Shakedown: A true story of murder, police deceptions, lies and extortions

By Paul Duarte

You know, they say that the least important word in the English vocabulary is the word I. But it is also a word in which we love to use a lot these days. We love to use it because we all love to talk about ourselves. Blessed is the man or woman who doesn't, or is wise enough not to - talk about themselves that is. That is a precious gift and if

• Language: English
• Publisher: Haystack Creatives
• Release date: Apr 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781953115201

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Acknowledgements

I would like to thank all my family and friends, who have put up with this police investigation and for being exposed to their unjustified questioning and intrusions.

I especially wish to thank my ex Tammie, for not throwing me out on my ears when the going got tough; and who had her computers confiscated twice because it all.

To my dearest friend Carla, for being there for me once again and helping out with the safe keeping of the book and my instructions, just in case something happened to me or my computer. Which on May 5th, 2010 it did - along side of my unfinished tax work, bookkeeping, taped conversations with Jackie, photos and rough copy of this book.

To my dear friend Lori of the Hanover Post, for helping out with the editing of the book.

Last but not least, The Ontario Provincial Police (OPP) for putting my life through a living hell, (directly and indirectly) without justification or motive.

Oh! Yes, and let us not forget the individual that stole my laptop, when this book was only half finished, which forced me to re-write it much in a way, that I think portrays the story in a much better light. It was password protected, so if it was turned in to the police, they are now in possession of it and having a field day over nothing.

In loving memory of Donald Bothwell, to whom this book is dedicated.

Rest in peace my brother – August 22, 2009

Introduction

You know, they say that the least important word in the English vocabulary is the word I. But it is also a word in which we love to use most often. We love to use it, because we all love to talk about ourselves.

Blessed is the man or woman who doesn’t, or is a least wise enough not to - talk about themselves that is.

That is a precious gift and if I had possessed such a gift and the wisdom to discern it, I probably would not have been in the predicament in which I had found myself in; and probably would not be on record in a police data base for as the rest of my life. This book is no exception to the rule, since this an autobiography, of my latter years, there is no way around it.

Most authors write for the sole purpose of personal gain and success and this of course means different things to different people in many different ways. But this book goes beyond that.

You see, I was falsely accused of murder of a friend and next door neighbour! Or at least of having some prior knowledge of it. I have not been charged with anything, but I have been accused of participation. So this book was not really written as much for self gain (although that would be nice) as much as it is to get my story out there.

That is Gods honest truth!

If at some point I am wrongfully charged with something I had no part in, I want people to know my side of the story for what it really is and not the twisted facts and ideas from a crown attorney or the police - just to get a conviction.

Now! This story really does not and cannot have an ending. Unless I die or the police find the actual killer or killers. Who in my opinion, even with all their expensive toys and technology, special units and accumulated knowledge at their disposal, will never happen.

Who would commit such a brutal and senseless murder of a neighbour and a friend?

If the police had any clue, they would not have wasted their time and thousands of tax payer’s dollars investigating me, my family, my ex’s, my friends and everyone associated with me. Nor would they be throwing money away on (double) police stings operations and counterproductive tactics while the killer walks free.

You will see why, to at least some of the questions as you read on.

So if you are looking for a happy ending or closure, it is not too late to get a refund. But I promise you! If you do read on to the end, you will be reading one of the best real life drama’s you have ever come across lately. Especially here in Canada, supposedly land of the free.

Nothing in this story was fabricated, exaggerated or bent. The facts come from what the police have said to me or to others, things that people in general have said, things that have happened before my own eyes and the obvious deductions of things that have taken place. So sit back and be prepared to be taken on a journey – my journey.

An emotional roller coaster of chaos, tension and sleepless nights. Nights that has led me to the disbelief and credulity of our justice system and the police.

Chapter 1

The Beginning

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death ....

For most of my life I have lived a peaceful and quite existence. I have never broken the law, never hanged out with the wrong kind of crowds, never done drugs, abused alcohol or even smoked for that matter.

The first four years, I lived on the outskirts of the small town of Alhandra, in a small house, in the sunny district of Lisbon, Portugal.

The house belonged to my dearly departed grandma, who lived there for the most part of her life. That was before moving to Canada to be with my mom during her golden years, until the day the good Lord called her home.

I was born in that house. I lived there with my folks and one of my sisters for those first few years of my life. My sister next in line, was born in the house as well, but arrived by stork two years after me.

The property surrounding our home, was a Garden of Eden at the time, flourished by orchards, vegetable gardens and vineyards - where my cousin Al (who was the same age with only about a month difference) and I spent most our days playing in the make belief mystical forests, medieval knights and fire breathing dragons.

Al and I got along well enough for the most part, but Al had a bit of a mean streak in him that was obnoxious in the best of times.

As a child he loved to go up to anyone he didn’t like or that didn’t agree with him and kick them in the shins. Some days he was so hard to handle, that it made it difficult for anyone to be around him - even his own parents. He was a handful!

