by Wade, Calvin
Amy thought that the impression given was that of a nosey pair of elderly neighbours who had heard a commotion and assumed it was Jemma rather than Kelly that had been central to events. The barrister had highlighted that they were wrong to assume. As Amy recounted this story, as a whisper into my ear, I began to appreciate how I was beginning to feel romantically for Jemma. I was almost euphoric that she was likely to be found innocent and I started to think about ways to build on our friendship. I felt a need to know Jemma better. If truth be known, I knew there and then that I wanted to date Jemma if Kelly did not come back.
The feeling of certainty that Jemma would be found innocent lasted for around a week. It lasted until the prosecution called Jemma to take the stand. They probably called her as their case was looking increasingly flimsy and they had nowhere else to go. It was a stroke of genius on their part. Jemma is a wonderful woman, she would fight a lion for someone she loved, but as I knew only too well, her Achilles heel is that first impressions are not always good. Despite being aesthetically pleasing and honest, Jemma was, and still is, blunt, abrupt and a terrible liar, not the perfect attributes for a young woman standing trial for murder, when first impressions are everything. Jemma, in trying to save her sister, was not in a position to be honest and in compromising herself, gave a shambolic performance that could not have looked worse if she had set her pants on fire.
The thing I did not understand, as I watched her stumble through her answers, and still to this day do not understand, is why Jemma persisted with the “Sleeping Beauty” tale. Jemma’s elderly neighbours, the McGordons, had totally discredited this line of defence and to gain some sort of empathy from the jury, Jemma would have been far wiser holding her hands up, admitting being awake, but insisting she played no part in her mother falling down the stairs. The fall had just been a tragic accident that had befallen an inebriated woman. Jemma could have just said she had originally lied in her statement because she was frightened and was fearful that the police would put two and two together and get seventy eight. Jemma’s stubborn insistence that she had just slept through her mother’s death just did not seem creditable. Luckily for Jemma, her barrister continued to imply that the awkward nature of her responses was in some way linked to her blind loyalty to her missing sister. I was fairly sure at the time, and Jemma has confirmed since, that Jemma’s barrister knew nothing about Kelly’s role in her mother’s death, he was just re-introducing the element of doubt after Jemma’s cringeful testimony.
I was in court when the jury reached their verdict. Technically, I should not have been, as the jury of seven men and five women retired to consider their verdict on a Monday lunchtime, but when they failed to reach a verdict that day, they were sent back to a hotel to deliberate overnight, so I swopped days off with Stuart in the shop, to enable me to be in court the next day.
It is often argued that juries reach a quick verdict when the accused is found innocent. If there does not appear to be a strong prosecution case, it negates the need to deliberate. A counter argument, however, is that if a trial is an open and shut case and the accused is blatantly guilty, then there would be no need for deliberation either. Thus, I made no assumptions in relation to the delay, to me it did not point towards an innocent or a guilty verdict. I could not call it.
At 11.15 a.m on Tuesday 7th November, 1989, the court came back into session for the jury to announce their verdict. As the jury filed back into court, Amy grabbed tight hold of my hand.
“I can’t bear this.” she said as her voice wavered.
“It’ll turn out OK.” I replied, remembering I had re-assured Kelly in a similar fashion and as yet, everything still seemed a long way off turning out OK.
If Jemma went to jail for the murder of her mother, I knew the guilt would weigh heavily on me. She did not deserve this. Jemma’s barrister had portrayed Carole Watkinson as a drunken, abusive mother but Jemma seemed too streetwise and battle hardened to come across as the poor, defenceless victim. In reality, Jemma was the victim, she had been beaten by her mother relentlessly over weeks and months and when Kelly finally did something to protect her, Jemma ended up being charged for the murder.
