by V E Rooney
“Oh, I’m back in Strangeways. It’s like a fucking school reunion, girl, there are still some lads around from when I was here last time.”
“You know it was Ayrton Senna who blew us up.”
There’s silence for a few seconds. “He’s getting dealt with and that’s all I’m gonna say about that. Listen. They’ve got fuck all on us, girl. There’s nothing connecting us to any of the funny business. No physical evidence, no fingerprints, nothing.”
“But what about the eavesdroppers?” I say, referring to the Customs wiretaps.
“Yeah, that’s a fucking ball-ache but they can’t use it in court, girl. The only thing those tapes prove is that we spoke on the phone but they’ve got nothing to go on.”
My thoughts turn to the lorry driver. With neither sight nor sound of him in weeks, I would put good money on him being forcibly taken to the dark side, another one for Queen’s evidence.
“The delivery man. What about him?” I ask.
Silence again.
“Mate? If he coughs, we’re done for,” I say, my voice dropping to a whisper.
“He won’t cough, girl. Not if he knows what’s good for him. Listen. Stop worrying. Stop panicking. Everything’s being taken care of. In the meantime, I need you to get hold of Birdman, fill him in on what’s happening, let him know you’re alright.”
Fuck, the Venezuelans. As much as I’m cacking it over what the busies and the cuzzies have got on us, that’s nothing compared to the retribution we’ll face if the Mendez lot decide we’re too close to them. Their reaction is what I’m worrying about right now. “Have you heard anything from that lot?”
“They’re not fussed, girl,” says Sean nonchalantly. “Yeah, it’s a pain in the arse, things are getting put on hold for a little bit but you know, occupational hazard and all that. As long as we keep it together, keep our mouths shut, they’ll keep their mouths shut. And when this is all over, it’s back to business as usual. And until then, you can expect to be doing what you’re good at.”
Moving the money around, he means. Sorting out transfers so that people can get paid despite the interruption to our activities. I’ll still be doing the books and the banking, I just have to do it in jail. Even with Sean’s reassurances that it’s just a temporary hiccup, my paranoia is set to reach epic proportions now that I’m banged up indefinitely.
“How the fuck can you be so sure that they’re not fussed? I know what I’d be doing if I was them. Planning how to fucking knife me in the showers, that’s what. That way I definitely won’t be talking, will I?”
“Get a load of you, swell-head!” he laughs. “You’re not that fucking important. Don’t be having a fucking wobbly over that, girl. Relax. Just keep your head down. Be patient and stay focused on the bigger picture. That’s what you’re always telling me, isn’t it?”
He’s right. I can’t get bogged down in what-ifs. I need to focus on what-now.
After I finish speaking to Sean, I close my eyes, take a deep breath and bring up the mental image of Birdman holding a Dutch flag while he does the tango. A couple of seconds later, I’m dialling the number for an answering service in Holland.
It’s the first morning of the trial.
During my months in prison, I find out that I’m surprisingly popular with the other inmates. Everyone wants to be my mate, offering to show me around, tell me who’s who and what’s what. I know what they want from me – patronage and protection – and the promise of that is enough to ensure that I never get bothered by some of the more volatile inmates or the screws. I’ve made a few firm friendships, including the tomboy (also known as Scooby). Turns out she’s an old mate of Alan’s from back in the day, they took their first baby steps onto Liverpool’s gay scene together. Scooby’s in here for doing counterfeit passports. I tell her to look me up when she gets out. She could come in very useful in the future.
Thanks to a regular supply of disposable mobiles courtesy of Scooby, I’m able to oversee crew activities in conjunction with Sean. One time there was a close call when Scooby almost got busted. I’d gotten used to my cell being searched on a regular basis but when the guards marched past my cell and into Scooby’s, I thought that was the end. If the guards found that phone, that would be enough to send me down for life.
Scooby got dragged out of her cell and was held on the landing while some other guards turned her cell upside down. Not that Scooby looked the slightest bit concerned.
