Danny squirmed – he started to leaf through his copy of Archbold, the 3000 page, criminal law bible that all criminal barristers use. He was desperate. I knew the signs, I knew that he would be manically trying to find something in the massive book that would help him, but the more he looked, the smaller the words would appear and the more confused he would become. I knew that he would now be certain that every lawyer in the whole world was looking at him and smirking.
I knew it, because I’ve been there. I’ve felt the shame. I’ve felt the confusion.
‘I’m sorry, Your Honour,’ he said, ‘if you could bear with me one second, whilst I find the reference.’
Judge Mariner QC sighed, then put Danny out of his misery. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Utaka,’ he grumbled. ‘Clarke simply states the position in relation to consecutive sentences for those who have breached suspended sentences.’
‘Ah, yes.’
They muddled through it. Danny left the court sweating and will almost certainly go home and question whether he is cut out for the Criminal Bar (he is); Judge Mariner QC will feel a frisson of disappointment that another barrister is not as well informed as he is, coupled with the sly joy of knowing that another barrister is not as well informed as he is.
I gave Danny a look of solidarity as he walked past, but I don’t think he saw me.
I was up next.
I was defending Yusuf Salam. He was charged with Possessing 160 ecstasy tablets with the intent to supply them at a music festival in Kent. Today was his chance to plead guilty or not guilty to the charge.
He entered a plea of not guilty.
‘What is his defence, Mr Winnock?’ asked Judge Mariner QC.
‘He accepts having the tablets, Your Honour, but he denies intending to supply them.’
‘160 ecstasy tablets?’
‘Yes, Your Honour.’
‘What was he intending to do with them?’
‘Take them, Your Honour.’
‘That’s an awful of tablets for one man, Mr Winnock.’
‘He’s a very committed dancer, Your Honour.’
Judge Mariner looked carefully at me. ‘Are you familiar with the recent case of Rosenthal, Mr Winnock?’
Ha, there’s no way I’m falling for that one.
‘No, Your Honour. I’ve never heard of it.’
Twenty minutes later, I left the courtroom, tired, slightly sweaty but relieved – I’d survived.
The kangaroo court of Lincoln Prison
It was a wet, miserable three-hour drive to Lincoln Prison. Three hours watching my windscreen wipers scrape the globules of grey winter spit off the windscreen, to take part in the travesty masquerading as justice that is a Prison Adjudication – and all for next to no money. I arrived there in a bad temper and I knew things weren’t going to get much better.
It is an austere old prison, Lincoln. It dates back to a time when we really knew how to treat our prisoners with absolute and utter brutality. It was built for hanging, not for rehabilitation, though I suppose that the thought of it must have deterred all but the stupidest or most hardened of criminals from committing their misdeeds.
Do I think prison works?
Yes, for some, no, for others. Call me an old tree-hugging softie, but in my experience there has to be a rehabilitative element, because making sure that someone doesn’t commit the crime again is surely just as important as punishing them.
On arrival I had to provide my credentials and undergo a search, which includes an X-ray followed by a thorough examination of my crotch from the snout of an eager Springer Spaniel called Keith, which seemed to amuse the guards. Then, once Keith had finished with me, I had to undergo a frisking from a burly bloke with halitosis.
I was then escorted across some rather dour yards, through about twenty locked gates and heavy doors and onto ‘C’ wing where I would meet my first client.
Stanley Ojo is charged with having a fight with another prisoner in the canteen. That was all I knew about his case, yet I was supposed to defend him at a Prison Adjudication in front of a District Judge, where, if he was found guilty of the charge, there was a chance that he would receive an extra 45 days of prison.
The prison guard led me to a waiting area and instructed me to stay there, telling me that the case of Ojo is first on in about five minutes.
‘Hold on,’ I said, ‘I’ll need to speak to Mr Ojo before his hearing.’
He looked at me suspiciously, then trotted off to speak to someone else. A few minutes later, he returned. ‘Follow me,’ he said. And I did.
