In Sickness, in Health ... and in Jail

by Mel Jacob

  ‘That’s what everyone tells you to do,’ Patrick said. ‘“Keep your head down, stay out of people’s way.” What they don’t realise is that if you do that, people are suspicious. They want to know what you’re in for and if you’re rich, though that’s a relative term in here.’ A brief laugh escaped his lips. ‘I was reading your letter, Mum—you were quick off the mark, thank you—and my cellie—cellmate—came in and snatched the letter out of my hand, and said, “Who do you know with a laser printer? You must be rich!” So you need a—’

  ‘Backstory,’ I interjected.

  ‘Yeah, a backstory. So, when I was in Surry Hills and everyone was asking me questions about my business and my family, I gave them one.’

  ‘What did you say?’ I asked.

  ‘It doesn’t matter—’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Just that . . . I lost everything and that my wife left me—’

  ‘Your wife left you? That’s what came straight off the top of your subconscious?’

  ‘It was spur of the moment. I had to give them a reason for losing the business.’

  ‘Is the business in trouble?’ his mother asked, and Paddy and James laughed.

  I slid the vending-machine purchases across the table towards Paddy. He picked up the mango yoghurt and, in the absence of a spoon, peeled back the lid and squeezed the contents into his mouth. A dollop of yoghurt fell onto his crotch and he wiped it away, resulting in an even bigger stain.

  As I looked up, I caught the eye of the inmate at the table next to us. ‘What did he do?’ I whispered to Paddy, after the man had turned away.

  ‘Brako? Trust me, you don’t want to know.’

  I sneaked another look. As I thought about him, for the very first time I started to feel something. Like an emotional thawing had begun. I’m ashamed to say that what I felt as I sat in the prison visitation room was not love or compassion, or even fear: it was the teeniest bit of smugness.

  I wasn’t required to wear a white suit or sit on the black stool, and when the visit ended I would be able to leave. And it made me feel different, elevated somehow, and that made me feel ashamed. And then I noticed all the other women in the room. Most of them looked really glamorous, with heavy make-up and tight, flattering clothes. I had on old baggy jeans, a plain T-shirt, and my unwashed hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

  ‘You know what we need to do?’ Paddy said, changing the subject.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘We need a code to communicate on the phone.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Like, if you wanted to tell me something about the business or the kids, or if there’s a problem in here.’

  ‘Why can’t I just tell you?’ My brain is not wired for remembering numbers and codes. At various times, Patrick had tried to teach me Morse code and the NATO phonetic alphabet but I couldn’t remember them. I could recall a celebrity’s teeth whitening tip but not the internationally recognised sign for distress.

  ‘What about numbers?’ Patrick said. ‘Like, number one’s a person, and a colour represents an emotion. Like Nick—first born—and if you want to tell me he’s okay, then you say, “One—yellow”.’

  ‘Here’s an idea—why don’t I just say, “Nick is okay”?’ I couldn’t remember numbers. I remembered stories.

  ‘It sounds like you’re drug dealers,’ James said.

  ‘What about if you want to tell me you got home okay, say something like “The chicken is in the coop.”’

  ‘Now you definitely sound like drug dealers,’ James laughed.

  ‘How would you know?’ I asked him.

  ‘The movies,’ James answered.

  ‘But, in all seriousness, if I need to tell you that something’s wrong, I’ll say something about our dog,’ Paddy said.

  ‘We don’t have a dog!’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Time’s up,’ said a turbaned CO and I looked up at the clock. It was 12.47. I worked out, without the aid of a calculator, that there were thirteen minutes of the visit remaining. And it had started late. The CO looked down at Patrick’s yellow-stained crotch and shook his head.

  ‘Gotta go,’ Patrick said.

  ‘You’ve hardly eaten anything!’

  ‘I’m not going to eat junk anymore,’ Paddy said, rising to his feet. He hugged me and said, ‘Don’t you worry, I’m going to make this count.’

  We exited the visitation room and started to walk down the corridor.

