by T J Harris
Her Majesty’s Prison Bristol, still referred to as Horfield, turned out to be a Victorian relic, more resembling the later view. Strangely Sean almost found comfort in its resemblance to the old Porridge sitcom his parents used to watch. Each time the doors locked on the wing, he could hear Ronny Barker’s voice in his head: ‘Norman Stanley Fletcher, you have been found guilty…’
His cell was not bad. At least this one was a single. He had spent some time when he first arrived in a double, sharing with a tattooed gangster. Fortunately the prison doctor had supported his move to a single after his familiar symptoms of depression had started again. The small bed took up most of the wall on the left of the cell, leaving just enough space for a small cupboard with his few clothes. On the opposite wall there was a stainless steel sink unit with a built in shelf and small mirror. To its side stood a matching stainless steel toilet. The only other furniture in the cell was a small desk and chair with a pin board above it. Most of the other inmates had pictures of family and centrefolds on their boards but Sean’s was blank. There was no one on the outside to send him any photos and someone had stolen all the pins anyway. On the end wall there was a small window set back into the foot thick brick wall. It was covered by a set of steel bars. The window was too high in the wall to see anything but sky. On one occasion he had stood on his bed to look out, but all he could see was the roofline of the opposite wing. Occasionally a feral pigeon sat on the window ledge, Sean had named it Trudy, although he didn’t know why.
As a remand prisoner he was entitled to three one-hour visits a week. He had only used a small fraction of them. He had been an only child and both his parents had died relatively young. He had slowly lost touch with his late wife’s family after she had died. He had found it hard talking to them, they were devastated both for the loss of their daughter but also for what would have been their first grandchild. Rachel had only told them their news a week earlier. His receptionist had come to see him once or twice, but mainly to find out what to do in the office and to ask for a reference. She had since left and found another job. None of his squash mates had visited. He supposed he didn’t know any of them properly. He could just imagine their wives questioning the sense in visiting a suspected murderer who had been having an affair with a married patient. They would have very quickly distanced themselves from him, as if his predicament was somehow catching. He existed in a state of limbo, on the one hand he was intensely lonely, but on the other he feared anyone interrupting his solitude.
He didn’t have a watch but guessed it must have been about 11:30 because he could hear the drug trolley making its way down the landing. He slowly got off the bed and took the one step necessary to reach the sink. Next to his tube of toothpaste was a tube of Bonjela gum ointment, a present from Troll, his only friend on the wing.
He squirted a good size gob of the ointment into the space to the side of his upper molars and kneaded it into shape with his tongue. The metallic scraping sound of the spy-hole cover in the cell door being shoved to the side told him it was his turn. He stood and looked at the door, showing the officer that it was safe to enter. The door was unlocked and in walked Prison Officer Ellis with the duty nurse. Ellis was a tall man of about fifty with dark curly hair. He was a decent man who kept the wing quiet by being reasonable and understanding, but at the same time not taking any attitude from the inmates. The nurse was a giant of a man. Six foot five and at least twenty stone of muscle. Nobody had even dreamed of intimidating him for extra drugs.
The giant nurse approached Sean. “Mouth open.” he commanded in his deep booming voice. Sean did as he was told.
In his latex gloved hands, the nurse held a single Prozac pill and a small paper cup of water. He placed the pill on Sean’s tongue then handed him the cup. In a practiced move, Sean took a sip, used his tongue to quickly wedge the pill into the Bonjela gob, then swallowed. He opened his mouth again for inspection. The nurse took a cursory look in his mouth to confirm that the green and white capsule had gone and then headed back through the door. Once the door was shut and the spy-hole closed, Sean carefully retrieved the drug and wiped it clean. He put it in the matchbox he kept on his desk.
After lunch, which consisted of a brown sauce with lumpy mash masquerading as Shepherds Pie, Ellis came to find Sean, telling him his lawyer was at the gate. He had a few minutes before being taken down to one of the private interview rooms in the Visitors Centre. Sean nodded slowly, then got up ready to be escorted to the meeting.
“You don’t need anything?” Ellis enquired.
“Like what?” Sean replied, shuffling his way out of his cell. Ellis was becoming more and more concerned about this inmate. He was only on remand, but he was behaving like a man who had already given up. He had refused to take part in any classes and his once athletic appearance had dissolved into the shuffling, mumbling husk of a man in front of him.
“Not sure those pills are doing you much good. Come on man, you’ve got your trial in a few weeks, get it together or you’ll be back here for good.”
Sean shrugged his shoulders and waited on the landing. “No more than I deserve.” he mumbled.
“I thought you were pleading not guilty, you told me you didn’t do it.”
“No, I mean if I hadn’t been seeing her, hadn’t gone to the wrong place…” his voice trailed off.
Ellis led him down the landing to the central bank of metal stairs. In an attempt to make the place a little less oppressive, the wing had been brightly painted. The walls were two-tone magnolia and pale blue. The metal banisters and stairs were painted the same blue. In a very imaginative bit of interior design the flooring was covered in a tough vinyl in yet more institutional magnolia to match the walls. It was still institutional but better than the original two-tone brown.
