The Last Time 12

(Chapter 19)

"The Last Time" (circa-1990)

Justice Adrian Bradshaw removed his wire-rimmed spectacles from his tweed jacket pocket and after slipping them over his nose he stared at the nine defendants in the dock.

All nine had pleaded guilty to theft or the receiving of stolen goods.

Of the nine defendants, three men in their mid-twenties had pleaded guilty to the theft of three-million cigarettes stolen from a cash-and-carry warehouse. The men had disabled the security alarm system and close circuit television cameras before crashing a heavy goods vehicle through a roller-shutter door.

The other three men in the dock consisted of two Asian men and one white male. They were the owners of newsagent's shops and all three had pleaded guilty to receiving in the region of one-million cigarettes.

The remaining members in the dock were three women in their mid-fifties who had pleaded guilty to the handling of stolen goods.

Justice Bradshaw had been listening for over an hour to the respective barristers representing the three young men who carried out the initial theft. They asked his lordship to consider a range of mitigating circumstances that had resulted in bringing their clients to this unfortunate situation. They said that if their clients hadn't come from broken families, living in depressed neighbourhoods with little or no prospects, and had they been given a better start in life in a more secure environment they felt sure that their paths would have taken a different route and they most certainly wouldn't be standing in front of his lordship today.

Leaning forward on his elbows with his fingers weaved together in front of his mouth and his half-moon glasses balanced precariously on the end of his nose, casually flicking through a lengthy summary report of their previous convictions, ranging from GBH and ABH, assault with a deadly weapon, arson, burglary, resisting arrest, trespassing, anti-social-behaviour, breaking and entry, theft, drinking and driving...the list went on.

Mr Bradshaw sighed and folded his arms across his chest, waiting patiently for the barrister to describe how these three men - when they weren't engaged in crime - felt it was their duty to help little old ladies to cross a busy road.

The barristers representing the proprietors of the newsagent's shops who had received the stolen cigarettes generally summarised their clients as happily married men with children, who were respected and upstanding members of the communities they served.

The barristers reminded his lordship that if you discounted unpaid parking fines all three men had outstanding and unblemished records. They respectfully suggested to his lordship that given their clients circumstances and background, on this occasion a suspended sentence rather than a custodial sentence would be more appropriate.

Justice Bradshaw had heard enough bullshit for one day. There were more important things on his mind. Like the vintage bottle of Claret he had removed from his wine cellar earlier this morning and the sizzling roast beef dinner his wife will have waiting for him when he gets home from his bureaucratic kingdom of justice.

He pushed his spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose and cleared his throat to announce his intention to deliver the verdicts. His voice was calm but delivered with an intellectual maturity that you would expect from a man who administers the law.

He first directed his attention at the two men who he described as the ring-leaders in a well organised, ruthless and well executed crime with only one objective. He suggested that in their desperate attempt to steal a quantity of goods they had left a trail of destruction with no thought or consideration of others.

Growling his dissatisfaction in a voice full of genuine hatred he launched into a fiery attack on their characters, describing how men like these play an egotistical but unworthy part in today's society. His words were conveyed with a hint of patronising sarcasm, only just avoiding the word 'scumbags.' He went on to reminded the court of the substantial costs that had incurred and the numerous and tireless hours spent by the detectives in their efforts to have the two men extradited from the Mediterranean island of Cyprus.

The two men both received a five year prison sentence.

The third man in the dock described as the get-away driver who allegedly only received a payment of a few hundred pounds and a couple of cartons of cigarettes, received a two year prison sentence.

A brief moment of the most uncomfortable silence filled the court room, eventually broken by a flatulent movement from someone in the dock. It was at this point when the haunting reality of a custodial sentence looked almost certain.

His freedom. His wife. His job. His life hanging by a thread. He took the matter a little more seriously, sat up straight, cleared his throat and adjusted the knot in his tie.

Justice Bradshaw gathered a few papers from his desk before turning his attention to the two Asian men and the white male who he referred to as, 'the shopkeepers.'

