In 1984, Colin Thatcher was convicted of killing his ex-wife and sentenced to life in prison. The murder and trial provoked a national media frenzy, casting the once-prominent Saskatchewan politician as the villain.
After serving twenty-two years, Thatcher was released and finally able to offer his own account of what happened from the time of the murder up until he left prison. Though firmly proclaiming his innocence from the start, he is now able to go behind the bureaucratic red tape and provide full disclosure, including evidence not seen at the trial, legal documents, and personal correspondence, ultimately questioning the public’s faith in local law enforcement, mainstream media, and justice.
In 1984, Colin Thatcher was convicted of killing his ex-wife and sentenced to life in prison. The murder and trial provoked a national media frenzy, casting the once-prominent Saskatchewan politician as the villain.
After serving twenty-two years, Thatcher was released and finally able to offer his own account of what happened from the time of the murder up until he left prison. Though firmly proclaiming his innocence from the start, he is now able to go behind the bureaucratic red tape and provide full disclosure, including evidence not seen at the trial, legal documents, and personal correspondence, ultimately questioning the public’s faith in local law enforcement, mainstream media, and justice.
eBook
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
In 1984, Colin Thatcher was convicted of killing his ex-wife and sentenced to life in prison. The murder and trial provoked a national media frenzy, casting the once-prominent Saskatchewan politician as the villain.
After serving twenty-two years, Thatcher was released and finally able to offer his own account of what happened from the time of the murder up until he left prison. Though firmly proclaiming his innocence from the start, he is now able to go behind the bureaucratic red tape and provide full disclosure, including evidence not seen at the trial, legal documents, and personal correspondence, ultimately questioning the public’s faith in local law enforcement, mainstream media, and justice.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781554905478 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | ECW Press |
| Publication date: | 09/01/2009 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 380 |
| File size: | 578 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Final Appeal
Anatomy of a Frame
By Colin Thatcher
ECW PRESS
Copyright © 2009 Colin ThatcherAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-55490-547-8
CHAPTER 1
Arrest
1984
Nothing can prepare you for being arrested for murder. Everyone has seen it at one time or another on television or in the movies. That is of no help when it happens.
The Regina Police did it very skilfully shortly after 8 a.m. on a dull, damp morning on May 7, 1984. Because of the weather, I was in no rush to leave for the ranch some fifteen miles west of Moose Jaw and drank an extra couple of cups of coffee. My three-quarter-ton GMC was low on gas. My son Greg had his own vehicle and had a stop to make en route. I asked him to travel Highway 1 in case I ran out. We both left at the same time.
I sipped on a cup of coffee as I turned north on Highway 2 toward the overpass north of Moose Jaw. I saw a police car in the rear-view mirror and glanced at the speedometer and concentrated on the speed limit. The black-and-white remained behind me as the overpass neared. I realized my seat belt was not fastened. The police car closed as I exited onto the approach ramp for Highway 1. The red light on top flashed. I pulled over, expecting a seat belt ticket.
I opened the driver's door quickly before the officer could approach my truck. I did not want to be caught red-handed with an unfastened seat belt and started to step out. A car roared by, narrowly missing the open door. It braked to a halt in the middle of the road; cars and cops swarmed from nowhere. A lone figure sprinted to the side into the ditch and pulled out a camera; they had even brought their own photographer.
The seat belt ticket would have looked pretty good about then. Plain-clothed cops surrounded me, their hands poised above handguns in hidden holsters and body language suggesting they were itching for an excuse to shoot me on the spot. Someone snapped a pair of handcuffs on my wrists. To my left, I saw the approaching chief of detectives, Edward Swayze. In shock, I listened without hearing while he read me my rights.
A cop was assigned to drive my GMC back to my home. They guided me into the rear seat of a sedan. Sergeant Wally Beaton slid in on one side, a cop named Street on the other. The car pulled onto Highway 1 and headed west toward the Ninth Avenue turnoff and U-turned for Regina. As we returned toward the overpass, my truck was on the overhead proceeding south toward Moose Jaw. Greg was following, obviously unaware that I was not the driver because of the GMC's high-backed bucket seats.
