Life without Parole: Letters from Prison: Joan
The following letter is by Ky Walsh from prison. He is serving a sentence for the death of John Kudson—the man who murdered his wife, Joan. Joan Walsh was a remarkable woman who founded “Call Joan,” a philanthropic organisation dedicated to helping struggling women escape abuse and build better lives. This correspondence with Anne, who is researching Joan’s life and legacy, offers an intimate portrait of the woman behind the foundation and reveals the depth of loss that drove Ky to his fateful decision.
You can read the story of Ky in the e-book “Life Without Parole” available from:
Dear Anne,
It was good to meet you in person, albeit in the less comfortable surroundings of the visitation area. I’m glad you understand why I insist that anyone seeking personal information must pass my validation process. It may appear lengthy or even obstructive, but my intention is simple: I want to ensure that those with whom I engage in profound exchanges are willing to invest the time and effort required. The final stage of that process is an in-person visit. I find it eliminates the remaining fly-by-night information seekers and allows me to assess, directly, the person with whom I’ve previously corresponded at a distance.
During my incarceration, I’ve been overwhelmed by complete strangers—some seeking a relationship with me, others chasing a sensational story to boost their following.
I cannot wrap my head around how someone could be interested in building an intimate relationship with a person twenty, thirty, forty or fifty years their senior, whom they know nothing about beyond a name and a crime. I am equally baffled by those who profess infatuation with someone who is incarcerated and accused of killing a man. I regularly tear up letters that can be summarised as, “I love you and want to be your girlfriend.” Each time my case resurfaces in the media, a fresh batch of followers materialises.
The second group—the storytellers—requires a different form of judgement. I must ensure that any exchange ultimately benefits Call Joan, Joan’s memory, or society more broadly. Once information is shared, control of the narrative is lost. I therefore conduct due diligence to the best of my ability and limit exchanges to a single topic. The topic we agreed upon, as you stated during your visit, is Joan—the person.
I read your questions, but I prefer to write a narrative rather than answer each one in isolation. Furthermore, I believe this will reveal the true Joan.
Joan
I met Joan when I was seventeen. I was working part-time as an usher at a cinema showing Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. It was quiet. I entered the lobby on my way to the bathroom and picked up a small bag of popcorn. As I returned to my post, I crossed paths with a beautiful girl exiting a screening of Sergio Leone’s Once Upon a Time in the West. We smiled at one another simultaneously.
I approached her in my usher’s uniform—I must have looked ridiculous—and held out the popcorn. “Here,” I said. “This is for you.” By any rational standard, this should have sent the absurdity into orbit. Instead, she burst out laughing, laughing so hard that her eyes filled with tears. We composed ourselves enough to appear vaguely normal, and Joan agreed to watch 2001 with me. I had seen it countless times; she agreed to watch a genre she hated. For our first date, I arranged the best seats and the most ambitious food accompaniment the place could offer. It was the beginning of a love affair.
Joan was a few months older than me. I fell head over heels and would have married her a week after our first kiss, but Joan would have none of it. She had come out of an abusive relationship in which the man believed she was his property—isolating her, belittling her, enforcing control through mental and physical abuse. Some of the things she described echoed my own memories of my mother. Joan had been young when it happened. I never learned how it ended, but it had hardened her—not bitterly, but decisively. It taught her what was acceptable and what was not. She knew she could survive on her own and did not need a man to define her. The small scar just below her hairline, and the deeper ones etched into her psyche, made her the sort of woman who would walk away rather than accept what violated her sense of self.
Early in our relationship we had a serious fallout. I don’t remember what it was about, but I remember my attempt at bullying her. She looked me straight in the eye and said, calmly and with authority:
“I am with you not because I need or depend on you, but because I want to be with you. If the day comes when I no longer want to be with you, I will tell you and I will walk. Anything you can do, I can do—or I can pay someone to do.”
That was enough to teach me that if I wanted to keep her, I had to respect her.
Her strength only made me love her more. We moved in together six months later, and she proposed shortly after. My foster parents and her mother attended the wedding. Our goal was simple: to better ourselves. The path was hard work, frugality while we were young and healthy, and constant self-improvement.
Joan worked two jobs outside the home and did laundry and ironing for students at a nearby college. My primary job was earning my computer engineering degree; on the side, I delivered takeaway food—often to the same students who sent their dirty clothes to be cleaned. Joan spotted the inefficiency immediately and added a collection and delivery service for an extra fee. That “over-and-above” income, she reasoned, would cover car maintenance and a portion of the household bills. She had a habit of allocating incremental income to specific expenses so we never had to live off our official pay cheques.
During that time, we rarely saw each other, yet our shared dreams and deep understanding kept us close and lovingly united. People often ask how we managed to keep our bond so strong, and my honest answer is this: it must have been true love.
