The 28 seconds that changed my life -

The 28 seconds that changed my life

Michael Bryant on his deadly encounter with an angry cyclist

The 28 seconds that changed my life

Photograph by Andrew Tolson

Michael Bryant was on top of the world. The Harvard-trained lawyer and former attorney general of Ontario had retired from politics months earlier to become president and CEO of Invest Toronto, an agency charged with bringing new business to Toronto. He was married to a high-profile entertainment lawyer, had two young kids and a nanny to look after them. He had beaten an alcohol addiction and hadn’t had a drink in three years. But the marriage was shaky, he was preoccupied with his new job, and he had forgotten what day it was. It was all he could do to formulate a dinner plan for his 12th wedding anniversary on the fly when his then-wife, Susan Abramovitch, asked what they were doing that night. All of the decisions that followed put Bryant on a path destined to intersect with Darcy Allan Sheppard’s that night. In the following excerpt from 28 Seconds, he recounts the hours leading up to the accident, and the seconds it took to transform him from a free man to one in shackles.

As Susan and I licked honey from our fingers in a Greek bakery on the Danforth, at about 9:30 on the evening of August 31, 2009, we could never have anticipated the storm of primal fury that was blowing our way.

Not terribly far away, the man we would presently come to know as Darcy Allan Sheppard, part of Toronto’s hardy, scruffy, aggressive subculture of bicycle couriers, was having the latest in a lifetime of turbulent days.

For most of his troubled 33 years, Darcy Sheppard had fought addiction to alcohol and crack cocaine. On this day, his string of eight sober days had come—once again—to a dispiriting end. He appeared on the city’s radar a little after 7 p.m., as Susan and I were parking the car at the restaurant where we would have our shawarma dinner. It was then he showed up at the apartment of his girlfriend on George Street, in a notorious zone of men’s hostels and crack dealers in one of Toronto’s grittier quarters.

For a time, Sheppard and his girlfriend had lived together. But, after a dispute, she had asked him to move out. Now, he was back at her door, drunk on arrival. She wanted him to sleep it off. For a time, he reportedly did. Then he awoke and apparently decided to leave. There must have been a disagreement in the apartment about the wisdom of this.

Around this time, Susan and I would have been exchanging anniversary presents, and walking on the sand, along the lakeshore at the Beaches. The moon was three-quarters full. On the other side of town, someone was howling at that moon.

At 9:12 p.m., the Toronto Police Service received a call from another resident of the building, complaining of noise coming from the apartment of Sheppard’s girlfriend: screams, crying, the sound of things being thrown. The caller told police that Sheppard was observed outside the building a few minutes later, assaulting a homeless man.

Police arrived at 9:21 p.m., as Susan and I were finishing our baklava on the Danforth. They noted that Sheppard was belligerent and had been drinking. Sheppard’s girlfriend would later tell reporters that she, along with other friends who showed up, asked police to allow Sheppard to return to the apartment, but the officers refused to permit it.

Instead, police warned him not to return to the address. They cleared the call within 10 to 15 minutes, about the time Susan and I were paying our bill at Akropolis and heading toward our car to drive home.

Sheppard “was asked to leave,” a police spokesman would later tell the news media. “The officers left. And that was it.”

Except, it wasn’t.

Darcy Allan Sheppard—extremely intoxicated, fresh from an argument with his recently estranged girlfriend, from beating up a homeless man, and from his latest encounter with police—was allowed to ride off on his bike.

As Susan and I approached Yonge Street, it was Darcy Sheppard who had snarled traffic by throwing pylons and garbage across the intersection. Then, in something of an athletic marvel—despite an alcohol level more than twice the legal limit—he did figure eights curb to curb, along Bloor Street, as drivers like myself hung back, refusing to take his dare to pass him. Until he finally forced a vehicle over to the side of the road, and I drove on by.

It was Darcy Sheppard who, moments later, drove within inches of my driver’s-side door, as our Saab was stopped a little farther west on Bloor Street at an intersection near Avenue Road.

It was Darcy Sheppard who then pulled directly in front of our car and spun his bike around to confront us, sneering at me. “Now what’re ya gonna do?”