A bizarre thought occurred to me. Unaware that Beaton and Street were wired, I asked a question that would lead to speculation for years by some who would follow the case.
"Did you arrest Greg?" I asked Beaton.
He said no.
Numerous inquiries grew out of that innocent question in the years ahead. Many absurdly concluded that Greg had murdered his mother, a notion held by some to this day. In fact, my concern was merely that a cop might be driving his truck too.
A myriad of thoughts ran through my mind during the drive to Regina, some simple relief. My lawyer, Tony Merchant, had always believed I would ultimately be charged in the murder of my ex-wife, JoAnn, if only to allow the Regina Police to clear their books of an investigation in which the local media had regularly roasted them. For over a year, they had made no secret that I was their one and only suspect; they had bluntly told people I would eventually be charged, especially those whom they knew would immediately pass on this information to me. Six months earlier I was expecting it but not on that dull Saskatchewan morning. I was in mild shock.
I first met Sergeant Beaton in 1981 after the first shooting of JoAnn and considered him a decent, fair-minded cop. Street, the officer on my right, looked and acted like a goon. Other than a couple of questions to Beaton about what would follow, we rode in silence.
They presented me to a desk sergeant and removed my cuffs. He emptied my wallet, perused the documents inside, and began asking questions: name, height, weight—all those incisive questions common to desk sergeants. Months earlier Tony Merchant had instructed me to remain silent if and when the time came and not even give my name. I did precisely that.
Someone who stank to high heaven moved directly behind me. I recall groaning or retching at the intense smell of body odour. It turned out to be a cop named Murton. He began jabbing and pushing me to intimidate me to answer the questions. I asked to phone my lawyer. Murton became more aggressive until a voice told him to stop. He grabbed my arms, yanked them behind me, and recuffed me. They estimated my weight, height, and so on, and the desk sergeant led me to the rear for my first glimpse of a jail cell. The blank cement wall held no appeal.
"Enjoy the view," he said.
Someone shoved me hard from behind. I went careening across the floor and crashed against the wall. I managed to take the brunt with my shoulder. A couple of cops behind the sergeant laughed loudly. The door closed. I repeated my request to call my lawyer.
"We'll see" was the response on the other side of the closed cell door.
A camera was situated on the ceiling above the door. Obviously, I was being observed with great interest. I sat down on the cot, a flat piece of metal encased in tire tubing suspended from the wall, my hands still cuffed behind me, and tried to look composed. The door opening was no surprise: denying me a call to my lawyer would have been a serious breach of procedure that would have come back to haunt them later. I phoned Tony Merchant at the Pederson Norman law office. His secretary told me that Greg had already called and that Tony and another lawyer had already left for the station.
A cop took the cuffs off and offered me a cup of coffee, then led me to a side room, where a smiling and amiable Swayze and Beaton waited. Swayze was a beefy, medium-sized cop with well-groomed grey hair and a moustache. He wore high-quality suits. I learned later that we used the same Regina tailor. I cautiously inquired what they wanted.
"You've been charged with a serious crime," Swayze said. "We'd be interested in anything you have to say in your defence."
I told them I would answer any questions in the presence of my attorney. They immediately lost interest, obviously disappointed that I had not blurted out something incriminating in my shaken state. An officer returned me to the cell.
I had no way of knowing, but at that moment two things were happening: my home in Moose Jaw was being ravaged by a search team of police officers, and Sandra Hammond was being arrested as an accessory to murder. The latter was a disgusting abuse of power by an abhorrent collection of thugs.
Some items seized from my home would be used as evidence at my trial; however, many simply disappeared. The most tragic loss was the inexplicable pillaging of my father's personal papers and records of his seven years as premier of Saskatchewan. I doubt that many premiers bothered to maintain such exhaustive daily records, written and otherwise. We had planned to donate them to the provincial archives on the twentieth anniversary of his death. For reasons that remain a mystery, some ignorant thugs removed, and apparently destroyed, some irretrievable Saskatchewan history.
