No Easy Ride: Reflections on My Life in the RCMP (19 page)
Read No Easy Ride: Reflections on My Life in the RCMP Online
Authors: Ian Parsons
Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Law Enforcement, #BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Law Enforcement
For the hours he devoted to training youth on the reserve and the many and varied initiatives for which he was responsible, Sergeant Sifton was inducted into the Blackfoot Nation, given a Native name and made an honorary chief. The prestigious ceremony took place during a provincial Native youth boxing tournament in the presence of the commanding officer of the province and the officer commanding of the subdivision.
In my capacity as operations NCO, I attended all band council meetings, briefing tribal leaders and responding to their concerns. We also participated in social functions on the reserve. The tribe hosted large powwows that included Native groups from across western Canada. These were considered sacred events, devoid of alcohol and filled with traditional dancing. An age-old gambling activity known as hand games had great significance and popularity. In addition to luck, these games required concentration and skill. We would often enter a police team, and the people took great pleasure in watching us participate in hand games. Occasionally, much to their surprise and ours, we would win.
As had been the custom for decades in this community, the provincial judge and his entourage travelled from Calgary to dispense justice. On their way they would habitually stop at the detachment for coffee and a social visit; then the judge and the police would arrive en masse at the modest courthouse. The judiciary and the police were either oblivious or unconcerned that this communicated an alliance or lack of impartiality, which in turn suggested the futility of challenging such power.
One of the relief magistrates was a retired commissioned officer of the RCMP. He was a pompous man who demanded that detachment members respond to him as though he were still an officer. When appearing in his court, police personnel had to wear their brown tunics, even at the peak of summer. In hot weather, the order of dress for detachment members was short-sleeved shirts with an open neck. In the interest of formality and at the expense of the comfort of RCMP members, the presiding judge demanded a tie and tunic in his court.
When I began to handle the weekly court docket, I suggested to Sergeant Sifton that we comply with our order of dress and dispense with the tunic. He agreed and encouraged me to appear in court in authorized summer dress. When I opened court, the judge appeared from his chambers, took one glance at my dress and ordered me to adjourn and see him in his chambers, where he informed me I was improperly dressed. I explained that Force policy dictated my current attire. He glared at me, stated that this was not the end of the matter and commanded me to reopen court. Because of his foul mood that morning, many were given jail time when they could not pay their fines instead of being granted more time to pay.
The good judge wasted no time in contacting Superintendent Peter Wright upon his return to Calgary. He was apparently shocked when my superior supported my decision to wear summer dress while attending court in 86°F weather. Later that summer, our new permanent magistrate appeared on the scene and took steps to ensure the perception of neutrality. He decreed he would not be stopping at the detachment prior to the opening of court. He took great care to remain impartial, and when an accused person appeared without counsel, he would often act as an advocate. It quickly became obvious to the population that there had been changes in the dispensing of justice. My mind wandered back to Valley Bluff and the days when Magistrate Orest Melnyk and I discussed sentencing prior to opening court. Much had changed in the administration of justice in a few short years.
ONE OF THE
tribal police members was a victim in residential schools and carried deep psychological scars as a result. On more than one occasion, after a bout of drinking, he would utter threats against a local priest, a long-time resident of the community and former teacher. The priest had taught at the Indian mission school, which had closed after being tainted with scandal. To prevent a confrontation, we occasionally took the band constable into custody until he sobered up. He would make allegations of sexual abuse against the priest, then recant them, which made it difficult to investigate the matter with a view to laying charges.
The constable’s trauma reflected the agony of a whole generation of Native people who had been psychologically, physically and often sexually abused by the residential school system and many of its teachers. Native children were taken from their homes, denied access to their language and culture and placed in boarding schools run by religious orders. The disastrous policy was perpetrated by church and state in apparent good faith for the betterment of Native people, but in hindsight it is clear the schools almost destroyed a culture and most assuredly demoralized it. The system created a generation of citizens with low self-esteem and many severe behavioural and personality problems. Combined with abject poverty, the residential schools devastated Native people across Canada.
