Episode 12 - The Jury Is Out

The clock ticks slowly, taunting like a hangman's noose waiting for an occupant. Nobody wants to hear the wrong result.

During the three and a half years I was in prison I wrote over a million words by hand. Tales From The Jails is a contemporaneous account of my life, and attempts to thrive rather than merely survive, whilst incarcerated.

Most names have been changed. The events have not.

This is a Jekyll & Pride production.

Producer: Trevessa Newton

Title Music taken from The Confession, on the album Crimes Against Poetry (written and performed by The Shadow Poet, produced by Lance Thomas)

Copyright Jekyll & Pride Ltd 2025

@jekyllandpride2023
@theshadowpoettsp

Transcript

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During the three and a half years I was in prison, I wrote over a million words by hand. Tales from the Jails is a contemporaneous account of my life, and attempts to thrive rather than merely survive whilst incarcerated. Most names have been changed, but the events have not. Episode 12. The jury is out. At some point in their life, a person may find themselves asking or contemplating what is tough? What is hard? What is strong? I suppose context and circumstances play a part. One must take into consideration what place or moment provokes a person to be thinking such questions. Either with a little wisdom, or alot of experience, I've come to believe it means different things to different people at different times. Whatever each of us is searching for in life, there is no guarantee one's own lifetime will provide the answers. Events change the course or trajectory of life, often without notice. Imagine having your world turned upside down, your routines changed dramatically, your personal circumstances out of your control and your feelings and emotions tested beyond their limits. How you think you will cope may differ widely to the reality of how you do cope. Who or what do you become as a result? How would you react or respond when your freedom and choices are removed and your life is catapulted into a powder keg of mayhem? Here, time is lawless and unforgiving and seemingly without anyone qualified or prepared to listen and help. Imagine being vulnerable, scared, forever afraid of what may happen next. What lies beyond the other side of your closed door is a world looking to prod, aggravate, intimidate and terrorise. Just because they can. It's adapt or die, because there is no place to hide. Here in HMP, I observe and experience and consider these questions. Is strong fighting or standing back and keeping the peace? Is tough keeping quiet and showing no emotion? Or is it something harsh and more distasteful? Is it wrong or weak to weep and shed tears? Is it inappropriate to cry inside or more appropriate to show how you feel? In here, individually and collectively, they prey on one's fragile emotions. They interpret kindness and caring as weakness. What is strong? In my world, it is doing the right thing, regardless of the crowd or packed consensus. Hard is the pain all loved ones must endure, left to carry the burdens that we cannot share. HMP is a lonely place in a crowded space, and serenity, if you are lucky, comes in the dead of night, and it's brief. I try to find clarity in these moments. Why do we fall over if it is not to learn how to pick ourselves back up, to overcome the fear of falling and not be afraid of getting hurt? I believe it's where we grow the most. It's not uncommon to hear jailhouse sneers from hyenas when a man stumbles or falls. For me, strength is stepping forward to help. I found myself mumbling the lines to The Happy Warrior. Who is he that every man in arms would wish to be? What can I change that will improve my life when all around me only want to make it more difficult and miserable? What can I learn in the jungle of fucked up men? What is it that HMP teaches us that benefits our lives both now and in the future? What is strong? Well, it is not violence and intimidation but rising above the adversity and showing love and compassion in a soulless, lawless asylum. I ask for nothing more than is given to the rest of the men. I take nothing more than I earn or have worked for, and I contribute more than I take. Ironically, in a place such as this, it confuses some men whilst threatens others. It can be misread, misinterpreted and misunderstood, and the consequences can be harsh. even when a man is only being thoughtful or caring to another. A smile can be interpreted as a sneer, and an act of compassion can be seen as an insult to another inmate. What is hard? Well, it is not being able to share your thoughts and feelings with another human being. Because in here, no one can keep what is said private or confidential. You confide in a fellow inmate at your peril. When a man is rich inside with love, to a large extent he requires little else. And when he seeks nothing else, then the rest believe he has something to hide. Can you imagine what it must be like to live like this? It's insane. Under the constant threat of attack just because you show a hint of being happy or getting on with it. Happiness in an inmate goes down like a lead balloon amongst both the officers and the lads. Wisdom, for me, is being less of everything. Less popular, not standing out, not trying too hard because it shows