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| John L. Hill |
A March 2 media release from the Durham Regional Police advised that “Darren Scott Ray has been released on an Unescorted Temporary Absence Permit (UTA). Ray is currently serving a life sentence for first-degree murder and is residing in Oshawa. Durham Regional Police Service is warning the public about a high-risk offender who has been released into the community. This individual has a history of serious criminal convictions including first-degree murder. Darren Scott Ray, age 65, poses a significant risk to the community. He is described as male, Indigenous, 5'9" tall, 199 lbs, average build. He is bald and wears glasses. The Durham Regional Police Service will continue to monitor Ray’s whereabouts and activities.”
The following day, CBC News reported comments from Durham Regional Police’s Const. Nicholas Gluckstein. Gluckstein said it’s unclear why Ray was granted a UTA. The decision was made by the Correctional Service of Canada (CSC) and the Parole Board of Canada (PBC). No one mentioned that decisions to grant unescorted releases are a crucial part of the parole process and are only granted when both the CSC and the PBC are confident that the inmate has been rehabilitated and poses minimal risk to public safety.
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Ray has spent more than 25 years in prison and has taken programming to minimize his threat to public safety. Crime can be described as a young man’s disease, with the only cure being birthdays. Beyond programming, Ray has aged. His situation and the police’s hostility to his release are reminiscent of the treatment of Daniel Cody Morgan.
When Morgan exited Kingston Penitentiary on April 13, 1993, he had already served every day of his sentence. He was 43 years old, burdened with a criminal record that included six convictions for sexual assault or exploitation dating back to 1963. Legally, his debt to society was settled. Public opinion, however, remained unforgiving.
Morgan’s final release was neither straightforward nor celebratory. He had previously been released on mandatory supervision in 1992 but was returned to custody after a new allegation. A new mandatory supervision date was set, allowing him to regain supervised freedom. However, Morgan chose to remain incarcerated until his warrant expiry date. If he were to be released, it would be without conditions.
But as that date neared, the Peterborough, Ont., police issued a public warning labelling him a “dangerous offender” — a designation no court had ever made. The notice included his photograph, criminal history and the expectation that he would return to Peterborough. It made no mention of his participation in prison rehabilitation programs or the parole board’s assessment that he was a manageable risk.
On Morgan’s behalf, a lawsuit was filed against the Peterborough Police Services Board, seeking damages for psychological distress, lost employment prospects, reputational damage and invasion of privacy. The Toronto Star described the case as the first of its kind in Canada. It challenged a growing police practice of issuing community warnings about offenders who had been released. The lawsuit was eventually settled, but the damage had already been done. Morgan’s name had become synonymous with menace.
The morning of his release confirmed his fears. Protesters assembled outside the prison gates before dawn, including a group calling themselves “Voices for Children’s Rights.” Reporters waited for a confrontation. Morgan had predicted a mob, and he got one.
He paused briefly before entering a waiting car from the John Howard Society. “It’s going to be difficult, very difficult to adjust,” he told reporters. His deeper concern was systemic. “For me, it doesn’t make a lot of difference,” he said. “But it does for the people who are going to be coming out who should be integrated into the community slowly.” Public shaming, he warned, would not make communities safer. It would make reintegration impossible.
The protest movement targeting Morgan had formed months earlier, following media reports about the impending release of another offender, Wray Budreo. The group’s activism proved effective when the parole board denied Budreo release at that time. Encouraged by this, they shifted their focus to Morgan and others.
Among those they protested was Guy Paul Morin, then still widely believed to be responsible for the murder of 9-year-old Christine Jessop. Morin was later exonerated. But at the time, nuance was scarce. Headlines were enough.
Less than a week after Morgan’s release, he was charged by the Ontario Provincial Police in connection with an alleged assault involving a 13-year-old boy from 1992. He surrendered voluntarily. The charge resulted in 50 days in solitary confinement while awaiting a preliminary hearing. The isolation, supposedly for his protection, became mentally unbearable.
When the hearing finally started, Crown prosecutor Brian Gilkinson requested a brief adjournment to speak with his witness. The witness ultimately refused to testify. Without any evidence, the Crown withdrew the charge. Morgan was once again free.
