‘I SAW THE GAME FOR WHAT IT REALLY IS’
Acquitted. Then sentenced to life. Retried, finally convicted and freed. Warren Abbey, whose legal saga turned on a teardrop tattoo, explains what he learned in prison and why he’s helping others find a path out
Nineteen months after his release from prison, the man with the most famous tattoo in Canadian jurisprudence is working for the John Howard Society helping other former inmates reintegrate into the community.
In May 2018, Warren Abbey, now 34, pleaded guilty to manslaughter for fatally shooting 19-year-old Simeon Peter, an unarmed man, in Scarborough in January 2004. Almost 11 years into a life sentence, he received credit for time served and was set free.
At the time of the killing, a violent turf war was raging between gang members living in southwest Scarborough’s Galloway neighbourhood and their rivals in nearby Malvern.
Abbey, then 18 and living in Malvern, had been associated with gangs there. With his plea, he admitted shooting Peter, believing he was a member of the enemy Galloway Boys, and thinking he appeared ready to pull out a gun. That was not the case. Peter was not a gang member, nor was he known to police.
Four months after the fatal shooting, Abbey had a black teardrop tattooed on his right cheek. The significance of that tiny mark became the focus of a legal saga spanning 14 years.
At his first trial, the judge excluded expert testimony that Abbey might have had the teardrop inscribed on his face to symbolize the killing. Abbey was acquitted.
The Crown appealed, arguing it was a mistake for the jury not to hear from the expert. Ontario’s highest court agreed and a new trial was ordered. This time, jurors heard from the expert, Ottawa sociologist Mark Totten, and Abbey was convicted of first-degree murder in 2011.
Abbey appealed that conviction and in 2017 the Court of Appeal ordered him to stand trial for a third time, finding Totten’s evidence to be unreliable and his testimony full of “inaccuracies” and even “falsehoods.”
But the Crown elected not to proceed with a third trial after Abbey agreed to a plea deal that saw him released in May 2018 after serving 10 years, nine months and 22 days in custody.
Since then, Abbey has worked as a roofer and mover and plunged himself into community work, mentoring at-risk youth and speaking publicly about the perils of street life. He was hired last fall by the John Howard Society as a peer support worker.
When he’s not working, Abbey says he’s trying to be a good father while going regularly to mosque, going to the gym and promoting a book he wrote in prison, called “Honour Thy Brother” — a gritty tale about vengeance set in Toronto.
The Star sat down with Abbey in a west-end library recently to discuss his past, present and future.
This interview has been edited for clarity and length.
The Star: Tell me about your early life.
Abbey: I was born in North York General Hospital. I never met my dad and was raised by my mother and grandmother. We moved from Rexdale to Scarborough’s Chester Le neighbourhood to escape violence and for financial reasons, and then we moved to Malvern because it seemed like a step up. I have two younger brothers. It was a good upbringing, happy.
When did you start getting into trouble?
I got into a fight, took a kid’s bus tickets and got expelled. I was on the wrong path. I was hanging out with guys I shouldn’t have, in hindsight. I ended doing things that mimicked them. I honestly regret it now.
What was a 14- or 15-yearold Warren Abbey like?
He was very impressionable, easily influenced. He was probably lost not having a father or big brothers to look up to. Unfortunately, in the community where he lived, the only male influences were not the most positive male influences. What happened after you got kicked out of school?
Nothing good, nothing productive. I ended up going straight to the block. Did you join a gang? No, I was never fully involved with those guys. When I was chilling on the block, they called me Warren G — means Warren the Good. I used to work, at McDonald’s, Harvey’s, food concession stand at Wonderland. I was never fully immersed where I cast away all of society’s norms. And yet you shot a man. I felt like we were at war. Regular people were walking down the street getting shot. It felt like something that had to be done for the community, in a sense. Did you feel any remorse? Yes I did, for a couple of months, for sure, but then again, the guys I was chilling with, it was just normal, it kind of made it seem like my remorse was the abnormal. What happened after you were acquitted after your first trial?
I went back to school and worked and tried to stay on the straight and narrow because one taste of jail was all I needed. But then, of course, that wasn’t the end of that story.
You were convicted of first-degree murder after the Crown used the testimony of former gang associates against you. How did that feel?
Transforming. Every value that was developed within me, from chilling with those guys, was destroyed. The “G” (gangster) code is nothing, it’s like vapour. I saw the game for what it really is. It’s just an illusion. They say prison makes you a better criminal.
It does, 100 per cent, there’s no reform in prison. So, what about you? True, very true. But it wasn’t because of prison. The programming I received, it was remedial, elementary, I didn’t take anything from it. The character I have now I attribute to Islam and other mentors that have come into my life, people outside who kept my mind afloat. What was prison like? Hell. The actual environment was something I could deal with. I could survive it. I was from the ’hood, so I already knew how to deal with living in a jungle per se, like in an environment where the strongest eats and weakest don’t kind of thing, so I knew how to handle that part. How did you come to write “Honour Thy Brother”?
