Murder at McDonald's

by Jessome, Phonse;

  In the early winter months of 1993, while the three prosecutors were immersed in the McDonald’s file, many residents of the community had put the tragedy behind them. A normal routine had settled in at the Sydney River McDonald’s, where some of the workers organized a walkathon to raise money for the victim’s families, and others had written a song in tribute to their fallen friends. “Whispers in the Wind” was a touching acknowledgment of the loss, but it was also a promise. The four employees who had so violently been removed from the workplace would not be forgotten by their colleagues at McDonald’s.

  I met the workers who had written the song, and interviewed them for an ATV feature. They rehearsed the song and played it through a few times for the camera; what was lacking in polished professionalism was more than adequately compensated by the genuine emotion expressed by the two young women and three young men from McDonald’s. They had worked the same shifts and carried out the same duties as their fallen co-workers; they were well aware that it could have been them. For the TV interview, the group wore part of their McDonald’s uniforms—not the formal pinstriped shirts, but bright pastel T-shirts emblazoned with the corporate logo. The name McDonald’s was not neatly printed across the front of the shirts; instead, it was stylishly scrawled in an arc that had a flavour of fun and vibrancy. The contrast was striking—five young adults, who would ordinarily be enjoying the carefree energy of youth, were singing of death, loss, and eternity. Although the lyrics did not say it explicitly, the song spoke of what the murders had done to them. They had lost some of their innocence—they no longer could take life for granted—but they refused to accept that life could simply end for no good reason, that all the dreams and plans of youth could be wiped out by a single senseless act. “Whispers In The Wind” dealt with the anxiety the young people felt in their sudden awareness of mortality. In the song, the young people vowed always to remember the names and smiles of the fallen victims; the McDonald’s workers wanted to be sure the lives of their friends meant something, that they would live on in the hearts of the people whose lives they touched.

  After hearing their song, I called a friend who owned a recording studio in Glace Bay. Tom O’Keefe of Overtom Productions had told me that he, like many people in the community, wanted to do something to help the families of the McDonald’s victims. When he heard that some workers from the restaurant had written a song, he immediately agreed to donate some studio time and production guidance to the group. He would help them make a cassette tape of their song, and they could sell it to raise money for the trust funds now in place for Arlene MacNeil and the families of Neil Burroughs, Donna Warren, and Jimmy Fagan. The hopes of the young McDonald’s workers were realized: “Whispers in The Wind” was now a permanent tribute to the victims. The tape gave more meaning to their message. They could hold it in their hands—it was not as fleeting as they now knew life could be.

  While I was interviewing them for the ATV feature, I was surprised at how many questions these young people had for me. The psychologist who had arranged to have workers taken through the crime scene before the restaurant reopened had hoped that the visit, and the explanations offered by Dave Roper, would eliminate some of the speculation and fear among the workers. That was not the case with this group. They asked me how much I knew about what had happened inside; they wanted to know if a knife had been used. Mostly, they wanted to know if their questions would ever really be answered. When I covered the murder trials, would I be allowed to reveal what had happened at McDonald’s? I explained that it all would become public knowledge, maybe not during the first trial but certainly after the last one. Then I asked them if they could tell me anything about the suspects. There wasn’t much to say about Derek Wood; they had only worked with him briefly, and while he was friendly enough, he hadn’t really made much of an impression. But it was different now, they admitted. Derek Wood had made a powerful impression on a great many people. The young men had a clearer picture of Darren Muise, whom they also knew. They said he was a nice guy, but had a very annoying habit. No matter what you told him, he had a story to top it—if you broke your arm, Muise would say he broke both. No-one really took him too seriously when he told his stories, but he was generally liked, despite this tendency to exaggerate.

  The question I had been asked by the McDonald’s workers was one I faced almost on a daily basis. Because of the severity of the crime, television coverage had been closely scrutinized, and many people in the community had come to identify me with the McDonald’s case. I would be at a coffee shop, or out interviewing someone on a completely unrelated story, and someone would stop and ask: “Will you be able to tell us everything that happened?” I was asked this question by politicians who I thought would have an understanding of the court system, and by union leaders, housewives, and scores of other people I had never seen before. When the crowds at the courthouse later dwindled, during the preliminary hearings for Derek Wood and Freeman MacNeil, there was a feeling that interest in the case was dying off. That wasn’t really true. The anger and shock had subsided, but people still had a strong desire to know what had happened at McDonald’s. They were willing to wait, but they wanted to be reassured that the truth would finally come out.

  Thirteen

  As the winter of 1993 melted into spring, the first of the three McDonald’s murder trials was set to begin. Derek Wood was taken first to the Bicentennial Gymnasium in Sydney, where he would enter his plea on the charges against him, and where jury selection for his trial would be made. The courthouse was not big enough to to accommodate the crowd of prospective jurors. Jury notices had been sent to 500 registered voters in the Sydney area, of whom 350 were asked to come to the gymnasium on April 21; the others would be summoned only if 12 impartial citizens could not be chosen from the first group. Of the 350 people expected, however, only 179 Cape Breton County residents gathered on the first day of jury selection. Because of the outdated voters list used for jury selection, notices had been sent to people who no longer lived in the area—and even to a few who had died.

