Hard Road

by Peter Edwards

  Fellow inmate Paul Gravelle said he once saw an inmate preparing to throw himself to his death when a guard rushed onto the scene. The incident cleared up any uncertainty about the value of an inmate’s life. The guard’s first instinct wasn’t to halt the suicide. Instead, he tossed down a blanket so that the mess wouldn’t be too difficult to clean. “The guy jumped on the blanket: ‘Boom!’” Gravelle said.

  Not long into his stay, Guindon also saw a prisoner stabbed repeatedly. He recognized the victim as the same guy who had mouthed off to him in the Ottawa jail cell. This time, the inmate was killed. Guindon was now in a world where sticking someone in the thigh or shoulder with a homemade knife—or shank or shiv—was a routine way of telling him to smarten up. In his new home, white wooden wheelbarrows with red crosses painted on them were at the ready for collecting the bodies of victims of stabbings and forced tumbles from the third floor.

  Shanks were plentiful but seldom seen. To make one, yard workers and cleaners would gather little pieces of metal and quietly bring them inside. “You’d have to depend on a lot of guys,” Guindon said. The deadliest shanks were fashioned from flattened pieces of metal that were easy to conceal. “You can hide that in your mattress with no problem,” he said. They would be rolled tight, like straws, and inserted into a piece of wood, which acted as a handle. The shank would be driven hard into the heart of an enemy. “The handle comes off, so you’ve got no prints. You walk away with the handle, leave the blade there.”

  Shanks didn’t have to be elaborate. “It wouldn’t take much. Guys used to make shivs in the machine shops. Welding shops. Machine shop. It would have to be long enough to go in the heart.”

  Guards looked down constantly from towers when prisoners were outside. It was hard for them to see exactly what was happening when prisoners stood in close quarters in a line, waiting to be marched back to their cells. “A lot of guys get shanked going to your room,” Guindon said. “In the yard, you’d have to line up. Sometimes that’s where a guy gets stabbed. Smack! That’s all you hear.”

  Inmate Richard Mallory said the shanks also often came out at Friday movie night. “When the show was over and you walked out, most of the time, there was one or two people who weren’t moving. You’d hear uh, uh [a moaning sound]. You have to know what was going on. You didn’t know nothing. It could happen right in front of you.”

  Gravelle also saw zip guns, which resemble ballpoint pens. “You can build them in the machine shop,” he said. “All you need is the bullets…Sometimes it’s kill or be killed.” Guindon preferred to stay away from shanks and zip guns. “I used my hands. Much faster.”

  He soon learned the hard and fast rules to survive Kingston. “Keep your mouth shut,” Guindon said. “You don’t snitch and you don’t steal off of inmates. For me, that’s when you get a beating. That’s when you get stabbed. If somebody finds out you’re a rat, that’s when you get a blade or a beating or thrown off the tier. And you mind your own goddamn business.” That includes not asking a prisoner why he is serving time. If he wants to tell you, he’ll tell you. “Mind your business and do your own time.” Put another way, don’t meddle. “Do your own time and try not to get involved in the politics. A lot of guys got involved with somebody. A guy’s got a problem and they get you to solve their problem, then where are you? You’re in shit. All of a sudden, you’ve got four or five guys on your case,” Guindon said.

  Words travel fast in a prison, and sometimes those words hang in the air like a toxic cloud until they are addressed. One inmate said he didn’t like bikers and bragged that he was going to kill Guindon. When he heard about it, Guindon put a beating on him and the comments stopped.

  Paul Henry was a young prison psychologist when Guindon arrived in Kingston, and he was quickly impressed with the boxer and how well he adapted to the prison culture. “He was a man’s man,” Henry said. “There’s nothing I didn’t like about him.” He said the other prisoners didn’t see Guindon as a skinner, once they got to know him. “He never needed a psychologist. He was too solid. Rock solid.”

  Henry noticed that Guindon quickly became friends with George Bradley, a smallish, intense man who looked like he had walked off the set of a 1940s George Raft gangster movie. Other prisoners treated Bradley like he was a somebody, in part because he was considered one of the youngest fugitives ever to be on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list. “George was a wheel,” Henry said.