By 9:48 p.m., on the night of my 12th wedding anniversary, the 28 seconds that changed my life forever, and that abruptly ended Darcy Sheppard’s, were about to begin.

IT’S ABOUT three kilometres—and many tax brackets—from that apartment on George Street to 102 Bloor Street West in Yorkville, which houses a store called L’Occitane En Provence. That shop, specializing in vanity products, is what Yorkville is all about. L’Occitane started in the south of France and is now listed on the stock market in Hong Kong. The company aspires to be, in its own words, “the worldwide reference for Mediterranean well-being, with unique body, face, and home products.” The shop smells wonderful, the scent of money not least among its allures.

The store also has two security cameras, one facing southeast on Bloor, the other facing to the west. Some of what happened that night was captured by those cameras. Some of the video is fairly clear. Some isn’t.

What it did show, what a later investigation would show, and what I recall, is this:

Before the 28 seconds began, I had been unsettled by Sheppard’s antics and had lost sight of him. I was anxiously trying to spot him in the passenger-side rear-view mirror, assuming that if he showed it would be near to the curb. Susan took the direction of my glance for attention and chatted away about work.

As Sheppard passed on my left and cut in front of us, the traffic light had just turned green and I was starting to move the Saab forward. As he passed, he slowed, coming very close to my side door. I sensed him swipe his hand at me. I ducked instinctively to my right, hitting the brakes and turning the wheels to the right. It was then I stalled the car, presumably taking my foot off the gas and clutch while putting on the brakes. When I looked up, he was straddling the bike, facing us, taunting me. “Now what’re ya gonna do?”

The 28 seconds began.

His front wheel was within a couple feet of the Saab’s front bumper. I knew he was too close for me to drive around him. In a millisecond, my eyes darted up to my rear-view mirror, then back to this man. I saw there were cars behind me, so I couldn’t back up. I couldn’t move forward. Trapped. He was big, drunk and raging. I feared for Susan and myself. I wondered if he had a weapon on him.

The thought of confronting him was never an option—it was our anniversary, for God’s sake. Susan was with me. Neither did staying put make any sense. Susan was with me. Either to fight or sit tight might put her at risk.

I needed to get away. I’d no idea how. But I knew I couldn’t escape the situation until I started the damn car. I tried to keep an eye on him and at the same time I tried to start the engine. It turned over, but kept stalling out. Frustration and panic were both rising fast.

As the car started and stalled, it bounced and lurched forward a little bit. This growling man saw this, the car lurching, and he seemed to get more and more agitated. He seemed to be howling at me.

I gave up on the eye contact with Sheppard. I looked down at the pedals and the stick shift and the ignition to see why the Saab wouldn’t start. As my eyes darted back up, I saw that it finally was moving forward—for all of a second. I hit the brakes. Another second. Now, Darcy Sheppard was draped over the hood of the car.

During my frenzied attempts to start the car, as it stalled and stalled, the Saab lurched three times. The first, with the wheels angled to the right, moved the car away from Sheppard. With the second, there was still no contact with him or his bicycle. The third caused Sheppard to land on the hood. But it was at low speed, brief in duration and, because he was already so close to the car, left no discernible injury.

But now he was furious. His bike was caught under the front bumper. He screamed at people on the sidewalk, “You’re a witness! You’re a witness!”

By now, Susan was also yelling something. I don’t know what. And by now, I no longer cared what was behind me. I didn’t care if I had to ram the car behind me and push it back to Bay Street. I needed to get us out of there.

I was now especially terrified of taking my eyes off him. But in order to back up, I had to. I looked behind me, turned my back on the beast. It looked clear enough. I put the Saab in reverse. As I was looking back, Sheppard hurled his backpack, containing a heavy bike lock, at us. It went sailing over my head.

I put the car in first gear and tried to drive around him. Outraged, he raced toward the front of our car. I remember Susan screaming, “Oh, my God!” over and over.

Chasing after us, he leapt at the Saab, as if in slow motion. Sheppard landed hip first, to break his fall, the way you see stuntmen-as-cops do the hood slide on crime shows. It made a crunching noise. I felt the impact of a man over 200 lb. landing on my car. He then grabbed the windshield wiper and bent it back toward him. He began pulling himself toward me, hand over hand, as if the wiper were a rope. The strength of the man was extraordinary. He seemed almost superhuman.

