A Fair Cop

Within minutes of receiving a four-month prison sentence for common assault, I was given my first taste of being locked in a cell alone and I had already received my first death threat. Prisoners had daubed their names on the walls along with short messages, most of which were obscene. Little had they known that I, a serving policeman, would end up in the same cell as them. I would be transported from Leeds Crown Court to Armley Prison very shortly. I knew the prisoners would make my life hell when they realised I was living amongst them. I sank to the floor, buried my head in my hands and began to shake. My worst nightmare had come true.

I remember one message in particular. It read, The Ointment are back. The Ointment is a gang of hard villains from Yorkshire. I had dealt with one of its members before. He had been owed money from a drug deal and when the deadline for paying the debt had passed, he used a machete to cut off the debtor’s arm at the elbow. He even paraded the injured man up and down the street while he was bleeding profusely, demonstrating what the outcome would be for other would-be defaulters. I was now in the same cell that was once occupied by one of this notorious gang. He had used human faeces to write the message. The stench was nauseating. I was in their world now, and I was petrified. There was a bench bolted down to the concrete floor, which was damp. A metal cage welded to the ceiling protected the light bulb. I took this personally. Did they really think I would damage the light? Society was against me now. At least that was how it felt. I was being treated in the same way as the hundreds of criminals I had arrested over the past six years or so. I would not allow myself to think that I was one of them, though, and I saw my conviction as a miscarriage of justice. I hoped it would be corrected.

There was also a musty odour, a smell I was familiar with, as most police cell areas are like this. I could hear the voices of the court cell staff. They joked about something they had seen on television the night before, and discussed who was to do the sandwich run for lunch. Everything was normal for them. Occasionally, I’d hear an officer’s radio in very close proximity to my cell door. Each time I heard the jangling of keys, my hopes would be raised that I’d be let out. I had only been locked in the cell for about twenty minutes and already felt unbearably oppressed by the size of it. It seemed strange that I was sitting in such surroundings in my best suit. I knew that every stitch of my clothing would be taken from me at HMP Armley, the notorious category B prison in Leeds, home to hardened criminals, rapists and murderers. I would be known to them, as I was a serving Leeds officer and my case was in the media. This increased my fear as I consciously tried to stop the shaking. The consequences of being sent to a category B prison could, realistically, be fatal.

After another ten minutes or so, though it seemed like hours, my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock of my cell door. As it opened, an old-looking Group 4 security officer greeted me. He was short and slightly built. His hair was grey and greased back, his fingers were stained yellow, and he smelt of tobacco. His shirt was dirty and displayed the parts of his breakfast he’d failed to get into his mouth. Opening the heavy steel cell door seemed a real effort for him. Despite all of this, he was kind-faced and he spoke with a soft, compassionate voice. ‘Come on, kid. Let’s get ya downstairs.’ He placed his hand on my back, not as a gesture of authority but one of sympathy. I immediately liked him and, in my vulnerable state, I needed him. ‘Bet you didn’t expect this, did you, lad?’

‘I knew,’ I replied. ‘The bloody judge told me five weeks ago he was sending me down. Can I see my brief before I go?’

‘It’s all been sorted. He’s waiting for you down there, kid.’

‘Cheers,’ I said.

As I arrived at the basement level of the court building, I was taken to the booking desk. There was an abundance of Group 4 security staff and a distinct lack of other prisoners. It explained why I had been kept in the holding cell for an unusually long time. This had given the officers the opportunity to get all the other prisoners locked away. They would surely have heard the news of my sentence by now, especially if it had been announced in the news bulletin on the local radio, as all my other court appearances had. Information travels fast amongst inmates and an imprisoned policeman is big news; news that would inevitably unite them so that they could plan exactly what they were going to do about it. All of the officers looked at me with serious expressions, yet I felt they were sympathetic.

I arrived at the desk. The officer there was also quite old. He looked at me and shook his head. ‘I can’t believe they’ve done this to you, lad. What the hell is this country coming to? Are you okay?’