My first arrest

My first arrest happened when I was 16 years old in the last week of June 1991.

A short time earlier, I had befriended someone from Chinatown who had connections to the triads (Chinese mafia). We got along well and came up with the idea of shoplifting and then on-selling designer clothes to them. It was not about the money; it was about winning their favour (and, for me, gaining their protection).

On the day that I got arrested, my friend and I went in the afternoon to a downtown Toronto department store. I had a “booster” bag which I would use to conceal the goods. My friend was there to keep a watchful eye. All went smoothly. However, as we exited the store, we were approached by two buffed persons who identified themselves as security. I looked at my friend, panicked, and yelled “run!” I ran onto the street as fast as I could and dropped the bag, and thought that would be that. However, security continued to pursue me (allowing my friend to flee).

After a chase of about 50 metres, I felt the arms of one of them grab me from behind. I fought him with all my might. I was just about to get away until the other guard caught up. At which point I was punching and kicking like a Tasmanian devil. Eventually, I was tackled and pinned to the ground as they beat me with their heavy-duty flashlights. As I laid belly down with the guards on me, I recall seeing a pool of blood on the ground. I was handcuffed and the guards walked me back to the mall. The crowd on the busy street was aghast at the sight.

As I sat in the security room, I saw the mangled look on the guards. One had a black eye and both were visibly roughed up with ripped clothes and marks all over their bodies.

A police officer arrived some time later. When he saw me sitting on the chair, he remarked to my captors, “You let this little guy do that to you?”

I was taken to the local police station to be booked. It was at this point I was asked if I wanted medical attention for the laceration on my head. (Up until then, I had thought the blood was from the guards.) When I was booked, I initially tried giving the police a fake name, using that of a well-known troublemaker from my neighbourhood.

I was eventually transported to Toronto West Detention Centre. I was held in my own cell and was placed under head trauma surveillance. I fell asleep that night on a cold metal bench with blood caked on my hair.

The next day, I would be taken to Toronto Old City Hall Courtroom hoping to make bail. I was moved from my cell into a sweltering police van with about ten other youth inmates, all of us with hands and ankles cuffed. As we began loading onto the paddywagon, I recognised two fellow prisoners. They belonged to a group that I had associated with recently. It gave me great comfort when they acknowledged me as we boarded. (One of whom was the person whose name I tried to use when taken into police custody!)

When we got to the waiting cell at the courthouse we shared stories to kill the time. The banter was around what we were charged with, common friends, etc. It turned out that the dominant male in the cell was tight with someone I grew up with. Another person happened to be close with an old work friend.

I was popular within the group. In fact, when I explained that I was charged with assaulting two security guards, the others were at first incredulous given my size. But I then demonstrated my prowess in martial arts, which endeared them to me.

At one point, a cigarette was sneaked into the cell. It was then and there that I learned a valuable life lesson: There is a hierarchy and a code to be respected. A graffiti on the cell wall summed up my life: “Born in China, raised in Chinatown.”

My name was eventually called and I was taken to appear in front of the judge. A tall gentleman walked over towards me. He introduced himself as my Legal Aid lawyer. I saw my parents in the courtroom crying. The charges against me were read, the most serious of which was assault causing bodily harm (x2).

After my case, I was whisked back to the waiting cell. A majority of us was still there when the court adjourned for the day. I still had not gotten notification that I would be released. We were then cuffed again and driven back to the detention centre.

I was now in a common cell and had dinner with my group there. Just before lights-out time, my name was called by a warden. My lawyer had managed to secure my release late into the night. My parents received me and drove me home.

The next day, when I returned to school, friends and teachers were curious about my absence given that it was exam week.

Several friends had made it a routine to pick me up in the morning, as I would otherwise often skip school. On the day I was in jail, my parents covered for me when the friends came by, telling them that I had gone to Niagara Falls. I went along with this story when I saw these friends at school.

That same day, I saw my grade ten science teacher in the hallway. He thought that I had skipped his exam the day before. He called me a “jerk” for being so arrogant as to intentionally miss the final, knowing that I would pass anyhow (given my high mark going into the exam). His thought was justified as I was lackadaisical about classes (but aced all the tests). I had to bite my tongue on the matter.

My incarceration gave me street cred. That summer, I would go on to hang out with people I met while in detention — who happened to be connected with the triads.