by Mark Ward
With that, the prick disappeared and locked the door.
I was disgusted by the way some prisoners were treated, especially those who I thought shouldn’t even have been there after committing menial crimes.
As part of our special new privileges in Number One cell, Paul and I would be in charge of the server, where the food was handed out at meal times. It had a large bain-marie – a large kind of hostess trolley – that kept the food hot, but it was disgusting. There were 250 men on B-wing and if it wasn’t for buying your own stuff from the canteen, then you would starve. A prisoner’s typical diet consisted of canned tuna, noodles, tinned mackerel and porridge.
Violence seemed to lurk around every corner. One day I witnessed a terrible assault by two brothers from St Helens on an older prisoner. Nobody got involved to split them up, so I started to get up but Paul stopped me. He told me to leave it because it had nothing to do with me. He was right but it was sickening to watch.
However, I had to intervene when a fight kicked off in the yard one day in July.
Richie Harrison was a young lad from Huyton who had been put in a cell with me when I’d been separated from Paul for a few weeks. He was an Evertonian and a good lad. He’d been caught with cocaine in his van and when the police went back to his house they found 50 kilos of the stuff in a car on his drive. He was looking at a long time behind bars.
I was walking round the yard one afternoon when I noticed a scrap going on between two lads. As I looked more closely, I could see that Richie was involved – and the other lad was biting him on the back.
I rushed in and grabbed the lad around the neck before pulling him to the floor. It was all over before it had started, but Richie had made a mess of the kid’s face. Apparently the fight was all over Richie accusing the lad of being a grass – the most common reason for a tear-up on B-wing.
A more pleasing memory from time spent in the yard came when I heard someone yelling: ‘Wardy – over here’. At first I couldn’t see where the voice was coming from but it turned out to be John Ryan, who was also doing time for a drugs-related crime. John’s cell faced the exercise yard and after we’d exchanged pleasantries, I thought to myself: ‘So I’m not the only ex-professional footballer in here, then’. John was at Oldham in the summer I signed for the Latics, just before he moved on to Newcastle United. He was capped by England under-21s and his brother, Dave Ryan, was in the same Northwich Victoria side as me.
* * * *
Mick Tobyn, my great friend since my West Ham days, paid a very welcome visit – even though he lived more than 230 miles away in Dagenham, Essex. I could tell by the look on his face that he was gutted for us to be meeting in these circumstances. It was only a month or so earlier that we’d been laughing and joking in Goa, where we’d stayed at the lovely house Mick owned.
That welcome break ended on a bit of a sour note, though, on April 16, when I was stopped by customs officers at Gatwick airport and they confiscated 25 cartons of cigarettes I was carrying – 5,800 fags in all. It summed up my financial state of affairs at the time that I’d intended to sell them for just a tenner a carton back on Merseyside.
I kept in regular touch with Lenny Font, who informed me that my committal papers – the evidence put forward by the prosecution – didn’t look good. By this time, he’d also introduced me to Nick Johnston, the QC who would represent me at the committal hearing.
Our first meeting was one of total honesty … and came as a real kick in the bollocks. Nick told me the candid written statement I’d given at the police station after my arrest would ultimately guarantee a custodial sentence, and that I would be looking at anything between six and 10 years – depending on the judge. His estimate was that I’d be going down for eight years.
The judge, he explained, is guided by the amount of drugs found at the address. And the 3.2 kilos of cocaine seized at McVinnie Road would warrant a sentence of eight years.
There were four one kilo blocks of cocaine found at the house that had to be sent to a laboratory for analysis to determine the purity level contained in the drugs. The purity level came out at 3.2 kilos. It’s the purity level – not the actual quantity – of the drugs found on a person or at their property that determines the length of the prison sentence.
When it comes to sentencing, the judge has guidelines to follow. Apparently, anyone found in possession of one kilo of pure cocaine can expect a prison sentence of between one and five years. They tend to add on up to five years for every kilo of an illegal class A drug involved.
