‘You fucking satisfied now?’ he yelled. ‘Fitting us up, you no-good fucking cunts.’
The rest of the chaps had a go too. Alfie verballed the life out of them, screaming every name under the sun; Ronnie said his piece; and, last but not least, Jerry Callaghan spat in the faces of the shaken, terrified coppers.
It was an incredible scene – my dad’s firm were doing things you just don’t do to the police. I had never seen anything like it. They never took a backward step with anyone. What a firm!
Ten months, I thought. Ten months until my father defends himself in the trial of a lifetime. When we’d thought he was going to come out early, ten months seemed nothing. Now, with the worry that he might be given a life sentence, it felt like an age away. There would be dark days ahead, but there was nothing for it but to push on through and do everything possible to help Dad out of this.
My dad was a big scalp for the police to have. We knew how badly they wanted their pound of flesh, and that the prosecution would try every trick in the book to get it. Dad’s defence would need to be equally clever, and watching the chaps and the lawyers build it was a lesson in pulling out all the stops. We didn’t know exactly what evidence they had, so inducing doubt in the jury was the aim. What possible reason would Freddie Foreman have to do such a thing to a man he never knew? What proof was there he wasn’t alive? Where was the body? Why was Jimmy Evans making accusations against my father, when Evans himself was a convicted felon, a dishonourable human being?
When Dad’s sentence was up, he was moved from the draconian Wandsworth Prison back to Brixton, where he joined Alfie, Ronnie and Jerry, who were already there on remand. Brixton was where it had all begun, all those years earlier. It must have been a terrible feeling for Dad to find himself back where he’d started. What strength it must have taken to dig deep, to say to himself, ‘Right, I’m going to beat this. I’m not going to crack. I’m going to fight.’
And fight they did. From their cells they put together a killer defence. Ingeniously, Dad organised one of the chaps on the outside to break into Jimmy Evans’s home and obtain a letter Evans had written to his girlfriend. Evans had been on remand when he wrote the letter and it contained an admission that made it pretty clear what the bastard was up to: ‘I have sold my soul to the devil to be with you.’ By the devil he meant the police, and that one sentence just about said it all. Copies were made and tucked away safely until the time came for the letter to be produced in court, and Jimmy the grass was none the wiser.
Now Dad was in Brixton we were able to visit without being spied on the whole time. Most days the chaps had a visit from one of the wives, who’d bring them food to keep their spirits up. In those days prisoners on remand were allowed to have their own food brought in – you were allowed to retain a lot more dignity. During the week the wives would cook nice healthy food for their husbands and friends, but on Sundays it was my turn. It gave the wives a break, and seeing as we only lived in Dulwich, a 15-minute drive away, it was no problem for me to do the cooking and drop it in for the chaps. On my day they got what they really loved – hearty stodge like steak, eggs, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, beans and chips. They told me it was their favourite meal of the week. I’d get up at the crack of dawn to prepare whatever meals the chaps had ordered. Once I’d crammed as much as I could on their tin plates, I covered each meal with an upside-down plate and wrapped it in a knotted tea towel to keep everything warm. The funny thing was that it didn’t matter how I presented the food, because when I turned up with it the screws invariably opened up every meal, scraped it on to a new plate and poked it about to check I wasn’t bringing anything else in. Understandable, I suppose – a skeleton key smuggled in among the baked beans might have come in handy.
I loved helping out with those meals, but a thousand hot dinners couldn’t change the fact that Dad was in danger, and the pressure took its toll on all of us. It’s a private pain that you deal with as best you can. You think you’re better off without anyone knowing. You think other people don’t understand, nor do you want them to. But everyone found out, of course, because from the moment Dad was charged the story had been all over the papers. Nothing surprising about that – such a high-profile case is a licence to print money as far as the ‘red tops’ are concerned – but Dad being splashed across the front pages gave me another headache to deal with: my new friends at Conti’s.
