch and matching loveseat, a coffee table, two end tables with lamps, and a large television set. There was a phone on the wall in the hallway, a direct line inside to be used in case of emergency. The first room down the hallway was a child’s bedroom with a small bed, a crib, an overflowing box of toys. Next was the bathroom, with a toilet, a sink, a full-sized tub and shower. On the door of the bathroom storage cabinet was the same sign posted in V&C: SAFER NEEDLE CLEANING. I couldn’t resist poking around in the cabinet. In addition to cleaning supplies and extra toilet paper, there was an impressive selection of condoms in various sizes and colours and many shiny packages of lubricant. There were also three or four of the tiny bottles of bleach to be used for needle cleaning. They were all empty.
The last room was the bedroom, our bedroom for the next twenty-four hours: double bed, dresser, closet, two bedside tables, a second smaller TV. There were no security cameras or listening devices anywhere in the trailer, and the privacy their absence afforded us was palpable. My shyness disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, and we spent the rest of the afternoon in bed.
The phone rang shortly before four-thirty, Grant calling to tell us they were on their way. Stand up and be counted. Both inmate and visitor must be on their feet at the open door. The guards didn’t come into the trailer but chatted for a few minutes at the doorway, then inserted an electronic stick-like device called a “Deister” into the punch station on the outside door frame, and we were officially counted. They would return again at eight-thirty, then not again until eight-thirty tomorrow morning. Because this was only a twenty-four-hour PFV, they would return in mid-morning to bring us out. We would be interviewed by the keeper as to how the visit had gone, and then I would be on my way home.
We made supper, then lay around in the living room snuggling and watching TV in our pyjamas. Shane said he thought he might just have a shower. I said I thought I might just join him.
An hour later, while he was drying off and I was singing and doing a naked happy dance around the little bathroom, there was a sharp rapping at the bathroom door, which was then flung open to reveal Grant and a female officer. I grabbed for a towel, so embarrassed that I didn’t know whether to cover my face or my body. It was just after eight-thirty. We had not heard the phone ringing when they called to let us know they were on their way. We had not heard them knocking on the outside door. We had not heard them coming down the hallway.
Grinning, Shane said, “Oh shit.”
Grant said, “Well, at least you’re standing up,” and they left laughing.
Back in the bedroom later, we settled in for the night. I was beginning to twitch some for want of a cigarette, and my jaws ached from chewing all that Nicorette gum. Being without my computer, my iPad, and my iPhone all day had been something of a digital relief, but now I caught myself wishing I could check my email and call Alex to see how everything was at home. But the sex and the novelty of having a sleepover at the prison more than made up for these deprivations.
I could not sleep. The spotlight on the twenty-foot-high stone wall of Collins Bay bore directly down on the bedroom window. The slats of the blinds were broken and bent. The room was filled with horizontal bands of white light—across the walls, the floor, the bed, and our bodies. Even with my eyes shut tight, I could still see them, like the black and white stripes on an old-f
ashioned prison uniform. Shane snored on beside me, oblivious.
AFTER MUCH LOBBYING ON SHANE’S PART, we received permission to have counselling together inside Frontenac with the new community chaplain. Valerie, the previous chaplain, had left Kingston to become the minister of a church in a small town out west. Her replacement, Edward Blake, had been a prison chaplain in various institutions for almost thirty years. Now as community chaplain, he would continue going inside to meet with individual inmates while also working with the recently released and their families outside. While Shane was still at Bath, I had started seeing Edward myself once a month, meeting at my neighbourhood Tim Hortons for lunch. I also saw him at the monthly potluck dinners now being held at 99 York, the building where I had attended the women’s group. For ex-offenders and their families, as well as the loved ones of those still in prison, these were congenial social gatherings with no agenda other than sharing food, stories, and many boisterous games of dominoes.
Shane had also been seeing the chaplain once a month at Frontenac. We were both benefiting from our separate sessions with Edward, a wise and compassionate man well-educated in the psychology of both prison and relationships. In theory, being able to see him together would multiply the benefits for both of us. In reality, through no fault of Edward’s, it only created more problems.
First there were security issues. We were meeting one afternoon a month in an office in the chapel. This meant I had to park my car in the visitors’ lot, walk to the main building to sign in, walk to the chapel to meet Edward and Shane, then do it all again in reverse when we were done. At first this was simple enough. The parking lot and the chapel were both clearly visible from the main building: the guards could see where I was and what I was doing at all times. Then it was decided I must be escorted for all this walking back and forth. For a month or two, my escort was the prison chaplain—not Edward, but the full-time on-site chaplain. Then it was decided I must be escorted by a guard, then by a keeper. Each time I went for counselling, the rules had been changed, causing more and more disruption for more and more people.
This Is Not My Life Page 26