I see my friends at Frank Magazine are in the soup again, a very thin, tasteless broth cooked up by police and their dear friends at the N.S. Public Prosecution Service.
The politicians do it all the time. But they only do it after their lies no longer hold water and they are inextricably caught with their balls, or their tits, in the wringer. Or when they are saying goodbye after running off with a bag of money.
They turn the tear ducts on. And, oh boy, do those taps ever overflow. Cry, cry, cry.
As I write this, the opening ceremonies of the 2016 Olympic Games in Rio de Janeiro are mere hours away.
One year ago, August 10, 2015, to be exact, this space recounted a father and son tale. Just another father and son tale. They’ll bore you to tears after a while.
These familial narratives oftentimes run the same.
If I was a Halifax criminal defence lawyer I’d be licking my chops over the bloody mess that is the Halifax Police handling of evidence.
As noted in the findings of their internal audit, HPD’s recording, tracking, monitoring, and overall safeguarding of crucial evidence leaves much to be desired.
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