Colin Thatcher - Final Appeal. Anatomy of a Frame

Anthony Wilson's application for custody of eleven-year-old Stephanie upset me more than Tony Yanick's crude games and drove me into the arms of the scotch medication. I spent an anxious week after learning that JoAnn's parents, Harlan and Betty Geiger, were in town and planned to take Stephanie back with them to Iowa. Tony Merchant acted admirably for me. The presiding judge dismissed Wilson's application, stating he was swayed by the affidavit of a child psychiatrist who had visited Stephanie and found her upset by the possible return to the Wilson residence. Stephanie was doing just fine with her brothers and Sandra Hammond in the family home under the supervision of my mother. The judge awarded temporary custody to my mother. In the intervening years, the Geigers, so pious in media interviews, never once communicated with their three grandchildren in Saskatchewan not even Christmas or birthday cards.

Some ten days before the preliminary hearing, the next-door neighbour of my Palm Springs condo phoned Tony Merchant with a bizarre story. The FBI was at her door with a search warrant, accompanied by a prosecutor from Saskatchewan, some Regina policeman, and a local cop. They were demanding the key to my condo, or the front door would be smashed in. Tony told her to give it to them.

They told her they were seeking a handgun, then proceeded to put on a show for the onlookers. The grounds near my condo and the common area around the pool were scanned with metal detectors. An officer even checked the roof. Shoes in my bedroom were compared to a plaster of Paris footprint. In the end, they seized only a power bill, which they chose not to pay.

Gerry Allbright believed the incident demonstrated the weakness of the crown's case. To the best of my knowledge, the murder weapon has never been found. Kujawa obviously considered the lack of a murder weapon a serious hole in his case, which no doubt led to the trip to Palm Springs.

The handgun they sought was a legally registered .357 stainless steel Ruger revolver with a six-inch barrel I had purchased for condo protection, a common procedure in Palm Springs and even encouraged by our homeowners association and the local police. The Ruger was hardly a secret and required only a computer check of my California driver's licence. Used guns did not have to be registered, but since I was not a citizen I thought it best to purchase a registered weapon. Swayze, Kujawa, and company did not find the Ruger because it had been lost or stolen long before JoAnn's murder. I suspected the cleaning woman after noting it missing in the summer of 1982 and reported it to the sheriff's office in Indio. A deputy sheriff assured me that nothing more was required. I would later regret using the phone rather than driving to Indio in person.

I welcomed the approaching preliminary hearing. I understood that the threshold for committal to trial was very low: however, if worse came to worst, I could again apply for bail. Our strategy was basic. We would call no witnesses; rather, we would concentrate on pinning crown witnesses to their stories and cross-examine them for useful information without revealing any defence positions.

I was mentally unprepared for the tactics of the Regina Police. The preliminary hearing was in provincial court, meaning local police rather than the RCMP would handle my transportation. I was showered and dressed in a suit when two detectives and a uniformed officer arrived. The detectives were straight out of central casting. Little more than goons in suits, they demanded a strip search even though a correctional guard told them he was present while I had dressed and had searched my clothes. The suits insisted, so I complied. My hands were tightly handcuffed behind my back to ensure maximum discomfort during the drive to the courthouse, followed by a parade across the parking lot so that the assembled media could get all the photos and TV footage they wanted. I suspect some media reporters realized they were being manipulated but went along with the charade because portraying me as highly dangerous made a better story.

The harassment continued inside the courthouse. My hands throbbed after the handcuffs were removed and the circulation returned. Gerry Allbright entered the room and started to close the door. A detective in the doorway stopped him. Gerry politely told him we wished to speak in private, as was our right. The cop said he would stay out of earshot but had orders to keep us in sight at all times. Gerry was taken aback and demanded solicitor-client privacy, or he would raise it in court. The detective said he would recheck his orders but left the door open.

Gerry looked concerned. Lynne Dally is here from Palm Springs, and they want to put her on the stand this morning. What is she here to testify about? he asked.

Stunned, I said I had no idea.

Gerry was furious over another of Kujawa's dirty tricks. Dally's name was not included on the crown witness list provided earlier. Kujawa claimed he had tried unsuccessfully to reach Gerry earlier that morning. Gerry vehemently protested the lack of notice, and the crown reluctantly agreed to set her over to the next day.

The galleries were packed, mostly with media, many from out of province. The judge immediately imposed a publication ban. The opening morning witnesses were all cops with testimony firmly fixing the time of the murder at 6:00 p.m. The radio calls came in minutes after six; they arrived at the scene three to four minutes later. Photographs of the grisly garage scene were abhorrent. An officer described his finding a Saskatchewan government gas credit card receipt, one allegedly signed by me. Under cross-examination, the officer admitted the receipt was positioned where he could not possibly have missed it. Curiously, neither my prints nor those of the gas station attendant who wrote up the purchase were on the receipt. The only prints were those of Sergeant Bob Murton, a detective who had received the credit card slip from the constable.

I did not want any lunch, partly to avoid the circus in the parking lot. The detectives insisted on taking me to the Regina Police Station at the noon break, obviously under instruction to parade me before the media cameras at every opportunity with my hands always cuffed behind my back to reinforce the dangerous image. The reporters never seemed to tire of the ritual.

Tension hung like a fog in the cruiser during a silent drive to the station. The officers made no attempt to conceal a dislike bordering on hatred. The desk sergeant ordered my tie, belt, and shoes removed. He reached across the desk into my breast pocket and pulled out the small leather-bound Bible Ray had given to me.