Since the incident at the school gates, my classmates had some idea who Dad was, that his was a name not to be trifled with, but it ended there. There was no reason for them to dwell on where their mate Jamie came from, and life went on uneventfully. But, once the news broke, all of my new mates suddenly knew a whole lot more about Dad, what he’d been up to in the past and what he was being accused of now. Not for one second have I ever been ashamed of my father or my background, but I did worry that what was being said – much of it twisted and untrue – would shock people into thinking twice about the Jamie they thought they knew. After all, I was mixing with a lot of people who had no understanding of the world I came from, and naturally I didn’t want them to judge my father, my family or me from what they read in the newspapers.
Did the new people in my life demonise me and my family? Did they turn their backs on me? Quite the opposite. It turned out I didn’t need to worry about a thing. For a start, I was at stage school, and should have realised that students at stage school are there out of a love for one thing – drama! I was overwhelmed by how supportive everyone was, not least the girls, who were very protective of me. If there was anything about that terrible period that you could call good, it was the ‘sympathy’ I received from some of those girls – and I won’t mention any names!
Looking back, I think one of the reasons people treated me so kindly during that awful time was because I had only ever conducted myself well. I was always kind and gracious at Conti’s – and elsewhere besides – and earned a lot of respect and goodwill from those I was close to. So when the merde hit the fan, there was nothing terrible about me anyone could reflect on and say, ‘Ah, now we understand why he’s that way’ – I hope not anyway. In the months leading up to my father’s trial, the kindness of others provided an occasional, brief oasis of relief from all the angst and misery. And I learned a lesson there – while people can’t always understand what you’re going through, they can offer solace, a sympathetic ear and sometimes a shoulder to cry on. Whatever happens in life, we’re not meant to be alone in this world.
Summer drew to a close and as the nights grew darker the trial loomed ever closer. After what seemed like an age, November 1975 came, and with it began the trial at the Old Bailey, a building that to me seemed designed to put the fear of God into any mortal. I’ll never forget the feeling of walking through its marble halls and hoping against hope that the prosecution weren’t going to pull something out of the bag that would send Dad down. As things stood, we had a hunch that most of the evidence against Dad might be a little flimsy. Still, a supposed eyewitness was an extreme cause for concern.
Jimmy Evans was up as the first witness for cross-examination. The prosecution fed him all the right questions to ensure he blurted out every last detail about Ginger’s murder and, true to the nature of a grass, he added a wealth of outrageous exaggeration to his testimony. Listening to him lying his arse off was enough to make you sick with rage. I’m sure Dad was boiling up inside, but he didn’t show it. Instead he did something very clever. Right the way through Evans’s little performance, Dad put on a much better one of his own. At perfectly timed moments, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders in disbelief or let out a despairing tut – nothing over the top, nothing that would upset the judge, just enough for the jury to observe him and think twice about what they were listening to.
Dad was fighting for his life using every possible tactic, and acting was one of them. The theatricality of the scene, the subtle way Dad played the jury, was as good as anything I’d seen at the National. In a TV interview years later
, Terry Wogan asked me if there was any acting in my family and I said, ‘Yes, my father in the dock at the Old Bailey!’ Terry liked that and laughed uproariously.
Next, Evans had to answer to the great Lewis Hawser QC, who was leading the defence team, an impressive array of the top defence QCs in the country. First off, Hawser made short work of squeezing Evans into admitting he had lied under oath during his own trial and at a divorce hearing. As you can imagine, this went down a treat with the jury, and wound Evans up no end.
Then it was time for the trump card: Evans’s ‘sold my soul’ letter to his girlfriend. When the letter was produced, Hawser asked Evans if he would read out the damning passage. You could almost feel the blood draining from Evans’s face – he was apoplectic with rage. ‘How did you get that letter?’ he screamed.
‘Are you all right, Mr Evans?’ asked Hawser. ‘Would you like a glass of water? Clerk, would you hand Mr Evans a glass of water, please.’
‘I don’t want a glass of fucking water. I want to know where you got the letter. Those men did it. I swear on my life.’
It was very interesting watching a man known for his wild temper coming unglued, and better still when he suddenly lost it completely and tore up the letter. When it came to looking totally unreliable, Evans was doing an excellent job. All we had to do was sit back and watch.
