Just chatting with an ex-con
By Peter Duffy - Chronicle Herald
Canada
OUR interview is barely 10 minutes old when the ex-convict becomes upset.
A rather large man, Bob sets down his coffee and leans forward across the table.
"It’s a sad thing to think there are people out there like you, Duff," he says gruffly. "I’ve read your opinions. You think I’m not being punished enough!"
I blink and lean away. "But you must admit, some people who commit really nasty crimes just get a slap on the wrist."
To my relief, the big man nods. "For some kind of crimes, it’s not enough," he agrees. "Violent crimes against women, like rape. And guys are getting three years for child molestation. It sickens me!"
In Bob’s opinion, someone who robs another of their innocence should get a minimum of 10 years.
And as for today’s life sentences, he scoffs. "I think life should mean life!" he exclaims.
"At least we’re agreed on that," I say, much relieved to sense Bob’s irritation diminish.
Bob isn’t this man’s real name; he prefers a pseudonym. As an unemployed ex-con, life is hard enough.
The former Halifax computer programmer has spent more than four years inside federal and provincial prisons, including Dorchester in New Brunswick. He was released in 2004 after serving his time for a string of thefts and break-ins, many with violence, to support his cocaine habit.
Bob, 53, called me out of the blue, to put me straight about a few things.
What set him off was a Chronicle Herald article suggesting child molesters receive what’s known as jailhouse justice, beatings and worse from other inmates, once they’re incarcerated.
"It’s not going to happen," he proclaims.
According to Bob, those who prey on children, the weak and the elderly are kept separate from the general prison population. The segregation starts as soon as they’re sentenced and step into the sheriff’s wagon.
"Mutts," Bob calls them. "Scum"
And yes, he agrees, they’re despised by the rest of the inmates, whom he refers to as "solids," bank robbers and the like.
The thing is, says Bob, you’ll never get your hands on the mutts; they exercise and have their breaks at different times.
They’re even segregated at minimum-security facilities like Westmorland Institution, a farm in the shadow of Dorchester Penitentiary.
Bob did time at Westmorland and says inmates are told bluntly, if you mess with the mutts, you’ll be transferred up the line to a higher-security prison.
It’s just not worth the risk. Why jeopardize the easy time you do on the farm?
Bob says he served some of his time at the farm and life was good. Inmates enjoyed condo-style accommodation, complete with the movie channel, hardwood floors, oak cupboards and the option to buy their own groceries.
Heck, they weren’t even locked in. "You don’t have to break out of there," he chortles. "Just call a taxi!"
In fact, says Bob, whenever news crews come out to do a story on a farm inmate, they end up pointing the cameras at the nearby walls of Dorchester, because it looks more like a prison is supposed to look.
I ask Bob about tattoos. Does he have any?
He does, several in fact. One’s a series of unfinished Chinese characters that were supposed to spell the word, Kamikaze. Unfortunately, the artist went on the run before he could finish it. The other tattoo is a circle of barbed wire.
Tattoos are popular behind bars, he says.
"But why?" I ask him. "Why do cons like tattoos so much?"
He shrugs. "They’re hard-core guys," he says. "(Tattoos) show what prison you were in."
Bob explains a first-timer entering prison without a tattoo can’t pass himself off as something he’s not.
"A tattoo is an ID," he explains. "It shows you’ve done time. It says, ‘I’m solid’. "
Bob was considered solid when he was inside. He was also a bootlegger. He used to make illicit booze by mixing orange juice and sugar, then using the sun coming in his cell window to heat the mix, causing fermentation.
"It was only five days in (solitary) if you were caught," he remembers.
"Life behind bars maybe isn’t all that bad after all," I venture.
Bob’s eyes narrow. "You’re missing your family, Duff" he says. "The hard time is in your head, your nerves."
How much more punishment do law-abiding people want of wrong-doers, he wonders?
"They take you away from family and friends," he reminds me.
And don’t forget, he adds, if your parents are old, they can’t get to visit you if you’re incarcerated out-of-province.
He leans forward. "If you did it for 30 days, you’d understand."
"God-willing, I’ll never have to find out," I reply.
Only rather softly — and leaning a bit back.
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