  ‘Been, been,’ a heavily accented voice at the reception counter said. I wasn’t sure what he was trying to tell me until he pointed to the rubbish bin. I held up all the unopened packets. The CO nodded and I dropped them into the rubbish bin.

  TEN

  MRRC Silverwater

  5 February 2013

  Beauty,

  I’m in MRRC, Silverwater prison. No pen and paper till now. I’ll explain things in sequence.

  Taken into custody at the courthouse, guards took me downstairs to DOC reception, ordered to strip, squat and cough. Guard gave me a hard time for not squatting. Tried to explain inflexibility is genetic; most of my family can’t squat or touch toes. He thought it was a wind-up.

  Holding cells in Penrith and Surry Hills (as I was to later to find out) like Hunger Games in hygiene survival. Faeces and blood on every surface. No soap, small square toilet paper that doesn’t absorb anything. Stood all day so clothes wouldn’t get contaminated.

  At 2.30 guards collect us to go in truck (milk run). Don’t know why it’s called that. Maybe because it’s white. Learned from other inmates that it never takes direct route. Have to drop off and pick up from holding cells, courthouses, police stations and prisons all over the place. Difficult to put on seat belt with handcuffs but need to as metal bench seat v. slippery. Seats on either side of truck with men facing each other. Room for ten blokes. Given water bottle for journey.

  Relieved, at first, truck is clean, but that’s short lived. When moving, man gets cigarettes out of his butt (jail purse), v. impressive feat with handcuffs on. Chain-smoked all of them despite brown marks on cigs and hands (and he called me a dirty C!)

  So much swearing (mainly F and C) even more than Army, more than Simon—which is saying something!!!

  Inmates discuss charges/sentences. Didn’t think you were meant to ask other people. Ray Stevens (truck driver) got six years for manslaughter for killing someone on the M4. Told me it’s the second time he has killed someone in a road accident. Think I must be looking at 6–12 months at most.

  Taken to Silverwater. Put in holding cell (3×6m) with 6 others. Handcuffs removed. Asked what I am in for? Said prefer not to say, everyone convinced I am undercover cop. Want to know why I have poxy haircut and no tats? Told them undercover cop that arrested me had a tattoo on his arm. All said bullsh*t!

  After two hours, left Silverwater, in back of truck again. No one tells us where we’re headed and guards ignore all questions and cop a lot of verbal abuse. Can hardly breathe—all men smoke courtesy of jail purse.

  Placed in holding cell in Surry Hills (1×3m) with 8 others. Standing room only.

  Bloke from Silverwater tells others that I am a dog (cop). Another bloke chimes in and says he recognises me from St George police station. Never even been to St George! Then demands to know where I live? Wants to know why my legs are so white when it was over 40 degrees in Western Sydney last week? Then a miracle happened: young bloke (junkie) I was in lockup with when arrested (2 years ago) materialises. Vouches for my story and it’s obvious to everyone I wasn’t making it up. Glad he didn’t get off the gear (yet) like he said he would. Think he saved my life.

  9pm moved to a cell with another inmate. Can’t sleep. Cells are underground. Know it’s morning by the sound of other men and lights are brightened, and see appalling state of cells. Stench of urine and faeces unbearable. Excrement, graffiti circa March 2010. No soap, no toilet paper and even the bubbler and light switch are covered in human waste. Can’t believe this is
Australia. Buzzed the guards for cleaning products. Said they would bring them down ASAP. They never came.

  Inmates said we are only allowed to be detained in holding cells for 72 hours but so overcrowded. They said I should think myself lucky as men who can’t speak English or mentally ill are taken out in milk run and brought back to Surry Hills.

  On third day see welfare officer. V nice. Welfare and guards like different species. She tells me to keep being respectful to officers and I will be heard. Bollocks!

  TV suspended from ceiling behind perspex so words are incomprehensible and muffled. Can’t hear volume, don’t know if on or off. Seems like Kerri-Anne Kennerley is on repeat. Is this prison or hell?

  Friday morning taken to Penrith for sentencing. Cannot write about this yet. Still too raw. Thought I had prepared for the worst—not prepared for four and a half years.

