This left Cooper with very little he could really ask. The whole point of cross-examining me was to portray me as a violent criminal with serious criminal connections so Cooper could convince the jury Packman would have been so frightened of me when we met that he would have said anything I wanted to hear. So, within a short time, I was told that I could leave. The prosecution said they had decided that I would no longer be required. I savoured those words. They had entered my life like a runaway train, fucked up my head with worry and now they were saying, ‘We’ve finished with you, goodbye.’ At the outset, the police had talked about assistance with moving, even arranging a new identity for me, but I had declined. I had made my decision and was going to live by it. I wasn’t going to pretend it hadn’t happened or deny who I was for anybody. We all make mistakes.
My final day in court had ended at 10.20 a.m. I had only been in the witness box for 20 minutes. When I walked out, I went straight to my waiting-room of solitude. I attacked a plastic tree in the corner, kicking its leaves in the air. I then sat down, my head in my hands. I felt so relieved, angry, elated, depressed and, also, disgusted with myself. The man from the court service came in and handed me a form. He began to tell me how to claim my expenses. I took the form from him, tore it into pieces and threw it next to the plastic leaves on the floor. I thought about his next staff meeting: what would he tell his colleagues now? Probably about a vicious thug who would benefit from national service. A detective came to the door and asked me if I would talk to the media. ‘They’ve asked me to ask you, Bernie. It’s nothing to do with me.’ I declined, I had said enough for one day; I just wanted to go home.
When the police dropped me off, they thanked me and wished me well. I had got to know them quite well on our trips to and from court, about the trouble one of them had with his mortgage and their silent admiration for some of the more colourful, less serious criminals. I could not thank them, though I did wish them well.
On Friday, 28 February 1997, the trial ended and the jury retired to consider its verdict. But once more they could not agree. Mr Justice Wright formally found Packman not guilty after the jury foreman said that there was no realistic chance of reaching a majority verdict in the case after four hours of deliberation. Stephen Smith, who had pleaded guilty, was given a two-year conditional discharge. I was pleased for Packman and Smith. My evidence hadn’t harmed anyone but Mark Murray, who was only affected socially, as the authorities couldn’t touch him. He didn’t give a fuck about me, Tucker or anyone else. After Leah Betts collapsed, he just upped and went without even giving us a warning phone call. I had no allegiance with or loyalty towards him whatsoever.
Shortly after the trial had ended the News of the World published an exclusive exposé on Mark Murray, with the headline: ‘Leah Drug Monster Pedalling Death Again’. Murray had washed up on the streets of Puerto Rico, Gran Canaria, where he was once more plying his trade. The paper said that Murray had become a minor celebrity due to all the publicity from the trial. The News of the World printed posters adorned with Murray’s picture and the caption: ‘This man could kill your kids’. They flooded holiday resorts with thousands of them, warning people of his activities. I’ve not seen Murray since, but somebody did text me claiming to be him in April 2003. The message, which was sent from an unregistered mobile phone, asked how things were between us.
All I can say to Murray and anybody else from those days is, I’ve moved on and what’s done is done. I have neither the will nor the need for petty vendettas.
In March 1997, I read in a local newspaper that ex-firm member Chris Wheatley had been jailed for seven years after admitting his part in a major drugs operation in Southend. Detectives had swooped on Chris after a lengthy undercover operation. They found more than 200 grams of cocaine, 2.63 grams of amphetamine, 357 Ecstasy pills and £950 in cash. The court heard that Chris had become addicted to drugs in 1995, had been unable to work and that his marriage had been ruined. I know Chris took the treatment he had received from Tucker badly following Tate’s release. They had been good friends until Tucker had got involved with Tate and kicked Chris into touch. From being Tucker’s right-hand man to being the subject of Tucker’s jokes and snide remarks hurt Chris deeply.