“If you wanted to borrow a tampon, love, you could’ve just asked,” she quipped at one of the guards who was dragging her mattress onto the floor. They didn’t find anything. Afterwards in her cell, I obligingly looked away as she retrieved the mobile from her hiding place.
“Fucking hell, Queenie. You owe me big time for the way this thing stretches my minge out,” she said in disgust as she pulled out the cellophane-wrapped phone, rinsed it off in the sink and handed it to me.
So things are going as well as can be expected. The crew is handling things in our absence and back in Liverpool, Mr Chips has told rival elements that on no account are they to view our temporary absence as an opportunity to displace us and move in on our territory. Even Jimmy Powell is behaving himself while we’re on our holidays. When I first spoke to him, Nunes was more concerned about my predicament than he was about the disruption to our business. He went out of his way to assure me that the Mendez lot still wanted to maintain ties, although his statement that of course they knew I would keep my silence sounded more ominous.
A few minutes before I’m due to set off to court, I’ve got one of my business suits on and am preening myself in my cell. The prison guards at my door tell me to get a move on and as they escort me down the prison landing, Scooby and a few others nearby break into an impromptu little ditty.
God save our gracious Queen…
Long live our noble Queen…
God save the Queen…
Blushing like mad at the attention, I make my way under an impromptu prisoner guard of honour along the landing and get a few bows and curtsies as I go past. Piss-taking sods.
Send her victorious…
Happy and glorious…
Long to grow dope for us…
God save the Queen…
I give them a mock royal wave to a chorus of cheers and luck-wishing as I’m taken off the landing and through the corridors towards the exit.
In the van on the way to the courthouse, I just sit and breathe. Whatever happens next is pretty much out of my hands now. I have faith in my brief and barrister and I know that Sean is pulling some strings which may turn things to our advantage. But equally, there’s a good chance I’m going back to prison for a long time. And I’m really not sure I can survive that. I’m too used to doing things my own way, that’s my problem.
35. FLAGELLATION
I turn to the section in my file detailing with the 1995 trial of Reynolds and Kerrigan. Both were charged with conspiring to import cocaine, with the prosecution’s view that Kerrigan was organiser and Reynolds his deputy. The charges carried a possible life sentence. Because of the alleged criminal activities of the defendants and because of the upsurge in violence in Liverpool during this period, the trial was held 60 miles away at Lancaster Crown Court.
Reynolds’ solicitor, Robert Yeoman, engaged the services of Madeleine Jenkins QC, a much-respected criminal barrister from the esteemed Garrett Chambers in London. Jenkins was an experienced barrister who had prosecuted and defended criminal cases for over 10 years. Jenkins was a steadily rising star of the UK’s bar, painstakingly methodical in her research and known for her ability to spot legal loopholes and capitalise on them for the benefit of her clients.
Kerrigan’s solicitor, Graham Yarwood, who had represented his client ever since Kerrigan was a teenager, engaged the services of David Maxwell QC, a criminal barrister at the Vaughan Chambers in London. More experienced than Jenkins with over 18 years at the bar, Maxwell was known to be ferocious in his defence of his clients and a pas
sionate advocate of the principles of law.
On the opposing side, the Crown Prosecution Service, acting in the interests of Merseyside Police and HM Customs & Excise, engaged two of the most feared criminal barristers in the UK. Acting for the Police was Kenneth Roper QC, who had been involved in some of the most high-profile criminal cases in the UK, including the Norton Smith bullion robbery of 1987 and the murder of Policeman Gordon Thomas in 1989. In both cases, he secured convictions for his clients. Acting for HM Customs & Excise was Neil Cotterill, a fairly inexperienced QC but nonetheless something of a living legend amongst the legal set for his prosecution of Lord Harold Anderson, who had been charged with money laundering on behalf of an American businessman.
I ask Reynolds about the start of the trial. Did she have confidence in her legal team?