His upper torso was now on the hood’s edge, driver’s side, with the car still moving forward. He swung around, put his right arm inside the door, his left armpit around the side mirror. He held up his legs, a feat of some strength, no doubt assisted by the adrenalin that, I later learned, Darcy so often sought.

The car suddenly swerved sharply to the left, almost 45 degrees. I have no recollection how that happened. He must have grabbed the wheel. In wrestling for control of the car, we crossed to the south side of the street, heading westbound into the eastbound lane.

As it registered in my mind that my escape attempt had failed, I tried again. So I slammed on the brakes. But the Saab has anti-lock brakes. The stop wasn’t sudden enough to dislodge him. Nevertheless, there was a fair bit of torque. I could see him bending forward and hanging on, the side mirror cracking under the pressure. I remember thinking how strong he seemed to withstand that torque.

Then, he said to me, with a crooked grin: “You’re not getting away that easy.”

Less than 20 seconds had passed since he had said, “Now what’re ya gonna do?”

Next, I tried to push Sheppard off the car door. It felt like trying to push over a telephone pole. He pushed back. I pushed again. He pushed back. Then he started climbing in the car. Susan grew louder and more frantic. “No! No! No! No! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!”

This was the only physical contact between us. The car remained stopped while this shoving was going on.

I had stopped the car and couldn’t get him off. It seemed that when the car was stopped, he got closer to being on top of us; when the car was moving, he wasn’t.

I started moving forward again.

It felt to me like The Twilight Zone, where familiar streets are oddly abandoned. I registered no cars, no people. We just seemed to be heading into a tunnel. And it was getting smaller and smaller and smaller.

The car never left first gear. It was very noisy, because the Saab was still in first gear and the car was revving so high, almost red-lining.

At one point, it seemed like Sheppard was skiing beside the car, making the kinds of whooping noises you’d make if you were intentionally road-skiing for sport. A witness would later say his bicycle shoes were setting off sparks on the pavement. I remember thinking: he’s done this before.

I couldn’t take my two hands off the wheel even if I’d wanted to. I was struggling with Darcy Sheppard for control of the vehicle.

Then he was gone.

All of a sudden, he just wasn’t there. I didn’t see him fall. I heard a sound, maybe a groan.

From the moment of him jumping on the car to the point where I stopped the car with him on it, we had travelled about 100 m.

At first I felt relief, but for less than one breath. Now what was I going to do? Should I stop right now? I shouldn’t leave the scene of an accident. But I wanted to get away from this guy. Is he coming? I was not going to stop the car and let him come at us again after finally getting away. There was no one to help. I wanted to get somewhere safe.

I looked up and saw Avenue Road in front of me. I saw the Hyatt hotel. It’s where our marriage counsellor had an office that could be entered through the hotel lobby. I routinely tore up in front of the Hyatt, getting overpriced valet parking because I was running late for our sessions in the marital intensive-care unit.

So I turned right on Avenue Road and drove into the hotel’s circular driveway and found, I thought, sanctuary.

I stopped the car and pulled up the emergency brake—for what would be the final time. I couldn’t find my cellphone. Susan offered hers. Neither of us today recall what was happening on her side of the car, other than that she was there, frozen, and terrified.

I dialled 911. I began to describe what happened. I wanted police to get there quickly—to protect Susan and me. I said we’d been attacked by a man on a bicycle on Bloor Street. A transcript was made of this, of course.

“He was literally picking fights with people on the corner of Yonge and Bloor, and putting obstacles in the way and trying to stop cars from going,” I told the operator. “We all avoided him, drove past him, and then he came back. I’m in a convertible so he came back and he started—I mean, I thought he took a swing at me, but whatever, he missed. And then he pulled in front of me and stopped. I slammed on the brakes and I tried to get away, and then he—the next thing I know, he’s, like, literally trying to climb into my car.”

