by Mark Ward
I stood frozen and, unbelievably, the phone in my sock started to ring and vibrate – the prick who had given it to me hadn’t turned it off!
My leg shot out sideways with the shock of the vibrating phone, although fortunately the ring was drowned out by the noise inside the prison. Even though he couldn’t have heard the phone, I thought the governor must have noticed my strange behaviour. Thankfully, he didn’t – but I made up my mind that I wouldn’t take any more stupid risks for other people, especially those I didn’t even know!
A number of lads I knew previously to being in prison ended up on B-wing following their court appearance. One of which was a friend of mine called John Smith. He’d been arrested on a serious drug charge and upon his arrival I went to meet him in his cell. He was fuming that he’d been remanded but he needed to talk to his family, so he asked to use a phone.
I handed the big Nokia to him, he dialled the number … and carried on walking out of his cell, as if he was casually strolling down the high street. I charged after him and pushed him back into the cell. ‘Fucking hell, John, you can’t do that!’ He was so engrossed in wanting to talk to his family that he just forgot where he was. He was only in for a week before he got bail, although he eventually received an 11-year sentence.
I’d first met John many years earlier. He was a massive Evertonian and I played a few games for his Allerton team on Sundays after my playing days were over. He ran the team – a pub side from south Liverpool – like a professional set-up and he had some excellent players. The ex-Wigan Athletic and Bolton Wanderers midfielder Tony Kelly played for the team, as did Stuart Quinn, who was with Liverpool as a youngster.
My first appearance for The Allerton was against near rivals The Pineapple and the game was watched by Robbie Fowler, who has an allegiance to that part of the city.
Receiving the ball straight from the kick-off, I let it run past my body before laying it off to our full-back. As I released the pass, I was hit hard and late by a midfielder who put his studs through my left bicep. My mouth was also bleeding from the impact.
Feeling stunned and dazed by the ferocity of the challenge, my midfield partner Tony Kelly came over and picked me up and said: ‘Welcome to Sunday morning football!’ After that reckless tackle on me in the opening few seconds of my debut, I soon enjoyed playing Sunday morning football.
This rude awakening forced me to treat the game as seriously as everyone else and I got stuck in just like the rest of the lads. Later in the game, I even scored with a left-foot volley from the edge of the box – the jammiest goal I’ve ever scored! ‘Smithy’ was jumping up and down on the line, delighted that his new signing had netted on his debut.
I was also pleased to score again, this time with a powerful header in the last minute of a cup semi-final to send the tie into extra-time. Stuart Quinn scored from a brilliant free-kick to win us the game.
For the final, Smithy produced a brand new kit and gave all his players blue towels with our names embroidered on them – I still have mine to this day. It turned out to be a great day as we beat The Sandon, who had Billy Kenny – my former Everton team-mate, who was playing up against me in centre midfield – sent-off.
That cup final victory, watched by a crowd of hundreds, was my farewell appearance for The Allerton. There was talk in Liverpool that Smithy was paying Tony Kelly and myself hundreds of pounds to turn out for his team, but that wasn’t true. We didn’t receive a penny but that didn’t bother me.
A lot of nonsense has been said and written about my relationship with John Smith. Apart from those false claims that he was paying me to play for his team, others have put in print that he sorted out that trouble I had with The Blackmailer (see chapter 19) – another pile of bullshit. I didn’t even know John at that time, although I wish I had! There were even rumours that I was working for him in his drugs network.
The truth is, John and I met through football and we enjoyed each other’s company, but that still didn’t stop me being linked with the Smith family for other, more sinister reasons.
John’s brother, Colin Smith, was the victim of a gangland shooting in Liverpool on November 13, 2007. His death at the hands of a hitman was plastered all over the tabloids and the Sunday Mirror ran with the splash headline ‘Gangland Drug War Over The Assassination of King Cocaine’. Alongside the article, they had pictures of Colin and his ‘ex-boss’ Curtis Warren.
But because Colin was an Evertonian, the paper reported how he knew Everton players and had used corporate VIP facilities at Goodison. They also thought it a good idea to include a photo of me in action for Everton. Within their two-page spread, the paper conveniently linked me to Colin’s family again by saying how I’d been ‘paid to play’ football for his brother’s pub team and, of course, how I was later imprisoned on drugs charges.
It was typical sensationalism and just another graphic example of how the media love nothing more than to link footballers – and ex-players – to criminal activity in any way they can.
34. GOING DOWN
ON the night of Monday, October 3, I had a fair bit of trouble sleeping, I can tell you. I’d been in Walton for nearly five months and now D-Day – my time to be sentenced – was looming large.
I spoke to Nicola and my family that night, and they told me they would all be at Liverpool Crown Court the next day to support me.
In the meat wagon on the way to court, it came on the radio that I was due to be sentenced that day. I didn’t feel nervous during the drive there, or as I waited in the cells below the court dressed in the suit that Billy had brought in on a recent visit. But when I was told that they were ready for me, I began to feel very anxious.