On New Year’s Eve 1995, Chris had worked on the door with me at a private function and he had told me he was glad Tucker and Tate had been murdered. He was rambling on in a drugged-up, confused, barely audible mumble. It was terrible to witness. I never saw Chris alive again. His drugged, vacant features are another of the many final images my friends have left me with which I have been trying to erase from my mind ever since. Shortly after Chris had been released from prison he died after collapsing outside a gymnasium. Another of our number dead, another family devastated.
On Friday, 6 June 1997, two police officers called at my home to arrest me. Debra was walking out of the door with the children to take them to school when they pounced. I wasn’t in and they wouldn’t tell Debra why they wanted me.
They were very intimidating, saying I had to get in touch as it was urgent and it was in my best interests that I did as I was told. Debra took the children to school and the police car followed them. She rang me on her mobile phone to tell me what was happening. I rang the number she had been given and asked the police what the fuck was going on. I was told I was wanted for assaulting a security guard at Chelsea. I had forgotten all about the incident at the football match – it was, after all, 15 weeks ago. I asked Essex police if they could forget about arresting me until I had spoken to the other force. What normally happens is that your local police force arrests you and then keeps you in custody until the police force that wants you comes to pick you up. I said, ‘Don’t bother nicking me yet, let me speak to the police in Chelsea. I will arrange to go to them. There’s no reason for you to arrest me. I’m not going anywhere.’ Essex police agreed and the police in Chelsea arranged for me to hand myself in. When I got to the station, I was formally arrested for assault, charged, fingerprinted, photographed and dumped in a cell while they sorted out my bail.
It was dawning on me that however hard I tried, I could never conform to their way of life. I was eventually granted bail and told to appear at West London Magistrates’ Court. When I walked out of that police station, I knew I was going nowhere. As one case ended, another one loomed. As an active criminal I would have sorted out a few bogus witnesses and intimidated the victim. The police may even have warned him that it wasn’t worth going through with the case. This had often happened, but now I was trying to do things right, I was being slaughtered.
About three weeks later, a detective telephoned Debra and expressed his dismay at the firearms incident at my home. He said that he hoped that I was OK. Debra didn’t know what he was talking about. He said that an officer from the firearms unit had been told that a man had been arrested outside my home with a shotgun. If this were true, then nobody had told us. I rang the police officer who had called Debra and he assured me that he had received the information from the police firearms unit. He said he would get back onto them and then report back to me. In the meantime, he warned me to be cautious. I told Debra to take the children to her mother’s and I would go to my mother’s until the situation had been cleared up. If somebody was looking for me with a gun, I didn’t want my children being in the same county, let alone the same house. In the meantime, I would discover exactly who, if anybody, was behind this and find them before they found me.
On Saturday, 12 July, I left Essex to travel to my mother’s. When I arrived, I went over to the village store and on my way back I saw two of my old school friends sitting outside the pub. It was a warm evening so I sat talking with them. There were about 20 or so other people sitting at adjacent tables in the garden of this rather quaint village pub. I had only been there for about two or three minutes when a police sergeant came walking by. The officer and I had known each other for years and there was certainly no love lost between us. As soon as he spotted me, he headed stra
ight towards me. Naturally, everybody who was sat nearby began to look. He stood in front of me with his hands on his hips and said, ‘You’ve made a name for yourself, haven’t you, O’Mahoney? Are you staying at your mother’s? When are you going back to London?’ I sat there in silence.
I had endured years of this crap as a boy. When I used to walk home from school with my friends, one particular PC used to drive along beside me at walking pace. He would park outside my girlfriend’s home and wait for me to come out. Needless to say, concerned parents objected to their children being in my company.
I sat looking at the policeman, listening to his shit and thinking, ‘I am only here because I’ve helped these bastards. My family’s lives have been torn apart, people are keen to see me dead and now this prick is giving me grief.’ I looked straight at the sergeant and politely told him to fuck off.
The sergeant replied, ‘And how’s your mother, Bernie?’