Attitudes within the Blackfoot community changed noticeably as a result of our efforts. RCMP members caught the mood being set by the NCOs and became known on the reserve by their first names. Native citizens began to see the detachment as a vital part of their community, perhaps for the first time in many years. The number of police–citizen confrontations resulting in criminal charges dropped dramatically, even though our detachment cellblock took in more prisoners than the Spy Hill provincial jail—2,400 in one year.
COMMUNITY RELATIONS
While stationed at Blackfoot Crossing as the operations NCO, I regularly met with the band council to discuss policing. Since we had established a good working relationship, one of the band leaders approached me in a confidential manner following a meeting, obviously wanting to discuss something. He intimated that, like many of us, every once in a while he had an urge to go on a bit of a toot. He did not wish to drive his vehicle after drinking and asked for some advice on what to do. I suggested the next time he decided to have a few drinks, he could bring his vehicle up to the detachment, leave the keys with me and I would take care of it. He was very appreciative, and I respected his forethought.
Some weeks later, we had a visit from our section NCO. He was in the detachment, examining our operation when a pickup truck driven in a rather erratic manner suddenly arrived in front of the building. A gentleman exited the vehicle and walked toward the detachment entrance. It was obvious he had been drinking. He asked for me, handed over the keys to the vehicle, tipped his hat at the staff sergeant and promptly left the detachment on foot.
The staff sergeant was aghast! He demanded an immediate explanation from me as to why the man had not been arrested for impaired driving. I described the arrangement I had with the citizen, observing that while his intentions were good, he had been a tad late in handing over his keys (and thinking to myself that his timing could not have been worse).
I assured my superior that I would be in touch with the band councillor to remind him of the importance of securing the vehicle before the party started. The section NCO, a pragmatic man, was not unfamiliar with the cultural setting. He understood that Natives did not necessarily interpret time in the same way we did. He looked at me askance, shook his head and mumbled something about how much less complicated police work was in “the good old days.”
We experienced the conflict and crime characteristic of poverty-stricken communities, which meant our workload was demanding. High numbers of arrests occurred when extra money flowed into the community on welfare Wednesdays and when family-allowance payments were received. The detachment guardroom grew crowded while clients were being processed, and there was potential for chaos when intoxicated persons waited in line, jostling one another.
On one busy night, a particularly obstreperous woman who often caused problems when under the influence was confronting others aggressively while waiting her turn in the detachment cellblock. Constable Don Pittendreigh, who was known and respected on the reserve, bellowed out her name. All fell silent, and tension filled the room. Don approached the woman stealthily, telling her that if she caused any more trouble he would give her the biggest French kiss she ever had. The troublemaker beamed a large toothless smile at the constable, and a roar of laughter erupted. It was that kind of rapport that often saved the day when tensions were high.
Our good relationship with the people on the reserve also helped us to work with a young victim to stop a sexual predator. By some quirk of genetics, the men of the Lampson clan were of massive dimensions. They all stood over six foot three and weighed in at 300 pounds. We learned that over generations the Lampsons had been responsible for innumerable sexual assaults on women. Any woman was a potential target—married or single, old or young. On several occasions, the Lampsons’ offences were disclosed to the RCMP and investigations were launched, but inevitably the victims, fearing reprisal from the Lampsons, recanted their story.
CLAUSTROPHOBIA
The setting is one of Canada’s largest First Nations reserves during the late ’60s. A member of the RCMP detachment, who later earned the nickname Earthquake because of his massive physical size, received a call about a domestic disturbance. It was the middle of a very warm summer day, and he decided he would respond solo. Upon his arrival at the scene, he found two women—a mother and her daughter—in an intoxicated condition and causing a disturbance. Although he did not have a matron, he decided to take them into custody to prevent further calls. He removed them from the residence and placed them in the rear of the detachment paddy wagon.
