They might be right, but I remain very nervous about it for several reasons.
I believe that most people are willing to give a convicted person a second chance, but what matters more is that a significant minority are not. A former incarcerated person I knew described it as a version of the “80/20 rule.” Eighty per cent of people agree that a person should not be completely defined by doing something bad, but 20 per cent won’t ever forgive or forget, and don’t want anyone else to do so either. And a vocal 20 per cent can shout down a passive 80 per cent most of the time.
We live in a time with many calls for people to be “cancelled” for being accused of something, never mind whether they are found guilty. Nobody seems to feel a need to wait for the actual evidence, even though only about half of criminal charges in Canada end with a conviction. In so many cases there are loud calls for that person’s career to end and for them to be ostracized, before a trial, before we even know the facts and even when the events in question happened decades ago. Anyone who continues to support such people will be seen by some as complicit in their wrongdoing.
At the time of my arrest, I had a public profile — not famous by any means, but enough so that my arrest was quite widely publicized. I was vilified in the media and online. All kinds of suppositions, far beyond the actual charges, were made and treated as facts. The level of vituperation and hatred was shocking — though less so now perhaps when we know that even our elected representatives get the same.
I believe that if my name reappeared on my public writing, much of the discussion would shift from being about what I write and the ideas I express to who I am and the crime I committed. Recognition of my ideas, or even allowing me to express them, would be held by some to represent support for what I did. There would be calls for this publication to stop giving me any space.
Even more difficult for me would be the effects on people who know me — family, friends and colleagues. My arrest was extremely difficult for many of these people. There were calls for some of them to be fired from their jobs just for knowing me. People who had been my colleagues had significant career setbacks because they had worked with me. Others had to hide their associations with me. None of that is supposed to be part of how our justice system works, but it is very real and very powerful.
At one point in my proceedings, my lawyer asked who might write a letter of support to the court for me, not in any way excusing my crime but talking about me as a person they knew. Some people cut all ties with me and refused. Others told me they would have liked to write a support letter to the court but to do so — because all such letters are public and must be signed — would have jeopardized their work and possibly even their continued employment.
I understand and accept that. It’s not hard to see how someone could come to that conclusion; I might well have done the same in the reverse situation. I am also especially grateful for those who did support me, whether by writing letters or in other ways. I know that some of them also paid a price for doing so.
Considering all that, while I might be willing to accept another dose of hatred and opprobrium as the cost of talking publicly about my experience and ideas, I do not wish, nor do I think I have any right, to subject anyone else to that.
Relatively few people who have gone through Canada’s penitentiaries are experienced writers or researchers. Writing these columns and doing other volunteer work in criminal justice is one way I try to make amends for the damage I caused, especially to people I really cared about. It is a way of using my skills to help improve public awareness of what our criminal justice system really is — which, in my mind, is a system that has much to recommend it compared to historical alternatives but that also often falls far short both of what it professes and what would be in the best interests of Canadian society. We could do so much better!
Like almost all formerly incarcerated people, as described briefly in my last column, I continue to pay a significant price for my crime, even years after my official sentence has ended. So does my family. So do others who were negatively affected when my career came to a crashing end. I now realize that cost is never going to end. But I have no desire to make it worse, which is why I continue to use a pseudonym.
I am thankful that the editors of this publication have been willing to accommodate that as I believe that the issues raised and perspectives given in this column are a useful contribution to public debate. Sadly, I remain convinced that those benefits would disappear if I were not anonymous.
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.
Interested in writing for us? To learn more about how you can add your voice to Law360 Canada, contact Analysis Editor Peter Carter at peter.carter@lexisnexis.ca or call 647-776-6740.