Despite assurances from my barrister Nick Johnston to the contrary, it was always in the back of my mind that the judge might decide to make an example of me, throw the book at me.
Based on what Nick had indicated to me at our previous meetings, I went to court that day fully expecting to have to serve eight years. On a good day, I could have been given a more lenient six-year jail term. But on the other hand, if things went badly for me, I could’ve been given a 12-year stretch. It all depends on the judge and what mood he is in on any given day. It’s ridiculous to think that a person can be condemned to an extra four years in prison depending on what side of the bed the judge got out of that morning, but that’s the way it is.
There was one judge, in particular, that drug offenders were very keen to avoid. Apparently, his daughter died through drugs and he is notorious for coming down hard on anyone involved in a drugrelated crime who comes before him in court. I was relieved to be told that I’d managed to avoid him and would be sentenced by Judge John Phipps instead.
After being led into a packed courtroom, I was amazed by how many press and police were present. I sat down, with Billy and Tommy seated directly behind me. I turned to look at them. Melissa was outside the court, too upset to face the agony of waiting for the judge to pass sentence.
Nicola was at work, although I didn’t want her to be present anyway – it would have been unfair.
Barrister Henry Riding, for the prosecution, tried to maintain that I was the main man, that the drugs were mine and it was me who was distributing them around Merseyside.
However, there was a much more important side issue to my case that I can only talk about now.
The police and prosecution could not disclose in court on the day of my sentencing that there was an ongoing police investigation called Operation Vatican, which had started in June 2004.
They knew who was manufacturing the drugs. There had already been three seizures at different addresses – one in Huyton, another in Prescot and the third intercepted in a car travelling to Birmingham – and they had considerable surveillance on nine members of a drugs gang even before they got to McVinnie Road.
I’d been used in the process of storing the drugs by renting the property, but the prosecution were willing to let me receive a big sentence, knowing full well that pol
ice would be arresting others for their much more significant roles in this crime in the near future. Which is exactly what happened.
They knew all along that I was only on the periphery of the overall crime – ‘a foot soldier’. as the judge described me that day. Let’s face it, if I was as heavily involved and influential in this crime as the police and prosecution claimed, then would I honestly have gone along to a letting agency, registered the lease of a house in my name, paid £1,800 rent up front … and then thrown four kilos of cocaine in there?
In the real world that just doesn’t happen. That’s why these career criminals, the people at the heart of these drug-distribution crimes, use knob-heads like me to act for them.
In my eyes, the way the prosecution targeted me in court was a crime in itself.
Of course, I’m not saying that I was completely innocent. I’ve explained here what I very stupidly agreed to do and my part in this whole sorry saga. And I accept I had to be punished, too. But my gripe is that punishments should always fit the crime, and I don’t believe they did in this case.
I stood in the dock and faced Judge Phipps, who went on to say how incredibly sad it was to see an ex-footballer fall from grace, and that for my crime I was to receive an eight-year custodial sentence.
He started with 12 years but because of my early guilty plea, it was reduced to eight – a third off.
Eight years, spot on – just as my legal representatives predicted.
But eight years … for what I did? Do convicted paedophiles, brutal rapists and those who commit other serious, violent crimes – callous bastards who inflict serious physical and mental damage on others and then, as often happens, put their victims through hell again in court – get eight-year sentences? No way. Sometimes they’re not even expected to serve half the time I’ve spent in prison.
Turning to face Billy and Tommy, I could tell they were gutted.
It was a hollow feeling being driven back to Walton, realising that I wouldn’t be free again until May 2009 – at the earliest.
To be honest, I was quite philosophical. For almost five, long months I’d had many sleepless nights wondering and fearing what sentence I’d eventually receive. The wait had been unbearable. To hear that I’d been given eight years, knowing I would be released after four if I kept my nose clean inside, left me with a sense of relief.
In the prison van on the way back to Walton, I ran it over in my mind: ‘I’ve already served nearly six months … so that’s three-and-a-half years to go’ … and you start to feel more positive. Once again, though, Radio City kept its listeners fully updated with the news that I’d been sent down for eight years.
News must have reached Walton, because as I walked back through main reception a couple of the screws made a few comments, though mainly they were words of encouragement. ‘You’ll do that standing on your head, Wardy,’ said one. ‘It could’ve been worse, lad,’ piped up another.
I arrived back at my cell to be greeted by Paul, who had been given an eight-year sentence just two months before me. A lot of know-it-all prisoners were telling me how lucky I was, and that I could have been handed a double-figure sentence.
‘What a load of bollocks,’ I told them.
They were suggesting that, because I was an ex-Premier League footballer and a relatively high profile public figure, I should have been given a longer sentence than eight years. Why?
* * * *
My intentions now were to win the Christmas fitness competition at the prison gym and move on to a Category C prison in 2006. I wanted to move through the prison process as quickly as possible.
Believe it or not, I did actually feel much better once sentence had been passed. I was thinking of putting in an appeal but was advised not to by my barrister. Some clever prick in prison told me that four years amounted to 35,000 hours. I nearly smacked him in the mouth.