  Taken to MRRC at Silverwater. So shocked and stressed about sentence when welfare officer asked if I was withdrawing from drug use I was confused and obviously gave wrong answer, and they put me in Spinners (Mental Health unit like One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest) in padded cell. Men scratching skin off from ice or catatonic or delusional. Seeing wild dogs, imaginary friends etc. One inmate asked to buy medication from another. His response: I’d better not. Remember what happened the last time I didn’t take my medication? I put that other bloke in hospital. Insisted he take prescribed medication.

  Healthcare professional is amazed by the speed of my detox. Explain that I wasn’t on drugs and never have been. Out of Spinners and into Gen Pop. On first day men were sitting watching TV while I was standing.

  Me: Do you think I’ll get in trouble if I move a chair from the other room?

  Inmate: Mate, you’re in maximum bloody security, how much more trouble can you get in?

  Moved chair but only stayed short time as brawl broke out about Home and Away vs. Neighbours or similar (inmates get addicted to storylines).

  Know I’m not good with words but even if I was, don’t know if they would be enough to describe how sorry I am for what I did. I have no excuse for the decision I made and I’m wrestling with that every day.

  I don’t know much but I know I want to spend the rest of my life making it up to you.

  I can’t change what has happened but I can promise you this: I am going to make the time in here count. I’m going to become a better person. I am going to get fit and read books and make a difference, not just in my life but also in the lives of others.

  You are my great love. My sleeping beauty.

  Love,

  Paddy

  ELEVEN

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Lexie . . .’

  ‘They’re only drawings—kids drawings!’ Lexie said, for what seemed like the millionth time. In the first week, her grief, although only in its rudimentary stages, had been channelled into enough drawings and craft for her to show her first exhibition: My Dad: A retrospective.

  ‘It’s the rule—’

  ‘But why?’ I’d found with my children, and with Lexie in particular, the more evasive I was, the more they craved an answer. From the time they were very young, we’d tried to give them the age-appropriate truth.

  ‘Well, you know the card you made for Dad the day he got sent to prison? An officer at the court told me it wasn’t allowed because people can hide drugs under the glue and sticky tape.’

  ‘We don’t have any drugs!’ Lexie said, as we made our way from the car park to MRRC reception.

  ‘Not all drugs are illegal. When you have a headache or a cold, I give you legal drugs like Panadol or Nurofen . . . and I take medicine, a legal drug, that releases certain chemicals in my brain to make me happier,’ I explained, a good octave lower than Lexie had been speaking.

  ‘Why are those dogs here?’ Nick asked.

  ‘They’re so cute! Can we pat them?’ Lexie asked, finally moving on from craft.

  ‘They’re sniffer dogs,’ I said, ‘trained to sniff out drugs.’

  ‘Are the brain drugs in your bag?’ Nick asked, panicked.

  ‘No. And it’s medicine, it’s not illegal.’

  ‘That dog’s sniffing the other dog’s bum,’ Lexie observed. ‘Do you think there’s drugs in there?’ she asked and then laughed like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard.

  ‘No, I think that’s just what dogs do.’

  ‘It would be a good place to hide them,’ Nick suggested blithely. It was their first visit to a prison and already they were thinking like criminals.

  Children aren’t required to have retina scans and I’d already been officially processed so we moved swiftly through the first two checkpoints.

  ‘It’s the glass elevator from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory!’ Lexie said, as I emerged from the 3D scanner.

  ‘Sometimes it breaks through the roof!’ the officer said and I mouthed, ‘Thank you.’ I appreciated his effort to make the experience fun. Well, as fun as a prison security search can be.

  ‘It is like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,’ Nick said, as we entered the corridor with the vending machines.

  ‘You can choose one of anything you like,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll have one cat,’ Lexie said, jumping up and down. She’d been at us to buy her a cat.

  ‘From the vending machine,’ I told her and she frowned. ‘You’ve already got a rabbit that you don’t pay any attention to.’ They both chose Crunchies and we made our way to the visitation room.

