Revisiting the ‘powderkeg’

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 28/04/2016 (2918 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

I have spent many working days judging the guilt or innocence of people.

As a judge, and for a time as the province’s chief provincial court judge, I have the power to send people to prison for the crimes they committed. But 40 years ago, I was the one behind bars.

I was imprisoned for three days in what is now called the Headingley Correctional Centre.

My crime? Working as a summer intern at the Winnipeg Free Press.

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In retrospect, it wasn’t the smartest decision I’ve made.

In 1976, the editors at the Free Press had the idea to send a reporter undercover to the Headingley Jail to do a story from an inmate’s point of view. I was a young cub reporter and enthusiastically agreed, although I had yet to be exposed to a “life” of crime and incarceration.

After signing papers absolving the province of any liability in case of injury or death, I was promptly put under arrest and processed as an inmate. Only the warden, government officials and my editors initially knew my status.

I was booked for a property offence, fingerprinted and photographed. It was humiliating and humbling being stripped of my clothes and belongings, subjected to all manner of personal searches, and clothed in prison garb.

I had to carry my mattress on my back upstairs to my cell in what the inmates called “the Penthouse” — the third and top floor of Headingley.

Cell No. 134, in Block 8, was my new home. A six-by-eight-foot room with a bed, sink, toilet and bars. Block 8 was a series of 19 individual cells with a narrow common area running in front of the cells. The whole cellblock was locked in by bars. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

Upon my arrival, I was accosted by an inmate. He grabbed my collar, pushed me against the bars and threatened bodily harm while accusing me of being a “narc.”

I did not invoke any right to remain silent. Fearing for my life, I squealed like a pig and told him who I was and why I was there. He let me go, but, ensuring I would have a sleepless night, warned inmates might “burn me out” if they felt I was lying. Or they might do it just for fun.

At that time, it was possible for an inmate to light a match, reach around the bars of one cell to another and attempt to ignite the intended victim’s mattress. That first night, I sat against the back wall with the mattress pulled up tight around me so no one could accomplish the task. It was a long and sleepless night.

I was stripped of dignity and most personal control over my life. That reality hit hard. My day was regulated by the jail’s timetable. You had no watch, and there are few clocks. Buzzers sounded to tell you when to get up; buzzers sounded to tell you when to eat.

(I heard those buzzers in my sleep for months. It took a long time to rid myself of recurring nightmares and night sweats as I dreamed I really had done something bad and ended up incarcerated for a long time.)

Word of my status quickly spread, so many inmates came to know who I was. I was summoned to the warden’s office because he had heard I was terrified and asked if I wanted out. One of the leaders in the jail — a big, scary-looking, scarred and tattooed hulk of a man — sat down at dinner with me and asked if I was getting “danger pay” for doing the story and if my family would get anything if I got hurt.

When I said no, and asked why, he replied with a chuckle: “What happens if we kill you?” I nervously laughed. I was hoping he was kidding but wasn’t sure. At the time, I wrote: “I was scared, damn scared when I was in the joint.”

I came face to face with those who had committed crimes. I found out how many were repeat offenders and that some considered Headingley their second home. I learned most had suffered from deprivation in life, including homelessness, literacy issues, addiction issues, lack of impulse control and more.

In the end, I wrote a feature story that was published Aug. 14, 1976. It included my “mug shot” and the headline Headingley: a powderkeg ready to blow.

It took two decades but that headline, drawn from one of my comments in the story, was sadly prophetic.

The infamous Headingley riot in 1996 resulted in several guards and about 30 of the 320 inmates being injured, some seriously, while the outmoded jail — built in 1931 — was badly damaged to the tune of several million dollars.

It took months to repair the damage, and it sparked a significant revision to the way jails are run in Manitoba. It is considered a watershed of change because, in the riot’s wake, case management, labour relations and offender management changed for the better, and new buildings were added to the old.

In the 1976 story, I wrote that confusing rules, dirty conditions, chronic overcrowding, the lack of rehabilitative facilities, dehumanizing punishment techniques and racial tensions were combining to create an explosive atmosphere. Tension and resentment between the inmates and guards were high. After three days, I was glad to get out and was drained by the whole experience.

After I graduated from law school, and while in my articling year, I was asked by lawyer Hersh Wolch, to go to Winnipeg’s Public Safety Building to defend a man in custody for a charge of theft. I took the file, and when I saw my new client, I recognized him from my Headingley days. I didn’t know his full name but knew him as “Smiley.” Smiley recognized me, too, and blurted out, “Hey, man, how are doing? When did you get out?” I responded: “Get out? Heck, I am your lawyer!”