  “George was a smart guy,” Guindon recalled. “He wasn’t very big. I think he was trying to be one of those big bad bandits…He was serious. I don’t think he was a tough guy. His mind was always rolling. He was a very likeable person. George was all right…He was smart. He was always wheeling and dealing in his mind. Always used to come up with different things for me. I didn’t want nothing to do with it…Otherwise, I’d be doing life. Either that or dead.”

  In July 1969, Bradley was just twenty-one when he was sentenced to nineteen years for a near-fatal shooting during a bank holdup in Toronto. He was also convicted of two other armed robberies and a break-in and was said to have spent much of his total take, estimated at fifty thousand dollars. But for all of his criminally industrious ways, Bradley still exaggerated his accomplishments.

  Bradley’s appearance on the FBI’s most-wanted list was a notable achievement in Guindon’s prison circles, akin to the Dean’s Honour List in straight society. In truth, the bank-robbing George Bradley on the FBI’s most-wanted list wasn’t the George Bradley that Guindon knew. George Bradley had started robbing banks in the 1950s, when the Kingston Penitentiary George Bradley was still in diapers.

  It was an easy enough lie to tell, though, and Bradley lapped up the enhanced status. Hanging around with Guindon also helped his image. “Nobody ever had any issue with Bernie,” Henry said. “He was A1 in the hierarchy.

  “He just had leadership oozing out of him—and good leadership, not bad ideas,” Henry continued. “He used his time properly…He was a strongly positive influence on many, many experienced people. He wanted fairness.” Henry appreciated Guindon’s straightforward nature. “When you work with these guys, you can tell who’s straight and who’s not.”

  Despite all of the bravado and respect, Guindon’s mind found plenty of depressing things to think about. There was the future of his club without him to guide it, and the fact that he had already burned through two marriages. There was the ever present threat of the lash from guards or a shiv from inmates. His body bloated up and he had to begin taking medication to still his nerves.

  Further, he felt abandoned. Within weeks of Guindon going to prison, his second wife, Barbara Ann, left for the West Coast with their two daughters and a former clubmate called Two-Stroke. Guindon suspected Two-Stroke got out of the province fast to avoid retribution from Guindon’s friends. If he did harbour any bad feelings, they didn’t linger. “He probably did me a favour.”

  Guindon hadn’t exactly been faithful himself. While behind bars, he got the news that his daughter Debbie was born on November 28, 1969, to Marlene Anne Donovan, a friend since his early teens. Marlene had grown up near his old boxing club. Her mother was an Oshawa bootlegger.

  Prisoners often received sexually explicit letters from women who wanted their very own captive bad boy. Typically, they would describe how many tattoos and children they had, as well as their dreams of finding a strong, protective man. “I think we all got a lot of crazy fucking letters,” Guindon said. But one such letter arrived that was several cuts above the usual missive.

  The woman wrote to introduce herself and then followed with more letters. She clearly had options but her attraction for Guindon was undeniable. Soon Jack was driving her to Kingston for visits, which were precious, since his brother was allowed visitors only once a month, for an hour. “I used to take all of his friends down there,” Jack said. “If it wasn’t for me, there wouldn’t have been any visitors.”

  Prisoners have been known to hurt themselves, just to get a change of scenery through a f
ew nights in the infirmary. They’ve also switched religions so they can add more fish or fruit to their diets. And they’ve gotten married just for the prospect of a wedding night. Guindon insisted he cared for this woman enough to make her his third wife. At the ceremony, inside the limestone prison walls, there was only the bride, groom, best man and minister present. At the end of the ceremony, she was allowed to stay overnight. Their visits continued, and she soon gave birth to twins. One died in infancy on Christmas Eve, the other on Christmas Day.

  A year after their wedding, the marriage was annulled, at her request. That gave Guindon a divorce, an annulment and three new children while behind bars on his indecent assault stint. The last he heard of his third ex-wife, she had achieved a university degree of some sort. Guindon seldom spoke of her. In the 1970s, a woman’s reputation could be tarred forever by an association with a convicted felon and biker like Guindon, and he exercised the utmost of discretion, keeping a respectful silence about her. “I was fond of her,” he said.