They left the wing and walked across to the Visitors Centre. It was a cold November day but the sky was clear and the sun was doing its best to warm the air. They could hear the raucous noise from the primary school just beyond the prison wall. It must have been break-time, Sean thought. He considered it an unfortunate bit of town planning to allow the school to have been built so close to their walls. Three times a day the joyous noise of children playing, inhibited only by their imagination, provided a reminder of their contrasting lack of freedom. Then again, he thought, that’s probably why they had done it. The sound had a particularly strong effect on Sean as it reminded him of the sounds which would carry into his garden at home from the leisure centre and sports field over his back fence. He had never enjoyed it at the time and had planted a row of leylandii trees to try and deaden the sound. He would dig them all out if he ever got to live there again.
Once in the centre, Sean was quickly frisked then led to the small private room where his solicitor was already waiting.
Barry Carmichael stood to greet him. He was a thin gangly man in his late fifties with a tall face, made taller by his long chin and receding hairline. He had a shock of dark hair tinged with grey, friendly blue grey eyes and a broad smile. He tipped his head slightly to the side as he spoke.
“Sean, good to see you.” He took Sean’s hand and gave it a vigorous shake. “How have you been? You look tired.” he appraised his client as he slumped down in the chair opposite him.
“OK I guess.” replied Sean.
Carmichael got down to business, he had an hour with his client and was becoming more and more frustrated with Sean’s attention span and general lack of interest. He went through the basics of the defence once more. He was working on most of the aspects of the circumstantial evidence against him.
“They still don’t have any definitive evidence against you, so I remain hopeful.” he smiled. Can we talk about this laptop again, I want to be absolutely sure about that. It could be very important.”
Once again Sean was adamant that he did not own a laptop and had no idea that a second machine had been sharing his home WiFi connection. Carmichael told him he had talked to his old neighbours and they had each
confirmed that they did not own a Dime Intellibook, or any red laptops for that matter. They also all denied piggybacking onto Sean’s WiFi, although the practice was technically illegal so he wasn’t sure they would admit to it in any case.
“It creates doubt.” said the solicitor. “And that is what we need, doubt. Are you still happy to deny all knowledge of the pornography on your main machine?”
Sean nodded.
“You see, we may be able to point towards someone trying to fit you up, frame you for the murder. Link you to the rope, that sort of thing.”
Sean nodded again. He had heard it all before and he didn’t know what he was supposed to add to the conversation.
“I’ve also lined up the barrister.” Carmichael moved on. “I’ve worked with him before, James Davis, he’s good. You won’t meet him until the trial, but I’m pulling all the papers together for him. He’ll probably have some more questions for you which I can relay next time we meet.”
When he’d gone through his list, there was still twenty minutes left according to Carmichael’s watch. He pushed his chair back and relaxed into it. “But how are you Sean? How are you bearing up?”
“OK I guess. I’m still not sleeping well.” he looked sad.
“Ellis said you had seen the doctor and he’s prescribed antidepressants.” Carmichael tried to engage his client.
“Yeh, I’m less anxious now but it’s difficult to be cheerful in this place.”
“That’s why we’re going to get you out of here Sean. How about exercise, you were fit as a fiddle when you came in here, are you at least keeping that up?” He tried to sound encouraging, although it was obvious that his client had not even attempted a few press-ups in his cell.
Sean smiled weakly. “They’ve got a good gym here, but…” he paused, “I don’t get on too well with the other members.”
Carmichael nodded. “Well, try and take care of yourself Sean, it’s not long now.” He stood and started gathering his papers together.
“Thanks, I’ll try.” replied Sean also standing. He walked to the door and tapped gently. Ellis opened it from the other side.
“All done in here?” The solicitor nodded as Sean walked out and they made their way back to his cell. At least the kids have stopped screaming, thought Sean on the way.
Back in his cell, Sean lay on the bed looking forward to lock down. He always felt anxious when the other inmates were on the landing, even though they had left him alone for weeks now. He sat up with a start when the door was pushed open. He relaxed slightly when Troll entered the cell.
To Sean’s mind, he resembled a hobbit rather than a troll, but it was clear how the man had got his nickname. He was short with long greasy hair, perhaps five foot five with a short, thick neck covered in a bushy beard. His enhanced prisoner status earned him the right to wear his own clothes, in Troll’s case that meant black leather trousers and a black sweatshirt with the faded logo of a heavy metal group Sean had never heard of.
“Got a light?” Troll asked as he walked in.
“On the desk.” Sean replied.
Troll picked up the matchbox, gave it a little shake, then opened it and counted the four pills nestling among the half dozen matches. He took the pills and put them in his pocket, then extracted a match and lit the cigarette in his mouth. “Cheers mate.” he said as he turned and walked back out of the cell.
Sean lay back on his bunk and closed his eyes. He had not lied to Carmichael, he did feel less anxious since being given his prescription. It had enabled him to work for the man that had put an end to the intimidation and bullying, but without the drugs, he could feel his mood sinking with every day that passed.