Having weighed up all the police evidence and the purity of the coke, my barrister advised me to plead guilty to the one remaining charge against me.
We were convinced this was the right course of action to take because, just weeks earlier, there had been a significant change in the law. New legislation, introduced in April 2005, meant that provided you pleaded guilty as charged at the earliest opportunity and didn’t pursue a trial by jury, anyone given a sentence of less than 10 years was likely to receive up to a third off. On release, the remaining half of the sentence would be ‘on licence’.
I didn’t want to accept any prison sentence but, as it was explained to me, my name on the rental agreement and subsequent written statement to the police gave me no hope of avoiding a jail term.
I was honest with the family, telling them exactly what the barrister had indicated. They were all worried that the judge might pass an even bigger sentence, to make an example of me, when it came to sentencing in October.
My attitude changed after hearing the brutal truth from Nick Johnson. I decided I was going to do my time as well as I could, and attempt to move on in the system as quickly as possible. Not to get into any trouble, and to write my story …
* * * *
Paul McGrath and I were constantly being tested for drugs because of our move to Number One cell but that didn’t concern me. I’ve never taken drugs, so there was no way I was going to fail a piss-test.
My first day in the gym made me even more determined to come through the prison process. I joined in with the circuit training squad – and what a mistake that was. My competitive nature took over and I tried to keep up with the fittest lads.
Even though I’d been walking each day and doing press-ups in my cell, I was completely out of condition. As I trailed in nearly last, one of the screws shouted: ‘Fucking hell, Wardy, you’re not fit mate. Thought you’d be fitter than that.’
I’d more or less spent the last three months lying horizontal on my back. Now I could put all my efforts into training. I was determined to show that screw who was the fit one here.
* * * *
After my hospital scare at the Neuro Centre in Walton Fazakerly in November 2004, I was due to see a specialist in the Royal Liverpool Hospital. Being in custody didn’t affect the appointment in any way.
I didn’t know about my hospital appointment until early one July morning, when I was awoken early by a screw who simply said: ‘Right, Ward, hospital today.’
I was led to reception, where two big screws were waiting to take me to the Royal. They were very friendly and even joked with me as they put the biggest pair of cuffs on me you’ve ever seen – attached to chains, which, in turn, were attached to them.
A governor came to see me before I left and personally tightened the cuffs himself, telling me he’d heard that I could run. You’d have thought I was a mass murderer.
A taxi was waiting, and it felt strange to be sat between two screws in a cab driving the short distance to the hospital. As we pulled up outside the Royal, it suddenly dawned on me that we’d be walking in among the general public, who would all be looking at me as I walked in chained and cuffed to two big prison guards. I was totally and utterly embarrassed.
The hospital was chocker-block full. I was led up to the main desk as the screws asked for directions. I could see that everyone in the room was looking at me, and I knew what they’d be thinking. ‘What has he done wrong? Is he a murderer, a
rapist? He must be dangerous to have those great big cuffs and chains restraining him.’ I hated every second of being in the hospital and, I never thought I’d say this, but I just wanted to get back to prison.
We walked over to the specialist clinic and I stood at the entrance to witness a very busy waiting area. Once again, everyone looked up and stared at the prisoner standing between the two massive screws.
I put my head down, but not before noticing a local lad sitting down wearing an Everton shirt. He recognised me straight away, and I don’t think he could believe what he was seeing. I felt completely ashamed.
Luckily for me, I was rushed through to see the doctor. I lay on the bed to be examined but it was a struggle because the screws wouldn’t take the cuffs or chains off me.
After the examination I was led through the hospital again, sensing all eyes burning into me. I felt like a monster. It was a humiliating experience and, to be honest, I couldn’t wait to get back to the relative sanctuary of the prison.