Hawser probably could have left it there, but he came back for more. A tall man with an air of real gravitas about him, his deep, powerful voice and calm way of expressing himself reminded me of seeing Laurence Olivier at work. Here was a master in action, and his next question was perfectly timed to make sure Evans kept up the good work of looking like the unsavoury wretch he is. Aware of Evans’s obsession with guns, he asked him to talk about the firearms used in the case.
Evans fell for it hook, line and sinker. Going well beyond the call of duty, he rabbited on uninterrupted about his fixation with weapons until the jury looked positively worried. Talk about – excuse the pun – shooting yourself in the foot. By the time he shut up, it was obvious to everyone that, at best, Evans had a few screws loose. No further questions, your honour.
By no means were we popping corks, but we definitely had a feeling that things weren’t looking good for the prosecution. I remember allowing myself to dream that Dad was going to beat this, but all I could do was wait.
After several more days of legal toing and froing, it was time for the Chalk and Troon Show to begin in Court Number One. I don’t want to sound flippant about a matter that was so serious – a feeling of dread never left me all the way through the trial – but, looking back, what happened when the police officers took the stand was pretty farcical. This result was once again down to Lewis Hawser, who was ready to deliver another crushing blow to the prosecution.
Hawser cross-examined Detective Sergeant Troon about the ‘questionnaires’ he and Chalk had given to Jerry Callaghan and Alfie Gerrard when they were arrested for Ginger Marks’s murder: were both men interviewed on the same day? Yes. Was the date and time of interview written at the top of each man’s questionnaire? Yes. Did the interviews take place on 8 January 1975? Yes. Fine. Calm and polite, Hawser asked Troon if he had his police diary with him. He did. Were the dates and times of the interviews noted in said diary? Indeed they were. How soon after the interviews? Half an hour.
Now came the thunderbolt. In the light of his answers Troon was asked to explain why the questionnaires were dated 6 January when the date of the interview was 8 January.
Silence.
Hawser repeated the question.
More silence.
The tension in the courtroom was indescribable. Troon was totally stumped. It was obvious to judge and jury that they were looking at two very misleading, and very embarrassed, coppers.
No more questions.
The prosecution had brought a totally flawed case. They hadn’t been able to prepare a good case because, quite simply, they didn’t have one. Once Chalk and Troon stood down there was an electricity in the court that made me start to believe proceedings were really breaking down. Papers shuffled, lawyers whispered and murmured, and there was a disturbed air in the room, a subdued commotion. Things were not going to plan. Nothing was turning out as the authorities had hoped.
After a few minutes, Judge Donaldson sent the jury to wait outside so that the lawyers could argue among themselves. In the ensuing debate, I didn’t understand half of the legal terms – it was like watching a play without understanding the words – but from body language alone I could tell something crucial was going down. Halfway through, I noticed Dad and Alfie looking at each other and nodding very slowly, almost gravely, at what was being said. As usual, they had poker faces, but a tiny glimmer in their eyes told me they knew something I didn’t and that, whatever they knew, it was good.
Eventually, the lawyers fell silent and the judge asked for the jury to be called back in. He had something to say. Due to the way the evidence had been presented, and due to the lack of substantial evidence, he told the jury he had no alternative other than to direct them to find the men not guilty.
Not guilty. Not guilty!
At that moment they sounded like the most beautiful words in the world. Pure, overwhelming elation shot through me. We’d won. My dear, beloved father was free.
I’ll never forget that dreamlike moment. The relief on everyone’s faces said it all. I took Mum’s hand – we didn’t need to say a word – and together we gazed down at Dad, who beamed back at us. It was over, and I felt like my whole body was smiling.
We were magnanimous in victory, as was Dad. Justice had been done, but there was no screaming or shouting from the gallery, no cheering or jumping for joy. Rubbing people’s noses in it wasn’t the way we did things. After giving us a quiet thumbs up, Dad graciously bid farewell to the prosecution lawyers, thanked his team, Judge Donaldson and, last but not least, the jury.