When asked where Sheppard was, I said: “Somewhere on Bloor, I assume.” She said an ambulance was on the scene. It was the first time it occurred to me that Darcy Sheppard had been injured.

I told the operator I’d just “wanted to pull into a place where . . . ” She seemed to understand. “Where you felt a little safer.” “Yeah,” I said.

I suggested to Susan that she take a taxi home to relieve [nanny] Sarah and care for the kids. I figured that I’d be only a few minutes behind her, depending on how long it took to give a statement to the police about the attack. That’s where my head was at: we were attacked, he was the attacker, and now he was to be arrested and charged.

“I’ll be home soon,” I said to her.

At 10:01 p.m., the police arrived as Susan climbed into a cab.

My rescuers, I thought. But as soon as the constable driving got out of the car, I knew something was wrong, though I couldn’t say what. He was a huge guy. I walked up to him, to get close to him in case Sheppard arrived.

The constable promptly manhandled me around to a spot in front of his squad car. He started pushing and poking me. He said I was in a lot of trouble. He kept asking how much I’d had to drink. In five different ways, he asked me if I’d imbibed. I told him I didn’t drink alcohol, period. “Yeah, okay,” he scoffed.

“What’s going on?” I said. I couldn’t understand why I was being questioned. I’d called the police for protection. It never occurred to me that I’d done anything wrong.

Susan was off to the side. She’d stepped out of the cab when she witnessed the police pushing me around. I assumed she was being questioned by the other officer. But she wasn’t. She was just watching, thinking, and trying to call for help—on a BlackBerry that suddenly kept resetting on her, over and over.

“You’re in a lot of trouble,” he said again.

It wasn’t registering. Why was I in trouble? I felt like we just had to get the have-you-been-drinking part over with, then reason would prevail and he would give me an update. I was imagining that Darcy Sheppard was in handcuffs right now.

“You better hope he makes it back there,” the officer said. “You’re in a lot of trouble. It’s touch and go . . . ”

The constable was talking on the radio to his superior officer. The hotel valet handed me and the constable a bottle of water. I took it; he refused. There were more people milling about the driveway. Cars were pulling in and people getting out, and some were getting into cabs. I couldn’t see where Susan was standing. I was worried about her.

Suddenly, I was being handcuffed. I was flabbergasted. I remember seeing the constable pulling the cuffs out, and my overpowering feeling of disbelief. Were these for me? Handcuffs? Really? REALLY! What will Susan think, seeing me being cuffed? I imagined she’d want to throw up.

The kids were being babysat by our beloved Sarah; she started work at our place pretty early, so she didn’t like late-night babysitting. I knew that it was after 10 by now. Someone needs to contact Sarah, I thought. Susan should call her mom for support, I thought. I was suddenly ashamed of being in cuffs, and angry. They put my head down and sat me in the back of the squad car. Less than 10 minutes had passed since the police had arrived at the Hyatt.

“The cuffs are over the top,” I said to the constables, who were sitting in the front seat, whispering to each other, though I clearly could hear every word. “I’m not going anywhere. I could have sat in here without the cuffs.”

“It’s standard procedure,” said one of the officers.

For what? I thought. Standard procedure for what? What the hell was happening?

There was more whispering and radio talk. Seconds became minutes became 20 minutes. Then we’d been there, waiting, for almost an hour. I didn’t speak a word after my outburst about the cuffs. At some point in that hour, the constable who’d been aggressive with me opened the door beside me, and finished his conversation on the radio:

“Yeah, I’ll do that now,” he said.

Do what now?

I knew I was being detained pending investigation. I had a burning desire to talk with the constables but nothing came out. Something told me to shut up.

“You’re under arrest . . . dangerous driving . . . criminal negligence . . . right to retain a lawyer . . . ”

“I’m aware,” I mumbled, but I don’t think he heard me. Susan appeared inches from the side window on my left. “Are you okay?” she mouthed through the closed window. Then to the constable: “Can I talk to him?”

Silence. They ignored her. “Hey! I just want to talk to my husband?!” More silence. “Just roll down the window.” They kept ignoring her. “Fine!”

“MICHAEL!!” she yelled through the front window to me in the back of the cruiser. “WHO SHOULD I CALL?”