Sandra Hammond's arrest was a disgrace, even for the Regina Police. Sandra was the type of person whom you wish your daughter will grow up to be like. She was our babysitter from the time she became old enough, and both JoAnn and I had trusted her implicitly. Much later JoAnn had confided that she had nearly approached Sandra for aid in her departure from Moose Jaw with the children. She had changed her mind, of course, aware that Sandra would never be party to her liaison with my best friend.
Sandra was at the family summer cottage in northern Saskatchewan when JoAnn left with Stephanie and Regan, rendezvousing later in Winnipeg with Ronald Graham, a local construction company owner. I had no idea of their whereabouts when Sandra first came to the house after returning from the lake to take Stephanie to Dairy Queen. I was too ashamed to tell her the truth and made up a lame excuse. She returned twice more before I found the courage to tell her that Greg and I were alone. Sandra said little at the time but the next day took over our household. Entering her final year of high school, she continued to live with her parents three blocks away.
Sandra's crime in the eyes of the Regina Police was that she had served dinner to Regan, Greg, and me in Moose Jaw almost simultaneously with JoAnn's murder in Regina. Her credibility was a major problem for the Regina cops. Greg and Regan could be sluffed off as trying to protect their father; however, Sandra Hammond was in an entirely different category. Regina police officers regularly badgered and cajoled her. They threatened her with perjury charges if she persisted in verifying my presence at home at the time of the murder and became so offensive that Tony Merchant instructed her to order them to stay away. She did to a point, but an easygoing Sandra had difficulty being rude to anyone. Various officer teams, which usually included one of Street, Stusek, or Murton, continued to pressure her to no avail.
Sandra was arrested at her home about an hour after my arrest. She was taken to Regina, handcuffed to prostitutes, and placed in a communal cell. My blood pressure still rises at the recollection of her treatment by officers who knew at the time that she was telling the truth. Obviously, they believed her story was a major obstacle to convicting me—hence the flagrant coercion. A Pederson Norman lawyer arrived searching for her: eventually, the Regina Police admitted to having her in custody and immediately released her, with—surprise, surprise—no charges.
Tony Merchant and a second lawyer arrived, and we met in a tiny cubicle separated by Plexiglas. A small opening made conversation difficult and necessitated everyone speaking in a loud voice in order to be heard on the other side, ensuring that the monitoring devices missed nothing.
Tony's first question was about what had caused the day's events. I had no idea. Tony insisted I must have done something. If so, I didn't know what. He said that I would be taken into provincial court. I should remain silent and not react to anything that might be said. My only instructions to him were to "Get me the hell out of this place—fast."
I was still dressed in my ranch clothes as a bailiff led me to the prisoner's dock in provincial court. Naturally, media and the curious filled the gallery. Serge Kujawa acted for the crown. Not much happened. Tony declined to enter a plea after the reading of the charge, and a preliminary hearing was set for September. It was over quickly, and, in a touch of irony, I was spirited to the hellhole known as the Regina Correctional Centre.
One of the first items discussed by the Devine cabinet after assuming office was replacing the antiquated Regina Correctional Centre, built in 1913. No one in cabinet had ever seen the facility, which likely would not have influenced the decision anyway. Attorney General Gary Lane inherited the proposal from the NDP and duly presented it to cabinet. I vividly recalled the discussion two years later while being checked in to the place. In times of restraint and tight funding, a new jail rated a low priority to rural members more interested in hospitals and nursing homes for their constituencies. The proposal was quickly trashed, and the facility remained destined for perpetual turndowns until the walls began falling down. Jails are at the bottom of the totem pole for capital funding in an era of cutbacks.
A doleful, sombre man with a neatly trimmed grey beard looked on as I was checked in. He eventually introduced himself as the director, Tony Lund. "I take no pleasure in this," he said for openers. He expressed concerns about my safety on the remand range and asked if I would accept West G. Neither meant anything to me, and I agreed to go where he thought best. West G it was.