I took this to be a veiled threat. I had not forgotten, nor will I forget, when my mother was arrested for being drunk and disorderly when in fact she was having an epileptic fit. One of these fine men had put my mother in a cell for no reason.
I personally never saw this incident as an error of judgement on the part of the police, rightly or wrongly. The police sergeant saw that he had struck a nerve and very wisely walked off. I was embarrassed about what had happened as everybody was looking and talking about what had been said. I told my friends that I was going home until later. About 10 p.m., I went back to the pub and had a drink with my friends. When it closed, I walked to a nearby Indian restaurant to see the manager, a friend whom I had not seen for a few years. I stayed there until about 2 a.m. and left alone. The streets were deserted. I had drunk a fair amount of alcohol, but I wasn’t bothering anyone.
A police riot van drove past and when the driver spotted me he pulled up next to me. The driver said, ‘All right, mate? You been anywhere nice?’
I just wanted to be alone. I had not bothered anybody and I was not doing anything to warrant police attention.
I told him to ‘grow up or fuck off’.
He wouldn’t leave it, saying, ‘There’s no need for that,’ so I told him to fuck off again.
He tried to get out of the vehicle so I put my hands on the door and told him to stay where he was as I wanted no problems. He kept on at me, threatening to arrest me, and I guess I just flipped. I couldn’t take any more of his shit. I let go of the door and he jumped out and went to lay his hands on me. I whacked him across the head and then punched him in the face. As he fell back I gave him a fierce open-handed slap around the ear. It knocked him sideways. There was a struggle as a second officer who had been in the van jumped on me as I was trying to hold the other policeman down on the floor. Within minutes I found myself overwhelmed by several officers who had been called to give assistance. I wasn’t surprised the sergeant from the earlier incident was one of them. I was handcuffed and loaded into the van. The handcuffs were so tight they cut the tendons in my wrist. My forehead was bleeding and I had three wounds in the back of my head. I later learned that my finger was broken and I had a bruise on my stomach in the shape of a boot.
At the police station, I remained with my hands cuffed behind my back. I could feel my wrists bleeding, but they wouldn’t remove the cuffs. I was presented to the desk sergeant and the arresting officer said that I had been detained for using abusive words and threatening behaviour. No mention was made of assault. I was put in a cell, still handcuffed, and left alone to contemplate my rapidly decreasing good fortune.
Over the six years I had worked with Tucker and the other members of the firm, I had never endured crap like this, but now I was at pains to toe the line I ended up being crucified. I lay on the wooden bench face down. I couldn’t lie on my back as my hands were still cuffed behind me. The blood ran down my face from my forehead and onto the bench. My wrists were starting to swell, making the pain more intense. I took some satisfaction out of the fact that I had managed to hit the officer – at least I wasn’t going to be charged with that, or so I thought. Not only did the handcuffs prevent me from lying on my back, I was also unable to undo my trousers so I couldn’t use the toilet. Unable to control myself any longer, I had to lie face down in my own blood and suffer the indignity of urinating myself. As a 14-year-old boy, I had been locked in the very same police cell I now found myself in. Over 20 years had passed but nothing had changed. The same anger, the same sense of injustice and the same feeling of utter hopelessness ran through me. My lifelong struggle with authority had certainly buckled and warped me, but the pressures of the last two years had broken me in two. In the cell alone, I broke down. I didn’t give a shit what they charged me with or that I was in a cell, I just felt so bloody hopeless. I felt I couldn’t succeed whichever path I took. I was full of self-pity and I felt angry with myself. I forced myself to stop before the police returned to my cell. When I heard them coming, I lay face down on the hard wooden bench and pretended to be asleep. I had always done that to show the police that I wasn’t concerned and I could sleep through their intrusions into my life.