  The gravel parking lot outside the gym was enclosed by wooden barricades, watched over by security guards and Sydney police officers. Death threats against the accused men had been a part of this case for some time, and they were being taken seriously. The police and sheriff’s departments had received anonymous calls saying that Wood, MacNeil, and Muise would pay for what they did, and while such calls often figured in high-profile murder cases, they were still a matter of concern. Along with the phone threats, there were persistent rumours in the community that the suspects were going to be killed for what they did—rumours fuelled by gossip and speculation, as people remembered the anger the three men had generated, and pointedly hypothesized about whether the trials would in fact be needed. As officers of the court, the deputy sheriffs were responsible for Derek Wood’s safety, and they wanted to be sure that he would not be hurt on their turf. Sydney police were assisting the deputies by securing the perimeter of the gym, while private security officers, hired to supplement the sheriff’s department workforce, stopped cars at the parking-lot entrance to ensure that the occupants were arriving for jury duty and to direct them towards the cordoned-off parking areas. A Sydney police barricade, preventing motorists from driving behind the building, was quickly opened as the blue van carrying the suspect rolled into the parking lot, flanked by RCMP and city police vehicles. As the van continued around the rear of the gym—and away from TV cameras and curious spectators—a huge loading-bay door swung open, and the vehicle ducked inside. Only when the door had closed was Derek Wood taken out of the van.

  For prospective jurors, the process of getting inside the gym was a tedious one. Each person entering the building was searched with the aid of small portable metal-detectors, a procedure so slow that jury selection was delayed by an hour before everyone got in their place. Finally, a steel door at the front of the room opened, and a phalanx of burly law-enforcement officers entered. In their midst, unno
ticed by many of the potential jurors, walked Derek Wood, clad in a light-grey blazer and pants, dark shoes, and a white shirt and black tie. As Wood took his seat, I watched from my vantage point off to the side and looked for signs that the strain of the year in jail and the prospect of a murder trial were wearing on him. On the contrary, Wood’s bearing was relaxed and his expression nonchalant as he watched the goings-on around him. An image suddenly came to me, as Wood took his seat at the front of the gym—Derek Wood as a kid about to start a game of pick-up basketball. His chair was located in the “key,” the area where free throws are taken, and above the young murder suspect’s seat hung one of the basketball nets that had been pulled up to the ceiling as the gym was transformed into a makeshift courtoom.

  Supreme Court Justice Gordon Tiddman began the jury-selection process by asking if anyone was unable to sit on a jury for reasons unrelated to the specifics of the Wood case. Exemptions were granted to people collecting unemployment insurance benefits, because jurors are not available for work and thus do not qualify for UI. Also exempted were people with medical problems, and those whose employers—though allowing them to take time off work—would not pay their salaries while they performed their civic duty. Because of the number of people requesting exemptions, the process was slow, so those of us covering the start of the trial went outside to question some of the jurors who had been excused. Surprisingly, many said they believed they could have judged the case fairly, and that their reasons for leaving were financial or medical. Others said they were very happy to get away from the case.

  With the general exemptions out of the way, Justice Tiddman asked Derek Wood to stand and hear the charges against him. At 12:02 p.m., the remaining members of the jury pool listened as the judge read each count and the small blond man at the front answered. To the attempted murder of Joan Arlene MacNeil, to the unlawful confinement of Donna Alecia Warren, to the first-degree murder of Donna Alecia Warren, to the first-degree murder of Neil Francis Burroughs, and to the armed robbery, Derek Wood responded, “Not guilty.”

  Ken Haley then read a list of those who could be called to testify during the trial—151 possible witnesses, among them Darren Richard Muise and Freeman Daniel MacNeil. The prosecutors did not expect Muise and MacNeil to testify, but were keeping them on the witness list nonetheless; in fact, the Crown anticipated calling only 65 people to the stand—less than half of those on the list. Once again, the pool of potential jurors was drained—some had a relationship with one of the witnesses; others knew the accused, or one of the lawyers; still others worked for McDonald’s or were relatives of McDonald’s employees. By the end of the day, Justice Tiddman had excused 116 people, leaving a group of 63 for the final jury selection.

  On May 4, back at the county courthouse, the defence team representing Derek Wood began the process of challenging for cause, a series of questions designed to determine if jurors could be prejudiced against a defendant. Art Mollon, who led the questioning for the defence, wanted to know whether the prospective jurors had closely followed media coverage of the McDonald’s murders, whether they had a preconceived notion of the guilt or innocence of those charged, and whether they felt they could decide the case on the evidence and not on what they had heard in the community. Two other members of the jury pool then gave their opinion on the impartiality of the candidate, who was then considered one last time by Mollon and Crown prosecutor Ken Haley. Haley and Mollon were surprised that it was only 3:13 p.m. when they came to an agreement on twelve people acceptable to both sides in the case. The ten men and two women were sworn in by Justice Tiddman; the Wood trial was ready to begin.

