Carline's account of the Standoff

The standoff

Big Mona, Larry, and I are at the table after a pot of coffee is made. Mona won’t go back to bed as Larry suggests, she’s too wired, "those bastards! They’re not coming in here to take that baby." I hadn’t been around when Chantelle was brutally taken by the authorities, but from what I understand Mona was devastated. More so because she felt helpless. Now, it’s as though she has no intention of letting anyone take another child away, this one her namesake grandchild. And certainly not exactly like the last time - for no good, decent, or legal reason.

Before the coffee, she ordered Larry to make sure the doors and windows were secure. I helped him carry a sheet of plywood from the basement, which is used to wedge between the front and foyer doors. The rest of the time, I don’t know what I’m doing in a situation that surely isn’t happening. It can’t be. The phone rings but I pay no attention to it, or to Mona who’s telling us to ignore it. I’m hardly able to listen to Big Mona who’s got enough to say, and Larry who’s making enough noise, reminding me this night is for real. And all the while, our beautiful baby is sleeping peacefully in her bed … maybe for the last time.

The phone isn’t ringing anymore. The activity outside has stopped. The coffee pot is empty. It’s close to 3 o’clock. There isn’t anything we can accomplish by losing any more sleep and working ourselves up. Larry had said this earlier, that they were gone and wouldn’t be back until morning. He was upstairs already but knew he wouldn’t be sleeping. How could he, when another baby’s life was at risk again.

Mona and I, but mostly Mona, busies herself with putting things away, perhaps thinking that tidying up would make a difference. She speaks quietly, and sometimes to herself. I can’t quite make out if she is praying - she’s done both on occasion when I was around, and whenever Little Mona was being talked or thought or worried about.

She tells me to check the front door as we are leaving the kitchen. I know Larry would have be thorough but I also know Mona wanted me to feel safe just as much as she did. The little nightlight in the kitchen remains on, which gives enough light to walk down the hallway to the front of the house. The door leading into the foyer is shut, which I had expected, and opening it I see that the front door is thoroughly braced with plywood as I had also expected. Perhaps more for Big Mona’s satisfaction, I descend the one stair into the foyer, but have to open the door wide and step close to the hinged side because the end of the sheet of plywood is positioned against the back of the step. I make my way to ensure the front door is indeed fastened, shut well, guarding not against escape, but rather against entry.

It sounds like an explosion the first time and its nearness sends me reeling. When it hits the front door again and then again the glass shatters. By this time I’ve tripped on the step leading into the hallway and the newel post on the stair landing catches my fall. As though in fast-forward and in slow motion I attempt to get hold of myself and of what’s happening.

The tumultuous assaults are against the door - the assailants are trying to break it down. It’s when I’m turn around and only a second on my feet that I see Big Mona, she’s standing not two feet away, with uncle Wills gun aimed at the front door. Shock does not immobilize. My hand reach for Mona’s and I think it’s the weight of my quick and thrust like movement that makes her lose her balance. But the clamoring commotion on the outside, the end to the violent pounding on the front door and the heavy scatterings of several beet descending from the porch tells me that Big Mona was serious when she said she wasn’t letting anyone in to steal our baby. I don’t know if it’s the pounding in my head or the pounding in my heart, but I feel like it’s never going to go away. Mona-Clare. What is to become of you?

Larry’s back downstairs. He sits Big Mona in Albert’s chair in the living room trying to calm her - she insists she isn’t finished yet. She’s shaking, her sentences are broken and she’s going off in angry words. We’re all feeling it - it’s raw and instinctual fear. Larry tries to make light of the situation, telling her at least she knew to aim over their heads, but Mona, unlaughing, says it wasn’t’ her intention to aim high.

I don’t recall making the second pot of coffee or if I was the one who made it but it’s almost empty and it’s almost dawn, and it’s almost time for Mona-Clare’s day to begin, but it isn’t the time to understand her days with us are about to end. I go to my baby take her in my arms embrace her with all my mother emotion. When she awakens I put her to my breast and she suckles with hunger. She draws her feet up like a little monkey and I cup them and hold them against my womb. It’s as though we both can’t get enough of each other.