Chapter 16
Time seemed to pass more quickly for Sean in the run-up to the trial. Approaching Christmas, the wing took on as festive a look as possible. Paper signs were blu-tacked to cell doors with slogans imploring Santa to ‘Stop Here’ as the little boys inside had been very good this year. They even had a Christmas dinner, with the prison officers serving the inmates their meal. Ellis dressed as an elf for the occasion with plastic pointy ears sticking out through his curly hair. It was a good day and it lifted Sean’s spirits.
Carmichael, his solicitor, visited him almost daily in the New Year with updates on their strategy and a steady stream of questions from the barrister.
Soon enough the day came for the move out of Bristol Prison and back to Gloucester for the trial. He was to be transferred to the holding cells at the Crown Court where he would stay for the duration. If everything went well he could go home from there, if not, well he didn’t want to think about that just yet.
Ellis escorted him out of the wing to the admin block. After handing him over to the transfer team Ellis shook Sean’s hand. “Good luck.” he said, and Sean could see in his eyes that he meant it.
In the van, heading north back up the M5, Sean started to feel anxious again. He had hated prison but it had become familiar, towards the end of his time there he had started to feel safe. His involvement with Troll had given him protection on the wing. His deepening depression had been noticed by the medical staff and treated with an increase in the Prozac dosage from the initial 20mg up to 60mg a day. For the last week he had been able to keep 20mg for himself only passing the extra to Troll. At least now he would be able to take the full dosage. That should help with the trial he thought.
He slept poorly that night in the unfamiliar surroundings. The sounds were different and when he did sleep he was disturbed by strange dreams. He woke early feeling more tired than he had the night before and with a dull headache developing behind his eyes.
Carmichael visited him at nine after a breakfast tray, that Sean had largely ignored, had been removed. He had been to Sean’s house and selected a suit from his cupboard that he felt would make the right impression. He hung it on the hook on the back of the cell door. Sean looked up and stared at the suit. He had not worn it since his wife’s funeral.
Before he could comment, his barrister, James Davis joined them in the cell. He was in his mid fifties with grey hair and a red face. He was not at all what Sean had expected in a barrister. He had the look of a tough outdoorsman rather than a legal professional. This first impression was amplified by his west-country accent. He sat on the bed next to Sean and explained how the day would proceed. It being the opening morning they would probably just go through the opening statements with the prosecution evidence and witnesses most likely starting in the afternoon. The trial was scheduled to last a week.
His two man legal team left him to get changed and ready himself. The guard would escort him to the dock just before ten.
Sean changed and sat waiting on the hard bunk, his headache getting steadily worse.
Eventually the guard opened the cell door. He asked Sean to turn round so that he could be handcuffed for the short walk to the courtroom. He was then led through a series of institutionally painted brick corridors to a small flight of steps with a wooden panel door at the top. A second guard stood at the top of the stairs and nodded to his colleague. He opened the door as Sean made his way up the stairs. At the top he emerged into the centre of the courtroom in a small area surrounded by a waist high, wooden panel enclosure. The room was full of people and a hush descended as they all turned to look at him. His handcuffs were removed and he was directed to sit on one of the two red chairs that faced the bench through a low wooden grate. It took all his resolve not to run back down the stairs and back to the cell.
Once sat, he looked around pensively, taking in his surroundings. The room was quite modern and bright, with a tall ceiling. The walls were lined with wooden panels for the first eight feet or so, but painted white to the ceiling. Facing him, against the far wall, was the long bench with a large empty red chair in the middle. He suspected this was for the judge. On either side of this throne there were a further four less grandiose chairs. Below the bench there was a man sitting at a large half moon shaped desk with a computer terminal. To th
e right there was a banked gallery with twelve people sat in three rows. All of them were staring at him. They were dressed in a mixture of smart and casual clothes. He did a quick count and discovered that his jury consisted of eight women and four men. He wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad, but suspected the worst.
Directly opposite them to the left of the bench was a small wooden enclosure, a bit like his own. This one had a small curtain tied back to reveal a chair for the witnesses to sit on. To Sean’s immediate left sat his legal team. Carmichael caught his eye and gave him a quick reassuring smile.
He glanced to the right and there sat the prosecution team. There were five of them being bossed about by a tall woman with dark hair tied back in a ponytail that stuck out from underneath her grey wig. As Sean looked, she turned and stared at him with brown, piecing eyes. She was about Sean’s age, slim with dark olive skin. She had high cheekbones and a slash of red lipstick completed the image. Sean tore his gaze away from her, his heart pounding. With every thud in his chest came a crippling thump in his head. He felt nauseous and tried to concentrate on calming himself down.
Outside, Tony Brooks had parked his car and was making his way to the courtroom. He approached the odd-looking building, double-checking his map to make sure he had got it right. The building appeared to be round with a flat roof. It was built of limestone and looked drab on this cold wet January morning. He made his way to the large wooden doors and followed the signs to the public gallery. After passing security he was allowed into the back of the courtroom. He could see the back of Williams’ head as he sat in the dock, a guard on either side of him. He took a seat and stared at him, feeling the hatred build in his chest at the man responsible for shattering his life.
In the centre of the court, a man in a wig stood and leaned towards the microphone in front of him. “All rise.” He commanded in a clear voice. With a hush of silence, the room stood and looked towards the front bench.