I was happy to see her. She didn’t seem panicked. She seemed heroic.

“A lawyer,” I answered, less than helpfully.


Blank. Between those 28 seconds, being cuffed and put in the squad car, and then read my rights, I was unable to process much. The former attorney general of Ontario, who’d spent most of his adult life rubbing shoulders with hundreds of Canada’s leading barristers, couldn’t name a single lawyer at the moment he most needed one.

By the time the squad car left the Hyatt, Darcy Allan Sheppard was dead, although Michael Bryant wouldn’t learn that for several more hours. Sheppard hit a fire hydrant, fell off the car and struck his head on the curb or the road. The impact killed him. Michael Bryant was arrested and charged with dangerous driving causing death and negligence causing death, but the charges were withdrawn in May 2010. Bryant and his wife separated in December of that year. He now works as a senior adviser at Norton Rose, a Toronto law firm.


The 28 seconds that changed my life

  1. Entitled Saab driving former attorney general of Ontario vs alleged crackhead alcoholic bike courier. Too bad we can’t hear Darcy’s version of events. The fact that this POS ended up in jail should tell everyone how bad this crime was. I don’t think it’s easy to end up in jail for killing someone with a car, especially when the murderer is a lawyer.

    • “I don’t think it’s easy to end up in jail for killing someone with a car”

      Really? So potential murder isn’t a reason to end up in jail?

      No no, you simply want to condemn Bryant because he’s “entitled” in your opinion. Thank goodness we don’t go around with torches and pitchforks anymore.

      • I don’t think Bryant’s life has changed much. He seems to have landed on his feet, unlike Darcy Sheppard. The charges were withdrawn, illustrating my point of “murder by car” rarely ending in prison sentences, especially when the accused is an elite member of society. I wonder how the Sheppard’s lives have changed.

        • To be fair you didn’t say prison sentences, you only said jail. If you’re talking about prison sentences, I’ll have to just take your word on that point.

        • His marriage ended.

        • You really have no clue, do you? Guilty even when proven innocent, just because he has money. Niiice!

          (And no, I’m not usually on the side of the wealthy. But he was the victim and Sheppard died of misadventure.)

    • your first sentence says it all for you, doesn’t it? If it was a poor single mother with her daughter in the car, would you be vilifying the person driving? I doubt it! Apparently bigotry in Canada is all about who has more money than you.

  2. What a scum bag. Making excuses for his crimes. He is a killer. Also, Maclean’s really should have had one of their editors take a look at this mess.

  3. I love the fact that he mentioned the change in tax brackets… sounds like an elitist a-hole to me. Don’t forget this guy makes a living spinning things to his advantage, and I’m sure he could afford the very best lawyers, hence the dropped charges. I doubt very much that the night unfolded the way he described it.

    • Even elitist a-holes deserve the benefit of the doubt. How would you have reacted had you been attacked by a drunken lunatic? I don’t have his kind of money, but I don’ think my reaction would have been much different.

  4. “I tried to start the engine. It turned over, but kept stalling out”

    ” The third [lurch] caused Sheppard to land on the hood.”

    Bullshit. You’re high quality car suddenly develops transmission problems because stalled once. I don’t think so. More likely he was lurching the car forward as an intimidation factor to get him out of the way which resulted in a hit.

    This story is definitely spun to make him look like the victim. Disgusting.

    • Actually, it sounds like he’s starting it in gear…if that’s possible.

      • If he also drives automatics frequently, that’s quite possible. I’ve done exactly that a couple of times, after having driven automatics for a while (even after driving standards for years). You get used to the left foot doing nothing if you drive an automatic for a while. If you’ve also been driving standards or automatics for a long time, you get used to not thinking about it when you start your car, it’s all reflex.

        If you’re in the middle of traffic, the gear shift will be in first, and you forget to push the clutch down. The car will lurch and stall.

        • No it won’t. It won’t even turn over. Safety setting on all cars since like 1980.

    • Never driven a manual tranny have you? When you’re highly stressed and under assault, your clutch/gas/gearstick coordination is likely to be a little off. I’ve popped the clutch and stalled in far less stressful situations (and I’ve driven nothing but manuals since 1986).

