When I first started my career as an oncologist, most cancers were death sentences. The prognosis was fairly accurate. If the doctor said you were going to die within a year, the odds were you would. Fewer treatments, therapies, drugs and solutions were available than we have today, and I spent much of my life trying to change that. I never thought I would be a living embodiment of this work.
By October, I had survived six months of hell in La Joya Prison. It had also been around ten months since the diagnosis, and considering I’d been given no more than nine months to live, I was already cheating time—while doing time. A big reason for that was my remarkable reaction to a set of cutting-edge drugs. I have my friend and mentor Karol Sikora to thank for that. I was responding, keeping the cancer at bay, but more than that, I had refused to accept my fate. Stubbornness can be a powerful drug.
As the months crawled by, it soon became apparent just how much of a mess I was in. I was not under formal arrest, but rather under “preventative detention” on behalf of Canada. It certainly didn’t feel like it. In truth, I felt like I had already been convicted. And despite my pleas to prison officials, I did not see a doctor once during my incarceration. Not an x-ray scan, not a blood test, not even an Aspirin: I was left to rot.
If it weren’t for my knowledge as an oncologist, and the steady stream of chemotherapy drugs from trusted friends and colleagues, I would most certainly have died.
I decided, along with my lawyer, that waiting for due process would not be enough. We went public on our petition to the United Nations that my human rights were being violated. For this, I would receive yet more slings and arrows from the Canadian press, questioning why I did not simply give in to extradition and receive the treatment I needed. It did not seem to dawn on people that I still had rights. It was my prerogative to fight extradition and uphold my innocence. And because of what happened to my wife, who had been extradited a few months before, I did not have much confidence in the judicial process. I had my pride. Why should I play by their rules?
Along with the United Nations petition, we also put forth that Pamela had been forced to leave Panama without her consent.
I would not take the bait in Montreal. I would not be paraded around in a media spectacle, have my face splashed across the evening news, an ominous, slow-motion march to the courthouse set to music, as hordes of reporters stuck cameras and microphones in my face. I would have been cast as a villain, not as the embattled, cancer-stricken oncologist, former spy watchdog and ex-hospital-administrator returning home to defend himself. In the eyes of many people, I was guilty already. People even continued to doubt my illness, and the media did little to change this myth. I had every right to fight extradition.
My goal was simple: If I wasn’t being charged, I wanted to be released on bond from La Joya Prison so I could receive cancer treatment in a proper hospital. From there, I would fight to return to the Bahamas so I might continue scheduled radiotherapy at the Cancer Centre, a place with excellent equipment and familiarity with my condition. And then I would invite Canadian authorities, once again, to come see me, on the record but without the press, so we could clear up these charges once and for all.
That plan proved to be a major challenge. There was much speculation over whether Canada had pressed Panama to keep me in prison. I do not doubt that Canada did little or nothing to help my cause, although a lot of the problem was simply the bureaucracy of La Joya. I learned that some inmates had been waiting years to even have a court date. The system was hopelessly, sometimes unbearably, slow.
I found ways to pass the time, and even to improve my circumstances and make everyday life tolerable. I had my cell—the space I shared with nine other inmates—carpeted. We all agreed on a rule where you had to take your shoes off before entering, or you had to wear “indoor” shoes. We became more respectful and acclimatized, creating rules about when you could make noise, and dividing up housekeeping responsibilities, such as who cleaned the toilet or fetched the rainwater. I had my “employees” do the chores for me.
I got to know my cellmates fairly well: a member of the Hells Angels from Quebec, one drug lord from the U.K. and another from Colombia, and two Jamaicans who had been caught carrying big payloads of narcotics. Normally, these inmates wouldn’t secure a spot in a cell. I learned, however, that a place could be achieved through seniority, in terms of time spent. You can also buy your way in. Perhaps they had families that could provide that kind of money. Once you were in a cell, it was more or less permanent, unless you got out, were killed or decided to sell your spot.
While my life had become a bit more predictable, every once in a while something threw everything off balance. In July, a container ship known as the Chong Chon Gang left Cuba, bound for North Korea. The ship was navigating the Panama Canal when it was detained by authorities and searched. According to police, they discovered twenty-five containers of military hardware, including two Soviet-era mig-21 fighter aircraft, air defense systems, missiles, and command and control vehicles. Word spread quickly in La Joya that the ship’s crew, thirty-five North Koreans, were headed to prison.
Although I never saw the crew, their presence was felt immediately. Suddenly, communications within the prison became difficult. My lifeline to the outside world was unreliable at best as two governments exchanged demands and threats. More security was brought to the prison, and while there were no clashes, it changed our way of life.