“Oh, my brief did his homework, alright,” she says, nodding. “Robert? Sound as a pound, he is. He’s a bit of an ex-scally himself. Got into trouble as a kid but saw the error of his ways and went over to the dark side. He’s repped nearly every bad boy in the shire. He’s the go-to man if you’re in a spot of bother with the busies. So yeah, he got Jenkins as my barrister. I’d never heard of her, right? But Robert found her, briefed her about my case over the phone, and four hours later she was in Liverpool. She couldn’t believe what Robert told her. Wanted to meet me in the flesh. She came to the prison, heard me out, and said she’d take the case. I was impressed with her, you know? Very professional. Posh as you like, which you would expect, but she didn’t patronise me or treat me like I was an idiot. I respected her for that. But,” Reynolds says, shifting about in her seat, “although I was confident in her abilities, and in her knowledge, I did have a few wobbly moments. I’d never been in court before, you know? You have no idea how intimidating it is, standing in the dock, getting put on the stand, in front of all these legal bods. I nearly shit myself on a couple of occasions. Sean had been in court before so he knew the ropes. Me? What a way to pop my cherry.”
Reynolds goes on to describe the opening day of the trial when the prosecution outlined its case against both defendants.
“Sean and I had this drill, we’d arranged it on our mobiles when we were in prison. We were sitting side by side in the dock and it was like we’d never met before. We didn’t look at each other once, didn’t say anything to each other, didn’t give any indication that we’d been working together. So we’re both in the dock and the prosecution start puffing their chests out.”
***
That Roper fella for the prosecution? I can tell he loves the sound of his own voice. I bet he’s the type of pompous, overbearing twat people can’t wait to get away from at dinner parties. He starts blathering on about inextricable evidence, firm ties, thorough surveillance and all that. Proper cheerleader for the Police, he is. Then the young lad gets up, Cotterill for the cuzzies. Fancies himself as a Jeremy Irons type, all plummy vowels and tousled hair under his wig. He starts banging on about painstaking weeks of work and surveillance, tracing everything step by step back to us, how Sean orchestrated everything but how I was just as involved as Sean was.
They both finish giving their opening statements and the jury are looking at Sean and me like we’ve just set fire to a bunch of kittens. That’s when the first wobble begins. I dig my nails into my palms so hard that I cut myself. But hey, at least it stops me shaking.
Then it’s the defence’s turn. My barrister Jenkins gets up. Now this woman knows her stuff. She starts going on about tenuous links, dubious circumstances and all that. How I’m cleaner than a nun’s knickers, basically. How the prosecution’s case against me is nothing more than supposition and speculation. Not that it does much to settle my nerves, I can tell you.
Sean’s barrister Maxwell? Oh, he’s fucking razor-sharp. Knows the law inside and out. I get the feeling from him it wouldn’t matter if he saw Sean murdering someone with his bare hands – he’d find a way to make out that the victim suffered a sudden fatal illness and be convincing with it as well. He’s going on about Police vendettas against Sean because they’ve never been able to pin anything on him. How the cuzzies are desperate to make a name for themselves at Sean’s expense. So both sides give their opening statements. I can see some frowns on the jury’s faces but at least that’s thrown an element of doubt into the proceedings.
So the trial gets underway properly with the cross-examination of the witnesses. And I have to be honest, the more the prosecution talks, the worse it looks for us. They’ve got surveillance photos from the busies and the cuzzies. They’ve got Richie and the lorry driver turning grass on us. They’ve got the coke in the lorry, mobile phones, CCTV from the docks and the service station. I’m thinking, I’m fucked. I’m seriously fucked. And so is Sean. We’re all about to get royally fucked.
Meanwhile, I can see the busies and the cuzzies all sat there in the court behind their briefs, big fucking smug grins on their faces, waiting for the inevitable, for us to go down. There’s that fucking cuzzie bitch. If that cunt was made of chocolate, she’d lick herself. I can tell she’s bargaining on a big promotion after this. She thinks this is her springboard into the big time.
With every day of the trial, I try to hope against hope but every evening when I return to my prison cell, the despair sets in. I could be in prison for the next 10, 15 years the way this is carrying on. My brief and my barrister keep telling me that nothing is certain, that the busies and cuzzies have been wrong before, that I need to keep my chin up and stay strong. I do my best. But my spirits sag that much further with every day. Every withering line, every insult from the prosecution chips away at my resolve. How much longer until there’s nothing left, until I crumble like rubble when it’s my turn to take the stand?
