by Ray Deveroux
Jules was screaming, hold fucking still, at the prisoner after being kicked in the face for the third time. Luckily, she had her helmet, like the rest of us, firmly stuck to her head. It doesn’t do to take risks. Jules, having enough, managed to grab his crown jewels. The prisoner let out a mighty wail, and gave Jules some verbal. Seizing the chance, I managed to get hold of his wrist and shouted, Lock on, a method in which by using minimum force you can control a prisoner simply by applying pressure through the wrist. Ken had a lock on soon after. With Jules lying across his legs – you wouldn’t want Jules laying on you at all, she was a big girl -with both arms in safe locks, and John in control of his head, we had him.
A lot of sweating, grunting, straining and pure physical effort from the team had finally subdued this man and it felt good. It was my first time in action, and I was getting pats on the back all round, having rolled round the floor with the experienced team that had done this more times than they could remember.
We got the prisoner back to his cell and with a practiced flourish, left him on the floor of his cell, twisted up. “Twisted up” is the phrase normally used by Officers and prisoners when control and restraint is used, and the prisoner is left unceremoniously dumped on the floor of a cell.
The door shut with a satisfying bang and we headed of back to the office, where we could get our gear off and have a well-earned cup of tea.
After each incident there is a “de-brief”, normally the duty Governor, who was present in the segregation unit, but not involved. He or she would tell us how great we were, how professional we were in dealing with the prisoner, oblivious to the attack on the unfortunate man’s bollocks by Jules. She made sure her back was to him when it happened, and, of course, he expected the paperwork on his desk by the end of play today. Make sure you all do the paperwork in different rooms, so that each member of the team get an individual picture of what happened, the Governor announces. Yeah right. We all sat drinking our tea in the office, putting together the roles we played in bringing the violent prisoner back to order – leaving out, of course, the bit where Jules grabbed his bollocks. That’s not in the Control &Restraint manual, apparently.
Julie Morrison was a big lady in her late thirties, although she had been in her late thirties for some years now. She looked like someone who you would probably try to avoid in the local pub. She was however, a gem of a woman, her size hiding a gentle side of her. When I first met her, like many others, I was very wary; she was loud, always stomped around the place in boots bigger than mine, and she had that thousand-yard stare. No one, but no one could or would even try to stare her out. But when the shit hit the fan, you would want her by your side.
Job done, all quiet-ish. The Principal Officer wanted us to stay in the segregation unit; extra bodies around to help serve tea meal, just in case anything else kicked off. It’s not unusual when there has been an incident; some of the prisoners want to get their opinions across on how we “assaulted” one of their fellow inmates, and usually, they wanted a piece of the action.
Three Officers to each door, the prisoners were unlocked individually. You never have more than one prisoner out at a time in a segregation unit. They are sent down one at a time to collect the meal at the server, and it’s not until that man is back in his cell and the door secured that the next one is unlocked.
First one unlocked, is shouting and swearing, giving it all the “fucks” under the sun for us “beating up his mate”. He got as far as the server and was confronted by the segregation Principal Officer, who promptly told him to fuck off! This sometimes is the only language prisoners understand. Said prisoner, however, wanted to voice his opinions loudly, and wasn’t put off by this huge Principal Officer. He collected his meal on his plastic plate and promptly chucked it over the Principal Officer; not a good idea when the Principal Officer happens to play rugby in his spare time, and, like most Officers working in the segregation unit, was built like a brick shithouse. He came by the name of Big Pete, for obvious reasons, and did not suffer fools gladly, not prisoners, not staff.
A left hook swung out and the offending prisoner was on his arse. We got there just in time to pick him up and drag him back to his cell. You saw what happened there, Pete shouted, he threw his meal at me and slipped on the crap on the floor; put him on a charge for assault on a Principal Officer.
You didn’t argue with Pete. Nobody did. What we witnessed was a prisoner throwing his food at the Principal Officer. Besides, we weren’t exactly angels, dealing with the violent prisoner ourselves.
The Principal Officer decided then that we would feed the prisoners at their doors. We were to plate up the food and take it to their cells. The meals were served in a three-man team. By then, all the prisoners in the segregation were becoming vocal, banging on their cell doors, and making a racket. A truly frightening experience if you have never seen it before. However, we were getting used to it, and not fazed by the noise. We just got on with serving the meals.