Even to this day my aunt and uncle still boast how their kid used to beat the crap out me or anyone else that crossed him from time to time.

We would play from morning till dark - eating oranges, apples; and figs right out of the tree; and only going home when we were called in for lunch, supper or at sunset.

Of course by the time I sat down at the dinner table, my appetite was lost from gobbling down all that fruit I ate throughout the day.

Sitting across from my father, one stern look and we would not DARE refuse to eat what was put in front of us - hungry or not, it all had to go down. There was no wastage in our household.

The way my dad figured, was that, if he had to toil all day from Monday to Friday to earn it, none of it would end up in the garbage - and usually none of it did.

Everyone ate the same thing and if there were any leftovers, you knew what was for lunch or supper the next day for sure.

In those days, in a small town of Hicksville, crime in Portugal was virtually unheard of.

When there was some kind of incident, it was national news without even hitting the media.

Folks would allow their children to play outside all day without a care in the world.

By far - Those were the best days of my life. Another time – another world!

Like little monkeys, we would climb the olive trees that ran alongside a main road, adorning the banks of the creek that separated our property from the main road.

One of our many pas-times was making bows and arrows from umbrellas we’d occasionally find in the garbage. In those days the ribs of the umbrellas were made from blue spring steel and did not break as easily as they do today.

After constructing our dangerous but fun weapons, we would go down to the river and shoot rats; and targets made from cardboard boxes with the arrows we had fashioned from those same umbrellas.

It is amazing how we did not shoot someone’s eye out with those things.

We would also made playhouses and castles from a bamboo-like plant (whose name eludes me), that grew along the river’s edge, right next to the bamboo, pear cactus’s and raspberry bushes.

We had loads of fun growing up in this semi-rural kind of place!

There were small grocery stores nearby, taverns and cafes where most of the adults hung out. We were too young to go in these places and were thereby forbidden by our parents to enter – at least not without adult supervision.

We were allowed to play anywhere we wanted, sometimes all day, except on the road. Getting caught breaking that rule would mean the belt on the old derriere or not being allowed out the next day at all.

Yes sir! That was the life. No commitments, no worries and no responsibilities - just plain fun all day, every day. Except maybe Sunday’s! That is when my mom and grandma dragged me by the ears and off to church I went, liked it or not.

The love of archery came about early in life when I was just a boy; when I first saw the original 1938 black and white movie version of The Adventures of Robin Hood starring Errol Flynn. To me, that fit right in alongside Cowboys and Indians and the orchards were our Sherwood Forest - especially in the summer when the trees were in full bloom.

As I grew older, I came to love the sport so much that later in life I came in second place at the International Belgium Style Championships in Chicago in 1989 - second on my team and my team second in the world. The trophy that bares my name and of my team mates, can still be found in the City Hall of the Town of Ajax, ON (near Toronto), Canada.

No lessons, no training, just a natural love and ability for the sport - a love which I regret to say I can no longer practice, due to my disabilities and lack of balance.

For the next following seven years, I lived in a quiet mid-sized village not more than ten kilometres from the town I was born in - Vila Franca de Xira. Nothing much out of the ordinary ever happened in Vila Franca.

People went about their daily business. On the weekends, maybe doing a little shopping in the outdoor markets, catch a movie, a bull fight and on occasion a soccer game or two.

For relaxation, they may perhaps hang out with their family and friends at the local café and sip on an espresso, (known as a bica) or a cold beer.

The highlight of my town was, and still is, the annual festival, Colete Encarnado (Red Vest Festival) that usually takes place in the first week of every July, that honours the labourers, fisherman and ranchers of years past - a tradition that has passed down from generation to generation.

No one really knows just how long this celebration has been around, but judging from the traditional costumes, it is probably as old as the country itself. Portugal is about nine hundred years old, so needless to say, the festivities may have been around for a long, long time.

This is a feast of food, music and live entertainment - a festival of decorated streets, decorated houses and even some decorated people dressing up in traditional clothing.

The main streets are closed off and the party lasts all day, all night for three straight days and three straight nights.

The festivities are initiated by fireworks and ends with fireworks.

The whole event is sponsored mostly by local businesses, television and radio stations, but mostly paid by the municipality and some of the wealthier business owners of the town.

Every year they have the running of the bulls on segregated streets, which usually ends up with one or more adventurous or really dumb lads landing in the hospital. There are folk dancers, wine, beer, sardines on the Bar-b-Q and a parade honouring the blue collar worker.

I remember the fire truck sirens always used to scare the living daylights out of me and sent me running to and grabbing my mama’s skirt. But outside of this event; it was business as usual, at least from the eyes of a child.

The next thirty-four years were spent in the big metropolis of Toronto, where I lived with my folks and learned about city life. Became street wise and meta-morphed into what most would call adulthood.