He led me to a cell which was about eight foot by ten foot. Inside, there were five men – two sat on the bottom bunk and three on the top – judging by their uniform of blue sweatshirts and tracksuit bottoms they were all inmates.
I was confused.
‘Who’s Stanley Ojo?’
‘I am,’ said a large black man with a rather scary collection of scars across his forehead and nose. He jumped down from the top bunk.
I shook his hand. ‘I’m Russell Winnock,’ I said, ‘I’ve come to represent you in the adjudication.’
He looked pleasantly surprised and there were murmurs of approval from the other men.
‘Right, Mr Ojo,’ I said, ‘why don’t you tell me in your own words what this is all about.’ Which is barrister speak for, I haven’t got any papers or read any papers and I haven’t got the first clue what you’re supposed to have done.
‘Well,’ said Mr Ojo in a deep, booming, yet surprisingly jolly voice, ‘I supposedly punched Scotty O’Neil in the dinner queue. But I never.’
The rest of the lads still sitting on the bunks murmured their agreement, ‘No, he never.’
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘is there a statement from Mr O’Neil?’
‘No,’ said Ojo, ‘he doesn’t want to say anything.’
‘Right, is there a statement from anyone?’
‘Only a screw, Marsden.’
‘Twat,’ echoed the lads from the bunk-bed.
‘What does he say?’ I asked.
‘He says I punched him, but I never.’
‘No, he never,’ came the refrain.
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘in that case, you’re not guilty. Now, who are you guys?’ I immediately regret using the term ‘guys’, which makes me sound a bit too middle-class, a bit too much like a politician posing for a photo opportunity with a bunch of boys on a Youth Training Scheme.
Stanley Ojo introduced them in turn.
‘This is Jimbo, Ian, Hawksy and The Moth.’
I nodded, ‘Okay, now, did any of you witness anything?’
‘We were all there,’ said Jimbo.
‘Great,’ I replied, ‘and what happened?’
At this point I started to appreciate that taking a proof of evidence from four potential witnesses in the presence of the accused isn’t ideal, but, alas, this is the best I can do. In any event, as soon as I ask what happened, all four of them pulled out pieces of paper.
Stanley Ojo looked pleased. ‘I’ve taken statements from all of them already, Mr Winnock,’ he told me, and with that they all handed me their piece of paper, upon which was written, in exactly the same handwriting, a brief account of how Stanley Ojo and Scotty O’Neil had a brief but friendly disagreement over a phone card in the canteen, which culminated in Mr O’Neil and Mr Ojo slapping each other on the shoulder and agreeing to disagree on the subject.
‘Hmm,’ I said, ‘and what does this officer Marsden say?’
‘He says that I punched him repeatedly, but I never.’
‘No, he never.’
‘Okay, and where was he standing when he says he saw this happen?’
‘Behind some doors on the corridor.’
I was starting to feel the beginnings of a defence coming on.
‘And what injuries did Mr O’Neil suffer?’
At this point, the men looked downwards and shuffled in a slightly uncomfortable way.
The Moth answered, ‘He was already injured on
account of getting beaten up the day before.’ The Moth is quite terrifying, with jet-black hair, pale skin and two dark eyes that peered at me.
‘Was that anything to do with you, Mr Ojo?’
Stanley Ojo didn’t like this question. ‘No.’ His answer was emphatic.
At this point, the door opened and the same guard who led me in earlier told me that District Judge Meyer was ready to start. I protested and told him that I wasn’t ready, but he just shrugged and told me that I’ll have to take that up with the Judge.
We were then marched to another room, where Judge Meyer sat looking decidedly bored at the top of the table.
‘Good morning, sir,’ I proffered, and he made a sort of wheezy sound in response.
Sitting next to him was a prison guard who opened the proceedings by telling him that the first case concerned Stanley Ojo. As he introduced the case, I noted, to my horror, that according to his security badge, the prosecuting prison guard was called Marsden – surely, I thought, the prosecutor can’t also be the main witness.
