(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.
