Episode 13 - The Murder Trial Verdict

I have no idea how a person processes the notion of a life sentence coming down the track. 

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. 13. The Murder Trial Verdict. HMP is a cruel place. An unforgiving den of rats, rogues and villains. But there are gems and there is hope. It still surprises me, how the decent guys come from the most unexpected of places. The M people often tend to be surprisingly nice and polite. Guys you would never expect or suspect of having committed horrific crimes, some of which you read in the papers, and it makes you feel sick to the core. Yet I find the sneering, duplicitous jackals are the worst. Pretending to be nicer than they are. Manipulating anything and everything for their own benefit or gain. The best padmate I've had so far, I've had to cut loose after only a couple of nights. The K kid is a lad who I have a soft spot for. He's quirky, stupid at times, which is refreshing. But he brings the wrong sort of attention, and that will only end in tears and ship outs. He does have a kind and caring nature and means no harm. But equally, he does not fit in with the rest of the lads, and in work, they already want him out. This morning, he confided. This is the best time he's had so far. He said it's like living like a king. Only a few hours later, he's being cut loose. For me personally, he attracted too many undesirables to our cell. To make matters worse, none of the other reception lads wanted to pad up with him either. He was blackballed and felt wounded. Tonight, he's in a pad by himself. Usually, that's a perk, but I think he feels let down. I told him politely, but straight. If he didn't get into extracurricular activities, then I wouldn't have been swayed to part company. But my instincts were screaming that he's a loose cannon. Although a nice enough lad, he was almost certainly going to bring trouble to our cell and workplace. So for the good of my own time inside, it was wise to cut him free. The lads were shocked and impressed by my transparency with him. There was no underhandedness. Maybe tonight, my ex-padmate will reflect on changing some of his habits and understand. It's a trade off to live and feel like a king in prison. In less than three months, I've inhabited four different cells and survived as many pad mates. So it saves a person well to learn and practice patience and tolerance, or one will be condemned to squabble, silences, and confrontations. Cells are like a hive of doom pits where very little happiness exists. Ironically, the most popular DVD box set is The Walking Dead. H, one of the Manchester murder trials lads, received a guilty verdict yesterday. The jury had been out for two weeks and one day. Haunted would be the best way to describe the look on his face when he returned to Walton. Although he's been on remand here for some time with the rest of the lads, and I've interacted with them all for three months, day after day, when they landed back from trial, this time felt different. Not just the impact of the verdict on H, but how the whole process and protocols have already kicked in between his journey on the meat wagon to landing in reception. Now, he's convicted of murder. He's a category A prisoner, updated on the system before he's had enough time to let the wrong results sink in. I would imagine he'll be marked as a potential suicide risk. The atmosphere is a cross between a wake and business as usual. It may be the first time I've been up this close and personal to such rare events, but prison and prison officers have witnessed jaw-dropping crimes, trials and guilty verdicts for longer than I've been alive. I never spoke to him properly, other than to say, are you okay? He responded with a single nod, and it was clear he just wanted to get back to his cell and not talk about it. I have no idea how a person processes the notion of a life sentence coming down the track. If you don't die in prison, then the chances are, if you make it out, then you're in your 60s with nothing or no one to look forward to. How do you readjust? I imagine I'll speak to him in the next couple of days. The rest of the lads, his codefendants, must wait agonizingly over the weekend before their verdicts are announced. How do they feel left waiting? The biggest moment of their lives. Their fate hanging by a thread and painstakingly stretched out. The judge apparently indicated in his summing up that one guilty means all guilty. I've watched each of them shrink, fade and waste away to shadows of their former selves. The bravado has burnt out and there are no longer bright flames of confidence, but smoking embers of hopelessness. It's strange that although the remaining lads must be desperate for it to be over, so too do the rest of the lads in prison, because the prolonged suspense is turning into a death march. I washed and ironed their shirts this morning, probably for the final