I studied at the library. It had better heating and cooling than our apartment, strict silence enforced by intolerant librarians, and—crucially—no washing machines. Eventually we had four semi-industrial units crammed into our tiny home. We also lived on a busy road, and I could never focus amid noise. The librarians took a liking to me. I soon had an unofficial reserved desk in a quiet corner, and occasionally I’d watch the desk if one needed to run an errand. In return, they moved mountains to secure interlibrary loans. I even used their kitchen, where Joan would sometimes leave a treat tucked into my clothes for us to share.
After graduation I landed a well-paid job, but our lifestyle didn’t change. Joan formalised the home laundry operation and we took out a second mortgage to buy a 24-hour laundrette. We both worked twelve-hour days. She hired two full-time staff, quit her other jobs, and began studying business management. Every spare cent went toward mortgages and business loans. Securing credit was a nightmare—we rarely bought anything on credit, so we had no history. Ironically, we paid everyone early. Banks called not to chase overdue payments, but to persuade us to borrow more. Joan rejected conventional wisdom about business. She was particularly incensed when an “eminent” lecturer claimed a successful business was one that paid stakeholders the bare minimum as late as possible and that debt was healthy.
By her twenty-eighth birthday, Joan had an MBA, more than doubled the business, employed three full-timers and two part-timers, owned two vans, and held contracts with the college and several major companies. Our house was paid off. Our quality of life improved, though we never lost our instinct for bargains. We decided it was time to start a family.
We were financially stable—comfortable, even—but biology had other plans. After months of treatments, we were classified as unexplained infertility. The hormonal treatments and invasive procedures took their toll. We discussed adoption; Joan wasn’t ready. That period nearly broke us, but we survived. At one point my foster family suggested fostering. We were approved and fostered a little boy for thirteen months. Joan gave more than was required, but her heart wasn’t in it. When he returned to his biological family, she was clear that fostering wasn’t right for her. That boy stayed in touch and is now a contributing member of our city. I believe Joan’s determination rubbed off on him.
For some couples, not having children can place a strain on their relationship. As I’ve shared before, it was the hardest chapter in our marriage. Yet together, we chose to redirect the love we would have given a child toward helping others. That choice strengthened our bond in ways words can hardly capture.
When Joan was nearing forty, she announced that her forty-second birthday would mark her final working year. She planned to retire and focus full-time on helping struggling women—those abused by partners, by circumstance, by naivety. She started helping women in need while pursuing her MBA. I vividly remember her asking if I was okay with setting aside one room in our modest house for a study group of female students. I had no objections. Not long after, she told me that one of her classmates had been kicked out by her parents after coming out as gay and needed a place to stay. That moment marked the beginning of something much bigger.
By then the business was going from strength to strength, staffed entirely by women. She had helped former employees establish their own ventures through mentoring, soft loans, or investment. On her forty-second birthday, an internal person was promoted to the role of CEO and a private non-profit foundation was established. Joan became chairwoman of the business and founder and CEO of the foundation.
It was called Call Joan. I came up with the name during a boring movie both of us were not watching. Someone suggested hiring a marketing firm, but Joan despised consultants—people who charged fortunes for fluff, claimed credit when things worked, and vanished when they didn’t. By then we had upgraded to a larger home and more it was a regular occurrence for, women to come to our house at all hours. Some came before or after work or when their partners were out. Many would bring their children.
Those who came seeking help needed guidance—whether it was preparing for a job interview, business advice, managing debt, finding financial assistance, or simply support during an abusive relationship. Joan welcomed each woman at the door and led her to a cosy, kitchen-style meeting area. Conversations unfolded over tea, shared meals, or light snacks. If children accompanied their mothers, Joan gently ushered them into what we called the ‘games room,’ a space originally designed as a large pantry.
We even set aside two bedrooms for those moments when a woman had nowhere else to sleep. While some preferred sitting around the table to talk, Joan discovered that cooking together often opened doors to deeper conversations. What wasn’t eaten immediately became a packaged meal for the next day—a small gesture that meant a lot.
Word of Joan’s efforts spread quickly, almost like wildfire. Whenever I happened to answer her phone, I’d often hear the same phrase: ‘I was told to call Joan.’ And that’s how the name—and the movement—came to life.
As Joan’s profile grew, so did the resentment from abusive men. When threatened, she never backed down. On one occasion, after someone vandalised our property, she hired investigators, tracked the man down, and pursued legal action until he begged her to stop. The case drew significant public attention, thanks to a news anchor Joan had helped years earlier.
In four years, Call Joan went from unknown to the largest and most recognised foundation in the city. Joan received awards. Public spaces were named after her. Politicians sought photo opportunities. She leveraged every acquaintance to push the foundation forward. The foundation had acquired a building and was renovating it.
Joan’s life was cut short, but I have no doubt Call Joan would have become international. She believed in simplicity, in dignity, and in the absolute equality of women. She did not judge. She helped.
While she is no more, her legacy lives on.
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