One day around this time, a fellow inmate was found beheaded in one of the bathrooms. It was a statement killing, to be sure. These incidents happened, and I got used to them like someone watching a horror film on repeat until the blood and guts aren’t scary anymore. I kept out of those affairs and stuck to what I do best: medicine.
As a doctor, I’ve got to know a lot about people. I would not go so far as to say I had friends. I had made acquaintances, some closer than others. Some people probably thought they were quite close to me. It is an approach I had used in the outside world as well, although it had become particularly important in La Joya, where relationships are simply a means for survival. The social structure of a prison is primeval, and it determined my associations. Because I was at the top of the pack, I could not befriend those below me. It was not for superficial reasons. It could be lethal to show too much sensitivity or openness. Order is achieved through fear and respect, and it is best to keep it that way.
Still, with ten men living in a cell’s cramped quarters, I tried leaving the cell as often as possible, which was why I eventually invested in a “summer home.” I use the term in jest, of course, but it was indeed exclusive in La Joya. On the roof, away from the seething hordes, I had a modest space. I shared it with three other people, but that is nothing by prison standards. We cooked food up there and got fresh air. It was a real privilege.
Six months on, I was the same Arthur Porter who went into La Joya. I was not a voyeur, sitting on the sidelines and just watching the game. I had entered the game, changed some rules and eventually moulded it to suit my needs. If there had been a vote in La Joya to nominate its leader, I would have had a shot.
However, I was more concerned with the outside world. My “summer home” on the roof was appreciated, but it only made my desire for freedom more acute. Salvation felt within my grasp. But I knew that forces at play in Canada were making the situation difficult. Though I had been travelling on my diplomatic passport from Sierra Leone at the time of my detainment, the embassy’s high commissioner in Washington later declared to the media that I did not have any formal diplomatic status.
From what I understand, a great deal of pressure had been placed on Sierra Leone to make that determination. There is no Sierra Leonean embassy in Ottawa, so it is shared with the Americans in Washington. Heat from Canadians might not have been enough to tip the scales, but nobody wants to upset the Americans. Meanwhile, I kept a letter from the president of Sierra Leone in my cell, signed and authenticated, confirming my status as a goodwill ambassador.
Authorities placed screws on the Bahamas as well. My contacts there informed me that government and financial institutions had been pressured into disclosing my businesses and bank accounts, which they flatly refused to do. For an offshore haven like the Bahamas, that would have been reputational suicide.
Thinking back, the whole investigation felt sloppy from the beginning. It was strange enough that I had to find out about the charges through the media. I was never properly served or contacted by Canadian authorities. My wife did not even have the benefit of a media warning. She had to find out about her charges while in transit, shortly before being forcibly extradited to Canada.
I still believe it was a witch hunt. I was treated differently from the beginning. It was about more than an alleged white-collar crime in Montreal. It was about who I am, what I have done, and most importantly, what I know.
I think some people in Ottawa, and certainly Quebec, believe I have information that, if disclosed under oath, could be of significant embarrassment to the powers that be. At the end of the day, asking me about the hospital contract would involve probing the provincial government at the time. It was never Arthur Porter pronouncing an edict from up on high. There was an entire process, and it included many other people.
What a wonderful opportunity, perhaps, to have a field day with people who might be in the limelight today. The media would certainly love it. It would sell a lot of newspapers.
Who benefited from the scandal? The hospital did not. Quebec did not benefit either. SNC-Lavalin, part of a much larger consortium, never stood to make much money from the contract. In the grand scheme of things, the mega-hospital would cost $1.3 billion, and they will probably make back only $1.3 billion. In other places, like Africa, it was possible to spend $200 million and make $1 billion. SNC-Lavalin was interested in the hospital contract because it was on their home turf. I think it was probably encouraged to bid by the government of the day. This was its first hospital contract in Quebec, if not the world.
I believe there is interest in discrediting me in Quebec. The fact that I pulled through on that hospital was a black mark in many circles. And my various interests outside of McGill have made me a target too. Perhaps some resentment, jealousy or envy was in play to cut the tall poppy down. Meanwhile, the Conservative Party remained deathly quiet throughout my incarceration in La Joya. Given my political profile, they don’t want to be dragged through the mud. I think many people hope I will never come back to Canada, under any circumstances.
It is a tangled web, and day by day I have tried to remain positive and unravel it.
In October, my lawyer received a letter, out of the blue, from the Canadian embassy in Panama, asking how I was doing and wondering if I needed anything. While Ricardo thanked them for asking about my well-being, he wrote:
I have to state, however, my surprise that you have not advocated to have a terminal cancer sufferer, who is still under the presumption of innocence, placed under house arrest or the like. I am pleased that you have offered to help and clearly the most important items that my client needs on an urgent basis are a resupply of his life-saving chemotherapy and anticoagulation therapy.