  Eventually, Guindon was transferred to nearby Joyceville, a minimum and medium security institution. There, he spent time with Gravelle, who said Guindon’s reputation as a boxer meant more to fellow inmates than the fact he ran a biker gang. “A lot of people don’t like [biker] club guys,” Gravelle said. They also didn’t consider him a real sex offender. He didn’t fit the mould, to their minds. “He was surrounded by a whole bunch of people. He had a very good reputation.”

  Gravelle was an authority of sorts about prison life. He was in just his early twenties when he met Guindon, but he already had a considerable criminal resumé. He was glib about his frequent trips into custody, saying they reminded him of homecomings. “It’s just like going to a summer camp, when you meet all of your old buddies.”

  When he met Guindon in Joyceville, Gravelle was doing time for bank robbery and running a seven-step program for rehabilitation. It was aimed at hardened criminals. Sex offenders and stool pigeons need not apply. In the program, inmates were supposed to tell the truth about themselves, and Gravelle would generally talk tough and advise them to pursue an honest trade. This often led to what Lorne Campbell of the Choice called “snotting and bawling.” Campbell did plenty of time of his own, and he witnessed several prisoners cry until they could cry no more and then vow to do far better with their lives in the future.

  For those inmates with no remorse or desire to change, Gravelle provided other options. They were the prisoners he really wanted. He counselled them to become better criminals. That included helping a Hamilton man who killed a gay man learn to become a safecracker. “He said, ‘I wish I was in here for bank robbery like you,’ ” Gravelle said. “I taught him the trade.”

  Certainly, the seven-step program had no cleansing effect on Gravelle himself. “It never straightened me out,” he said. “I’m a criminal at heart. I think it’s not as boring as the other way around. There’s never a dull moment.”

  Guindon, on the other hand, struck Gravelle more as a criminal of consequence than intent. He had a reputation as basically an honest person who did the best he could for his friends, even when he knew it might come back to bite him. “He’s always trying to help people, and those are the guys that go to jail,” Gravelle said. “He’d give you the shirt off of his back. He wasn’t a heavy-duty criminal. They [the police] tried to just get him because he was the leader of the gang. He’s a trophy fish.”

  Inside Joyceville, Guindon worked in the kitchen and occasionally snuck out to go fishing for trout. He adopted a baby raccoon as a pet and kept him in a yard shack. His furry new friend would sometimes sit on his shoulder and nibble on his ear. “We’d be playing around and he’d bite me and I’d bite him back on his paw. He’d squeal and he’d quit biting me.” After a few months, he heard some guards had plans to kill the pet, and so he gave him away to a friendly guard, who said he’d turn him over to a family.

  Of all the marriages and girlfriends that Guindon had burned through, one of the first women in his life never disappeared for long, even if she had long been just a friend. Suzanne Blais was still married, but she and Guindon often thought of each other fondly. Guindon wrote her from Joyceville:

  Dear Suznn:

  Hi Beautiful so how’s life treating you of late? Sure hope this letter finds yourself & family in the very best of health & in fine spirits. Finally got some good news this afternoon & like I promise you’re the first one I let know. Yes, the Parole Board finally sent me the other votes I needed. It looks like I’ll be out on my pass (3 days) the second week in Sept if all goes well. My C.D. [case director] also asked me if I wanted to see my father for Xmas & he’d give me an extra day or two for travelling as long as I pay for the whole trip. He’s also going to put me in for Bath Farm annex & hopefully they’ll get me out by the end of Sept. Also Teresa finally wrote yesterday & she even let my youngest sign the card. I’ve asked her to attend Family Day on Sept 6…she said “let bygones be bygones.” Real busy of late & getting way behind. Maybe this will put me in a much better mood. Give my very best to your mom & as always I’m thinking of you. Sorry if I don’t answer all your notes.

  Love & Respect Bernie No #1 Frog

  XXXXXOOOOOSWAELKAHF.

  “SWAELKAHF” stands for “Sealed with an Everlasting Kiss and Hug Forever.”