Next door to be opened was the prisoner we had just twisted up. He promptly kicked the plate. He had removed the clothing we gave him to put on and was standing naked. Not a pretty sight. His high-kick spilled the contents over me; luckily, the food by now was getting cold, so I didn’t get burnt. However, I didn’t let go of the plastic plate; this would have given him another weapon to us against me. It’s amazing what prisoners can do with plastic plates. Instead, my instincts were to raise my size tens and boot him in his already sore bollocks. He went down like a sack of spuds. I banged the door shut.
The rest of the meals were served at the doors without incident; prisoners looking through the gaps in the doors, seeing that we were not having any of their shit. Thankfully, they didn’t give us any further troubles. We managed to get all the prisoners fed, paperwork done and, two hours after my shift ended, I got home.
The next day, I was called to the Principal Officer’s office in the segregation unit. Apparently the Governor wanted to see me regarding an accusation of assault against a prisoner.
Big Pete told me not to worry; all the staff was all there to witness that I never touched the prisoner. The prisoner who had chucked his meal at me had told the duty Governor that I’d punched him in the bollocks. A nurse, who, had reported that there was swelling around his genitals, had seen him. He never mentioned that Jules crushed his bollocks earlier.
This is it, I thought, career over. I was going to be banged up myself. Oh fuck, I was heading to the Number Ones Governor’s office. This, I thought was fucked up territory.
The charge was laid that I had assaulted the prisoner on such and such a date, at such and such a time, all in prison speak, that no one outside the prison walls would understand in the segregation unit. The charge, like all legal jargon, was quite specific; the charge read that “I had punched the Prisoner in the area of his genitals” – a very serious charge.
Big Pete was behind me when we marched into the Governor’s office. Not bothering to look up, the Governor grumbled: Sit. He read from the notes and began:
Governor: How do you plead?
Me: Not guilty Governor.
Governor: Principal Officer, read out the staff statements
PO: Sir, the Officer was serving meals at the door of the prisoner, when the prisoner did assault the Officer by knocking the plate from his hand with his foot, thereby assaulting the Officer with hot food.
All of the staff statements started with this sentence.
Governor: I’m not interested at this point what the prisoner did; did the Officer punch the prisoner?
PO: Couldn’t have punched him sir; the Officer had both hands on the plate to prevent the prisoner from taking it from him and using it as a weapon. This as you know, is standard procedure in the segregation. The prisoner stands at the back of the cell, while the Officer puts the plated meal on his locker
The Governor looked at me.
Governor: Is this true?
I knew now where this was going.
&n
bsp; Me: Yes sir, I was following procedure, serving meals in the segregation, sir.
Governor: Then how did the prisoner get bruising round his testicles?
PO: Sir, the prisoner was involved in a scrap with my staff earlier on. He was stark bollock naked, fighting with four of my best and experienced Officers. The nature of the incident was very violent. He was bound to get a few cuts and bruises, as my staff did.
Governor: Yes, I’ve read the reports; there is no telling where he got the bruises from, no proof that the Officer assaulted him apart from his word.
The Governor turned back to me.
Governor: Look, Officer Deveroux did you really punch him? I know that you are still in probation. However, the Prison Service demands complete honesty from its staff.
Me: Honestly Governor, I did not punch him anywhere. I had hold of the plate as the Principal Officer said, and I wasn’t letting it go.
Governor: Ok, no charge to prove, you may go. But be aware – probationary Officers need to be at the top of their game if they want to pass the probationary period. Do you understand?
Me: Yes Sir.
And off I went, back to the segregation unit, heart pounding in my chest. I saw Big Pete, who said that I had held up well in there and that he had no qualms in signing me off the probationary period.
Over the next few days, the segregation unit had quieted down and normal service had resumed. The prisoner who accused me of assaulting him had started to act almost human, said he used the violence to test us, adding he liked to test the new recruits. He played the assault card for the same reason, lost miserably on both counts and knew where he stood.
Jammy bastard, he said to me, got off that assault charge didn’t you? Bet you lied through your fucking teeth.
No, I didn’t tell any lies, I said, you accused me of punching you in the bollocks. You should know by now, having been through the courts – statements have to be accurate. “I booted you in the bollocks” well, that’s different.