For all those years, I had visited Dad in prison, and I was so used to the pain of watching him being led away from me that, even though he had won, I felt the usual – habitual – pang of sadness and loss as he was led out of court. My brain hadn’t yet rewired itself to believe that my father was free. Images of those horrible visits to Leicester flashed through my mind, and for just a couple of seconds I was gripped by a strange fear that he still wasn’t coming back to us, that they’d find a way to hold on to him. Christ, I thought, the things we’ve been through. I took one more look at the courtroom, turned my back and walked out.
I noticed Chalk and Troon as I descended the grand old stairs of the Old Bailey. They were standing in the hall like a couple of lemons, all sheepish and embarrassed, and I had to really fight the urge to front up to them. I wanted to laugh in their faces, spit in their eyes. Fuck you! I thought. Fuck both of you. I wanted to say it to them, but I didn’t. I wasn’t brought up that way. When I caught their eyes, I just nodded politely and smiled.
Outside, the press were on us like vultures. Cameras snapped and journalists crammed around us hoping for comment. Giving them a soundbite was the last thing on our minds, especially since the papers had never given us an easy ride in the past. I did my best to protect Mum from them as we waited for Dad to emerge from the building.
Everyone congratulated one another on the pavement, and I remember my mother’s hand shaking with emotion. I can’t speak for her, but there was a worry in the back of my mind: the last time Dad had beaten a murder rap – the Frank Mitchell case – he’d immediately been charged with the McVitie job. Although I knew there was paperwork to be dealt with before Dad could be released, a part of me dreaded they would be sticking something else on him while we stood there waiting. No one knows what goes on behind closed doors, and I wouldn’t be satisfied until the doors of the Old Bailey opened and my dad walked out of them.
We waited and waited. Then, all of a sudden, someone let out a cry.
‘Here he is!’
Everyone spun round and, sure enough, there he was. Freddie Forema
n. My father.
Dad looked fantastic in his navy-blue Savile Row suit. Needless to say, he was very happy, but Dad has never been a flamboyant man, and as he took his first steps of freedom there was a dignity to him that I will never forget. He was able to carry himself with such quiet composure, each step taking him further away from the injustice and suffering of all those years, each stride bringing him closer to his loved ones.
And then we were in his arms, together again, the way it was meant to be. I can’t tell you how good – how right – that moment felt. I began to tremble as he held me tight. For a few seconds it was as if nothing else existed or mattered. It was as if an anvil had been lifted from my shoulders. It’s strange, but, when you have carried a huge amount of stress for so many years, it’s not until it has been lifted that you truly realise what a toll it has taken on you.
‘Hello, Fred, I’m from the Sunday People…’ brought the situation sharply back into focus. There we were trying to enjoy a moment of fresh air together for the first time in nearly a decade, and some hack was trying to get a story. Dad turned his head in the direction of the voice and, just as the journo was about to ask a question, cut him short.
‘Oh yes, I remember you,’ said Dad very quietly, the smile disappearing from his face. Alf was at his shoulder, growling. I don’t know what Dad remembered, but it can’t have been good, for he fixed his eyes on the reporter and gave him the look of all looks. In an instant, the man’s face turned ashen and he shrivelled into the background. Then, as if a switch had been flicked, Dad was all smiles again. Even in those moments of heightened emotion, of triumph, he wasn’t letting anything, or anyone, get past him. Freddie Foreman was back, and it was glorious.
Finally it was time to enjoy ourselves. We all jumped in taxis and headed over to the A & R Club. I was already well acquainted with the place, having delivered numerous ‘messages’ to and from Mick Regan, while my dad was being held on remand. I’ll never forget a visit to Brixton one day when Dad told me to deliver a message. It was the first time I had felt useful and important and trusted. Little did I know it wouldn’t be the last time the firm used my help; nor could I have guessed where that responsibility would eventually lead me.
Gangsters, Guns & Me - Now I'm in Eastenders, but once I was on the run. This is my true story Page 9