One of my first jobs in prison was a school clerk where I had access to a computer. I’d write in my cell, type on the computer. It was more of a form of release for me. I gave it to my friend. He loved it and said, “I need Chapter 2,” so I actually wrote a Chapter 3. Other people began to read it. I got a cult following in prison. It’s still being passed around to this day. What it is about? One man’s journey trying to avenge his brother being shot and find answers in a city plagued with gun violence. He has thoughts of leaving the game but there’s one thing that pulls you back. People are always saying, “I want to leave the game after I do this one last thing.”
Your book is fast-paced and gripping. It’s also ultraviolent and, occasionally, pornographic.
My audience, or my peers, were in prison. The two things that sell: sex and violence. That’s what they want to read. A lot of it is gratuitous.
Did you say anything at your guilty plea? No. Acynic might say you admitted to it for a plea deal, so you would be credited with time served. Did you?
I took the deal to spare both the victim’s family and my own the hardship of going through a third trial.
In their victim impact statements, it’s clear Simeon Peter’s family are still deeply affected by his loss and not happy about your release.
That was heartbreaking, I really don’t know how to touch it. I feel anything I say is just going to aggravate it, obviously, for good reason. It was extremely heartbreaking for me to listen to and, even to this day, I don’t even know how to fully comprehend it. Do you ever think about writing to them?
Oh for sure, 100 per cent. But again, I’m not sure they’re ready for that yet. I don’t want to write a letter and have it do more damage than good. What was your plan after you were released from prison?
I was going to get a goodpaying job, get myself an apartment and a car and life back on track, but it’s really hard out here. Imagine a 30-somethingyear-old convicted murderer, coming out to society. It was really hard for me to get a job. What are you doing at the John Howard Society?
I work on a team as a peer support worker focused on the Black community, helping either ex-cons or men still incarcerated plan for obtaining a job or maintaining a job or getting a job and housing. Pretty much I’m getting paid for what I do already, mentoring, so I’m just extremely lucky and I feel extremely blessed to be a part of John Howard. What do you bring to your work?
I’ve actually been in the trenches, been in the prisons and know what’s going on in the streets. I’ve walked in the same shoes of the people we’re trying to reach.
What will you tell your kids about your early life?
The truth — to do anything else would be an injustice. I wish somebody told me the truth when I was their age. This is the game, and this is how it looks to the untrained eye, but this is how it really is, and your daddy got caught up in it. It’s not like you can’t get caught up in it. Anybody can get caught up in it What can be done to turn young men away from gang life?
Subways, McDonald’s — a lot of my peers and brothers would do these jobs if they had livable wages … but they’re not viable alternatives to selling heroin or even crack. I can make $5,000 a week; why would I substitute that for $500?
In your book, a character calls young Black men an endangered species. Someone suggests poverty is to blame. Another isn’t so sure.
I think poverty, obviously, is a factor. The reason I left it ambiguous, and I kind left room for doubt, it’s not just poverty. It’s such a deep-rooted issue. The whole culture, from a young age, from my standpoint, my peers, brothers and friends, they label us, and that label kind of becomes you. The culture teaches self-hate, it keeps our mind frame at a level, it keeps us stagnant. It’s sad. Some young men don’t expect to live past 30.
I didn’t expect to live past 25, which is why I had a baby so young. Growing up in Malvern in those times, those guys were going around and shooting random people and looking for people who looked and dressed like me. It’s not made up in our heads; it’s a reality, unfortunately.
Most gang shootings relate to vengeance, a theme explored in your book.
A lot of us don’t have any proper guidance how to overcome trauma, so when trauma happens, we can only respond by inflicting our own traumas. Actually picking up a gun and exacting that revenge yourself, that comes from being marginalized, because once you’re marginalized, it becomes easier to accept that you’re not a part of society or community and therefore you’re cast to the side, and develop criminal attributes and have no faith in the police. What changed in the world while you were locked up?
The prominence of social media. Also, Toronto’s influence on a global scale when it comes to hip-hop culture. It shines a light into different communities, and people in them trying to make something of this opportunity. But it’s also fuelling jealousy, and violence. How do you feel about having the most famous tattoo in Canadian jurisprudence?
I don’t know how to feel about that, to be honest. You can’t even notice it. Most people think it’s a pimple, or a blackhead. So why did you get it? Honestly? I got it to impress a girl. I was talking to a girl; it was right after Project Impact (a 2004 Toronto police antigang project). Half of the block went inside. Me and this girl standing in an empty neighbourhood and just thought we’d get tattoos. My tattoo artist, he had a teardrop tattoo. I said, “Oh that’s cool.” He said I’ll do it for free, if you want it. That’s how it came to be. What are your long-term goals?
Continue to work with agencies like John Howard Society and hopefully one day have may own agency. Also go to school to study social work and creative writing.