Wearing the prison uniform of a white undershirt and blue jeans, I followed a guard to the West G range. The jail was filthy, although its age likely precluded it from ever being clean. The guard was clearly enjoying himself. He turned, glared at me, and announced that his name was Mr. Prendergast. If I needed anything, I should ask for him, emphasizing the Mr. In the real world, he would quickly have been dismissed as a pretentious joke.
My incarceration was beginning at its lowest point. West G was the filthiest, most antiquated facility I would encounter in the ordeal to follow. The mere fact that it was operative illustrated the double standards of the provincial health department. Had it been in the private sector, bureaucrats would have been crawling all over it years ago. Garbage and debris littered the corridor in front of the row of cells. The inmates knew that I was here; several screamed my name. Prendergast unlocked a cell door halfway down the range amid reverberating catcalls of "Can you do my old lady too?" and "I hope they nail your ass" and the like.
It was a career reversal of the first order: three hours earlier I was en route to my ranch before the rerouting to a jail that fell barely short of Third World standards. I later realized Lund had manipulated me to the segregation range housing the jail's worst inmates. The hatred and bitterness in the verbal harangues from people whom I could not see were unnerving. I was mystified because my situation differed little from theirs.
The range cleaner stopped at my cell and passed me a pornographic magazine. A note and a razor blade fell from between the pages. The note said, "Have at it," which I assumed meant the razor blade. "Slashing up," I would learn, was a common jailhouse trick for attention or medication.
Tony Merchant arrived mid-afternoon. Conversations within the thin walls of the austere solicitor-client meeting rooms were easily overheard, and we assumed our conversation was being electronically monitored. My arrest was national news, and Regina abounded with wild rumours: I was in reality a serial killer, JoAnn being merely one of several victims; an array of weapons had been found under a haystack at the ranch. It was just as well I did not have a radio.
The crown refused to divulge anything to Tony, although they agreed to a quick bail hearing—the next day, if we wished. Tony thought that was too early. I insisted on it to get me out of there no matter what. Tony reminded me his specialty was divorce and family law, not criminal law. Discussing lawyers did not interest me, and I could think of nothing beyond getting out of that horrid place. Tony agreed to handle the bail hearing.
The quick bail hearing was a mistake but entirely mine. In retrospect, we should have delayed and learned more about the crown's evidence; however, in my state of mind, even the next day seemed like years, the next week an eternity. Irrationally, I dug myself into a deeper hole.
Greg and my mother visited later that afternoon and brought me clothes for court and reading material. Many people had called to express their support, including my former leader in the Conservative Party, Dick Collver. Collver now resided in Wickenburg, Arizona, but had heard the news. He had phoned my mother and offered support, advice, and counsel or anything else I needed. He wanted me to phone him.
I did not want to talk to anyone while in this place and did not return his call.
CHAPTER 2Bail Hearing
1984 My first night in jail seemed to last forever. I was awake most of the night trying to read and finding it an exercise in futility. The lighting was terrible, and the cell lacked electrical outlets for lamps. An inmate arrived shortly after 6 a.m. with a large kettle of welcome coffee. I took a gulp and retched. The heavy sugaring, catering to junkies, made it undrinkable for anyone accustomed to black coffee. The bail hearing was scheduled for 3 p.m. I constantly looked at my watch; minutes were hours, hours days.
The public generally regards politicians with disdain, much of it deserved. An intertwining of Canada's legal and political systems is a fact of life, largely because many judges are former politicians or political activists. An unspoken reality is that politicians before the courts are perceived as guilty until proven innocent, not the reverse. Saskatchewan's small population exacerbates the situation. The public's low opinion of politicians often leads the courts to deal more harshly with them to avoid accusations of favouritism. My situation was compounded because I was an active politician, and my party was in government. I understood their predicament: politically, they could not be seen to be treating me differently from anyone else; however, it was quickly becoming evident that my treatment was very different and that justice officials had carte blanche from the attorney general to proceed as they wished. I could visualize a droning Gary Lane in cabinet: "It's good politics to take a hard line on him."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Final Appeal by Colin Thatcher. Copyright © 2009 Colin Thatcher. Excerpted by permission of ECW PRESS.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.