As well as being nervous, I was excited about the arrival of the verdict. If Jemma was found innocent, she would walk free from court and our friendship would be free to develop. There had been coy smiles, prolonged looks into my eyes and a shared sense of humour, during my visits to Risley, which hinted that Jemma may have begun to notice feelings for me. I would have to tread very carefully, as I could not afford to make a complete fool of myself by making unwanted advances towards Kelly’s sister, but the more I got to know Jemma, the more I liked her and I was really interested in seeing where this would lead.
As everyone took their positions, the ‘Head Juror’ passed the verdict of the jury to the judge.
“Ladies and Gentleman of the jury, have you reached your verdict?”
“We have, ‘Your Honour’,” declared the ‘Head Juror’.
“On the charge of murder, do you find the defendant, Jemma Louise Watkinson, guilty or not guilty?”
“Not guilty.”
I grabbed Amy’s hand tighter and with my other hand clenched my fist in a victorious manner! Fantastic! Justice had been done! She was innocent! They had found her innocent!
The Judge continued.
“On the charge of manslaughter….”
I cursed to myself. I had forgotten about the manslaughter charge.
“…..do you find the defendant, Jemma Louise Watkinson, guilty or not guilty?”
“Guilty.”
The colour drained from Jemma’s face. There had been a mix of contented murmurings and shaking of heads when the ‘not guilty’ murder verdict had been returned, but when the ‘guilty’ manslaughter verdict was returned there was a moment were there was a stunned silence. As far as my recollection goes, this was broken by Amy sobbing and blowing her nose. The judge thanked the jury, then announced at the end of a rambling summary that Jemma would serve three years in prison for the manslaughter of Carole Watkinson.
Jemma was led away, not screaming and shouting like in an American TV drama, just quietly, head bowed, handcuffed to a tough looking policewoman who looked like she was more than capable of giving Mike Tyson a run for his money. Thistles and bulldogs sprung to mind.
Selfishness is an undesirable trait, but as Jemma was being led away, I must admit, I was not thinking of how she would cope locked away in a prison cell for the next three years, that thought came later, all I could think about was how the verdict affected me. My gorgeous girlfriend, who I had adored had left me, through no fault of mine and had made no contact with me for over six months. Her current location was unknown. I genuinely thought she loved me but it seemed like I had that one wrong. Her sister, who was equally stunning, a completely different specimen but a rollercoaster ride I was keen to get on, was now going to be spending three years eating porridge at ‘Her Majesty’s Pleasure’. I sat there in Preston Crown Court, ignoring Amy’s tears, making no attempt to console her, just dwelling on my own, personal misery. I felt well and truly cursed.
I reflected that I needed to move on now. Forget about the Watkinsons. Forget about the missing testicle and move on. A life less complicated would be the best option now, I concluded. Back then I was a fickle soul! I went home that night and played every melancholy CD that I had. I was looking for a song that seemed to sum up my situation. When I couldn’t find one within my own collection, I raided Caroline’s. After a lot of flicking through utter tripe, I stumbled across two songs, both by a band (or more accurately two ladies) I had never even heard of before that night. They were called the Indigo Girls and the two songs, that perfectly summed up everything I was feeling were called, “Blood and Fire” and “Crazy Game”. I played those two songs over and over that night, on low volume so as not to wake Mum and Dad (fortunately Jim was stopping the night at Warren Walker’s or Russell Jones’ house, I wasn’t sure which)
. They both felt that they had been written especially for me, all about the power and emotion love generates.
By the time I finally succumbed to sleep that night, I knew I was not prepared to give up on Kelly Watkinson just yet. She had gone away, but there were major reasons why. After six months, maybe I should be moving on, maybe the world was full of potential new girlfriends who could make me feel like Kelly had, but I did not want them, I just wanted Kelly back. I was doing a complete about turn but what I wanted more than anything else was to find Kelly, see how she felt about me now, six months down the line. Had our love been as real as it appeared to me? I was going to find Kelly, I vowed and I was going to find out.