The best part of my life living in Toronto was when I arrived at the age of eleven. This was the first time I had ever seen snow.

For me, it was one of the most beautiful things I had ever laid eyes upon. The ground and the trees were all covered in this cold white stuff. I loved how it felt on my face when I looked up at the sky and it came down in big white flakes.

I loved doing that - especially in the evening looking down at the dark and lifeless street, with only the white street lights lighting up the crisp white snow and the stars lighting up the night wintery skies.

I arrived in Toronto in early January and many of the Christmas decorations were still up.

I loved to see the reflection of Christmas lights on the white covered ground at night - that too was something else, I had never seen before.

When I was a boy in Portugal, they did not put up Christmas lights on houses, or on the trees for that matter. They do now to some degree, in some of the more touristic areas - influenced by American television and Hollywood of course. But it was not something that existed back then.

My father’s acquaintance, the brother of my dad’s brother-in-law, had given me a small aluminum toboggan - and man.... How I played with that thing all day long. Every day after school and on weekends, it seemed that the cold and dampness never got to me.

I was made of iron back in those days and couldn’t get enough of it.

Thirty nine years later after shovelling so much of it and a few wipe-outs on ice, I have a different view and opinion of winter. It is no longer that much fun - unless I am tearing up the back forty on a snowmobile or my ATV - and occasionally a snowball fight with my honey.

I still love the look of the landscape freshly covered in snow, but now I prefer it from the inside of a window and the warmth of a fireplace sipping on a hot cup of coffee.

Perhaps watching kids play outside all day, reminding me of my own yesteryears and how I use to be just like them.

The other three seasons are still fun, warm and beautiful though.

The latter six years were spent on and off in the small rural town of Opas, Ontario, where my ordeal and this story begins.

* * *

Opas is a small, quite rural town in Northern Ontario - located on one of the main arterial highways that run from south of the province, to the furthest organized settlements of the north - then loops back to the big metropolis of Toronto.

Like many other small towns in Ontario, nothing much ever happened in Opas.

It is a peaceful and serene existence and it is home to about three hundred people or so – who just happen to like it that way. The only establishments that exist in Opas, is a restaurant, gas station/coffee shop and the post office.

For the exception of maybe a statue of a big fish in front of the Community Centre Complex and a logging boat dry docked out of place beside a baseball field.

There is not that much else!

If you are driving a bit too fast as you pass through town and you blink, you will probably miss it all together.

* * *

In my younger years, I was a fairly polite and obedient child growing up as far as children go. I never gave my folks any major headaches - at least that I can remember and as far as I have been told by my parents.

Perhaps due to the fact that my mom was as fast as John Wayne on the draw with her slipper (on my butt, that is) and my father with his stern look that could stop a train in its tracks, kept order and respect in the house.

Some of you may believe that this kind of discipline (not child abuse, but discipline) is a big no-no and raises violent children. In my books that is hog wash! I love both of my parents and they love my siblings and me. I am respectful of them and they are respectful of us.

I feel that anyone who thinks otherwise will end up with unruly, disrespectful children, guaranteed.

On a personal note, I managed to go through childhood, high school and most of my adult life, without getting into a lot of verbal or physical confrontations with anyone - or running afoul with the law.

Kids will test you!

If one lets it slide with empty threats, or sends them to their rooms where they have all their conveniences of home, such as a TV, computers, stereos, play stations, Wii’s, cell phones and so on .... That is like saying, you are being punished .... so you are restricted to spend the day at the amusement park.

If one is going to punish them by sending them to their room, one must also remove all the toys first. Leave the books though - Lord knows, they might actually pick one up and read it.

Kids will test you again and again, every time in a more aggressive and dramatic way, if they know that they can get away with it.

I see this happening with my ex’s teenage daughters (from previous marriages) and their friends. No respect for parents, authority or their elders. No matter what you do for them or how much you care, there is no respect.

Like the daughter of my latest ex - barely turned sixteen, sexually active and does not show up at home for two or three days despite her mother’s frustrated pleas and instructions. Not all kids behave this way, but many do. There are well brought up kids that respect their parents and their elders.

If you do have respectful children (especially in their teens) count your blessings, you are among the lucky few.

I’m no child expert and this is a subject for another book. But it is my belief that if we don’t discipline our children, the authorities will sooner or later. Is it any wonder why our crime rate is so high and rising? Or that the family unit, the fabric of society is breaking down?

Kids having kids, with no experience of what being a parent is all about – nor do they have a concept of what family really is and thereby look elsewhere to strangers and groups that seem to fill the gap; until they find their backs against a wall.

Is it any wonder that now-a-days, what has always been considered morally wrong, seems right and what is right seems wrong?

Not more than a week ago from the time of this writing, a fifteen year old boy stabbed a forty nine year old man right here in my neighbourhood.

A boy! A snotty nosed kid, who has not yet learned how to wipe his own ass properly; is now starting life by commiting violent crimes -