My
idea was for Jack the Ripper to show up in present day Toronto, with Detective
Nicholas Knight on the hunt for this immortal serial killer of street
prostitutes, some of whom Nick regarded as friends (he was non-judgmental like
that).
I was
pretty fearless, back then. A shit-kicking trouble-maker who liked to rock the
boat, fight the system and root for the underdog. That defiant attitude
occasionally got me into trouble with law enforcement — which is why I was
leaning towards a career in journalism. I wanted to stick it to The Man, as
they say. But, for the moment, it was screenwriting that interested me, and if
I was going to write a TV script about prostitutes working in downtown Toronto,
then, I’d better do some proper research. And by “proper” I mean drive to
Toronto and spend a weekend posing as a prostitute in the downtown core,
observing, listening, taking mental notes of conversations between pros and
johns, pros and their pimps etc. I was married back then, so, my husband
was less than thrilled that I intended to put myself in serious danger by going undercover. But he knew he couldn’t stop me, so, while I walked up and down the
same block on Church Street, from midnight to 3 a.m., one weekend in June, he
followed me in his car, ready to pull me inside if it looked like I was in
trouble.
It
was an eye-opener, witnessing what those poor women went through every night. But what
shocked me the most was learning that some of those girls, in skin-tight clothes
and 6” heels, selling themselves on the streets for $50, weren’t much more than
12 or 13 years old. It sickened me but I couldn’t really do anything about it.
Not right then, anyway. So, with pages of notes in-hand, I went home and started
writing my spec script for Forever Knight. It was ¾ finished when the
show was cancelled, in 1996. By then, other projects and responsibilities — and
the pending demise of my ten year marriage — forced me to tuck it into a box
and prepare myself for life as a single woman, with thousands of dollars in
monthly bills to pay. That’s when I switched to journalism, writing freelance
articles for newspapers and magazines, while trying to launch my company, P.A.Plus.
In
2001, seeking inspiration for stories to write, I started rummaging through my
box of unfinished writing projects and found the spec script for Forever
Knight. It reminded me of the night I spent posing as a street prostitute,
and how infuriated I was to see children selling their bodies to fat,
disgusting old men, while their pimps observed the goings-on, nearby. It lit a fire of
determination under my ass and I decided I was going to write a story about
Canada’s prostitution and child sex trade industry, going undercover in
Toronto, once again, to get the research I needed to substantiate a story that
could, potentially, go international, thanks to the internet. This time, I was
going to be wired with an audio recorder, have a cell phone in my pocket — and
a knife tucked under my very short skirt.
I spent
three long nights walking the downtown streets, pretending I belonged,
acting like just one of the girls, so, no one would get suspicious. I got
names, memorized the faces of a few industry pros, pimps and johns, got
background info on some of the girls and learned how they were forced or
tricked into the lifestyle by men who got them hooked on drugs and, then,
turned them out onto the streets to get the money they needed to feed their
habit. It broke my heart, hearing about 12, 13 and 14 year-old girls who ran
away from a miserable home life, only to end up here, frightened, hungry, cold and alone, every Goddamned day of their lives.
I had
to do some quick-thinking and fast-talking when men in cars would approach me
asking: “How much?” But, despite my efforts to blend in, eventually, the
Jamaican gang that managed the block I was working noticed that I was doing way
too much talking and not enough fucking. They followed me when I went into a
24-hour café for a quick refreshment and told me that I either start working
for them, from that moment on, or I leave their territory, immediately. I
was about to fire off on them, going into a rant about their shameful abuse of
women, in an attempt to publicly embarrass them in a coffee shop full of people
(cuz I’ve been known to do shit like that). But, then, I saw the gun tucked
into one of the gang members’ waistband and decided I should probably just get
the fuck outta there, ASAP.
So, with
stacks of notes, research and statistics, and over a dozen mini-recorder
tapes, on my desk, I started pitching every major newspaper and magazine in the
country, asking if they’d be interested in hiring me to write an in-depth
feature story about life on the streets for young girls who were forced
into prostitution. Sadly, the typical response I got was (and I’m
paraphrasing): “Nobody cares about underage whores. But, if you can get us an
exclusive interview with Kiefer Sutherland...”
Ugh...really?
KJC