  Perhaps the most important part of the trial took place in the six days between the jury selection and the calling of the first witness. This was the time devoted to the voir dire hearing into Derek Wood’s confession, which was key to the Crown’s case. Voir dire refers to a trial within a trial, in which witnesses are called and evidence presented. But unlike a regular trial, there is no jury, and the central issue—rather than innocence or guilt—is the legality of the evidence in question. Can it be presented to a jury? Justice Tiddman heard testimony from the police officers who had contact with Derek Wood on May 7 and May 16, 1992; watched the video-taped interview with Wood, conducted by Constables Wilson and Mahoney; and listened to the lawyers’ arguments. Mollon stated his case clearly: anything and everything that happened after Derek Wood asked for his lawyer could not be allowed as evidence. To allow the confession to be admitted, said Mollon, would be a violation of his client’s rights. Ken Haley countered that Wood, who had been in custody little more than a week earlier, was well aware that he need only tell police he wanted his lawyer, and they would assist him. Besides, Haley said, Wood had asked for and been given legal counsel earlier in the interview in question. Neither lawyer got an immediate answer. Justice Tiddman reserved decision on the matter until the morning of May 10.

  From left, Karl Mahoney, Phil Scharf, and Jim Wilson chat after testifying during the admissibility hearing at the start of Derek Wood’s trial. [Print from ATV video tape.]

  In the middle of all the uncertainty came the first anniversary of the McDonald’s murders. The Sydney River restaurant was closed for the day and barricades, festooned with roses in honour of the victims, were placed at the entrance of the driveway. Another ecumenical service was held near the restaurant, at Our Lady of Fatima church, and once again a large crowd listened as Father Stanley MacDonald repeated his earlier message—that the community was in desperate need of healing. For the families of the four shooting victims, May 7, 1993, was spent in painful reflection on the tragedy that had shattered their lives a year before. Prayers were said over the graves of Neil Burroughs, James Fagan, and Donna Warren, and an unspoken question lingered in the cool spring air: Why did this happen? Perhaps the trials would provide an answer.

  Just after eight in the morning on Monday, May 10, Derek Wood arrived at the courthouse for the first day of his trial. He was left to cool his heels in the basement holding cell for some time—nothing would be happening in the courtroom until nine-thirty—but Cape Breton County Sheriff Wayne Magee had decided to bring the accused to court early, before the anticipated crowds began to gather outside. He needn’t have worried. There were enough people to fill the courtroom, but not many had to be turned away. Still, security was intense: access to the second floor of the courthouse was restricted, and no-one could enter the courtroom without being searched. For the relatives of the four victims, it was an unnerving experience to stand with their arms extended as guards ran wandlike metal detectors along their sides and between their legs. Al Fagan did not like being treated like a suspect when he had spent a long, productive life as a law-abiding citizen, and he especially disliked being subjected to such treatment in front of the TV cameras, which were recording the searches. A throng of journalists huddled near the courtroom entrance, and every few moments one of them would glance towards the doorway at the end of the hall, where Derek Wood and the security entourage would emerge when it was time for him to take his seat. The twelve jurors hustled quickly past the families and the reporters as they headed for the jury room, next to that same doorway. Cameramen were told they could only record the procession as Wood walked down the hall and entered the courtroom: they were not to get between him and the door, and they were not to follow him inside. By the third day of the trial, those restrictions would be lifted.

  As I waited for Wood to arrive, I tried to build on my earlier contact with the victims’ families. I had managed to persuade two of Neil Burroughs’ brothers to talk to me during the preliminary hearings, several months earlier; maybe the others would be more forthcoming now. But it wasn’t going to happen, at least not yet. They still rejected the idea of speaking to a reporter; heeding the advice of the Crown and the RCMP, they wanted to avoid saying anything that could cause problems in the courtroom. As I stood drinking a coffee across the hall from Olive Warren, Donna’s mother, an elderly woman at he
r side began pointing at me, obviously distressed. The woman, who turned out to be Olive’s mother, explained later that she had mistaken me for Derek Wood—she had seen him on the news and somehow confused the two of us—and couldn’t understand why I was being allowed to wander in the hall so close to her. Donna Warren’s grandmother was very nervous that morning, but she wasn’t the only one.

  For those of us covering the trial, the biggest concern was how much would we be able to report. The Crown had applied for a publication ban, arguing that potential jurors for the Muise and MacNeil trials must not be unduly influenced. The CBC and the Cape Breton Post had hired lawyers to argue against the ban, and Justice Tiddman would make a decision before the trial started. For me, this was an issue that went way beyond getting a good story. Prosecutors and police officers have sometimes argued that the media have no legal status before the courts, and that arguments about access unnecessarily drag out a trial. In fact, open access to the courts is one of the tenets of our justice system, and since most Canadians do not have time to attend trials, their only access is through media reports. I have even covered trials during which Supreme Court justices have taken time to thank journalists for helping keep the process open. Fictional accounts of reporters fighting for the public’s “right to know” have given the issue an undertone of cliché that even embarrasses reporters, but the fact remains that a closed and secretive court process is a threat to every citizen.