The Don Jail: A middle class girl is a fish out of water

The headline shocked us: our former Chief Financial Officer, Marshall Ross, charged with murder. Incredulous, I decided I needed to lay eyes on him. Still, it took me two years. All the while, Marshall waited for trial in the notoriously awful Don Jail.

I was anxious about seeing him: two years was the longest time anyone had spent in the Don before going to trial or being transferred. In my mind, Marshall had become evil looking, furtive of eye, sunken of face. I’d expected him to morph into something unrecognizable.

I’d kept tabs on the ever-changing dates for court appearances. When I
finally got up the nerve to attend, I tucked myself into a back corner of the courtroom, one of only a handful of people there. His lawyer — famous for defending the wrongfully charged — James Lockyer, the Crown, and a crime reporter, Betsy Powell. All went quiet as a door in the wall beside the Judge’s podium opened. Out came Marshall. In chains. I realized I was holding my breath.

My worst fears about prison affecting his looks and deportment were unfounded: although his cheekbones seemed more chiseled, he looked no different from the last time I’d seen him. He was well dressed: blue blazer, gray pants, polished shoes, his Kennedyesque hair well groomed. On either side of him, looking sloppy in their sweats, Marshall was chained to his two co-accused. I noted that as the court gave directions, Marshall tugged at the chains to let them know what do: ‘stand’ or ‘sit’ or ‘move’ .

He may have looked the same Marshall as the last time I saw him, but that did not mean he’d be the same guy. In fact, I was convinced this was no longer the easy-going man of yore. My fears about his deportment now allayed, I needed to talk to him. That meant going to The Don Jail.

It’s now a spiffed up state-of-the-art health center, but then The Don — as it was known — was creepy. Set back from the street, it loomed menacingly. Before, I’d speed up as I was driving by. Now that I had a mission, I slowed down. Several times, I drove right into the curved driveway where concrete stairs led up to the massive front doors, and several times courage failed me. What was I hoping for? How would he react to me? What right did I have to intrude on him?

On day, I decided to Just Do It. I called for Visiting Hours. Arrived early. Found a parking space. Locking my ID and valuables in my car, taking only my keys, I climbed the concrete steps and joined the line-up of women there to see their men. I craned my neck to read the notice by the door:“You must show proper identification”. I had none. I had left it all in the car. I took this as a sign that my jail visit was not to be. The line up behind me had grown. I turned to the woman behind me: “You can take my place. I don’t have any ID on me.” But before I could make my exit, my suddenly sisters-in-arms assured me that I had time to get to my car and back, they’d save my place.

And so they did. They then took me under their wings. These wonderful women, most of whom could’ve used a dentist, a dermatologist, a hug and a helping hand. They did not dis or dismiss me, the middle-class white girl, Rather, they schooled me on the process and the protocol: “They’ll frisk, then they’ll sign you in, and give you a number, and then you’ll wait for your number to be called.” They did not ask any questions about my visit, and I didn’t volunteer. From their conversations, their guys were in for less heinous crimes than Marshall.

The doors opened, the line crept forward, and suddenly I was inside. I was immediately recognized: I’d been an on-camera Entertainment reporter at Toronto’s most popular local tv station and (even today) people still remember me. The Don and members of the Toronto’s Police Force were regularly on CityTV, the station I worked for. I had been good friends with one of the most beloved on the police beat, the late Mark Daily, and I almost felt like I was being welcomed: the frisking guards and lady behind the glass all wanted to gossip about those bygone days.

After the frisking was signing in. The lady behind the glass asking if Marshall knew I was coming. Before I could answer, she’d written down my name and given me a number. Only then did I learn that Marshall was restricted to two visitors a week. My visit would scupper a visit from someone more valuable to Marshall than me. As this was sinking in, I was pointed to the spare waiting room. “When your number is called, you’ll see it’s just like on TV: you’ll walk down the hall, and be buzzed in. They’ll all be in orange. You’ll speak to them via phone.” Was I ready for this? I was about to chicken out, when my number was called, and then I was down the hallway, feeling like walking the gauntlet, to the door separating the world from the line of men in orange.

It was 9 years since Marshall and I had sat across from one another; this time a glass wall would separate us. He was at the far end, past a long line of orange jump suits. He craned his neck to see this unknown visitor. On his face, an unfamiliar expression: he looked dangerous.

I lowered my eyes, and by the time I’d sat down and picked up the phone, he had his game face back on. And there was the same affable Marshall. He seemed a man unchanged. He assured me that none of the charges were true. “Anyone that knows me and my demeanor knows that’s just not me.” He told me that wife and parents were completely behind him. It then turned surreal, as we took several precious minutes with small talk. Did I remember his best friend? Well, he was getting married next week. How is business, how is hub doing?

He seemed to be twisting his head and body awkwardly. When I asked if he was ok: “I butted in where I shouldn’t have, and I have to be careful. It can be dangerous.” Whether specifically for him or me I couldn’t quite clarify before our visit time was up. He told me that his next mission was to write about appalling conditions of the jail, and the in’s and outs he’d learned about the drug trade inside. “I don’t do any” he said with his same affable laugh. Then, more somberly and sadly, “I haven’t seen my kids in two years. They don’t need to see me like this.”

I wanted to see him again and he gave me his wife’s cell “Eva’s coordinating everything.” I waited a week and then called his wife. She was so pleasant and positive — thanking me for visiting and saying Marshall enjoyed it, but she’d been strictly forbidden to talk to the media — yes, even though I wasn’t that kind of media. “It’s a very critical time for us right now.” I told her my fingers were crossed.

Less than a week later, another headline that knocked me off my feet:

“Marshall Ross pleads guilty to murder.”

The Will: murderer in our boardroom. A true story of the rich ad resentful. https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B0BMWKBS4L