CONTENT WARNING: This post contains references to child abuse, violence, sexual assault, suicide, and mental health struggles.

What passes for justice

I’ve been told many times throughout my life that I have an old soul. That I am well beyond my years of twenty-two. I would have to agree, but I wasn’t born an old soul. Instead, I was a normal soul until my sister and I were taken away from the reserve when I was four. That very day, my soul aged by a thousand years, and I was left tainted by the absence of my mother’s love. To this day, it still affects me like a lens that filters my perspective and experiences, casting things in a negative light.

The impact of being separated from our mother was first apparent with my sister. When she was fifteen, she began using hard drugs, which made her violent, as though she was possessed by an uncontrollable force. Right around the age of ten, I noticed that I never felt like I fit in or belonged anywhere. I was incapable of feeling love as though it wasn’t meant for me.

I wasn’t ready at ten. But at twelve, I was determined to get myself far away from that place. I began by stealing from unlocked cars. The first time I stole, the valuables I took made me feel important, like I had control over my life.

I hear my name, but with a “Mister.” My old soul of twenty-two years is now a Mister. Oh shit, she’s talking to me. I stand up straight. Or at least I try. What feels like a sharp knife grazes my feet and makes its way up to my ribs. The pills aren’t working to dull my pain. I could down a bottle. There’s too much that needs forgetting—like how the officer beside me looks like the arresting officer that fractured my three ribs. You idiot, I tell myself. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I am usually not this angry, but right now, I could fucking scream.

I try again to stand up straight. It was only yesterday that I talked to the bottle and sang tunes to the moon. I can still feel the taste of liquor in my mouth. My mind is getting the better of me, again. How could he do that to her? How could he?! I think about killing him. God, I wish I had. I feel like I am going to lose it. My head isn’t on straight.

I hear her voice again. “You are charged with failing to comply with an officer’s direction. Do you understand why you are here?” I can feel my feet losing their grip, no matter how hard I try to stand still. “My outbursts?” I respond. 

Melanie was her name. We met when we were fourteen, living on the street. My mind takes me back to that time and place, to the  unhappiest of my days.

It was early in the morning, and still dark out, the summer I turned four. My first foster dad locked the fridge door with a padlock and chain, and he would beat me with his belt when he caught me trying to pry it open. But if I pulled the door just enough, I could squeeze my hand inside. I was so damn hungry back then. I think of the jam-filled cookies I’d find in the dumpster in the alley behind the bakery. My mouth starts to salivate. I wish I could eat one of them right now. I imagine licking the gushy jam off my teeth.

Despite the handcuffs, I manage to wipe my face. “Do you want to proceed with your hearing?” she asks.

I try to think of Melanie. The thought of her calms me. Her eyes were so bright they used to make me feel like I could do anything, like I was something to someone.

I blurt out, “My girlfriend committed suicide after she was raped in a shelter. I am usually compliant. I am not an angry person. I was contemplating going after her rapist. I am struggling with her death.”

Shit. I said too much. My body aches. The room is closing in. It’s a little larger than my cell, and not big enough to give me any elbow room. It’s tight in here with one guard to my left and another on my right. Queen Victoria on the wall stares down at me with a grin on her face, almost as if she is saying, “I caught you again.” It’s hard to breathe. It’s hard to stand.

“You remind me of my sister,” I say, her long black hair, dark eyes, and olive skin makes me think of June. We weren’t blood, but we were bound together after my fourth foster home. We were both beaten, and although we never spoke about it, I knew she was being sexually abused. June was found dead with a rope around her neck, hanging from a closet rod. It feels like death follows me. Fuck, is it karma?

“Good afternoon. My name is Ms. Ahuja—A-H-U-J-A, for the record. I am an Independent Correctional Adjudicator and will be presiding over your matter today. I have the authority to conduct this disciplinary hearing from the Assistant Deputy Minister under the Correction Act Regulation,” I routinely begin.

I look at him more closely. I can tell that he is unwell. Most here are, but he appears to be very unwell. Why is he before me? I ask myself in a more of a statement kind of way. He can barely stand straight. I observe as he wobbles slightly forward and back. Jesus, not another one of these cases. “Do you know how long you’ve been at the centre?” I ask. I hear him murmur under his breath. “Sorry, Mr. Wolfe, I can’t hear you. Can you speak a little louder, please?”

This is my fourth hearing today, all assault charges. The graphic images of a stabbing, a three-on-one assault, and hot buttering are still fresh in my memory. For a split second, I imagine the feeling of boiling butter glued to my back, from my head down, as the first three layers of my skin burn. I learned early on that prison violence involved butter. Butter? I feel a shiver creep up my spine. I force the image aside, at least for now. I know it will find me later in my sleep.

I notice that I am concentrating slightly more than usual so that I can hear his voice. I hate these particular cases—the ones where they are simply too unwell to be standing before me. Why is he even here? What is the centre possibly thinking? I feel my frustration mounting.

“I don’t know how long I’ve been in custody.” I hear him say, in a deeper voice. He pauses, then goes on, “I’m adjusting to my new pain medication. I don’t feel so well.”

“Officer Barns, what are Mr. Wolfe’s conditions of confinement? Where is he housed in the centre?” I ask because where he is housed will determine how long it is reasonable to postpone the matter.

“Ma’am, he is in isolation under medical observation,” the officer replies. “Same conditions as segregation—he is confined for twenty-two hours a day. He is also under Special Handling Protocols, so he must be escorted by two officers. His smock was removed yesterday.”

I feel claustrophobic for a moment. Just thinking about an anti-suicide smock over my shoulders makes it hard to breathe.

“Ms. Ahuja, the centre is prepared to proceed with this evidentiary hearing today,” says Officer Barns, the officer tasked with presenting the centre’s case.

“Mr. Wolfe, the centre is prepared to proceed with your hearing, but it is apparent to me that you are not well enough to participate. Should I postpone your hearing to a different day when you are feeling better?” I ask.

“My eldest foster sister died. They said she was drinking too much. And my other sister killed herself. Now Melanie is gone…I need to talk to a psychiatrist.”

“Mr. Wolfe, your hearing is postponed until Wednesday. This hearing is now concluded. Officer Barns, I am ready for the next matter on my docket.”

Author’s Note: The character of Mr. Wolfe is a composite drawn from my real work investigating the deaths and critical injuries of children in foster care and presiding over disciplinary hearings for BC Corrections (2021–2023). Identifying details have been changed to respect confidentiality and protect privacy. 

Explore the Terms: To better understand the institutional terms used in this story, you can explore my Beyond the Bars Prison Glossary.

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Meet Harpreet: Harpreet Ahuja is a lawyer, human rights consultant, and social justice advocate driven by the conviction that systems need reimagining. Her work explores the intersection of law, policy, and lived experience—and tells the human stories behind injustice. Harpreet is based in Vancouver on the traditional, ancestral and unceded territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and səlilwətaɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations, and publishes on her website.