Unforgiving eyes looked out over the top of his half-moon spectacles, his body language assertive and the tone of his voice laden with righteous indignation.

"You have been described as three professional men who are supposed to be respected pillars of the community. But men of your status in society should know better than to break the law. If you weren't so eager to take stolen goods then crimes of this nature wouldn't be so appealing to the criminals."

The three 'shopkeepers' each received an eighteen-months prison sentence.

Justice Bradshaw sighed and took a deep intake of breath before facing the three middle-aged women who had pleaded guilty to handling stolen goods.

Innocent eyes looked back at the judge, their faces shrouded in paper tissues, forcing sniffles and false tears, shuffling nervously on their feet, waiting anxiously for the outcome.

After placing the palms of his hands flat together directly in front of his face in that collective sign common to prayer or begging, he looked at the three women and cleared his throat.

"I believe that you three women were unfortunately caught up in a ruthless criminal web of deceit. I also accept that your involvement in the handling of these stolen goods did in fact play a small part in the scale of the overall crime. Notwithstanding this, you are all old enough to understand that your conscience is that part of you which separates right from wrong and for that reason I can't let you go unpunished."

After pausing to regain his composure and adjusting his spectacles, he continued.

"I therefore sentence all three of you to..."

At this point one of the three women almost collapsed in the dock and another began sobbing uncontrollably. After a court usher dutifully provided a glass of water and the judge had reinstated some kind of order, announcing that they would each receive a twelve months suspended prison sentence, they all made a remarkable recovery.

Overcome with relief the three women hugged and kissed each other before extending their thanks to Justice Bradshaw. One of them composed a curtsy and addressed him as, 'Your Highness' which brought a sanctimonious smile to the face of one of the barristers.

The holding cell in the bowels of the court was cold and depressing. Two rows of bench seating fixed along a white-washed painted wall covered in shameful graffiti provided the condemned men with a place to contemplate their adversity as they sat without protest awaiting their final destination.

He sat between two men who looked as if they were innocent of any crime.

A young man in his early-twenties with short black hair and tear filled eyes sat opposite.

He had just been given a twenty-year prison sentence for shaking a two-year old baby boy so violently that he died of brain damage.

He wondered how grey his hair would be when he was eventually released.

Shuffling on the timber seat and craning his neck, reading the artwork and graffiti decorating the walls, impulsive inscriptions of lost lovers proclaiming their everlasting love for each other. Some had written insults. Others had made promises that would never be kept.

The mocking hand of a football fan playing carelessly with a marker pen, the amusing inscription scribbled on the wall bringing an unexpected smile to his face.

'Gazza signs for Sunderland.'

The inmate's reception at H.M.P. Durham held an unhealthy black gloom of helplessness and inevitable depression.

A sour faced arrogant and overweight prison officer had the mundane task of registering each inmate as he entered his domain.

"Name," he barked, matter-of-fact and without emotion, followed by the usual confirmation of address, date of birth etc.

"Empty the contents of your pockets. Remove any watches, rings and jewellery," he bellowed his authority. "Strip off and turn around in a full circle," was his next instruction.

"Enter the showers and pick up a set of prison clothing," was his final command.

From that moment and throughout the remainder of his sentence Mark Brand would be referred to by his Surname and never by his Christian name.

For many years H.M.P. Durham had been a top-security jail, holding some of the country's most violent prisoners. But now it operated solely as an allocation prison and therefore most inmates would only spend a short time in custody before being relocated to another prison.

His barrister had informed him that he would probably spend about four weeks in Durham before being transferred to H.M.P. Tollgate open prison. He also said that with good behaviour and a recommendation by the Parole Board he could be released on licence after serving a third of his original sentence.

His first night of incarceration was always going to be the most difficult to deal with.

He couldn't stop thinking about Jill and how she would cope on her own with their four-month old baby girl, Catherine. But although he agonised with her predicament he was fully aware that Jill was a strong and rational person who would manage and deal with any problem or difficult situation.

