The SWAT Raid: Part 1
2012— “Get the fuck out of there, the MAJOR CRIME SQUAD and SWAT just raided the house, and they’re looking for you.”
Those were the words of my nephew Dallas as I picked up the phone from our cottage in Haliburton, Ontario.
That was Tuesday, June 22, 2012, at 8:30 am.
I was sitting at the kitchen table on my MacBook, listening to Ekhart Tolle on YouTube and doing my regular morning routine at the time of meditating and studying.
That peace was instantly hijacked by fear and anxiety.
I ruminated for a second, then I grabbed a bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey and gulped down enough to almost kill me.
Now, Eckhart Tolle was in another universe, a former reality, and all I kept thinking was how fucked I was.
ruminate: /ˈro͞oməˌnāt/ — verb — 1. think deeply about something. "We sat ruminating on what the fuck just happened”
My brain wouldn’t stop. It was as if there were a thousand radios on max volume, all tuned to different stations.
So, of course, I did what any dedicated addict would do - I chugged the rest of the Jameson Irish Whiskey and passed out.
When I woke up a few hours later, I had a terrible hangover (which helped me not get overly anxious), which I remember chalking up as a win 🥇.
I exited the bedroom to an eerie silence.
My son Tallon (who was 17), his girlfriend Tracey, and my partner Jen (whom I'd been with for only a year) were scattered in different areas of our cottage.
They all looked over to me with a look of not knowing what to say.
Tallon, my son, broke the silence after a few seconds, saying in a calm, relaxed and almost sarcastic tone... "Well, I guess we need a plan."
Tallon is wiser beyond his years, and I suspect I will be referring to him often in this newsletter.
🗣️Communication Tip: When in a situation like this, you should do exactly as my son did: get to the issue at hand and don’t ruminate on it. Don’t do this: “Oh God…fuck me...my life is over...maybe if I move to Mexico...do they extradite from Mexico?...I'll grow a beard...I'll learn Spanish...oh god I can't learn Spanish in a week..."
Right away, I snapped into action mode, and the three of us all thought, "Call Grandma and Grandpa (my mother and father) and see if they're okay."
When I say okay, we knew they would be fine. They are amazing, amazingly supportive (obviously) and, for some reason, always, ALWAYS, had a good laugh when one of us got into trouble.
Yes, all of us…well, most of us…mostly me.
The house the SWAT team raided was my parents' house, and Dallas (my nephew) and my sister were home.
Note as to why they raided my parents’ home. It’s because I was living/staying there becaus I just got back from a six-month stay in Los Angeles to get sober from opiates and GHB—it didn’t work.
My childhood home. My 82-year-old grandparents. My nephew Dallas and my sister Elaine. We're all getting raided at 6 a.m while Jen, Tallon, his girlfriend Tracey, and I were at the cottage.
What a piece of shit I am, right?!
I know, I know, I agree - don't do drugs is all I can say.
Thankfully, God gave me the best parents in the frickin universe.
Not only didn't they get mad, but after all the dust had settled, they thought it was kind of funny.
They were planning to leave for the cottage and meet us up there that very morning.
When they got there later that day, they both got out of the car with a grin. My father even laughed it off.
The first thing I did was apologize and hug my mother.
That's when she shook her head with a smile, as if saying, "What have you gotten yourself into?"
"Mom, I'm not a drug dealer," I said.
"I know, son," she said. "They didn't find anything after all."
"How are you?" I asked.
"Just fine," with a smirk.
I hugged her again and helped her into the cottage.
My father was greeted by Tallon and Jen on the other side of the van, and by the time I got around to him, they were all having a chuckle together.
Of course, I apologized, then I called a lawyer.
His name is Glen, and he got me off a bunch of other assault charges in the late 90s.
🍌BANANAS BUT TRUE. The charges were for assaulting my girlfriend's little sister's boyfriend, who beat her up. I’ll say it again… my girlfriend’s💃… little sister’s👧🏼, boyfriend👦🏼. Thus, I went to his house and slapped him around a bit. He did it again, so I went back and gave him a full-on beating— enough that he was screaming so loud the neighbours heard and called the cops. The charges were dropped on the fact that it was the right fucking thing to do. This was the 90s, and you sometimes got lucky with a judge who was a good ol’ boy. I regret that experience.
…back to the CHAOS…
…my lawyer called the major crimes unit and told them I was at the cottage.
The good news is that I was convinced I mustn't have been too important to them if they didn't care that I was still roaming the streets a free man while 21 of my buddies were in jail.
In the meantime, I had to field a couple of calls from the media.
First was a call from the Toronto Star (Toronto's massive newspaper publication).
Ring. Ring...
Hello.
"Hi, can I speak with Bruce Turner, please?"
"Who's calling?"
"It's Robyn Doolittle from the Toronto Star. Can I speak with Bruce Turner, please?"
The reporter's name instantly clicks.
She's the investigative reporter who cracked the case that Toronto's mayor, Rob Ford, was a crack smoker, and she is an accomplished, highly regarded author and investigative reporter.
Note: He was caught on camera smoking crack with one of Toronto's most notorious gangs from the projects of one of the most dangerous hoods in Canada (Jane and Finch).
…back to the phone call.
"Who is it?" I say.
"It's Robyn Doolittle from the Toronto Star. Is this Bruce Turner from Style By Jury?" she asks.
I made it sound like the right house but the wrong Bruce Turner, so I put on this hillbilly accent and say, in that voice of an old person who is hard of hearing.
"No, it's his uncle. What are you saying? Something about a jury?" I say.
"Do you host a TV show called Style By Jury?" she asks.
Now I pretend I was speaking to someone in the background.
I’m yelling now…
"I don't know, there's some lady on the phone asking about a jury,"
"Sorry," I say in a confusing southern accent. "We are told only to talk with our lawyer."
I hang up and never hear from her again.
Phew, what a performance!
The whole accent thing was pure legerdemain gold!
However, somewhere in Scarborough, another Bruce Turner — same name, same age, never been raided by anyone — did what he normally did.
I knew he existed because we had been confused for one another at banks and doctors’ offices in the area for many years.
I’ve never met him, I just know he exists.
Ms. Doolittle didn’t do enough doogling that day—she was duped, and I’m no Mayor Rob Ford.
legerdemain · /ˌlejərdəˈmān/ · noun · sleight of hand; trickery. "The whole accent was pure legerdemain."
🎙️ Communication Tip: Use Misdirection when necessary. • This needs to be practiced, and you can use it on your friends and loved ones. eg: “Look! A three-legged lesbian!” • Practice accents in your spare time.
…back to the Chaos….
…so Tuesday rolls around eventually, but not without sleepless nights and 7 straight days of real anxiety attacks and massive amounts of cannabis and a constant hum of electricity through my body.
I turn myself in.
Part 2 is next week.
Thanks for reading, it means a lot 🙏🏼.
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