As Jemma settled down to spend her first night in prison as a convicted killer, I went to sleep on my feathered pillows and comfy mattress, with my dreams all about her sister! The first time I fell in love with Jemma Watkinson, it was just for a fleeting moment, the second time, two years later, I vowed it would be forever.
Richie
As I entered Mr. Davenport’s office, he stood up, walked around his desk and came towards me with an outstretched right hand. We shared a firm handshake and exchanged pleasantries.
“Hello again, Mr.Davenport!”
“Richie! How good to see you! Please take a seat. How are you?”
Under the circumstances it seemed a strange question. Given three weeks had passed since my operation, I was returning to see Mr.Davenport to hear the news from him about my state of health, following blood tests and microscopic examinations of my lumpy, extracted bollock.
“I’m very well, thanks!” I replied, hoping that Mr.Davenport would not be following this with a pantomime, ‘Oh no, you’re not!’
“Good! Good! Stitches come out OK?”
“They oozed a bit, but they were fine.”
“So how’s the groin now?”
“It feels perfect. It was very sore for a while, but its all good now.”
‘Get to the point, Mr. Davenport!’ I thought, ‘get to the point!’
“Excellent. Obviously you know why we are here today…”
It was a rhetorical question, but I gave an answer anyway.
“Yes, to review the results.”
Surprisingly enough, I wasn’t there to play tiddlywinks!
“Absolutely and I’m sure you don’t want me to beat around the bush, so I want to tell you straight away that it’s very positive….”
‘Great!’ I thought, “very positive” sounded a whole lot better as a starting gambit than ‘I’m sorry there’s no easy way of saying this…’
“Mr. Gray, the pathologist,” Mr. Davenport continued, “confirmed, as we had thought all along, that it was indeed testicular cancer that we were dealing with.”
Not very positive so far, I thought, although at least my testicle and spermatic cord had been taken out for a reason. I would have felt more than a little aggrieved if it had just turned out to be a boil!”
“The good news though,” Mr. Davenport went on, “is in relation to the blood tests. Remember me telling me you that there were chemicals in your blood that gave us an indication of whether there were cancerous cells? Well, following the operation, your bloods are no longer indicating the presence of these chemicals, as they had prior to the operation. My concerns had always centred on the fact that, due to the delay between your initial awareness of a lump and your subsequent trip to your GP’s, that the cancer could have spread to the lymph nodes. The indication is that the cancer has not spread. We will obviously continue to monitor you, to ensure everything continues to remain positive, but the operation appears to have gone very well. Very well indeed!”
In all my days, that minute was the best minute of my life. To hear you have beaten cancer is the greatest feeling. I am sure people react in all types of ways when hearing this news, I am sure consultants get bombarded with hugs and kisses from patients, luckily for Mr. Davenport though, I left him alone. I was just positively beaming! It felt like the guillotine had stopped halfway down and the executioner had announced it would take many years to fix.
I wanted to make sure though, that I was not jumping to conclusions,
“So does that mean that I won’t be needing chemotherapy?”
“Not at the moment, no, and hopefully it won’t be needed at all.”
The next few minutes passed with Mr. Davenport and I chatting like old friends about the regular check ups I would need, about my missing girlfriend, about Mr. Davenport’s wife and three children and how his oldest, Giles, was a ski instructor in Morzine. I then thanked him, bade him farewell, left his office and excitedly ran around the hospital in search of a payphone like Anneka Rice on “Treasure Hunt”, to ring home. The whole family had wanted to come with me to the hospital, to hang around outside the office like last generation expectant fathers, but I had banned the lot of them, wanting to deal with the initial verdict alone. I found a phone and there was no-one on it and no queue, it was definitely my lucky day. I punched in the digits and once I heard Mum’s voice, the pips started to go and I had to force my ten pence in, like the red telephone boxes of old.
“Mum, it’s me! They don’t think its spread! They think they’ve got the cancer out!”
I heard Mum telling everyone and the shrieks of delight from behind her and then she broke down with relief.