      • He said he couldn’t start it, that it kept stalling, which means it was turning over. That means he had the clutch in. That means it wouldn’t move unless he wanted it to.

        • Ever try starting a manual-transmission car without pushing in the clutch? The car surges forward a bit and then stalls. Scary enough on its own, even without someone attacking you. Could well be what he was describing.

    • Yeah, Bryant is a well-educated lawyer. Lawyers speak English very well. But he still can’t explain very well what happened leading up to Sheppard on the hood. You’d think he would have no problem with explaining it better. Cars don’t just “lurch forward” when starting or stalling, assuming Bryant knew how to drive a manual. Sheppard had a role in his own demise, though. He was NOT an innocent cyclist minding his own business. Still many unanswered questions, which is staggering considering the top-end talent sent in to work on this case.

  5. Bryant seems to say he did not deliberately try to shake Sheppard off his car.
    I would be surprised if Bryant`s survival instinct did not kick in when he felt the manic grip of Sheppard and heard the screams from his wife.
    I am sure the closest those of you who are self-righteous enough to judge his actions have been to a life threatening situation is that nasty pain in your posterior you must feel from sitting on that uncomfortable chair in your mother`s basement.

    • Not judging his actions. Judging how this reads as something spun, which lawyers do, to make him seem like an angel.

      • I find it really well-written, and it’s his side of the story, right? I guess all autobiography is “spun?”

  6. wtf much cash you took in for running this “story”…big dissapointment

  7. Obviously you haven’t been to Toronto, when crack heads attack there out of control, if I was the lawyer I would’ve driven Sheppard into a train, crackheads Make me sick

    • Obviously you have no respect. It doesn’t matter Darcy’s background or what he chose to do with his life prior to the tragic event that took place. No one deserves to die like that. People like you make me sick. Bryant was also an alcoholic. That doesn’t make him any better than Darcy and doesn’t give him the right to do what he did. This story is complete bullshit and it’s twisted around to make what Bryant did seem okay.. maybe watch the video and see what really happened. It is PATHETIC and truly disgusts me to think that this guy is making money and profiting off of another family’s grief and pain. Darcy was my brother and he is in no way at all the monster they are making him out to be..

  8. I was in a fire once. I remember registering smoke. The next thing I remember is standing over the put-out fire with an empty fire extinguisher in my hands. You could put a gun to my head, and I couldn’t tell you anything about running down the stairs, opening the cupboard under the kitchen sink, grabbing the extinguisher, running back upstairs, and putting out the fire. And yet I apparently did this.
    I’ve heard other people who’ve been in panicked situations say the same thing: they don’t remember much.
    That said, I find Michael Bryant’s absolutely exquisite recollection of every single second of what must have been a terrifying situation really rather remarkable.

    • In the story he admits he does not remember everything.

  9. Bryant stoops to a new low profiting from the murder of a human being. disgusting. the man should be behind bars.

    • Putting down a dangerous crackhead is rather a shade different from “murder of a human being”. If not for his Liberal affiliation, I’d wager two thirds of his critics would instead be trying to give him a medal for service to the community.

      • Putting down a dangerous crackhead”….pretty sure lawyers don’t get a free pass on killing anyone. That bet would almost be as stupid as your statement.

  10. This is tragic. Note there is no evil subculture of scruffy messengers.
    It simply takes a certain personal profile to take on that job and be successful
    at that kind of job. Inhaling tail pipe all day while manoeuvring drivers who
    overlook the fact they circulate among others without fuselage
    – creates a kamikaze-like disposition. A fact is more than a few messengers
    have done juvie and maybe even prison, but there are also innocent sweet guys who
    do it just because they love to mountain bike but are stuck in the city.