But freedom had become a mirage.
He moved to Atikokan, Ont., then to Jasper, Alta., where he volunteered at a community television station. Police there issued another public warning, citing concerns about his contact with children, despite no charges being laid and the station’s assurances that supervision was constant.
The disclosure invoked what is known in American law as the “Tarasoff principle,” originating from a California case that imposed a duty to warn identifiable victims of imminent danger (Tarasoff v. Regents of University of California, 17 Cal. 3d 425). Canada, however, has never formally adopted Tarasoff into statute. The principle requires a clear and immediate threat. Morgan’s situation did not meet that threshold.
The pattern persisted. He moved to Valemount, B.C. New allegations emerged but were dismissed by the courts. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police issued further warnings after his move to Fort St. John, B.C. The notices failed to mention that charges in British Columbia had been dropped.
Municipal officials intensified their response. The mayor and a local councillor publicly demanded Morgan leave town. Posters were photocopied for distribution near schools. On national television, he was described as a predator chased from three provinces.
Morgan’s response was weary and measured. “At some point, everybody has to be able to make a living, has to live somewhere,” he said. “The constant harassment makes it harder … more likely that any person is going to return to some type of crime because they can’t make it legitimately.”
Ultimately, the privacy commissioner stepped in and condemned the posters. The publicity campaign was discontinued. However, the goal had been reached. Morgan left Fort St. John, reportedly hitchhiking out of town. That was the last recorded sighting in this story.
The real question is not whether Morgan’s past crimes deserved condemnation; they did. The bigger issue is whether a society governed by the Rule of Law can allow punishment through press releases after a sentence has been served.
Canada is a child-centred society. Public outrage at sexual offences against children is understandable and often righteous. But outrage can morph into vigilantism when police disclosures inflame rather than inform. When law enforcement agencies publish names and photographs absent imminent threat, they risk supplanting judicial determinations with public fury.
There is another model.
When James Alfred Cooper was released in 2008 after serving 14 years for horrific abuse (once described by a trial judge as “despicable” and “evil”), there was no mob. Instead, he was met by a representative of a Circle of Support and Accountability, a community-based program that assists high-risk offenders with structured reintegration. Cooper relocated quietly. No public warning was issued.
The same support network assisted Budreo when hostility forced him from Peterborough. He relocated to Toronto and, with support, never reoffended before his death in 2007.
Empirical research has consistently shown that offenders supported by structured community programs have lower rates of recidivism. The lesson is neither sentimental nor naive. It is pragmatic. Public safety is better served by supervision and integration than by banishment.
In 2022, the Supreme Court of Canada struck down amendments that had made automatic registration under Canada’s sex offender registry mandatory, restoring judicial discretion. The decision signalled concern over blanket, perpetual stigmatization.
Morgan’s story illustrates the tension between fear and fairness. Police are indispensable guardians of public safety. But they are also custodians of institutional legitimacy. When their actions appear to incite public hostility rather than enforce lawful boundaries, confidence in the justice system erodes.
The Rule of Law demands more than punishment. It demands finality. A sentence served must mean something. If society insists that certain offenders can never return, then Parliament, not police bulletins, must say so through lawful means.
There must be a better way than exile by photocopier. Justice cannot be served by a mob, nor through a mayor’s press conference. If rehabilitation is to mean more than just words, communities must resist the urge to equate release with recklessness. The alternative is a permanent underclass of the legally free but socially condemned, a situation that neither justice nor safety benefits from.
Daniel Cody Morgan’s life after prison became a case study of what happens when public fear exceeds legal principles. His crimes were real, and so was his sentence. Whether he was ever truly given a fair chance to move beyond it remains the more troubling question. Hopefully, Darren Scott Ray will not face the same pressure.
John L. Hill practised and taught prison law until his retirement. He holds a JD from Queen’s and an LLM in constitutional law from Osgoode Hall. He is also the author of Pine Box Parole: Terry Fitzsimmons and the Quest to End Solitary Confinement (Durvile & UpRoute Books) and The Rest of the (True Crime) Story (AOS Publishing). Contact him at johnlornehill@hotmail.com.
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