The following morning, the cell door opened and the desk sergeant who had just come on shift took off my cuffs. He didn’t say much, but his expression told me I looked a real mess. I was soaked in my own urine, I had dry blood caked all over my face and my clothing was torn. I was taken to the custody desk and the sergeant formally charged me with using abusive words, threatening behaviour and, after a calculated pause, assaulting a police officer. I now had two court cases to consider – the incident at Chelsea and this latest matter. I was fairly certain that if it all went against me I could end up behind bars.
Eleven days after being arrested for assaulting the police officer, I had to appear at West London Magistrates’ in Hammersmith for assaulting the football steward at Chelsea.
In my eyes, I wasn’t guilty. I had only retaliated after being slapped in the nose and grabbed by a couple of over-zealous hard men who thought they could flex their beer guts in front of children. I worked out the estimated cost of travelling and loss of income for a trial, which would surely happen if I pleaded not guilty. I decided a guilty would be preferable on the pocket – i.e. half a dozen 140-mile round trips to court, half a dozen days off work and only a 50–50 chance of a not guilty would prove more expensive than pleading guilty. I wasn’t going to come out waving a flag though. I wanted enough mitigating circumstances to ensure I didn’t get a custodial sentence.
My friend Benny, from south London, had gone to work in Japan so I sent him a typed letter which was supposedly written by him. The letter said that Benny was a businessman who regularly attended Chelsea matches and he had been appalled at the treatment I had received at the hands of the stewards. It said that after the incident he had taken my address and posted me this letter in case I should need a witness. Benny signed the letter and posted it back to me in England, the Japanese stamp and postmark making it appear authentic. When the contents of the letter were read out in court, the magistrate would not accept my guilty plea because the letter indicated I could be innocent. Instead, a not-guilty plea was entered despite my protests and the matter was set down for trial.
I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to play it. The police had mustered six ‘upstanding’ stewards of impeccable good character as witnesses and the victim had been photographed bearing some pretty ugly injuries. I had the letter from my friend Benny in Japan, but there was a possibility they would rule that inadmissible as he wouldn’t be able to attend and give evidence. It certainly didn’t look good for me. When I arrived at the court I saw the stewards sitting with the detective who had arrested me so I sat on a chair immediately behind them. None of the stewards appeared to recognise me and they carried on talking, unaware I was able to hear every word they said. The steward I had head-butted was telling the detective that he wanted the magistrate to ban me from ever visiting Chelsea’s ground again. ‘In case I bump into him again,’ he sai
d. He then asked the detective what he should do if somebody didn’t get ‘their story straight’.
The detective said, ‘Don’t worry, it’s a stipendiary magistrate today, she’s a good old bird, she will guide you through it.’ I stood up and turned around to face the detective and the stewards. ‘Trying to get your story straight, are you? As a policeman, I’d have thought you would know better than to coach witnesses.’
I could see that they were shocked that I had been sitting listening to them so I added to their anguish by saying that I was going to complain to the stipendiary magistrate. ‘You know the one officer, that good old bird.’ I went to the court office and asked them to call the police as an attempt was being made to pervert the course of justice. At first the court official seemed keen to get some toerag locked up, but when I told him the instigator was a detective, his mood changed.
He said he would make the magistrate aware of what was going on and I would be informed what, if any, action was going to be taken. When I entered the court I was advised that I shouldn’t make the complaint in open court but I could question the detective and the witnesses about matters ‘which may or may not have occurred outside the court room’. When the witnesses entered the box I asked them what had been said outside; some were totally honest, some denied any conversation had taken place and others ‘couldn’t really remember’. The incident at the Chelsea ground became almost irrelevant as everybody could see that some of the witnesses were unreliable.
In less than half an hour the stipendiary magistrate dismissed the case against me. The detective and the stewards looked physically sick. On the stairs outside the court, the steward I had head-butted got rather upset and went for me, but his colleagues held him back. I smiled at him and walked off, thinking he shouldn’t take matters so personally. His detective friend should have warned him that there is no justice any more.
Wannabe in My Gang? Page 17