The day after sentencing, you are given a sheet of paper detailing your dates for sentencing and release. All the dates are shown in total days, and it really hits home when you see that four years is, in fact, 1,460 days locked up behind bars. It scared me at first and I wondered how I’d cope. Somehow, I just had to.
Solicitor Lenny Font informed me that numerous tabloid newspapers had been on to him about doing an interview with me. He advised that Nick Harris, from The Independent, would be my best bet.
I spoke to Nick on the phone and he sounded very enthusiastic about doing a piece. I told him that if he wanted to write a story on what had happened to me he’d have to come in and visit me. I wanted to look him in the eyes when we spoke, so I sent him a VO (Visiting Order) and in November he came in to see me.
I’d never really trusted tabloid hacks ever since Steven Howard from The Sun stitched me up in my first season at West Ham some 20 years earlier. Nick was just a friend as far as the prison was concerned. He had no notebook or tape recorder with him and we just talked for the full hour.
I spoke honestly and told him he could go ahead with his story. I also agreed to do some of it by phone. He promised me it would be a balanced piece of journalism and he was true to his word.
The Independent ran their exclusive interview on November 16, 2005. It was a big article – three pages and 3,000 words long – and Nick said it was unusual to get that much coverage for a story of this nature.
I was happy with the article but the most significant part of it was that Nick – or his editor – had run the headline ‘WARD NM6982’ which was my prison number.
It very quickly had a positive knock-on effect. Just a week after the article appeared in the Indie I started to receive mail from all over the world: New York, Croatia, Sydney, Portugal, Ireland, Germany and various other places in Europe. They were all from fans who had followed the clubs I’d played for, mainly West Ham and Everton but some from Man City and Birmingham, too.
I thought I’d get a few dodgy ones but I can honestly say that I only ever received positive, kind letters, all telling me to be strong and keep my chin up.
By this time I’d also received letters from my old West Ham teammates Tony Gale, Alvin Martin, Alan Dickens, Tony Cottee and Billy Bonds. It was great to hear from the lads and receive their support and best wishes. Paul Tait, my old Birmingham team-mate, also sent a note.
I received a letter from the book publisher John Blake. He told me that I had an extraordinary story to tell and that he’d be willing to publish my book. I also had other publishers send letters of interest.
I’d already made my mind up to write a book. I’d read a lot of footballers’ autobiographies over the years and I knew that my story had ‘added spice’. I sent John Blake a chapter I’d written, and he loved it. John was very keen to publish my story but I decided to enlist the help of somebody I’d known since my West Ham days and he was keen to go ahead.
Tony McDonald was my choice of publisher and I felt comfortable that, having known me throughout my career, he would be the best to help me to get my story across in the right way. Tony had already written and published a number of books and had done a great job with the autobiography of my old mate, Tony Cottee. We exchanged a few letters and Tony ‘Mac’ advised me to keep a diary of prison life and to write down my thoughts as the days, weeks and months slowly ticked by. He also encouraged me to maintain my fitness levels because he could tell, from our exchange of letters and occasional phone conversations, that it was doing a lot to lift my morale.
In the gym, I was starting to find myself at the front of the circuit class, and was pushing myself more and more for the fitness competition. There was a prize for the winner – £10 added to your canteen credit to spend as you wished.
It wasn’t the tenner I was after, though. It was the prize and the honour of being the fittest man in Walton prison.
On December 14, 40 prisoners of all ages entered the competition and I was confident of winning a couple of the events.
One was the bleep test, in which you run between two markers spaced around 20 yards a
part, making sure you reach each marker before the bleep sounds. As the test goes on the ‘bleep’ gets progressively quicker and I had done loads of these during my playing career.
Everyone except me and a young lad in his 20s had fallen away by level 14. I just pushed on, and he dropped out. I was still going when the gym screw told me to save my energy for the next exercises.
The rest of the competition consisted of press-ups, sit-ups, bench-jumps and squat-thrusts. At the end, all the scores were added up to find a winner. I pushed myself to the limit and won. It felt so satisfying, especially as the screw who only months earlier had laughed at my fitness levels was there to watch me collect my prize.
I didn’t say anything to him. I just gave him a look that said ‘Told you so!’
A sad footnote to this story was that the winner of the strong man competition in the gym, a lad called Andy Creighton, died in 2008 after being released from prison.
Andy was a big lad and, like most prisoners who wanted to bulk up even more in the gym, he was taking the dreaded steroids. They are very dangerous drugs, a recipe for disaster in prison, because they cause aggression and make the person taking them feel he is invincible.
It always made me laugh looking at the sted-heads, with their big arms and chest, and legs like straws. ‘Weak as piss!’ I’d say to them.
* * * *
Christmas in Walton was dreadful. It really hit home how much I missed my family and loved ones. In the New Year, though, I was told that I’d be getting moved to a Category C prison.
I’d spoken to my probation officer Angela Corcoran, who had been good enough to visit me after I’d been sentenced. She told me to keep my head down and my nose clean. I had a release date of May 11, 2009 and wasn’t on a parole sentence, so it was just a case of behaving myself.