After my tears I hum to the tune of a Gloria and William Gaither song but sing the verse that really counts:

‘How sweet to hold a new-born baby

and feel the pride and joy he gives;

but greater still the calm assurance.

This child can face uncertain days

Because He lives...

Because He lives I can face tomorrow

Because He lives all fear is gone,

Because I know He holds the future;

and life is worth the living

Just because He lives’

Little Mona is full and Big Mona is waiting for her. She’s ashen, there are tiny beads of sweat around her brow and she’s wiped her eyes and blown her nose several times already, but she still expects her ‘baby’ in bed with her. Mona stays under the covers and I get on the other side of the bed with Mona-Clare, and Dolly and Friend between us. By the time Mass has started on TV Big Mona is asleep. Little Mona and I move into Larry’s and my bed, because he’s upstairs and awake and the three of us need to be together.

The police have cut the phone lines. They’ve disconnected our communications with everyone except for them. So every time we pick up the phone it automatically rings Halifax Police. Our lawyer Amy Roburn, whom we telephoned earlier, trying to figure out what to do, can no longer advise us. We can’t talk to family members or anyone else eager and anxious to assist in resolving matters.

Big Mona’s schedule is off - she stays in bed. Her energy is low after the most fitful night of her life. Larry’s been keeping watch on things, what’s going on outside and I’m wasting my time and energy with Tom Marten, who calls himself a negotiator, but both he and I know he’s been called in to antagonize. One call after another he’s got absolutely nothing to say except that the only way things are getting resolved is if we hand our baby to the Children’s Aid Society of Halifax and Larry and I surrender ourselves to the police.

They know about Big Mona’s health - knew months ago already, when Larry had written the letter on her behalf advising the authorities to quit harassing her with those constant, never ending deliveries of documents. Marten wouldn’t say who authorized the attack on her by attacking her home in the middle of the night. And now adding insult to injury Marten asks, "How’s old Mona doing?"

Every once in a while I think he cares or at least I think he should, when he asks what else is going on inside the house. I give him an assessment of things but Larry’s assessment was right when he said the cops already know what’s going on because they probably have a throw phone (listening device) attached to the house somewhere since the early hours of the ‘stand off’, which is how it gets sensationalized across Canada. And as before, the press is purposefully ridiculous.

I’m furious when Larry turns on Mona’s new kitchen television - the one we bought her a week ago - a Mother’s Day present. Who said anything about Larry firing a gun!? The media is feeding the public exactly what the police want everyone to think - that a crazy man had started shooting at police. No mention of what really happened and how the police and Children’s Aid instigated the whole affair. Just that they arrived to enforce an apprehension order.

We wouldn’t know ourselves until later that we were followed to Wal-Mart the evening before, that the police had us and the house under surveillance, watching us through the window with high powered binoculars. The media doesn’t report that the authorities knew Mona-Clare and I had returned to 6161 Shirley St. days ago already, and that they didn’t bother to knock at the door at any decent or respectable hour when they could have or should have - there was no 911 call, and the police had absolutely no indication Mona -Clare’s life was in peril, which was the only legal excuse they could have used to come in the middle of the night.

And there was no report of their attempt to gain entry into Mona’s home by breaking down the door with a battering ram, while armed with machine guns.

Big Mona wants to keep Marten busy on the phone. I’m not interested in talking with him because I don’t get anywhere, and many times he just upsets me, especially when he tries to do amateur psychology on me. Maybe I’m the one who has it wrong - maybe it’s Marten’s role to needle, provoke, to be useless, to get a reaction from us, to do anything but resolve matters peacefully and quickly, to justify crossing lines already, to keep the stand off alive so Ronnie robot can stay on the force because they used it /him once. I tell Marten to send some apples over with Ronnie so I can make some apple sauce for Mona-Clare.

I’m quite serious however, when I want to know what’s going on with Children’s Aid, what the heck they have besides Smith’s criminal court order to justify wanting to steal our baby. I don’t bother wasting my time telling Marten that court orders and blind obedience were not enough to excuse horrific crimes in times of war. I can tell his mentality - I don’t think he’s equipped to appreciate how genocides were and can still be effected.

I want Mona-Clare secured with family before I have any intention of leaving the house. When Marten says it would take five days to get the order, I inform him he’s full of it - consent can be done in five minutes, just like the apprehension order. I also know there are enough family members that can and will take our baby, and the law says when parents aren’t available, extended family must first be considered. Besides, statistics show the majority of children in foster care are abused.

