Chasing a hitman
I almost shot a police officer while on probation on a sunny May afternoon in 1994. I was 19 years old at the time and no longer a minor – my probation related to an offence from when I was a young offender.
The night before, I returned home late after finishing a shift waiting on tables. I saw my mother as I entered the house. She mentioned that my dad had been attacked by a Chinatown gangster called “Brother Dragon”. I checked on my dad. He was lying in bed. I walked over to look at him, but as I approached he rolled away and covered himself with the blanket and mumbled that he was fine. I went to bed exhausted, but with a sense of anger that my father had apparently been attacked.
I owned an illegal handgun at the time. The next morning before going to school, I packed my gun with me with the intention to go to Chinatown later that day to find Brother Dragon. However, when my classes finished that day, I realised that I had no viable plan. Toronto’s (downtown) Chinatown is a big place. Was I supposed to barge in to every place frequented by the triads and ask for the whereabouts of Brother Dragon?
I returned home at mid-afternoon feeling defeated. As I opened the door I finally saw my dad. My heart sank. I barely recognised him. His face was disfigured. He had 50 staples on his head and over 200 stitches over his body. I wanted to cry.
My dad explained that he had been attacked the night before. Brother Dragon was hired by a business associate when a deal they were engaged in turned sour. My father had not filed a police report yet. He was unsure what to do.
Just as my dad had finished relating the story, I saw through the kitchen window a 30-something Asian male scaling the backyard fence onto our deck. My immediate thought was that he must be a hitman that was there to attack my father and/or to intimidate him into not reporting the assault to the police. I made eye contact with the intruder as he stood just metres from us, separated only by the kitchen window. He probably did not expect to see me there and had a panicked look on his face as I eyed him. He jumped over to the other neighbour’s backyard.
With my gun still concealed on my person, I ran outside and pursued the fleeing goon as he ran along the adjacent main street. This was my chance to strike the gangsters before they could do harm to my family. But I struggled to keep up with the hitman, handicapped by the clumsiness of the gun in my pants and the fact that I was a smoker.
As we approached an intersection with a quiet residential street I had decided that if he turned in – away from the eyes of witnesses on the main road — that I would pull out my gun and shoot him. However, he stayed on course. He was within shooting distance but I could not fire on him on a busy street.
After a chase of about 500 metres we approached a major intersection. However, he hopped a fence onto a property just before we reached the adjoining big road and I lost sight of him. I circled the area a few times but with no success. He had escaped me. I felt a sense of rage and shame.
Dejected, I turned around and began walking back. As I eyed the route back home I saw a police officer on a bicycle heading my way. He must have seen me running after the hitman as the chase was on a straight path. I had been stopped and frisked in the past. I had my gun concealed in my pants. As the cop drew within metres of me, my brain flashed with wild thoughts. What was I supposed to say or do if the cop was suspicious of my chase and wanted to interrogate or frisk me?
My heart was pounding. The police officer stopped his bike in front of me. I hunched my posture, pretending to be out of breath and cramping, as I needed to conceal the bulge of the gun. I had decided that if he wanted to frisk me or was suspicious about the bulge under my shirt that I would shoot him. I felt that I had no choice. I was on probation and if caught with a gun I would surely be sent to jail.
The cop said to me, “I saw you chase that guy from your house.” But before I could deflect, he followed up saying, “I spoke to your dad.” At that point I was a little confused. Then he said, “I was following that man all the way from Gerrard Square (a nearby mall).” Now I was totally confused. He explained a little more and then I realised that the fleeing man was a shoplifter who was running away from the police. The officer thanked me for trying to chase the man down and continued on his way trying to find the “hitman”. I walked away with great relief.
That night I went to work with my dad renovating a restaurant in its after-hours. It was incredible that my father decided to work in spite of his injuries. But he could not take a day to rest and recover because we needed the money. It was also a rare occasion that allowed me to spend time with my dad.
We had to cease work around 7 AM when the restaurant started preparing to open for the day. My father then drove me to school as he went to work on another project.
I arrived at Jarvis Collegiate that day about 90 minutes before classes started and not having slept since the day prior. I was tired and decided to rest by my locker. At one point I laid on the floor in a half-asleep state.
A janitor came by to clean the area. I did not respond to his request to move as I was physically drained and sleep deprived. The janitor ended up cleaning around my limp body. I recall hearing students laughing at the spectacle. When the 9 AM bell rang I dragged myself to my classes.
When the school year came to a close in June, I started to re-run the path, burdened by the fact that I had failed in my chase. Week by week I augmented that distance, vowing not to let poor physical fitness compromise me again. I ran that whole summer, always retracing that original 500-metre route as my runs grew progressively longer.
When the new school year began I started at another school. This time back at an old high school that had previously expelled me. I was able to get back in only because the vice principal who was hitherto in charge of me – and who vowed that I would never get back in under his watch (“The day you get back in this school is the day I quit!”) – had cancer and was on sick leave for that year. My former grade nine phys-ed teacher (Mr Peter Warren) became the acting VP and gave me a second chance at the school.
At Riverdale Collegiate I joined the cross-country running team, led by Mr Bert De Vries, as it was a natural outlet and continuation of my running routine. It was the first time I had ever participated in any extra-curricular activity at school. (Mr de Vries would also subsequently mentor me on the debate team later that year.)
Running was fun and I got good at it. I ran every day with the team throughout the autumn cross-country season and I ultimately qualified for OFSAA (the provincial finals). I was named the MVP of the cross-country team that year. I gained a sense of accomplishment that was hitherto absent in my life. Although I failed in the chase, I actually won.
The teacher with the greatest positive impact on my life never taught me a minute in the classroom.