Stepping into the haunting claustrophobia of a cold prison cell on E-Wing, to be greeted by a violent and foul-mouthed man in his mid-twenties who had been convicted of stealing and ringing cars didn't help him in his moment of despair. Neither did the metal framed bed with a badly stained mattress and perpetual use from countless inmates who had shed more than tears during long sleepless nights. Or the foul-smelling bucket of urine in the corner of the cell, a bowel moving reminder of the dignity lost in the disposal of bodily functions.

He climbed into bed. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't think straight. He tried to ignore the foul-mouthed man's friendship. He waited until he had fallen asleep before spilling a few silent tears on the pillow.

He buried his face in the mattress. He hoped and prayed that when he woke up this would all turn out to be some regrettable nightmare.

After a sleepless night with a homicidal maniac he was relieved when a prison officer told him he was being transferred to another cell on C-Wing later that day.

His new cell mate was a tall stocky man in his early-fifties with long grey hair, a huge head and a cavernous mouth that displayed more gum than teeth.

He was serving three years for arson.

"Tom Bradley," he offered, his outstretched hand almost crushing his fingers.

"Mark Brand," he replied, dropping his belongings on one of the bunk-beds.

"You're on the top bunk," Tom said, without compromise, waiting patiently until he had moved his stuff off his bed.

"Cigarette," Tom offered, his face shrouded in smoke from a burning cigarette dangling precariously from his mouth.

"Is this your first time inside?" Tom asked, offering his lighter.

"Is it that obvious," he replied.

"It is... So I'd better give you a brief rundown of the rules and protocols inside the prison," he said with reassurance, slipping his lighter back into his pocket.

"This is a shit-hole son. In nearly one-hundred years there have only been two changes to improve the welfare and conditions for inmates." He paused and drew smoke into his lungs. "After a fucking hundred-years you can now have corn flakes for breakfast and a radio in your cell." Instinctively he looked at the radio, the resonating 'A Minor' chord of AC/DC launching into a 'Whole Lotta Rosie,' interrupting his flow.

"You can't hear yourself speak with that fucking racket," he barked, shaking his head in disgust, dropping the volume and gathering his thoughts before continuing his lecture.

"The screws get you up in the morning at 6 a.m. and they put you to bed at 10 p.m.

You collect your meals from the kitchen and you eat your food inside your cell.

You shower on a Thursday and you get a change of clothing on Friday.

They allow you a forty-five minute break each day for 'Association,'" he said, coughing into a clenched fist. "That's when they let you outside for a stroll around the prison yard."

After pausing to roll two more cigarettes he continued.

"Jobs inside the prison are scarce son. Kitchen...Laundry...Library...Scrubbing or Mopping floors can all get you away from the boredom of the prison cell."

Tom smiled and handed him a cigarette between two nicotine stained fingers.

"Other than that you are banged-up almost all day," he concluded, flicking his lighter over the cigarettes.

"Oh, there's one more thing. Never ask anybody why they are in here and be careful how you go, this place is full of thieves and fucking villains."

A week later Tom informed him that he was expecting to be transferred to another prison.

"That squeaky clean image of yours is only going to get you into trouble," Tom said, raising a concerned eyebrow.

"It's a fucking time bomb in here," Tom snorted. "The place is full of fucking maniacs," he added, placing a friendly hand on his shoulder. "It's a place where the strong fuck the weak son and you look a little vulnerable," he said, brushing his hand over the back of his neck and staring out through the steel bars on a small window, a faint glimmer of light the only reminder of the world outside.

"Over the years this prison has held some of the most violent criminals. Ronnie Kray. John McVicar. Frankie Fraser. They've all done time in here," he sighed, blowing smoke between the vertical steel bars and stubbing his cigarette out on a fossilised spider.

"If you want to stay clear of trouble son, you need to mix with the right people," he said with reassurance, smiling through a toothless mouth.

"Before I leave, I'll introduce you to two friends of mine who will look after you when I'm gone. Nobody messes with Tony and Darren, not even the screws," he grinned, as he proceeded to empty his bladder into a bucket of piss.

