Excerpt- Chapter 8

The Faces of Leadership

“When you’re going through hell, keep going.”

— Winston Churchill

I’ve tried many times over the years to explain what it feels like to be bullied at work. It’s not easy to describe, even now. The confusion and disbelief it creates can be hard to put into words. You think, Surely this can’t be happening—at least not to me. And yet, it does. I had been warned about the potential for toxic behaviour in policing, but I assumed my experience and professionalism would shield me. I was a seasoned investigator specializing in child and sexual abuse. What reason could there possibly be for a superior to fixate on me?

I soon realized I had underestimated the dynamics of power and control. The bully I encountered while I was working in a large detachment’s Plainclothes Unit was unlike anything I had faced before. At first, it was subtle—a hundred small indignities that I tried to brush off. But eventually, his behaviour escalated to blatant, in-your-face acts of control and intimidation.

One of the first red flags was his obsession with keeping everyone in the unit physically visible to him at all times. This went beyond micromanagement. He would send pager messages (yes, pagers—look it up, young readers!) and call my cell phone if I stepped away from my desk for more than a few minutes. Even a quick trip to the bathroom would prompt a curt, “Where are you?”

It felt absurd—I was a grown woman and a professional investigator, yet I was being treated like a schoolchild asking for a hall pass. When I returned to my desk, his eyes would dart toward me, wild with frustration. His need for control was so intense, it became suffocating.

I wasn’t the only one who felt this way. The one silver lining was that he treated the entire team poorly, not singling out any one of us. We were all trapped in the same toxic environment. But that solidarity was little comfort when, each morning on my commute, my stomach churned with anxiety. The closer I got to work, the sicker I felt. Nights before shifts were sleepless, my mind replaying his behaviour, dreading what new humiliation or outburst the next day might bring.

The turning point came on a day I’ll never forget. I arrived at work to find the office abuzz with hushed conversations and horrified expressions. Something significant had happened, and the tension in the room was palpable. I asked what was going on, and eventually, the story emerged: our bully boss had discovered that all his work files were missing from his computer.

To this day, I don’t know whether the files were deleted intentionally or if there was simply a technical glitch. What I do know is that I had nothing to do with it—but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the chaos that followed. He was in a frenzy, muttering about sabotage, and his paranoia reached new heights. In a bizarre twist, he even called the Forensic Identification Section to dust his computer, desk, and keyboard for fingerprints.

The absurdity of the situation was almost comical—if it weren’t deeply unsettling. His growing paranoia led to an escalation in his behaviour. He began standing over us at our desks, looming in a way that felt menacing, especially when he was armed. Most of us didn’t wear our firearms in the office, as our plainclothes roles often kept us desk-bound or in interview rooms. But on the days he did, an unspoken tension settled over us—one none of us could ignore.

The situation reached a breaking point when one of the other female constables came to me in tears. In the privacy of the bathroom—the only place he couldn’t follow us—she recounted an incident where he had body-checked her in the hallway. Whether intentional or not, the encounter left her visibly shaken. She couldn’t even return to her desk.

That was when we decided we had had enough.

The team banded together, agreeing that quitting the unit and returning to uniform frontline duties was better than enduring his reign any longer. I even went to our inspector, pleading for help, only to be told to “sort it out yourself.” It felt hopeless. We were fighting a battle no one in leadership wanted to acknowledge.

As a new mother commuting nearly an hour each way to work, I decided to use my circumstances as leverage for change. I approached the senior officer in charge and requested a transfer to another detachment, desperate for an escape.

The senior officer’s response was crushing: “Jennifer, your unit is very inexperienced, and I can’t afford to let you go. There are only two ways you can get out of here right now: retirement or promotion.” Retirement wasn’t an option, but based on what I witnessed one thing became clear—anyone could get promoted. So, I decided to pursue that route.

My first attempt was a corporal position supervising the Sex Crimes Unit at another RCMP detachment. Despite my experience directly in sex crimes, the job went to someone who had never worked in sex crimes but was a personal friend of the selecting manager.

Meanwhile, the situation in our unit continued to deteriorate. The bully’s behaviour escalated, and morale hit rock bottom. Eventually, someone in our unit asked the senior officer to meet with us to discuss what was happening. We laid everything on the table, recounting the emotional and professional toll his actions had taken. We even mentioned that we had sought advice from the Human Rights Commission and were prepared to file a claim if necessary.

The senior officer listened intently, his head in his hands as we spoke. When he finally lifted his head, he said something that stayed with me: “I’m so sad to hear this is happening under my leadership. I always hoped my people would say the best time they had in policing was under me. I’m sorry that isn’t the case for you.”

He asked us to stay the course and promised to help. Despite my reservations, I believed him.

During this time, I applied for another corporal position, this time at Ridge Meadows RCMP. One day, while I was working on a critical file, the senior officer called me into his office. He asked if I had applied for the Ridge Meadows job and then informed me that the selection had been made.

“Congratulations, Jennifer. You’ve been promoted to corporal.”

Relief washed over me.

Getting promoted is supposed to be a proud moment—a recognition of your hard work and accomplishments. But all I felt was relief. I had survived. I had escaped.