The Tribune

One-time glorified fashion mogul Peter Nygard sits in a Winnipeg jail, claiming he is innocent of what might be the most heinous charges ever brought against a resident of The Bahamas. The history-making accusations include a decades-long pattern of sexual misconduct ranging from sex trafficking to rape, including drugging victims, according to documents filed in a southern New York court, often vulnerable young girls from disadvantaged homes.

The jail cell is a steep fall for a man who was once propped up by a self-made empire and a bloated ego. The object of scandalous headlines splashed across the globe must be infuriating to a man who sat on a podium supported by hangers-on, paid and otherwise.

I only saw Peter Nygard once in person. I was standing with the then Managing Director of Commonwealth Brewery, a client at the time, at a festival the brewery was sponsoring in the Botanical Gardens. A security guard approached and said there was a gentleman who was trying to get into the festival without paying the $1 entry fee for him or the several men accompanying him. The Managing Director instructed the guard to tell the man he had to pay. The man turned out to be Nygard. Flanked by a platoon of guards, he strode up to the brewery boss and announced his reason for being there, seeking sponsorship money for an event he planned to host.

The Managing Director sent him packing.

I wished I could have done the same.

The Nygard actions that directors of Coalition to Protect Clifton (Save the Bays) were treated to were more covert and insidious, hidden behind the veil of police protection.

The first was a press conference. Media gathered at the appointed venue at Jaws Beach for the announcement that Robert F Kennedy, Jr., was awarding the first Waterkeepers Bahamas licence to Clifton Bay. It was a huge honour in a growing environmental awareness climate. Next thing we know the whole lot of us is ordered off the public beach by men in dark clothing, some pointing guns.

As organizer of the event and as a Bahamian, I was sick, embarrassed, stunned. I grabbed my cell, called a high-ranking officer I trusted, appalled as the cameras rolled, waiting for him to call off the men who were threatening us and were clearly out of line. He did nothing. His voice was flat. I hung up and grew up, all in the flash of a minute. I understood right then and there that he, too, was on the Nygard payroll.

It got worse. Save The Bays was making headlines, urging passage of a Freedom of Information Act, gathering supporters, even among the most staid and conservative of environmental groups who admitted quietly that they envied the freedom with which we expressed ourselves openly because their funding placed tighter restrictions on the stances they took. Political opposition, civic and religious leaders marched with us.

Then came the night of Friday, December 5, 2014. We had permission for a Freedom of Information rally on Charlotte Street with barricades at either end. All permits were in place. A band was playing on a platform constructed for the event. The now Minister of Environment Romauld Ferreira, the news editor of The Tribune Paco Nunez and I were walking toward the event, taking a shortcut through the old Royal Victoria parking lot when we heard a sound like offbeat Junkanoo.

A flatbed truck with a ragtag band of what appeared to be heavily intoxicated men was parked across the former bus parking lot by the Post Office. They were banging on drums and makeshift instruments.

It wasn’t the music that was so disturbing or that it overshadowed the sounds of the Charlotte Street event. It was the signs, hate signs like I had never seen before. Evil signs, large plywood placards deriding Fred Smith, QC, Romi Ferreira, asking “Who is Diane Phillips?” with a photo of me on the sign.

I needed to prove to myself that the hatred did not come from the heart but was inspired by rum and a fistful of dollars. I stopped, pointed to the sign and said I’m Diane Phillips, anyone want to take a picture with me? They jumped down, one guy grabbed my hand, another stood next to me. ‘Hey, take a picture with the lady,’ one shouted to the others. They were shooting selfies and laughing, hired hands who had no idea what cause they were protesting.

The incident might have ended there with little follow-up fanfare had it not been for what took place next. The truck with its now even more inebriated crew tried to barrel through the barricades. Families were in the street, a band onstage, a table set up for t-shirt sales.

The large truck with oversize cab and long flatbed, with its drums and drunks, gained speed and came barrelling toward the barricades at the south end of Charlotte. Parents grabbed children, there was screaming.

I ran from one officer to another before I finally found one who saw the danger and refused to look the other way.

The other officers knew who was behind trying to threaten the rally they believed was sponsored by funds from conservationist Louis Bacon who was in a bitter battle with his neighbour, Peter Nygard. Someone had paid for the trucking, the men, the drums, the signs.

Two well-built men dressed in black said they were on Nygard’s boxing team.

They said he told them to come. They spent most of the time talking with police before the attempted barricade crash.

I heard later that there was going to be an attempt on my life and I was offered protection. No amount of protection could have been enough to ensure the safety of my family.

I had no choice but to step down as a director of Save The Bays but to this day I have the greatest respect for Joseph Darville and Fred Smith, who remained the courageous stalwarts.

So, whatever the legal outcome, I have said my piece and made my peace with one of the toughest decisions I ever had to make – to stand up for the environment and my beliefs or to remove my family from harm’s way. Family will always win out.