“Don’t cry Mum! It’s all good! It’s not quite over but if this was a boxing fight between me and cancer, Mum, the referee would be stopping the fight and declaring me the winner!”
I love analogies! I did then and still do. That boxing analogy was wide of the mark though. I was a long way off winning the fight. A retrospective analogy was that the cancer was doing to me what Ali had done to George Foreman in the “Rumble In The Jungle” in ’74. The cancer was lying back on the ropes, taking my punches and pretty much everything I could throw at it, letting me think it was beaten all ends up, before it finally retaliated with a sucker punch. Cancer was not my real opponent, like everyone else my real opponent was time. Time is the heavyweight champion of the world, it defeats everyone in the end.
I was certainly fighting though, back then, blissfully unaware of what lay ahead. I was definitely not being knocked out in Round One.
That day, the day of the results, changed everything. The overwhelming feeling was now relief not worry or concern. There were still subsequent days, around that time, that I felt all was against me, especially during Jemma’s trial, but on the whole, moments became more precious, life became more precious, my family, even Jim, became more precious and sentimentality reigned. I hugged the whole family more, kissed them more and always remembered to tell them that I loved them. The same was true the other way around with Caroline, Helen and Mum, in particular, never missing an opportunity to hug me.It was like my outlook on life had been myopic and someone had given me glasses. You don’t always remember to wear them but when you do everything is crystal clear - life is short and fragile, make the most of every healthy minute.
Jemma
I served twenty one months in Her Majesty’s Prison, Styal. Originally built as an orphanage back in the nineteenth century, to house destitute children from the Manchester area, it was now home for the morally destitute. It was certainly not the type of place Judith Chalmers would have covered on “Wish You Were Here”! As much as I would have liked to see it, I just could not see a bronzed Judith and her television crew, waking up in a cell and inviting her ten million viewers to handle stolen goods so they too would get the opportunity to stay there.
Styal was a female only prison originally opened for young offenders in the early 1960s, but by the time I arrived it accommodated female prisoners of all ages. During my time there, about a fifth of the time, I had a cell to myself which was great as I had peace and quiet, the rest though was time spent with the type of people you would cross the street to avoid, a lot of prostitutes and petty thieves, who were regularly self-harmers and drug addicts. I do not condone drug use and thankfully
I have not taken a drug in my life and have no intention of doing so, but from a self-preservation perspective, in my twenty one months in Styal, life was easier when there was a drop. Sharing a cell with a druggie needing a fix was a lot harder than sharing a cell with a druggie who had just had one.
Bizarrely, Vomit Breath actually went up in my estimation whilst I was in Styal. She was a drunk, she lived for the weekend and found children to be an unwanted distraction, especially lippy kids like me, who she could only control towards the end by administering a beating but those beatings were nothing compared to a couple I received in Styal, just for a perceived dirty look or for the indecency of being “clean”.
As a rule, prisoners at Styal were a hugely fucked up bunch, dragged into prison from the dregs of society. The large majority of inmates were addicts of some description, some alcohol but mainly drugs. Some of them you just avoided speaking to, but the ones that I was able to speak to, would tend to tell tragic stories how their lives evolved into the messy state that led to their arrival at Styal. Some of the prostitutes checked into Styal like a businessman would check into a hotel, back every few months, as they had to walk the streets to fund their habit. Lots had been brought up in orphanages and foster homes, many had a mother who was an addict or a stepfather or family “friend” who liked nothing more than carrying out a regular sexual abuse habit on them. They had all had torturous lives and although middle class society may turn their noses up at them, it was hard not to sympathise as most of them had fallen off the rails because they had no moral guidance. Try digging your way out of hell with a spade made from ice.
Compared to this lot and their families, Vomit Breath was not exactly Mother Theresa or Florence Nightingale but she wasn’t Attila the Hun either. Vomit Breath did not deserve to die, but then I suppose no-one had wanted to kill her, Kelly and I just wanted her to leave me alone.
