The halfway house was a place of endless rules, the reasons for which were often obscure and rarely explained. One of the most challenging was the requirement to phone into the house when you were out. At the start you were required to phone in three times a day — at specified times. You had to phone from a landline, not a cell phone. So whatever you were doing, you had to make sure you had access to a landline at those times.
Twenty years earlier that requirement would have been easy, but by the time of my release, some years ago now, landlines were disappearing. Payphones had largely vanished from public spaces; most restaurants no longer had them available. And increasingly people did not have landlines in their homes either. One day we were visiting friends at the hour when I had to call in. Our friends had no landline, so I had to drive to a nearby chain restaurant and ask if I could use their phone to make a call (without explaining what the call was, for obvious reasons). Another time we were at a restaurant that had no landline; I had to run four or five blocks down the street to find another place that would allow me to use their phone for the 30 seconds that was required.
The phone requirement was a nuisance for me, but it was a very serious problem for many guys who were working, because it meant they had to use a phone during work hours — and one might not be available. It sometimes cost men their jobs, which seems entirely counterproductive.
Another issue in the halfway house is that you were not allowed to associate with anyone with a criminal record. Since you were living entirely with people who had a record, that seems a bizarre prohibition. What it meant in practice is that you could not spend any time with anyone from the halfway house outside of the house. One of my housemates and I went to the same therapy group, but we had to go and come back separately, otherwise we were in violation of the rules. In the house you could talk to others as much as you wanted, but you could not go out together for a coffee.
Yet another requirement, not just in the halfway house, but during my entire time on parole, was having to get advance permission in writing from my parole officer to leave the city limits. That seems reasonable — until you take into account that many Canadian airports — for example Toronto, Montreal and Vancouver — are in a different municipality than the major cities they serve. So every time I needed to go to the airport to pick up or drop someone off (most of my family lived flying distance away) I had to get advance permission in writing from my parole officer.
And here was another wrinkle. I had several parole officers during my time — none lasting more than a few months — and each had different rules on getting that written permission. One of my POs only required a text message or email with relevant information; I would then get an authorization via email. Another PO would not accept requests or supporting information by email from me but would from the person I was living with. A third PO would accept an email from me but required me to come into the office to get a signed authorization before I went anywhere. On one occasion where he had signed the authorization but I had not picked it up, he was very concerned that I might have driven to the airport without it — even though it was sitting signed in his office. On another occasion, despite a request 10 days in advance, the PO never issued the travel permit and never responded to my inquiries about it, which meant I couldn’t go to the airport at all. It seemed so arbitrary!
The overall challenge of living in the halfway house had a lot to do with the staff. Some of them seemed to me to have a genuine interest in working with the residents, but others were there just as a job. Since they weren’t well paid or well trained, this is hardly surprising. As in the prison, a few staff seemed to enjoy exercising petty power over residents, though most were reasonable. When you first arrived at the house, staff tended to treat you with suspicion but if you behaved and were polite, they warmed up and were less zealous in enforcing all the minor rules — such as the prohibition on keeping any food in your room.
Each resident was also assigned to a counselor; mine was a young woman. When I first met with her, I was surprised to realize that she knew little about the prison or parole systems, and especially about how they really worked as opposed to their official policies and rhetoric. But she was a positive person who tried to be, and often was, helpful, so I appreciated her. As in the jail, there was a considerable amount of paperwork associated with each resident, much of which, at least in my case, seemed to be superfluous. For example, my counselor had to construct a written “plan” for me, which consisted largely of restating the conditions of my parole release and what I would do (or more often, what I would not do) to meet them, and then write regular reports on how I was doing.
It wasn’t a horrible existence; it was just, like so much of what happened to me, filled with unnecessary obstacles.
David Dorson is the pen name of someone who went through arrest, case disposition, imprisonment and parole in Ontario a few years ago. Law360 Canada has granted him anonymity because he offers a unique perspective on a subject that matters deeply to many readers, and revealing the author’s identity would make re-establishment in the community after serving his sentence much more difficult than it already is.
The opinions expressed are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views of the author’s firm, its clients, Law360 Canada, LexisNexis Canada or any of its or their respective affiliates. This article is for general information purposes and is not intended to be and should not be taken as legal advice.
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