The police have now blown the situation to gross proportions. Entire streets are cordoned off, schools are closed, and neighbors are evacuated or ordered to say in their basements. Police are armed with machine guns, wear heavy armor and helmets and they’re everywhere - on the streets, on the corners, in the backyards, in front of TV cameras, snipers in windows, plus police dogs, congregations of reporters, dozens of police cars, and hundreds of bystanders compose a scene that is beyond reason.

Yet throughout this inflated affair it is not explained how at least one woman is able to stroll the entire length of Shirley St., right in front of the 6161 three-ring circus. And all of this because a mother and father possess a natural and primal need to nurture and raise their offspring and our Canadian government, in a so-called progressive society, will not respect this dying breed.

Larry and I watch the news reports and the only accounts that remotely resemble reality is when Dr. David Menslink makes an appearance on ATV. A mother distraught, he says, loving her baby too much to give her up. The fired shot, a warning to stay away. All other accounts: folly to fool the fool worthies.

To disclose the truth is an absolute horror. A societal nightmare with incredibly disturbing implication, alas ignorance is not bliss. It only allows those responsible for such an atrocity to get away with it. But who bares onus if the truth is bared? Feigned child protection agencies who steal the babies from good and loving parents? Lawyers and judges preparing the paper work? Ceausescu for giving Canadian government lessons? Or the Canadian people for allowing such gross criminality to continue.

I know the police want to keep the stand off alive, but I would not know that which Big Mona wants to keep from me. She’s dying. She and Larry are doing most of the talking while I’m not around. She was particularly anxious to have Wayne come to the house, to have a talk about his role as executor. I know Mona’s worked up and sickly with stress, who wouldn’t be? But I do not fully understand, maybe because my mind and heart refuse to believe.

I continue to tend to her as a nursemaid. I make porridge and toasts for Mona. I bring her soup, I draw her bath, help with her puffers, administer her meds, and comb her hair. I’m on the phone with Marten demanding that Dr. Fay come to the house to attend, but he advises yet again, no one will be allowed in the house - not even Mona’s doctor - even when Dr. Fay says he has absolutely no fear of coming over.

The police will however allow him to speak with Big Mona over the phone and she tells him she’s ill but she will not leave the house. She knows she won’t be going to hospital - it’ll be an interrogation room.

Larry is quiet a lot of the time. Once in a while he’ll talk to Marten but he knows it’s a wasted effort. Maybe he’s in working shock, like me, giving the impression that no much is going on, but if you allow yourself to think too much about what’s really going on, function turns dysfunctional. We’re hardly eating. We need sleep. Marten assures me that they won’t attempt another attack like they did the first night, but he doesn’t tell me that what they have planned instead is the use of a front end loader and gas bombs once they get clearance. Get a good night’s sleep, he says.

Little Mona is being a little angel. She smiles, laughs, and puts her hands all over my face when I coo. I nibble on her ear, massage her scalp, play with her toes. Her extra suckling is nourishing me, probably more than it is her. Mona-Clare in my arms, Mona-Clare gnawing on Rabbit. Mona-Clare learning to crawl, Mona-Clare beginning to laugh. She keeps growing. She brings me peace, reminds me of who I am. When I’m not feeling sorry for myself, I’m feeling so lucky to be her mother.

Three times, after I’ve made Big Mona comfortable, I go to Little Mona’s room where I find her and Larry. He’s on his back on the floor and Mona-Clare is on his chest, on her tummy with her legs and feet kicking about expressing her energy, happy and nurtured. I lay beside Larry, trying to breathe the scene as much and as long as I can. ‘Let you father and mother be glad, and let her who bore you rejoice.’ Proverbs 23:25

Thursday afternoon. We’re all in Big Mona’s room. It’s the second time she’s ever been verbally upset with me - the first was last summer, when I was pregnant and told her I was thinking of terminating because of my fears of an unrelenting system. It’s after she sees a photo of Ronnie robot in a copy of the Chronicle Herald, which Ronnie robot had delivered, and after she learns what the authorities have done, how they’ve targeted her son yet again. "Why in hell did you try and stop me!" I’m speechless because I know she’s serious and even more so because I still can’t believe she was serious the other night. I can’t even say I’m sorry.

