Sentence over? Now the punishment really starts | David Dorson

By David Dorson ·

Law360 Canada (September 12, 2024, 2:02 PM EDT) -- The title of this column comes from a poster I saw many years ago; the caption appeared over a picture of an empty jail cell with a barred door standing open. It accurately captures the experience of many people after release from prison. Most people think that when a prison sentence is over, the person goes back to a normal life. Almost everyone who serves time is immensely grateful at first to be released — and then you realize that your sentence is not over at all and that in many ways it will never be over.

In fact, the problems one faces post-release may be worse than being in prison, and they don’t come with an end date. In this sense, every prison sentence is a life sentence.

My post-prison experience was pretty easy compared to most others I know about. But even mine has been full of challenges, losses and shame.

Some of the obstacles to rebuilding your life are very practical ones. Finding some kind of way to make a living is extremely difficult for anyone with a criminal record. My career was ended by my arrest, well before my pleading guilty. Many occupations bar anyone with a record, including security guards, taxi drivers and even food couriers, whether or not the crime is related to the work. Many employers screen for criminal records and simply won’t hire anyone with one, regardless. So making a living is very, very hard. People I know were reduced to doing asbestos removal or other manual labour or doing online gig work that pays extremely poorly. Since many people in prison lack work qualifications in the first place, the problems are formidable.

With no income, it is very hard to find any housing — and landlords also often screen for a criminal record. It’s no wonder that a high proportion of people released from jail or prison are homeless — as high as 40 per cent in one recent report.

One of my parole officers told me about another parolee she worked with who found a job but did not have proper identification anymore; his driver’s license and health card had expired while in prison. However he could not get a new ID until he had a permanent address, and he could not find a place to rent because he couldn’t open a bank account without ID. Meanwhile, he had to pay 30 per cent of his wages to a payday lender to get his paycheques cashed — leaving him without enough money to pay rent. He was stuck in that situation. That is not a unique story. In my time in the halfway house, I heard many stories of men fired from jobs — even menial ones — because of their pasts. Yet services to help released prisoners, though often provided by very dedicated people, are completely inadequate to the size of the task.

The problems faced by former prisoners go well beyond these practical ones. Many marriages and relationships break down during a prison sentence. A released father may have great difficulty getting any access to his children — and can’t afford to pay a lawyer to help either. Child welfare services may insist on being involved if a person with a record has any role in his children’s lives, again regardless of the nature of the crime.

Then there is the constant issue of who knows and who should you tell. When you meet someone new, whether in a social or work setting, when if at all do you disclose your record? If your case was reported in the media or social media, anyone who searches your name is going to find it. Even if you have a pardon — now very hard to get — your record will still likely be on the Internet. Do you tell people early, or hope they won’t look you up? What about developing a friendship or a new romantic relationship? At what point do you disclose your record? Every time you do, you fear being rejected — and often will be. I had many, many people I considered friends who stopped all contact with me after my conviction. And others who seemed friendly until they learned that I had a record.

About four million Canadians have a criminal record so face these questions every day and in virtually every social situation. Joining a new group? Will they kick you out if someone finds out about you? One man I met was a popular volunteer at an animal shelter until one day someone put an article about his crime (which had nothing to do with animals) on the desk of the shelter director who asked him not to come back. He was devastated.

All of this has a hugely chilling effect on released prisoners. It makes you want to hide in your room, to avoid meeting anyone, to stay as small and inconspicuous as possible. All of which work against rebuilding a reasonable life.

One former prisoner told me he liked to ask others if they would take twice as much prison time in exchange for having their record erased after release. He said every single person he asked would take that trade. It’s a very sad situation when more time in prison looks better than how we make people live after they are released.

That’s why it was such a pleasure recently to see a TV news interview with Emily O’Brien (Comeback Snacks). Emily, who did four years for a drug offence, and whom I have met a few times, has become a vocal and effective spokesperson for better approaches to released prisoners. She is excellent at getting and using media attention to advance her case (probably aided because she is a bright, entrepreneurial and telegenic young woman). Most of us — me included, which is why I use a pen name to write these articles — would fear the repercussions of putting ourselves out in public the way Emily does. Yet she is willing to take the risk to help others.

Emily’s argument, and the point of this column, is that we seem as a society content, or even happy, to put people in situations that dramatically increase their chances of further crime or other bad outcomes. We will spend more than $100,000 a year to keep someone locked up but not even a small fraction of that to help that person rebuild a life. We prefer unending punishment to building stronger communities. It’s hard to understand from any rational point of view, but in the world of criminal justice, emotion dominates.

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.