I was using the phone every night, just to speak to Nicola and Melissa. However, the person I’d rented the house for – Mr X – had somehow got hold of my number, and one night he called me.
He must have been shitting himself in case I opened my mouth, but that isn’t my style. He spoke a lot of shite about what he would, and could, do for me. One day I’ll see him again face to face, man to man, and my conscience is crystal clear. I kept my mouth shut and did the right thing.
33. PHONES 4 U
FOR all the privileges associated with being in Number One cell, the responsibilities that came with it could also drive you mad at times. The phone that I’d bought for £350 had obviously been in the prison for a very long time, so every Tom, Dick and Harry knew the number. I’d be lying in my cell late at night and the next minute the phone would vibrate to alert me to an incoming call.
A typical message would go something like: ‘Hello Mark, it’s Jimmy from Risley. You don’t know me but my mate will be coming in on Monday – can you sort him out with some food and tobacco?’
I’d also receive calls from other wings within the prison. ‘Wardy, it’s Pancake here. I’m sending a parcel over in the morning for my mate who’s due in tomorrow.’
You’re either one of the lads or you’re not. I’ve always been a team player and I’d like to think I’d do anything for anybody, especially in prison. There are times when you need the help and co-operation of the prisoners around you and a favour here or there is always welcome.
Paul and I were responsible for delegating which prisoners served the food from the big bain-marie that had to be wheeled onto B-wing from the kitchen some distance away. I helped out by serving at first but the screws complained that the portions of chips I’d been dishing out were too large, so they stopped me. If any of the food ran out, it meant them having to unlock all the adjoining doors between B-wing and the kitchen, escort me all the way, and then repeat the whole laborious process again when they fetched more food back! They hated it.
What the screws didn’t know was that I started to stash away any phones that came our way in that bain-marie. Fortunately, my tiny hands would fit in a small gap so I could place the phones inside during the day and get them out again when needed. But if I’d been caught hiding them, my feet wouldn’t have touched the ground.
One morning Paul McGrath stood outside the serving area, keeping watch as I went to place my phone away in the bain-marie. I’d been given a present of a metal Swatch from a young Asian lad called Imran. He’d since been released and it was his way of thanking me. He’d been bullied terribly, had his £2,000 Rado watch stolen from him by fellow inmates and afterwards I took him under my wing.
I got Imran involved on the servery at meal times but one day he got a load of unnecessary abuse from a Scouse prisoner who wasn’t happy that he’d been served a veggie burger instead of a leg of chicken. I confronted the Scouser and asked him what the problem was. He started moaning about Imran not giving him what he wanted to eat, so I explained to him that if, as happened in this case, a prisoner didn’t fill in his diet sheet when he chose what meal he was going to eat the next day, then the rule was that the prisoner concerned would simply be given the standard veggie meal. It was a simple system to follow but sometimes one or two inmates couldn’t be bothered to comply.
The Scouse lad wasn’t happy about me sticking up for Imran and I found out later that, after our exchange of words, he’d pinned a picture of me up on his cell wall and wrote beneath it the words ‘I Hate Mark Ward’. I’ve always stood up for myself and what I believe in, though. The main point is, he never picked on Imran again.
I’d never experienced any problems before when slipping my hand into the gap inside the bain-marie but as I placed the mobile phone and tried to release my hand, there was a mighty bang and a flash of electricity. My watch must have touched a live wire and it threw me right back landing on my backside.
My hair stood on end and the skin on my hand was burning – it felt on fire. The trouble was, my accident had also short-circuited the electricity throughout B-wing. Deafening alarm bells were going off everywhere and the screws were running around looking to find the source of the problem. Everyone was locked behind closed doors and Paul was laughing his head off at the commotion I’d caused. He commented how lucky I’d been and said he could just imagine the newspaper headlines ‘Ex-Premiership footballer electrocuted to death – hand stuck in bain-marie!’