    What do tax brackets have to do with it? This man who
    is obviously still angry and unrepentant – seems to think himself above
    everyone and that his experience was particularly cruel because he’s socially

    Despite Bryant’s delusions of separateness, there is no shelter
    in life – even for those who are into themselves. This broken man must get over
    his own ego and realize he was lucky to have a wife and be gracious for his blessed
    life instead of propagating hate, fear, and discrimination and social

  11. It is all a very unfortunate occurance. Whether you are a lawyer or not. Mr. Bryant is a very highly accomplished person, and I believe he should be given some consideration in this. Yes, a man died, and this also is very unfortunate. I do not believe for one instance that Mr. Bryant in the few seconds he had, tried to make it look like something else. He was terrified for his wife and himself. I would be. I respect Mr. Bryant and hope he will find piece within himself, after such an ordeal.

  12. Having been in multiple situations, where most of the above mentioned behaviour and reactions definitely took place with me, I can sympathize with the author. Therefore regardless of the shallow judgements based on biased opinions from the post(ors) I can say this, unless if you have been trained and can master your human reactions, most outcome will be tinged with that cloudy adrenaline-induced mystery that leaves one rather confused

  13. Here’s the thing with nutcases: do not engage. Wind up your windows, pull over, call 911. Let him beat up your car.
    Don’t look at him. Ignore your visceral impulse to win.

    • He mentioned he was in a convertible. Was the top down?

  14. Well, written (and as it should be since he’s a “Havard-trained lawyer”! Excerpt from his book eh? His PR firm must be making a killing (much like he did… ha ha? oh my, that was bad…)

  15. We would have all done the same if placed in that situation. That idiot on the bicycle was looking for trouble and he found it – Mr. Byant didn’t look for a confrontation – he did what he found in his human instinct to protect himself and his family. Ask yourself – what would you have done in that position?

  16. Why do Canadians always have to blame the victim? Nobody reacts to fear in the same way-some people go blank but others remember the detail of every second. Lesson learned-don’t take on a wacko-pull over and call 911. My objection to the story? He kept saying “the Saab” That’s the problem -it is JUST A CAR!!!!

  17. I find his account of this tragic loss of life brimming with self-protectionism. Certainly after three years and help from a PR firm he is lobbying for a re-entry into politics.
    He doesn’t seem contrite or remorseful and has never apologized to Darcy’s father.
    Yes, Darcy was a man suffering and raging but I believe Michael Bryant really couldn’t care less.
    He feels he has done his penance and is now posturing to enhance his image and find someone who will take him on.
    I hope I never see him representing the law or the people of Canada – I would hang my head in shame if I were him not flaunt myself through a book and media blitz. Shame on the guilty.

  18. What an urban nightmare for all involved. Forensics and witnesses tell the tale. Real life is often far stranger and chilling than fiction.
    Unmanaged anger can lead to all sorts of unimagineable consequences.

  19. This is a very curiously written piece, I found it suspect that he
    specifically quoted “What’re ya gonna do?” twice, then stated “it has
    been 20 seconds since he last said “What’re ya gonna do?

    Coupled with the tax bracket comment, finding supposed sanctuary at The
    Hyatt (where he has admittedly raced to late for marriage council) and
    most likely calling the car “the Saab” for kickbacks from an otherwise
    bankrupt car manufacturer.
    The car stalling is tremendously hilarious.
    Clouded testimony reeking of a scared 12-year old trying to dance around the truth.
    History is just that. His story.

    Maclean’s should be embarrassed about this biased article.
    They should write an apology stating that 2 scumbags from different tax brackets scuffled, the one with the education, posturing position in Toronto, money, car, failing marriage won.
    Titled: Crackhead vs. Alcoholic/ Rich vs. Poor; there really is no difference.

    Canada; scubaggery either kills you or has you exposed.

    6th Generation Torontonian saddened by condo-greed, opportunism, elitism, and intellectual mayhem, and most of all nepotism.

  20. The real victims are his children who might some day learn that Yorkville was once just an old rundown area with hippies and coffee shops. Their father has been lying to them about what’s really important.

  21. To those choosing to not believe Mr. Bryant’s side of the story, you might want to take the time to actually read the Crowns report here:

    Seems pretty consisten to me.

  22. The video of what happened is easy to find on Youtube. Watch it and see how many lies michael bryant is telling.

  23. The guy on the bike was a crack head , it takes 4 police officers to subdue a crazed druggy. It is self defense and I think the police were dead wrong in this and should respect citizens that are only trying to survive