I started to protest. ‘Before we start, sir,’ I said, ‘I am a little concerned that I haven’t been furnished with any statements and that the prosecutor is a witness in the case.’
Judge Meyer’s top lip curled upward. ‘You’re not in the Crown Court now, Mr Winnock, this is an adjudication, an inquisitorial hearing – I’ll weigh up the evidence and assess the credibility of all sides.’
‘But, I would still like to see the evidence, sir.’
He sighed, then looked at the prison guard. ‘Do you have a spare copy of the statement?’
‘His solicitors were sent one, sir,’ replied Mr Marsden.
And the Judge looked at me with an expression that said ‘tough’.
What happened next will stay with me forever. Mr Marsden gave his evidence to the ‘adjudication’ in about three minutes – saying that he saw Stanley Ojo repeatedly punch then kick one Scott O’Neil.
I then cross-examined Mr Marsden and, if I say so myself, I gave him a hiding. I had him admitting that he was behind a door, 60 metres away and that his view was obscured by a number of large prisoners who were in the dinner queue. I then asked him why he didn’t take any action whilst this beating was supposedly going on – and Mr Marsden had no answer.
I felt good – this may be a dodgy court, I told myself, but my brilliant advocacy will win the day – justice will be served.
I confidently called my witnesses – Stanley Ojo gave a good account, and the others, Jimbo, Ian, Hawksy and The Moth all stuck stoically to their script.
I then looked Judge Meyer in the eye. ‘I invite this court to find my client not guilty of this charge,’ I said confidently, ‘there is no statement from the alleged victim, the only witness had an obscured view and the court has heard accounts from four independent witnesses, none of whom describe any violence.’
District Judge Meyer looked quizzically into the distance and sucked the tip of a ballpoint pen. Finally he turned to Officer Marsden. ‘Are the witnesses who have given evidence today known acquaintances of the accused?’
‘Yes sir,’ said Marsden.
‘Thank you,’ said the Judge. ‘Mr Ojo,’ he continued, ‘I find the case against you proven – you will be sentenced to spend an extra 28 days in custody at the end of your sentence.’
At this point I found my face contorting into a scowl and the word ‘What?’ was released involuntarily from my lips.
‘Twenty-eight days, Mr Winnock. Please return to your wing, Mr Ojo.’
I felt like banging my fist against the table. I felt like shouting and bawling against the injustice, but I didn’t. I got up, nodded and asked if I could be excused because I needed time with my next client.
Judge Meyer nodded back and I stomped out of the room to prepare for my next Prison Adjudication, my next battle.
Escape from Lincoln Prison
My next client was a Scouser called Ryan Neallie. He had been accused of failing a drug test.
I was led to his cell, he was alone. He started to talk at me from the moment the cell door was opened:
‘Are you my brief?’ he asked, his eyes wide and protruding against his gaunt angular cheekbones. He stared at me, but I’m too angry to go into my usual spiel about who I am and how I’ll do my best to represent him, instead, I nodded and asked him what he’d been accused of.
‘I’ve failed a piss test,’ he told me.
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘well, I’ll tell you now, with this Judge, if you’ve been taking drugs in prison, he’s going to throw the book at you.’
Neallie’s face dropped when I told him this.
Drugs are rife in prison. So are mobile telephones, alcohol (often brewed using porridge oats and orange juice, which you would think would cure even the thirstiest of alcoholics), pornography, tobacco and protection rackets.
In some ways, the presence of drugs is the most pernicious of all. The nightmare of drugs is often what has got the prisoner incarcerated in the first place. The sentence should be a chance to get off drugs, not end up even closer to them. All too often drug addicts come out of prison just as addicted as when they went in.
Ryan Neallie turned to me and pointed a shaky finger in my direction. ‘That can’t happen,’ he said, ‘I’m due out next Friday, that’s my release date, I’m out of here then.’