up those who are doing the least. I walk through the wing, or should I say, scurry like I'm a gutter rat undercover from above, running from the gauntlet of piercing eyes following every step I take. I hold on to love. It transcends everything. It never fails. It never falters. There are times when a person is tested or challenged beyond what they believe to be their limits. But with love, none of it matters, because we are never alone. Freedom can be found in HMP within a small, confined cell, deprived of everything and everyone that is precious to you, because love is in your heart. Why do I write these words? Because that's how I feel, even though I'm separated from the people I love and care for the most. When sadness visits me, my tears are not pitiful but joyful. Because I know that I am loved and I do love. Speaking of love, HMRC may love collecting taxes, but the taxpayer will feel like they've been cheated on if they saw how£40, 000 per head was being squandered. What a complete waste of taxpayers' hard earned money. I wonder, what is the true cost of crime and prison? What about the legal aid bills that often run into hundreds of thousands, if not millions, per trial? You have to ask yourself, who is benefiting from the gravy train? Because it isn't victims, families, or loved ones who innocently find themselves struggling as a result of the fallout. None of it makes any sense. And yet some very intelligent people who rule and run these systems and processes, it would appear, have it so badly wrong. Why drain the resources and create more problems and issues for families? Especially when punishment could be administered by way of a contribution rather than a cost? The mind boggles. We are held like animals living in squalor, and yet each of us seemingly costs the equivalent of a year in the Ritz. Long before life took a diversion to here, I decided not to be angry, bitter, or resentful, regardless of the outcome. In moments that I might slip into feeling sorry for myself, I think of how my loved ones must be suffering and struggling. It stops me parking myself in the victim pit. Nothing is straightforward. Nothing is simple. And common sense or fairness does not apply. A toxic energy fills every square foot of prison and feeds one type of inmate as it suffocates another. There is no moral compass to guide a person. When men do not have respect for themselves, then there is little or no chance of them respecting each other. It is impossible for prisoners to do anything constructive in here when constantly caged, abused, and treated like vermin. The only alternative or stimulation is to vegetate on poor TV or drugs. I do neither. My solace is writing. I try to think good thoughts and feel good feelings and remind myself regularly I love and that I am loved. This is what keeps me from sinking into the black abyss. It is day five of the jury being out on the Manchester murder trial. As each day passes without a verdict, the tension builds. I can't imagine what it must be like in the cells below the court waiting day after day. What thoughts pass through a person's mind while twelve people contemplate, discuss, vote and decide your fate? Last night, I washed and ironed their shirts. I collected them when they returned from court and we chatted about the day and the waiting. Today, I imagine the clock ticks slowly, taunting like a hangman's noose waiting for an occupant. I remember during my own trial, hating the sound of the tannoy constantly calling people to return to court. That sound cuts through the building and laser focuses your attention. You are torn between wanting the verdict, but the right one, so that the unbearable stress can be over, mixed with the fear of terrible news arriving imminently. Which, if the truth be known, you never want to hear. Nobody wants to hear the wrong result. When you are caught up in a murder trial, the stakes are significantly greater and the consequence is much worse. No matter how young you may be, 20 plus years is a chunk out of your life that will break hearts, relationships, and one's self will to live. We all wait in anticipation to hear the result. But the reality is, if they are found not guilty, we will never see them again. They will be released and free to return to their life in the outside world. Hopefully, wiser for the experience. It's surreal to think how in one respect we've become strangely close. Lives entwined in prison. Yet, at any moment they could be found not guilty and immediately released, and I will never see or hear from any of them. It's strange. I would be weirdly pleased, but worse. A young man has been murdered, and as a result, a not guilty for his family will probably leave them feeling devastated and failed. I suppose what I'm really trying to say is that I have compassion for both sides. And I'm not sure many people face these life evaluations. I can't help thinking, if they do return with a damning result, some, if not all, may end up on suicide watch. In the last month alone. I've witnessed eye watering sentences decapitate any hope of a future in one go. It's nuts, but I've chatted privately and intimately to most of them from trial to verdict. If I've learnt anything in here during this experience, then it's this. Hatred seemingly has no limits. And love is a Lone Ranger, not welcome in this town.