  Guindon’s mind also often drifted to memories of the open road. When he was in the yard, he could hear motorcycles passing by, gearing up and down, and he would try to determine which ones were Japanese or Triumphs or Harleys. “You’d hear the bikes go by when you were in the yard, or the guards would ride them in.”

  There was some peace in knowing that someday his time would be served, and he would be free and back on his Harley too.

  CHAPTER 16

  Proud Riders

  You can beat my brains in. I don’t care. But don’t touch my bike.

  DOUG (CHICKLET) MACDONALD of Satan’s Choice

  Big Jack Olliffe was fresh out of custody and serving as interim president of the Choice in Guindon’s absence when Canadian moviemakers approached the club with a plan. Producer George Fras and his team wanted to make a truly authentic biker movie using Oshawa as the backdrop. Their low-budget movie The Proud Rider featured twenty-five-year-old former model Arthur Hindle, but they wanted to use members of the Oshawa and Toronto chapters of the Satan’s Choice as extras and saturate the film with their grubby realism. The plan was to use the Satan’s Choice name, and the tag line for their oeuvre was “Tough? You bet your…”

  The Toronto Daily Star reported on Saturday, October 3, 1970, that on the first day of shooting, one of the Choice was arrested on an outstanding, unspecified warrant. Journalist Marci McDonald also described how a biker named Crow sported a glass eye diaper-pinned to the front of his jacket while another biker named Lovely Larry dangled an Iron Cross from his ear.

  Co-director Walter Baczynsky explained to the reporter another advantage of employing real-life bikers. “Just think how we save on wardrobe and makeup.” It sounded good in theory, but the robust eating habits of Big Jack and his biker brothers caused the film’s budget to balloon by two thousand dollars. Big Jack alone could hoover down six burgers and still find room for a half-dozen doughnuts and a pint of milk. “Half the guys ain’t workin’,” Big Jack explained. “They don’t get to eat too regularly.”

  Club members threatened to walk out after they were told they couldn’t have real booze for a party scene, until Big Jack sorted them out. Apparently, he hadn’t learned anything from his time behind bars for beating a man to death. “When they get outta line,” he said, “sometimes I gotta take a swing at them with my helmet.”

  The movie was also the screen debut of Pigpen Berry, who was now thirty and sporting a beatnik-style goatee. He still had his Buddy Holly glasses, faraway look and sometimes crazy-shy manner. Big Jack couldn’t keep Pigpen fully under control, but no one really could. Trouble started on set when Pigpen’s clubmates dropped their pants to shock a script girl.
True to character, Pigpen needed to top that, so he grabbed a nearby garter snake and bit off its head, then casually put the leftovers in his pocket for a later snack.

  Scriptwriter and assistant director Chester Stocki described his mood to journalist Paul King of The Canadian Magazine as, “Scared, scared, scared. Just look at them.” One member explained the club’s leadership in terms that justified Stocki’s mood. “When Bernie went down, Bear was the obvious choice,” he said. “He’s big enough to back up what he says.”

  Big Jack described himself to the journalist as a thirty-two-year-old father of sons aged two and nine. He had worked as a truck driver, welder and apprentice mechanic since dropping out of school in Grade 7, when he was fifteen years old. Big Jack sounded a little self-effacing and vulnerable as he explained that he grew his bushy red beard in a conscious attempt to cultivate an image. “I grew it to hide my chins and my baby face,” he told King. “I could get a job tomorrow if I cleaned up a bit and shaved. But I wouldn’t be happy.” The article made no mention of Big Jack beating Kitchener biker Arnold Bilitz to death.

  “Don’t call us a gang,” Big Jack continued. “That’s a group with no organization. We’re a club, with a full set of officers. We answer only to ourselves. The Canadian Nazi Party offered us a ten-acre farm in 1967 if we’d agree to protect their political rallies. We told them to shove it. Now I’m not calling us goody-goodies, far from it. We only want to be left alone. But the cops won’t leave us alone. If we went around raping, and terrorizing towns, we’d deserve it. But we don’t. The first night the boys came here for the picture, they all stayed at my house. And just after midnight, we got raided by sixty cops, both local and provincial. A kitchen window was broken, a girl got cut over her eyes, and six of our bikes were confiscated. We hadn’t done a damn thing.”