  The kids were overjoyed to see Patrick. But after the initial embrace and then being required to sit on their own stools, they struggled.

  ‘But why can’t we sit on your lap?’ Lexie moaned, after the fifth time she’d migrated to, and been removed from, her father’s lap.

  ‘I don’t know. I think it’s because of drugs,’ Patrick said.

  ‘Everything’s about stupid drugs!’ Lexie said, again at high volume. Patrick looked at me quizzically.

  ‘Sometimes people hide drugs on their children,’ I said.

  Lexie rolled her eyes. ‘They’re parents, as if they would do that to their kids.’

  Her innocence melted my heart. At her age, I was well aware that people in our neighbourhood did far worse things to their kids.

  ‘Don’t stare,’ I whispered to Nick. I’d already noticed the man whose entire face was covered in tattoos. And I admit I also felt compelled to look, but I’d managed to do it with some level of discretion. Nick was unashamedly, open-mouthedly gawking at him.

  ‘Stare at who?’ Lexie asked, and turned to look at the tattooed face, like it was some sort of exhibit at a museum.

  Paddy distracted Lexie and Nick by doing ‘Round and round the garden,’ on their hands and telling them jokes. He loved playing with the kids more than he did sitting down and talking with adults. At barbecues, you’d be more likely to find him running around with the children than standing with the men. He was a softie when I met him, but becoming a parent had softened him even more.

  The last part of the visit proceeded smoothly, thanks to Cadbury’s chocolate. Nick and Lexie ate their chocolate bars with such satisfaction and delight they could have been anywhere in the world except for a maximum-security prison visitation room. I wished I could be placated so easily.

  At the end of the visit, the kids seemed different somehow. Older. Wiser. Although they couldn’t articulate it themselves, I think seeing Paddy had cemented the awful truth. From the very beginning, we had told them simple kidspeak versions of what was happening, but that was far removed from what they had seen around them.

  ‘You feeling okay after seeing Dad?’ I asked Lexie, tucking her into bed that night.

  ‘Actually, it gave me an idea,’ she said, enthusiasm prompting her to sit up.

  ‘Really, what is it?’ I asked.

  ‘We should break him out,’ she said excitedly.

  I laughed. ‘Lex, I know you want him out, but if he got caught, he’d have to stay in for longer and we’d get in trouble
as well.’ Her face fell. ‘Think of it like when you get in trouble and you have to sit on the step. What happens if you do the wrong thing on the step?’

  ‘Consequences,’ she said, exasperated. ‘I was looking forward to it.’

  I smoothed the sheets around her. ‘Oh, Lex, I love your crazy little mind. Out of interest, how were you planning on doing it?’

  ‘Well, you know how we saw that play in that old jail?’

  ‘Old Dubbo Gaol.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that girl escaped by tying the sheets together and climbing over the wall.’

  ‘Do you remember what happened when she got caught again?’ Lexie shook her head. ‘She was put into solitary confinement, which means being locked up by yourself.’ Lexie sighed and started looking through her book. Now that she knew the prison break wasn’t an option, nothing about her body language suggested that she was the slightest bit perturbed by the visit or the conversation.

  I had started clearing a path on her craft-strewn floor, ready to leave, when she asked, ‘Do you think the guards will whip Dad?’ in a tone that suggested she’d given it some thought.

  ‘What makes you ask that?’ I said, trying to conceal my alarm.

  ‘Because in the play at the old jail, the guards said they whip the prisoners and put them in solitaire confindment.’

  ‘They were acting out a play about a jail a long time ago. Guards aren’t allowed to hurt prisoners anymore.’

  ‘But how would anyone know if the guards hurt them when everyone is behind those high walls? How can anyone see?’ She had a point.

  ‘They have cameras,’ I said.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, and resumed reading her book.

  Later, when I was in bed, I worried about Lexie and Nick and Patrick. The images of the inmates played over in my mind: menacing tattoos, shaved heads, broken noses, missing teeth. And the energy of the visiting room was palpably negative and aggressive.