Rick 厂补耻惫茅 loves motorcycles.
鈥淚 always have, always will,鈥� he says.
Since the first time he rode one, the 65-year-old activist says the feel of the wind in his hair, and the possibilities of the open road gave him a sense of freedom he had never known 鈥� so he admits it鈥檚 a bit ironic that his love of something that made him 鈥渇eel so free鈥� is the same thing that eventually led to his incarceration.
Standing at the front of a Vernon lecture hall at Okanagan College Tuesday night, looking slightly uncomfortable, , dressed from head to toe in black, pushes his rimless glasses up the bridge of his nose, tosses his long, grey ponytail over his shoulder and begins to tell the audience his story.
In 1978, 厂补耻惫茅 was a new father working in a factory in a small eastern Ontario town, and president of his union local. He was also a member of , a notorious motorcycle club that was disbanded in the early 2000s.
Around 11 p.m. on Oct. 18, 1979 he was called to a meeting at a local bar that ended with the murder of rival gang member, Bill Matiyek.
Though it was nearly 40 years ago, 厂补耻惫茅 remembers that night like it was yesterday.
He and another young man, Gary Comeau, sat at a table in the corner of a hotel bar with Matiyek trying to talk him out of blowing them both away.
鈥淏ill [Matiyek] had a gun and tells us, 鈥業f anyone does anything, I鈥檓 gonna shoot.鈥� I鈥檓 pretty sure he was drunk,鈥� 厂补耻惫茅 adds.
In a flash of commotion, Matiyek was shot, and 厂补耻惫茅 was one of six club members convicted for his killing. Though he adamantly maintained his innocence 厂补耻惫茅 was charged with first degree murder and sentenced to 25 years to life in prison.
鈥淚t was a long and complicated trial where a lot of things were convoluted. They would have convicted us of the Lindbergh kidnapping if they could have. In the end though, I went to prison for 17 and half years, but I think of myself as lucky I only had to serve that long for a crime I didn鈥檛 commit. I always say on the altar of justice, truth is the sacrificial lamb.鈥�
The case became the subject of an award-winning book by Mick Lowe, Conspiracy of Brothers, and a Steve Earle ballad, Justice in Ontario.
厂补耻惫茅 began his sentence at the notorious Millhaven Institution in Bath, Ont., where he recalls seeing three fellow prisoners killed over a two-week period.
鈥淎 guy a few cells down was stabbed to death and shoved under a bed in his cell鈥� I remember seeing that and running back to my cell to make sure no one had stuffed a body under my bed. That happens to you after awhile 鈥� you learn to think that way. If you see someone walking down the rows in a big jacket, you begin to assume they are probably concealing a knife.鈥�
In the four and a half years he stayed at Millhaven, before being transferred to Collins Bay in Kingston, Ont., 厂补耻惫茅 said 12 people were killed and hundreds more beaten and stabbed. He credits his survival to maintaining an air of mystery and learning to 鈥渞ead鈥� people.
WATCH
厂补耻惫茅 shares his story during a recent lecture at Okanagan College鈥檚 Vernon campus.
鈥淲hen I went to prison, I wasn鈥檛 prepared for it. I had no concept of what happened in there,鈥� he said.
鈥淗ow do you prepare for that? I was scared and I didn鈥檛 know if I was ever getting out. I thought about giving up. I thought about suicide. I thought about escape. That鈥檚 what happens 鈥�. you lose hope. And the longer you stay in prison, the farther away you get from yourself.鈥�
He found the way back to himself and hope after a visit from his young daughter. Having quit school to work after Grade 10, 厂补耻惫茅 decided to earn his high school diploma. He went on to earn a bachelor鈥檚 degree in psychology from Queen鈥檚 University, and an honours BA in criminology from the University of Ottawa. He later finished his thesis and earned a master鈥檚 in criminology.
鈥淚 didn鈥檛 want to be one of those guys I鈥檇 see who always talked about prison,鈥� he says.
鈥淚t gave me something to do and it allowed me the opportunity to talk to my daughter and my family about something other than being in prison.鈥�
While he pursued his education, 厂补耻惫茅 began studying the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, and discovered an injustice.
鈥淭he Charter says all citizens have the right to vote, but inmates were being denied that right, and I thought, I鈥檓 a citizen 鈥� I should be able to vote.鈥�
He challenged the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, and after a decade-long legal battle, he won, affirming the voting rights of all inmates.
In 1995, 厂补耻惫茅 made a successful parole application under the criminal code鈥檚 faint-hope clause (since eliminated by the Harper government) and was released and quickly obtained a job with Life-Line, an award-winning program that helps rehabilitate prisoners and works to prevent them from re-offending. While passionate about the work, he said, initially, there was some trepidation.
鈥淲hen I was offered that job with Life-Line, I knew it meant going back into some of these places (prisons) and I said, 鈥榊ou must be mental,鈥� but then I thought about the people there 鈥� the people I left behind. And I said yes,鈥�
厂补耻惫茅 says he will continue to dedicate his life to improving the situation for prisoners, rightfully or wrongfully convicted, because he believes everyone has 鈥渃ertain rights鈥� that shouldn鈥檛 be denied.
鈥淚鈥檝e been asked if I鈥檓 angry about the time I lost while I was incarcerated, and yeah, of course, I鈥檓 angry as hell, but I feel like I was better off channeling that anger into something useful 鈥� that makes it better for others.鈥�
In 2017, 厂补耻惫茅 received the Government of Canada鈥檚 Human Rights in Corrections Award. The award, administered by the correctional ombudsman鈥檚 office, has historically gone to lawyers, bureaucrats and academics. He is the first former inmate to win the award. He celebrated in the most appropriate way he knew how, with a long ride on the open road.
Erin Christie
Morning Star Staff
erin.christie@vernonmorningstar.com
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