‘Not if you’re convicted of this,’ I told him.
Neallie started to pace up and down the cell – his face creased up as he considered his fate, it is clear that he has been counting the days, the hours, the minutes, until his release date, he has probably planned every second of what he’ll do when he gets out – where he’ll go, the people he will see, the fruits of freedom he will enjoy once again.
‘I’ve been in here 27 months,’ he told me, ‘I’ve got to go home next Friday.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘what’s the evidence of the test?’
He handed me a document that outlined how Prisoner Ryan Neallie had provided a specimen of urine for testing and the test had proved positive for opiates.
Suddenly he stopped pacing.
‘Can you get this hearing adjourned?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure, on what grounds?’
‘I don’t know, you’re the brief, you think of something.’
Now it was my turn to pace the cell as he stood by his bed.
‘There’s no statement from the officer who took the sample,’ I suggested.
And Neallie’s face broke into a smile. I could see now that he had blackened front teeth, the result of methadone use. ‘There should be one, shouldn’t there?’ he said.
I shrugged. ‘I can ask the Judge to adjourn so that a statement can be taken. But I can’t guarantee he’ll go for that.’
‘How long would an adjournment be?’ asked Neallie.
‘I can ask for three weeks.’
‘By which time, I’ll be released,’ said Neallie, ‘and the adjudication can’t interfere with me release date.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘no it can’t.’
Neallie smiled now, a full, gurning, happy, black-toothed grin, and I smiled back – I wasn’t at all convinced that what I was about to do was morally and ethically within the code of conduct for barristers. In fact I was pretty sure it wasn’t. But, by now, I was enthused by a potent mix of wanting to do the best for my client, and wanting to get one over on District Judge Meyer.
When I appeared before District Judge Meyer for the second time that morning I knew that my plan was a risky one – I doubted very much that it would work.
Once again Officer Marsden opened the court – ‘This is Ryan Neallie, sir, he has provided a drug test that has proved positive for opiates. It is his third positive test in the last six months.’
Judge Meyer frowned, then started to write something on a form. ‘Anything to say, Mr Winnock?’
‘Yes,’ I said assertively, ‘Mr Neallie is entirely innocent of this offence.’
‘Why?’ said Mey
er, without looking up. ‘What’s his defence?’
‘We say that the positive sample couldn’t possibly have been his, and that there must have been a mix-up in the test procedure. I respectfully request an adjournment so that a proper statement can be taken from the officer who conducted the test.’
Meyer looked up at me, his eyes narrowing as he turned to Officer Marsden. ‘Is there such a statement, Mr Marsden?’
Marsden looked flustered. ‘There isn’t, sir.’
Meyer’s lips thinned. ‘How long will it take to obtain one?’
Marsden started to root through a bundle of papers. ‘Er,’ he stammered, ‘about three weeks, the officer who took the statement is on leave.’
‘Very well,’ said Judge Meyer, ‘we’ll adjourn this case for a period of three weeks.’
I held my breath. I waited for Officer Marsden to tell the District Judge that this date will be beyond Neallie’s release date, and that in three weeks’ time, Neallie will not be here to face the court.
But Marsden remained silent.
I too remained silent. I felt my heart beating. Should I say something? I don’t know. I don’t bloody know. But before I’d had the chance to decide, I’d risen to my feet, nodded to the District Judge, and left as quickly as I could before someone worked out the scam.
Ryan Neallie grinned at me as we left. I wish he hadn’t – it makes us co-conspirators.
I was escorted out of the prison. I left the wing. I went back through the yards, through the gates and heavy doors, I got to the foyer where Keith the Springer Spaniel lay sleeping next to the guard with the halitosis. I could now see the exit, I could see through the window that it had stopped raining and the sky was blue. I could see liberty. I walked purposefully towards it. I strode out towards my freedom, towards the blue sky – then, suddenly, behind me a phone rang, then a voice cried out – ‘Hold on, mate.’
Confessions of a Lawyer Page 8