Hours later, I tell Mona-Clare how sorry I am for her even though she doesn’t understand. She’s busy splashing around the kitchen sink. She looks at her feet that are under the water while I put a warm wet washcloth over her hair. She keeps at her playful business while I’m trying to keep myself together. My infant daughter in a democracy. She can be sure of nothing, not an interpretation of the law nor a correct assessment of the danger she faces, nor liberty, security or life.

Little Mona smells pretty and she gleams, and I take her upstairs to Big Mona, who will not get out of bed except to go to the toilet. She doesn’t eat or watch Touched By an Angel or read her Bible. But she welcomes her granddaughter and talks to her, asks Mona-Clare if she’s had a good day, asks her where her big mouse went to. Big Mona and I say little to each other while Mona-Clare suckles before sleep. I ask her how she’s feeling and she tells me she’ll be better tomorrow. I leave the two Monas to find out what Larry’s up to. I want us to be held for a little while.

In the kitchen we tell each other we have to cook the pork chops, which were purchased when the Monas and I went to the Atlantic Superstore on Tuesday. Larry’s sure something’s being planned - they’re not going to let this go on - it’s a long weekend coming up - but what exactly, it’s hard to say. I think they’ll need to keep the Monas in mind - an infant child and an elderly woman. "Are you kidding?" he says, "they don’t give a damn about them - look what they did the other night!" It’s not the pork chop and beer that leaves a sick feeling in my stomach. It’s Larry telling me they’re coming after him because he’s cost the system too much money and he knows too much, and they know Larry’s no giving up and I believe every word he says.

Larry tells me he can’t sleep but I tell him he has to lay down and try. I go into big Mona’s room and waken my baby for some more suckling. While I change her diaper Big Mona awakens and now the three of us are laying on her bed. She takes Mona-Clare’s hand in her and says "I’m really going to miss you." I’m still not getting it. "Oh Mona, stop it."

The two Monas are asleep. Little Mona has burrowed in Big Mona’s neck. I take a picture because it’s a beautiful sight. I would not know that this evening was their last.

May 21- Tom Marten’s at if first thing in the morning, still saying anything but something that might assist in resolving matters. No, Mona’s doctor is not allowed, her family - not allowed, Mona-Clare to family members - no. No priest, no taking Mona to her church, nothing. Children’s Aid gets our baby and we go into police custody. End of negotiations.

But I am not so naive to think that Mona-Clare is merely a sales transaction about to happen. She’s the monkey wrench in the middle of a system plot to keep the corruption in family law hidden. The system’s enactment of Mona-Clare’s kidnapping, for reasons beyond control. A move to portray me as an unfit mother, necessary leverage for the Crown in my upcoming re-trial in Ontario for taking my children against court order. Otherwise my attendance with nursing baby might expose the criminal acts in Family Court that took my triplet children. How can I be a capable mother of my fourth but not my first three?

And Larry. Only living parent to a native daughter who was taken from him by criminal acts taking place during his own court proceedings. Nothing whatsoever to do with parental fitness or even a custody dispute. His girl, worth more to Indian Affairs if she is living on a reserve. And finally Larry and I will never be left alone after his success in having four lawyers criminally charged, and after I was exonerated for taking the law into my own hands after showing it to be a detriment to my children. The system, at any cost, will maintain a family law industry, the livelihood of too many lawyers at the expense of too many children.

No matter, the entire situation leaves my family in utter ruin. Now they’ve taken my 79 year old mother-in-law. She’s had enough; she doesn’t want to be witness to what might happen to the last of her grandchildren. Her son’s had the emotional snot knocked out of him. When he couldn’t stop the abuse and kidnapping of his daughter, Chantelle, even though he’s never let anyone know it. But a mother knows. She carries the burden too. And now, before police brutal force, she is too frail to overcome.

Mona-Clare is changed and nursed and nurtured. Then Larry plays with her for a bit, then puts her down for a nap, and goes downstairs.