Every now and then the prison security staff would clamp down and early morning inspections were common. It was a constant battle to hide the phones and the Nokia brick had to be put away somewhere safe before I went to sleep in case of an early visit from security. I’d hide it in the back of a computer chair which I’d acquired from the officer’s mess. I told the SO that because I was sat for hours doing his work – going through the prisoners’ diet sheets and so on – I needed a decent chair. He let me have the computer chair and much more than providing a bit more comfort, it was also an ideal hiding place for the brick.
But things didn’t always run smoothly. One morning the door was banged open and both Paul and I were strip-searched, told to put our clothes back on and then sent outside the cell while it was searched. Although I’ve never had a problem taking my clothes off, the strip-searches were a bit degrading, but you get used to them. To be honest, some of the screws seemed more embarrassed than the prisoners. Outside the cell Paul started flapping: ‘They will definitely find the phone, Mark,’ he said. I told him not to panic and said that even if they did find it, I’d take the rap.
After a good 20 minutes the search ended and we were locked up again. ‘Good news’, I thought to myself … but just as I was about to check that the phone was still tucked away where I’d left it in the back of the chair, the door reopened and in came a warder: ‘I’ll take the chair, thanks very much,’ he said.
Now I was minus both my chair and phone. Paul started to panic even more and at that stage I, too, thought it inevitable that they would uncover the brick. It was hours later, after the searches throughout B-wing had finished, that we were let out of the cells again. Tony Kirk and a fella called Keith, a West Ham fan in the cell next door, greeted us and everyone was asking each other whether the screws had found anything. I was looking around for my computer chair when ‘Kirky’ told me that the officers had simply used it to stand on, to search a shelf high up in his cell. The chair had obviously then been taken back into the officer’s mess instead of being returned to me.
Paul and I had the job of cleaning the officers’ mess on a daily basis, so I walked straight in there … only to see 12 IDENTICAL computer chairs scattered around the room! Paul asked: ‘How are you going to solve this one, Wardy?’
‘Easy,’ I replied, ‘I’ve marked the back of my chair with a W!’
I soon located my chair that held the secrets of Number One cell and was just praying that my mobile was still in the back of it. I turned to the nearest warder and said: ‘He
y Guv, that’s my chair.’
‘How is that your chair?’ he responded.
I explained that it had been borrowed from my cell that morning so that his colleagues could use it to stand on during the security searches. I was testing him big-time now. ‘But why have you got a computer chair in your cell anyway, Ward?’ he went on.
‘Because I sit there all day doing your job, that’s why.’
‘You cheeky bastard. Take it and shut the door behind you,’ he added.
I got the chair back to Number One cell and there, tucked up safely in the back of it, was the brick. I couldn’t have been without it.
I sometimes managed to get to the gym twice a day. I was feeling more positive and by becoming fitter it gave me so much more confidence. I knew it wouldn’t be long before anybody would be able to touch me on the circuit training. I was pushing myself hard on the running machine and just wanted my day of reckoning – October 4 – to come around. Lenny still visited me once a week and I was coming around to the idea that I was going to be sentenced to eight years.
I was taking too many risks, though. The favours I was being asked to do by other prisoners was putting me under increasing pressure. Everyone knew that I was always in the gym, so I was constantly asked to take things, such as phones or information, back to B-wing. I did this a few times but not after one such favour nearly landed me in big trouble.
I’d agreed to take a phone back for somebody and put it inside my sock. I had tracksuit bottoms on and usually we were taken outside to walk back around the prison. You weren’t allowed to stop and chat with other prisoners as you walked through the different prison wings. I came to realise how vast Walton prison is. As I was about to re-enter B-wing, the wing governor was walking towards me with another governor. I’d spoken with him a few times previously – he was a mad Liverpool supporter. On this occasion he stopped me dead in my tracks: ‘Mark, can I have a word with you? I’ve got a disclosure letter in the office for you to sign from a West Ham supporter who wants to write to you,’ he explained.