Evidently, Smiley wasn’t one of the inmates who knew my true identity. He became upset, refused to meet me and told the guards I was an ex-con pretending to be a lawyer. It was pretty funny, but not to Smiley.

In the last four decades, my knowledge and experience with jails have expanded and changed. I practised as a criminal defence lawyer for several years before becoming a prosecutor and later a judge. During those years, I had the opportunity to visit jails, deal with federal and provincial corrections officials and, of course, sentence many people to jail.

When the Free Press approached me and asked me to do a follow to my 1976 story, I enthusiastically agreed.

This time, however, there would be no going undercover. In this day and age, that’s not going to happen anywhere. Jails have become too dangerous, and we are much more aware of security issues. The Free Press also wanted some of its staff to accompany me while I visited the jail to document the many changes since my incarceration.

What we didn’t count on was significant resistance. To his credit, then-attorney general Gord Mackintosh embraced the concept and thought it was a terrific way to educate people on the prison system. However, the same was not true of some members of the corrections bureaucracy. They said there was no way a reporter and photographer were going to come in. In the end, they agreed to meet with me at the jail and answer my questions but said a tour with the Free Press was not going to happen.

We took what we could, and I went to Headingley earlier this year to meet with Greg Skelly, executive director of adult custody for Manitoba, and Michelle Duncan, Headingley superintendent. I have known Skelly for years and have always enjoyed a friendly relationship. I didn’t know Duncan but was quickly impressed with her background, knowledge and outlook on corrections.

The first thing I noticed when I arrived at the perimeter of the jail was the “no smoking” sign. That rule applies to inmates, guards and visitors alike. It is a far cry from 1976 when anyone could smoke anywhere. The signs also stated no one could proceed on the property without authorization, which was another change. It was a lot more restrictive now, and, in fact, you have to check into the guardhouse gate before you can proceed further. That didn’t exist in 1976.

The original administration building is still there, centring the guts of the old jail, but there has been so much growth. Buildings were added after the riot to separate and house inmates, and the old water tower was demolished.

Entering the administration building was like stepping back in time 40 years. Nothing had changed, not even the signs over the doors.

Skelly, Duncan and I met in the boardroom. I asked to record our interview so I could later accurately recall the conversation. That was met with a polite but firm “no.”

Much of what we talked about I already knew through my experiences: the culture of the jail had changed significantly, much of it to do with the 1996 riot.

Back in the day, jail guards were jail guards (or “bosses”), and their main job was to supervise and discipline inmates. Now, they are known as correctional officers. Their job now is not just to watch and guard but to work with the inmates, get to know them, plan for their release and provide support in addition to the obvious responsibility to monitor and discipline. Correctional officers not only have to deal with security issues and suicide prevention, they also plan for risk management and do what they can to help an inmate succeed both inside the jail and once released into the community. It is a stressful and challenging job.

There were about 250 inmates in the jail at the time I went in; now there are more than 800 (even though the official capacity is 549). Granted, more space has been added, but not that much. Prison and correctional inmate counts have skyrocketed over the last 40 years, placing huge stress on resources. The makeup of the inmate population has changed significantly, too.

 

The population

Forty years ago, Headingley was populated with people mostly convicted of property crimes such as theft and break-and-enter. (A provincial correctional facility holds inmates sentenced to jail up to two years less one day. More than that, and they go into the federal penitentiary system.)

As well, there was a significant number serving short sentences for driving impaired or driving while disqualified. There were some people convicted of violent offences but not many. There was a segregation unit (for an inmate’s own protection) for those convicted of sexual offences or those known as informers or “rats.”

Most of the general population was housed in the main building, which has substantially remained unchanged to this day, in either blocks or dorms.

The dorms were rather bleak in comparison to the cellblocks. In the dorms, men lived together and shared washroom and shower facilities. There were no individual cells. In 1976, I wrote the dorms were cramped and dirty, and there was virtually no privacy.

Some inmates were housed in annexes separate from the main building. These were reserved for low-risk offenders or those nearing their release date. They had a lot more freedom and ate their meals separately from the general population. There was a section in the basement of the main building for those serving weekend sentences. It was called the “birdcage” (exactly what it looked like).