On his way back to the detachment, he received and responded to another call. He dealt with it in a cursory manner and continued his return. As he travelled through an isolated section of the reserve, he thought he heard a clink of glass from the rear compartment where the ladies were being held. He stopped the vehicle and discovered that while he had been out of the truck, the two women had reached through the security screen and liberated some seized bottles of beer that had been secured in the front seat. Earthquake opened the rear door of the paddy wagon so he could restore order. To accomplish this, he had to squeeze into the secured portion of the vehicle. As he struggled with the two women, the rear door closed, locking him in with his charges and the beer.
Intoxicated by Lucky Lager and the presence of a virile constable, both women thought the situation ideal for a party and told the constable so. It took a good deal of poise, no doubt acquired in the training academy, for our stalwart guardian to regain and maintain control of the situation. As the police vehicle was in a remote area, several hours passed before it was found. It is unfortunate that a transcript of the discussion that took place inside the van was not recorded for posterity. Needless to say, Earthquake greeted his rescuers with a large measure of relief and gratitude.
It was said that from that day on, Earthquake was somewhat claustrophobic when inside any vehicle and would never sit in the rear seat of a police cruiser, which, of course, has no inside door handles.
Late one evening while Constable Barry Hawryluk was on shift, 17-year-old Laverna McDonald appeared at the detachment. Her clothing was ripped, and she was in a very emotional state. She disclosed that she had been raped multiple times by a drunken Lionel Lampson. Hawryluk made an immediate patrol of the reserve and discovered Lampson sleeping it off at his residence. Lionel was in his 30s and, true to his Lampson lineage, stood six foot four and weighed well over 300 pounds. Perhaps thanks to his inebriated condition, he dutifully accompanied Hawryluk back to the detachment.
At about 3:00 a.m. I was called to assist Constable Hawryluk. All of Lampson’s clothing was removed, and he was given a set of coveralls to squeeze into. By this time he was sobering up and starting to realize the predicament he was in. He sat in a chair as I stood in front of him. We were almost eye to eye, even though he was seated and I was standing. Making sure that my corporal’s chevrons were very visible to him, I told him that he was under arrest for the rape of Laverna McDonald. A flash of rage appeared in his face. I knew that if Lionel were to become violent, he would tear me, Barry and the detachment into little pieces. In a very firm voice, I demanded that he accompany me into the cells and warned him that any resistance would simply get him in more trouble than he was in already. He rose slowly from his chair and followed me into the cellblock. I closed the cell door firmly, looked at Barry and heaved a sigh of relief. We both knew that if things had gotten out of hand, the only way we could have stopped Lampson was to shoot him.
Even Sergeant Sifton was skeptical of our chances for a conviction. He assured me that if we were successful, he would buy us a bottle of whisky. Lampson was remanded in custody, and the trial date was set. Constable Hawryluk stayed in constant contact with Laverna McDonald, our witness and victim. He coached and counselled her, promising that we would protect her before and after the trial. She had misgivings but bravely persisted. At the trial, she gave excellent evidence, and Lampson was convicted and sentenced to four years in the penitentiary. For the first time in generations, the Lampsons knew they would be held responsible for any sexual assaults they committed on the reserve. Constable Hawryluk and I got our bottle of whisky.
Just when we felt police–community relations were moving in the right direction, Constable Zulak arrived. He was loud, arrogant and brash, openly disliked Native people and had just enough service that his little knowledge was a dangerous thing. Within a few short weeks, the slurs and comments he passed while working on the reserve led to an explosive situation. One sultry summer night, I received a troubling call at my residence indicating that two of our constables were being held hostage in the beverage room of the Corsair Hotel, 12 miles east of Blackfoot Crossing. Jumping into uniform, I headed to the Corsair. When I arrived, a number of people were standing outside the hotel in the street. I entered the beverage room and found it in total disarray. A number of patrons were lined up along one wall, and Constable Zulak and Constable Blanch, our recruit, were standing next to a table where two large young aboriginal men were seated. Zulak’s shirt was partly ripped off, and he was in a state of rage. I told him to calm down and tried to get to the bottom of what had happened.