time. I remember beginning them three months ago. What stories each can tell. Thank you. From the boyish fourteen and a half to the monstrous seventeen and a half worn by Adey, who has a neck like the Hulk. Someone died, and I do not lose sight of this. A family lost their loved one, and guys in here probably regret their associations with each other. Strangely, although the label that comes with their crimes suggests they must be awful or despicable, on the contrary, they are not. I couldn't help but like the lads. I've learned through my own experience that it is blurred lines between the facts and the fiction. Through the night, there was some kind of kick off in a cell close by. Whether it was spice or just things reaching a boiling point, I do not know. But it was shades of the asylum mixed with thuds and clashes and hallmarks of a fight between padmates. Only on very rare occasions will an officer rock up to check what cell buzzers are screeching for. The cutbacks in prison services means that there are now less officers than before. Mr R told me there used to be 12 officers on a wing. Now there is between two and four during the day and one at night, which is often an OSG and not a fully fledged experienced officer. There are over a thousand prisoners in here,who spend unhealthy and prolonged periods of time behind the door. If owners treated their pets like this, they would be prosecuted for abuse. It's a horrible feeling to know that we are considered as nothing better than animals to be abused. We're like a dysfunctional family, although none of us is related. Thankfully, my head is often preoccupied with the appeal. However, it's turning out to be as difficult, or maybe I should say traumatic, as the case. Appeals are negatively received as fool's gold or denial of the crime in here by both officers and inmates. And dare to say or promote that one is not guilty and you're as good as fucked. As much as possible, I try to make progress with it, but it's painfully slow and frustrating and the lads are quizzing me about it more and more, although I tried to avoid it, but that isn't easy. There are two camps, or groups. One is intrigued and curious. The simple, who am I, why am I here, saw the papers, heard from the lads that used to be blah blah blah. Or, there is the second group. They're out to use or abuse you. From silent assassins to provocateurs twisted with bitterness and envy. They want to hurt you. I find I'm surfing questions and curiosities between avoiding the poisonous posse and the perilous gauntlet. Guys are bored, some want to laugh, others to bully and intimidate. They're the mood hoovers, as I like to call them. They suck the life and spirit out of a room from the moment they inhabit it. Agitators, aggressors, predators, preying on prey. The mental abuse is worse than the physical. Today, I was working on the appeal. Jeremy is making slow progress and I'm instructed by him to concentrate on acquiring the court transcripts. JB is taking care of that, but once again, it's not being made easy by the judge. The topic came up when I least expected it. J asked me when we were playing cards, four of us around the table. And as bad luck would have it, the prick was observing everything from the doorway, itching for a moment to geg in. The lads knew I'd been on a legal visit, and were onto how I was reading documents on a regular basis. Whether it was natural curiosity, or to throw me off my game, in the moment it felt like back in the courtroom. So what happens with you, G? What bagged you seven years? Who did you upset? Then silence. That silence lit a fuse in the middle of a game of poker in the bedding stores. You learn in prison, there is a time for answers, and another time for swerving or deflecting. Maybe it was there to distract me from the game. It hadn't gone unnoticed I had a knack for winning, and wasn't a sore loser when I lost. But the energy shifted, enough to notice the lads show signs of intrigue. To make matters worse, the prick lunged in. Yeah, go on, tell us your version. It was like a reflex action, how I responded to him. There is only one truth to be believed, and that is the one that leaves these lips. The lads loved that shout. And the curiosity intensified as a result. But I'd opened the door for the prick. All fraudsters talk like that. I thought I was in a spaghetti Western scene. Close ups on our eyes while Morricone played in the background. I told them. They came through the office doors like SWAT. 40 of them shouting, everybody freeze, don't touch anything. Sixty seconds into the lifebomb exploding, I managed to press pause. I stood in front of the whole company, apologized for what was taking place. Obviously, we weren't expecting it. I asked everyone to cooperate fully with the police and authorities, and I told them all to tell the truth. I didn't win the hand at the table, but I did set the record straight, and that felt good.