The inmates on remand — those denied bail but facing trial and still presumed innocent — were housed in a separate area away from the main population. Other than weekenders, those in annexes, those in protective custody and those on remand, all inmates ate together three times a day in the main dining room. There is still a sign in that room noting the maximum capacity of 220 people, but inmates no longer eat together there. It has been converted to other uses.

In 1976, there were groups of natives and whites (as they were called then); each seemed to have an informal leadership and were generally segregated in living arrangements. There were significant numbers of indigenous people in jail, but that number now has skyrocketed. Currently, aboriginal people are significantly overrepresented in Manitoba jails, making up between 60 per cent and 70 per cent of inmates while only representing roughly 16 per cent of the population.

In 1976, there wasn’t the presence of organized or street gangs there is today. The rise of gangs has significantly impacted the job of corrections. In order to ensure safety, jail officials had to develop sophisticated intelligence systems to identify gang members and ensure inmates are placed in a situation where their individual compatibility won’t raise safety concerns. In other words: if you put the wrong people together, you have a recipe for disaster. As a result, there is a constant rotation of inmates between the various provincial correctional centres in order to ensure security and safety concerns are addressed.

Gone also are the days when the jail was mostly populated with low-risk or property offenders. It is now overwhelmingly populated with people convicted of violent, including sexual, offences.

As well, 40 years ago, mental hospitals housed those with severe mental illnesses. Many of those facilities have since closed, and the philosophy changed to integrate those with mental illness into the community. Unfortunately, many people who come through the courts suffer from some form of mental illness.

Depending on how you define and assess mental illness, studies show up to 80 per cent of inmates suffer from some form of diagnosed or undiagnosed mental illness, while also dealing with a drug or alcohol addiction. In federal studies, about 13 per cent suffer from a major mental disorder such as schizophrenia or bipolar disorder, while the vast majority of other inmates present with some other mental disorder such as depression or personality disorder. The figures are similar in other provinces.

This has added a significant dynamic to the populations of modern-day jails and to the treatment and detention of those with mental illnesses. Many have commented jails are not designed to house the mentally ill, and jails have essentially become “the asylums of the 21st century.”

It has often been said you can generally characterize people who come in contact with the criminal justice system in two ways: “poor souls and bad souls.”

“Poor souls” are often those who have lived a life of deprivation due to poverty, mental-health issues, discrimination, racism, homelessness, literacy issues and the like. “Bad souls” are just bad.

The bad need to be separated from society in order to ensure public safety, but the poor souls don’t necessarily belong in jail. Many can be helped with intervention to assist them with their problems and to manage their risk in the community. Granted, it’s always a little more complicated because it does depend on the nature of the offence and the background of the offender, but “poor souls and bad souls” is an understandable description of those who commit criminal offences.

Domestic-violence cases have also significantly impacted the population. Society and the criminal justice system took a different view of domestic violence 40 years ago. Few cases were investigated, fewer individuals charged and much fewer convicted. The impact of the 1997 murder of Rhonda Lavoie, who was killed by her husband, and other similar tragedies have changed that outlook — and rightfully so. Partner abuse is a serious crime that has led to many more being charged, convicted and jailed.

In 1976, only a handful of inmates in Headingley were there on remand, meaning they had been charged but hadn’t been convicted of a crime. They were housed in a dorm of their own. Today, more than 65 per cent of Headingley’s population is on remand. The number of those not convicted of a crime far outnumbers the number of sentenced prisoners.

Some say Canada has a system of “catch and release” or a “revolving door,” but these clichés fail to identify the complex nature of bail and remand. Because of a combination of increased bail denials and lengthy delays in the criminal justice system, many “presumed innocent” people languish in jails across the country.

And while in the past, remand prisoners were separated and denied access to programming, that no longer happens. Both convicted and those presumed innocent are mixed together and separated only by the risk they may pose or by the program they might be in.

The facility

I hardly recognized my old cellblock. What is overwhelmingly obvious is the overcrowding. While it still has the look, smell and feel of 40 years ago, it is depressing to see far more inmates stuffed into the small cells and common areas.

There is no room for privacy and personal space, and the whole area looked cluttered and in disarray. Unless an inmate has a job or some special place to go on a particular day, they will be there for up to 23 hours a day. They sleep, eat, watch TV, play cards, and go to the bathroom all in this small area. The only break is the one hour the inmates are allowed out to exercise in the gym or the yard.