For whatever reason, we never heard back. Were they simply paying lip service? Or did someone have a change of heart? I wish I knew.
Christmas and New Year’s came and went. On Decem-ber 25, I got dressed up in a grey suit and chequered rainbow bow tie. I strolled around the prison, taking photos. It was especially poignant for me because it was approximately one year since my original diagnosis. I was still here—and going strong.
From the beginning, I was determined to beat this, and with my new drugs, I remained optimistic. I continued making adjustments to my treatments. I developed a modest exercise routine and spent extra money to bring in vegetables to keep my strength and health in order. I still had a host of symptoms, of course. I had a bad cough and occasional shortness of breath, especially at night, requiring me to use the oxygen tank. At least twice a day I would have bouts of nausea, vomiting and diarrhea associated with my chemotherapy.
And then, in late February, I received some unexpected news. No, it was not help from the Canadian embassy. The prison staff informed me that on February 26, some eight months after I had been thrown in the hell hole, I would be taken to a hospital. True to their word, I was rushed out of the prison that morning with more security than the president. I had a convoy of five cars and four motorcycles, and a police helicopter circled overhead. I had to wear a bulletproof vest and helmet. It was ridiculous. Four guards wearing ski masks and brandishing submachine guns sat with me in the car. Apparently they were worried that I might identify them. My former position with the Canadian security service, from what I understand, had the authorities in Panama spooked.
All the streets in town seemed closed off that morning. Speeding along, we did not encounter any traffic jams, and amid guns and security fanfare, they led me into the hospital and straight to a doctor’s office. The result? I had a blood test. I was there for no more than ten minutes. Like the letter from the Canadian embassy, it all felt like a show, a farce.
I didn’t feel confident about a follow-up appointment.
When the time comes, whether in La Joya or when I’m old and grey, I have a plot in Sierra Leone waiting for me. It’s on a fantastic piece of land, beside other members of my family who have gone before. That is one thought, however, that I have tried not to dwell on.
It can sometimes seem easier to take a defeatist view. During my practice, I often saw black clouds drift across my patients’ faces. Some of them started planning for their funerals shortly after leaving my office. I always got very anxious when this happened. I would take them away for a chat. I wanted my patients to fight and be committed to the process. At the same time, if you want to do something, do it now. Don’t wait.
As for me, after my diagnosis I didn’t want to vacation in Hawaii. I already lived in the Bahamas. I didn’t want to climb Everest or Kilimanjaro. What I really wanted was to keep doing what I had always done—making something where there had been nothing, leaving something behind.
Wherever I have gone in life, something has survived me. In Detroit, when I was hired as CEO, we were losing millions upon millions of dollars. I had to cut the staff by seven thousand people right off the bat. Bankruptcy lawyers were literally in the room, but despite my critics, the Detroit Medical Center did not fold. And I took on the state and secured $150 million for the system’s undesignated care.
In Sierra Leone, I introduced mining companies from all over the world, generating tens of millions of dollars in revenue and hundreds of new jobs. It brought structure and relative calm to a country that had been through one of the worst civil wars imaginable. We also built bridges, dams and other infrastructure. We had a Canadian company come in and build a school.
I did similar deals throughout Africa and the world. In my career of international business, I loved playing matchmaker, bringing together two parties and creating something new.
In the Caribbean, I helped launch the first cancer centre accredited by the American College of Oncology, and we would spread the institution’s influence across the region, creating one big hospital separated only by water.
The McGill University Health Centre will perhaps always inspire question marks and conspiracy theories among Quebecers and other Canadians. The project took on a life of its own, to the point where it was rumoured that I was seven-foot-five and could shoot icicles out of my eyes. But above all the noise, that hospital will still be there. It will stand the test of time.
Through it all, I have had the privilege of knowing various heads of state, serving as their advisor and helping shape policy.
And then there were the patients, those countless souls who filed in and out of my office and received treatment. Some got better, others did not. But I never stopped fighting for them. I never stopped pushing. As an oncologist, I patented new techniques, built new centres, advised the World Health Organization, served on and established various boards and committees, and wrote more than three hundred research papers.
My patients didn’t give up—and neither did I. Sitting in my jail cell, or milling around that prison, I viewed myself as someone who has been given great and unusual challenges. And I have never shrunk from them. I have taken on every obstacle—my own Mount Kilimanjaros—regardless of what stands in my path.
That, my dear reader, is how I want to be remembered.