So the prosecution is in the midst of calling their witnesses. Police officers reel off details of who did what, who was watching who. The cuzzies do the same. Then it’s cuzzie bitch’s turn to take the stand. Look at her, nose in the air like she can’t bear to be in the same room as me. Go on, love. Get it all off your chest. Tell the nice lady judge what a good girl you are.
Cuzzie bitch starts reciting all the gory details of how she knew the lorry coming off the ferry at Felixstowe was dodgy straight away. It’s painful to listen to. At the same time, it’s vindication that my instincts were bang-on, that I had sussed them. But give the bitch her due, her instincts were bang-on as well.
“We had a watchlist of certain vehicles which were making frequent journeys to and from the UK,” she tells the court in a loud, confident voice. This Scouser has learned to soften her accent. Bully for her. “This lorry was on that watchlist. When the ferry docked at Felixstowe, I ordered the lorry to be pulled over under the guise of a routine inspection. As the inspection was taking place, I had the lorry driver brought into the interrogation room for questioning. When our officers discovered the cocaine secreted in the back of the lorry, I gave the lorry driver a choice. He could either cooperate with us or he could be arrested and remanded in custody immediately. So then when he agreed to cooperate with us, I gave the order for the lorry to be fitted with the tracking equipment that we use to monitor vehicles in circumstances such as these. The driver agreed to continue with his journey so that we could see to whom he was delivering. We then instigated a live surveillance operation involving several vehicles and a Police helicopter belonging to Suffolk Police. We followed the lorry from Felixstowe all the way to Burtonwood Service Station in Cheshire, simultaneously with the surveillance we were doing on the car with the defendants. That’s how we linked Reynolds and Drysdale to the lorry, and ultimately to Kerrigan.”
She finishes giving her spiel, which she has no doubt rehearsed several times. She looks pleased with herself. As I watch from the dock, I see that Maxwell and Jenkins are huddling together, whispering their heads off. Aye aye, what’s all this then? The prosecution barristers are asking the cuzzie bitch additional questions, like what kind of additional surveillance was in place along the motorways, how of
ten did the surveillance cars hand off to each other, how the helicopter pulled away just before the M62 in case it was spotted by our watchers, how certain was she that the shipment was linked to us. All questions designed to lock down her evidence and make it watertight.
So I’m sat there listening to all this, thinking that if God has a sense of humour, now is the time to start joking around with this shower. But deep down I’m almost suicidal. We’re going down for this. Goodbye freedom.
Then my girl Jenkins gets up. She approaches cuzzie bitch in the dock. Jenkins has got this weird expression on her face, like she’s just smelled a fart but doesn’t know who’s dealt it.
“Miss Carter,” Jenkins says. “How long have you worked for HM Customs & Excise?”
“Just over six years,” is cuzzie bitch’s reply.
“Six years. Would you describe yourself as an experienced investigator? Someone who is familiar with the procedures to be followed in incidents such as this?”
“Yes, very much so,” comes cuzzie bitch’s slightly indignant reply. All of a sudden, milady judge is getting a bit impatient.
“Miss Jenkins, I am quite sure that Miss Carter’s credentials are not in any doubt. If there is a point to your line of questioning, I would appreciate it very much if you could arrive at it,” Lady Judge says to polite titters from the court.
But is my girl Jenkins ruffled? Thrown off balance? Is she fuck.
“Forgive me, my lady, but Miss Carter? You say that you offered the lorry driver a choice – to help you or to be remanded in custody. Is that correct, Miss Carter?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” says cuzzie bitch. She doesn’t know where Jenkins is going with this and to be honest, neither does anyone else, least of all me. In a flash, Jenkins has picked up a sheath of papers off the defence table and she starts flicking through them. She turns back towards the witness stand.
“The lorry driver. Ergan Kurulcik. A German resident of Turkish origin. Is that correct, Miss Carter?” Jenkins says.