After the 1996 riot, to reduce the number of inmates who could interact together, the cellblocks were divided in half. My old Block 8 still has 19 individual cells, but the area is split in two with 10 cells on one side and nine on the other; the common area is now also split. The cramped six-by-eight-foot cells, like the one I was housed in, appear smaller still because they each now hold two inmates.

Men live like sardines in a can. Old Block 8 would have held 19 prisoners in 1976; now there are 38.

My nostalgic recollection of cell No. 134 quickly disintegrated. As I walked, peering in at the cells and inmates, I had an incredibly uncomfortable feeling in my gut. Too many men, not enough space. Like a car crash, I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t turn away.

Inmates no longer eat in the big main dining hall; they either eat their meals in their living area in a dorm or in a cellblock. The idea is to keep inmates separated into smaller groups in order to lessen the risk of problems. All meals — more than 3,000 daily — are produced in the main kitchen by inmates supervised by staff. The kitchen is a busy place and a good opportunity for inmates to work in a place where the ability to work is limited.

Some may say, “Well, they did the crime, they should do the time, and no tears should be wept for them.” But it’s a pipe dream to think if we put people in situations such as this they will come out rehabilitated and less of a risk to society. In reality, they come out much worse — and so many haven’t been convicted of a crime. They are innocent until proven guilty.

There have been some positive physical changes since the riot. A new section of the jail was added and houses a modern section of cells and the differential needs and intensive supervision units. In this area — modern and bright — an overhead command centre of correctional officers monitors five separate areas of inmates. It is all visible to the eye and all monitored by closed-circuit TV. Inmates in these areas are separated again by risk or mental-health issues, but the model is one of direct supervision. Correctional officers are in these areas with the inmates in addition to everyone being monitored from the command centre.

As well, a former annex is now part of the Winding River Therapeutic Centre. Inmates who wish to get treatment for addiction issues can apply, and, if they are accepted, they leave the main block and live separately with other inmates. The daily emphasis is on learning about addiction and getting help and treatment. The program is intense, and it isn’t for everyone. But if you are committed to change, it could change your life.

Another former annex is now the Assiniboine Treatment Centre for sexual offenders.

Drugs, alcohol, weapons, jobs

Drugs have always been present in jails, but now street drugs of all types are available. It is a significant issue for correctional officials because an inmate high on drugs poses higher security risks to everyone. The authorities know it and go to elaborate lengths to minimize the presence of drugs in the institution but, regrettably, drugs still get in.

Weapons, both homemade and imported, are always a risk. And with weapons being fashioned with materials not detectable with regular metal detectors, jail officials are always challenged to keep screening methods ahead of the game.

There are still few jobs available for inmates. There is a tailor shop where inmate clothing is made, along with star blankets and other items. They can work in the kitchen, or they can learn how to repair computers at a computer-refurbishment shop. There is also a bicycle-repair shop, an upholstery shop and a laundry where inmates work and all institution laundry is handled.

But while those are great programs, there are simply not enough jobs to go around. Many inmates just sit idly passing the time as best they can.

 

Modern approach

Forty years ago, the emphasis was simply housing inmates. Guards were guards, and that was their only job. There was some programming for those who wanted it, such as Alcoholics Anonymous, but rehabilitation wasn’t at the fore.

Corrections officials realized in order to ensure safety in an institution and to provide an inmate with appropriate assistance in an institution to lessen their risk to reoffend, intensive specialized programming needed to be developed. They have done that at Headingley. The programs and dedication of staff are impressive.

There are now three aboriginal elders on staff full time, along with culturally appropriate programming, a cultural building and three sweat lodges. As well, the institution has psychiatric nurses and contract psychiatrists available to assist inmates with mental-health issues.

 

Postscript

A copy of my mug shot (I was inmate No. 1524-76) has always sat in a small frame on the desk of any office I have occupied.

Several years ago, when I was a Crown attorney, a few of my colleagues put a copy of that photo in the reception area with a note identifying the person in the picture as a dangerous individual, and, if seen, to immediately call security.

One day, a temporary employee was working the front desk, saw the picture, read the caption, saw me and called security. It resulted in a few tense moments until the humour of all of it became obvious.

My mug shot still sits in that small frame as a reminder of my time in the joint. It is now a fonder memory than it was when it was taken so many years ago. While much has changed, much has not. There are still poor souls and bad souls, and I guess sadly it will always be that way.

A peek behind bars

Archive photos of Headingley Jail in 1956

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