When Tom Bradley introduced him to Tony Elliott and Darren Adams he knew immediately that these were two ruthless hard-men who should always be respected.

Tony Elliott had the physique of a gladiator and the look of a man who ate his meat raw. Over six-feet tall and built like the proverbial brick-shit-house, he towered over most people and there were occasions when he had to lower his head when he entered a room.

A huge muscular man with a threatening look and a venomous voice, he had the biggest pair of hands he had ever seen.

Prior to his conviction, Tony worked on his parent's farm but in his younger days he had been a semi-professional boxer until he lost his licence. After one of his fights, Tony was enraged when the referee awarded the fight to the other man. He confronted the referee after the fight and after an exchange of words Tony hit him with a punch to the face that left him unconscious on the dressing room floor.

Tony was serving a two year sentence for the theft of a tanker full of diesel fuel.

Darren Adams was similar in build, although only six feet tall with normal size hands that displayed the prison trademark of 'LOVE' and 'HATE' tattooed across each hand.

When he wasn't doing time he worked on-and-off as a night-club doorman.

Darren was serving a three year sentence for grievous bodily harm.

It was a timely coincidence that Darren was a good friend of the two men who had been convicted of the stolen cigarettes, and furthermore he had flown to Cyprus to visit the men prior to their extradition back to the UK.

When he said the worst job in the prison was scrubbing floors Tom Bradley was right.

With a scrubbing brush in one hand and a bucket of dirty water in the other, he worked his way down the stairs under the watchful eye of a prison officer.

His task for that day was to ensure the quality of workmanship was up to his demanding standards, and if it wasn't he would find himself out of a job.

The sound of two fingers snapping together and that unmistakable voice of authority interrupted his enthusiastic momentum.

"BRAND!" growled the prison officer. "Move to the side and let the probation officers pass."

"Yes sir," he answered, dragging his bucket of dirty water to one side, looking up to see two smartly dressed women heading down the stairs.

One of them was a fat abrasive woman in her mid-fifties with a round face and a few strands of hair growing from a hideous mole on her chin.

The other woman was in her mid-thirties. She was slim and attractive with impossible long legs growing out of a pair of black towering heels.

The tapping of black heels on the concrete stairs suddenly stopped.

Their eyes met. He froze. She gasped through a tangle of shuffling feet, almost losing her balance in embarrassing recoil. She looked at him. He looked at her. She lowered her eyes. She looked up again. Her eyes and mouth wide open, the expression on her face a haunting mask of shock and utter disbelief.

A deep shade of crimson coloured her face, a renewed demeanour in her step, heels clicking in urgent descent down the concrete stairs, long legs and black heels disappearing into one of the staff offices at the bottom of the stairs.

Caroline Spencer had once again walked out of his life.

For the next five weeks he joined Tony and Darren each day for Association.

Although Tom Bradley had been transferred to another prison, he hadn't forgotten his parting words of advice or his valued friendship.

The coach journey to H.M.P. Tollgate open prison took just over an hour.

And even though the panoramic views of the autumnal countryside were a welcoming sight from his dismal cell in Durham, he was still a little apprehensive about his next destination, knowing he wouldn't have the friendship or the protection of Tony and Darren.

Before his untimely departure from HMP-Durham, Tom Bradley had explained some of the advantages and disadvantages of being inside an open prison.

He told him that the main advantage was the flexibility to move freely around the camp and mix with the other inmates, and because you weren't locked in a cell for most of the day you could take a shower and get a change of clothing whenever you liked.

He said that although all inmates were allocated a job, when your working day had ended the rest of your time was devoted to the social and leisure facilities inside the prison.

The main disadvantage of the move to an open prison would be the monthly visit for Jill. Durham prison had only been a short bus ride, but now she would be faced with a lengthy journey and it wouldn't be easy considering Catherine was only four months old.

Another disadvantage of the open prison was that although you had the freedom to move around inside the camp, the night-shift prison staff were few in numbers, which added to the risk of attacks from other inmates.