‘The thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy’ John 10:10

Big Mona doesn’t want her morning coffee but she will take my hand to the washroom. While I’m tending upstairs, Larry’s downstairs on the phone with the negotiators, getting nowhere. Mona’s request to be taken to the church is denied. By this time we’re sure police are waiting for Mona to die so they can take the next step which we suspect is a move to take Larry, one way or another, dead or barely alive. Larry’s already shown how good he is at stinking out the corruption, and there are too many who are too nervous to want him sniffing around anymore

No matter if Mona-Clare’s nap is longer than usual because God extended it Himself. I’m able to concentrate on Big Mona whom I now know is dying. I bathe her, speaking to her softly. " You’re going to Albert, Mona. But I’m sorry it had to be like this." I’m washing her as she watches me. "Larry’s a good man, one of the sturdiest men I know and no matter what anyone thinks or believes, Larry’s heart is in the right place and as his mother I believe you have God’s blessing to be proud of your son." My arm brushes against her hand and she squeezes. Her mouth is turned, a smile. I look at her and I will take her last request to my grave, " Don’t let them take our baby."

Propping pillows, arranging the blankets, kissing Mona goodbye. I don’t cry when I go downstairs to tell Larry, I can only cry when he does about an hour later. My love for Larry was partly grounded by his relationship with his mother. His commitment to Mother love and his unfailing respect and admiration for Mona will be one of Larry’s greatest gifts to me. He's looking out the back porch window. When I hear he’s sad to tears I hold him from behind and very firmly when I tell him how much I love him.

I can hardly contain myself. I get on the phone demanding to get the arrangements legalized, so that Maureen or Jackie have temporary custody of Mona-Clare before we leave the house. We have no choice. Larry and I have to get Mona out of the house, soon. Larry’s talking about some law about harboring a dead body which deadens me even more. He fashions a make-shift stretcher while I’m upstairs. Changing Mona, nursing Mona-Clare, taking a quick shower, just going through the motions. Then my baby squeals, reminds me that I’m still needed. I fill the tub and take her for a swim.

Larry’s outside on the second floor, purposely in view, half-expecting to get shot. 10 minutes later I hand him Mona-Clare and now I’m out there too. Here I am. Here’s my baby- my beautiful healthy baby. In my arms, at my breast. An image normally respected, bringing joy, representing life. Shoot me! I have nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of except for those who are watching in judgment, blinded by perversity, by immunity, stunted by ignorance. My suffering is hard but it’s nothing compared to the affliction of our next generations.

Larry and I have the discussion again. He thinks the police will let us get Mona to the church. I’m not sure. I want to believe but the alternative continues to drive my fear. It’s late in the day and Mona’s been deceased for several hours. We don’t have a choice. We’re not leaving Mona on the sidewalk. We know the SWAT-like team is waiting, waiting for Larry, and I know they’d like to bring him down in the house, most likely in the night when no one’s watching, just like before, and I won’t let those bastards take my husband that way. Halifax police, no man should have to endure this just because he wants to protect his family, wants to see the end of the abuse of all those children.

Halifax police have anything but finality in mind; they want Larry and me to remain in the house. One call after another, " Don’t come out of the house! Don’t come out of the house!" Even when we have to end the situation and tell the police we’re going to the church they will not allow us to. "Stay in the house!" " Stay in the house!" "You can’t leave the house!" Tom Marten makes it very clear it’s orchestration, not negotiation.

While I’m preparing Mona-Clare, Larry is saying goodbye to his mother, gathering the wreath with Albert’s picture in the middle, Big Mona’s Bible, and her little St. Anne statue with baby Virgin Mary in her arms, placing them with Mona on her stretcher. He covers her with Albert’s special blanket. We talk about the rifle. Do we take it- who takes it- will it even be in offensive or defensive position- will it be loaded. We talk about potential moves by the police, their reputation, their type to shoot first and put the story together later. In the end Larry takes it, loaded, defensive position. He'll leave it at the church doors.

Larry also takes the knapsack with a few toiletries, a few things for Mona-Clare, Rabbit hanging out the back. I put my baby in the 'Snugli', at my bosom. My hands are free to take the front of Mona’s stretcher. Just before we leave, I kiss Larry, tell him he did the best he could, and that I love him all the more for it. There's a lifetime of things I'd like to tell Mona-Clare but I realize there is little hope for a lifetime.