I thought he was going to explode. He did, with laughter. You’re alright, ya know guv, he said, shaking his head, walking back to his cell. Never did have any trouble with him again.
“Guv” – yet another name we prison Officers are frequently called.
By now the jail was filled to capacity. In the Senior Management team’s wisdom, they decided to have a move round of the prisoners. Gangs had started to form on some of the house blocks. These were split up. Where there were pockets of different ethnic groups, these were monitored and split so as to stop one group or another taking control of a certain area. This type of exercise is done in most jails; it cuts down bullying, violence and larger gangs forming. Although a lot of hard work and a few black eyes, it pays dividends in the end.
It took some time, and some of the prisoners kicking off, either by shouting and swearing at you, or using physical violence. But eventually the prison settled down. The SPUD unit had virtually closed during this period, so I was put on house block two, where I met up with a couple of lads I met at H.M.P Norwich.
Les was a likeable but lazy lad; he was one of those ageless blokes, he looked between thirty and fifty, skinny and with a head too big for his body. Les could stand on the landings, on the exercise yard or on prisoner association without moving a muscle. Not that he had any to move. The association period for prisoners was when they were unlocked for free time; playing pool, cards, phoning a friend, getting a shower, or just sitting and talking. Les could stand still for hours without moving, staring straight ahead. He was like a bloody statue.
I asked him once why he just stood around all day, he replied, I get paid the same as everyone else, why put yourself out? You don’t get any more money for it.
Each to their own, I suppose. I couldn’t live like that, standing round all day doing nothing, although there were plenty that did.
Andrew was very different, not like a typical prison Officer at all. He looked like a schoolmaster or a professor. He was certainly intelligent. Prisoner’s thought he was a government spy, sent to spy on staff and prisoners alike. Andrew was someone you could talk to on any subject without being ridiculed, a tall, stately looking man with a ginger beard and big round glasses. He never raised his voice or got angry, even when he was part of the control and restraint team, dealing with a violent prisoner. Andrew never showed any signs of anger.
He was one of those who wanted to know everything, always looking for different ways of doing things, on the Senior Officer’s ear all the time, asking questions. But you couldn’t dislike him, he was a great bloke.
I use the past tense advisedly. Andrew requested to go into the SSU – the special secure unit. This was a prison inside a prison, holding the most dangerous prisoners. We are talking high profile IRA prisoners here, with their own structure and regimes away from the main jail. Never went in there myself. Officers selected for that role were given extra specialist training and had to undergo psychological profiling.
Andrew loved it in there; it was the sort of challenge he relished. But it was to lead to the death of him in the end.
After a few months in there, he told us that the prisoners were playing “mind games” with him. We urged him to see the Governor of the unit and get some time out for a rest period. Officers in the unit were given the opportunity to take time out, because of the nature of the prisoners in there.
He was having none of it. I can cope, these will never get into my head, and they haven’t got the brains, he used to say.
Well, they did, they found out where he lived, where his wife worked and where his children went to school. He told us once that a car had narrowly missed his wife on a zebra crossing, but didn’t or wouldn’t concede that it could have been connected with the prisoners he worked with.
Apparently, prisoners in the SSU nearly always wanted something bringing in or, someone contacting or a letter posting. Andrew wouldn’t do it, refused all requests point blank. If only, like the other Officers, he had told the unit Governor about it, something could have been done. But no, Andrew thought he was better than everyone else. He didn’t need any help.
Then one Christmas, when he got home, a wreath was on the door. He thought his wife had put it there as part of a Christmas decoration. She hadn’t. A card was attached, giving all the personal details of the family, including a list of places the family visited on a regular basis. He knew it was from prisoners in the SSU, and reported it. His wife wanted him out of there because of the threats and stress. He didn’t listen, he wouldn’t listen.
He descended deeper and deeper into depression, still not admitting that it was the SSU that was tormenting him. His wife left him, taking the children with her. He had nothing to prove, why didn’t he get out?
A couple of weeks later, he was found in the prison staff car park. He had been there all night after he had finished his shift, hose pipe still attached and stuck to the window, the gaps sealed off, the engine still running. Being a perfectionist, he made sure the car was topped up with fuel before killing himself. Andrew had died during the night. He was only two years into his service, but to me, it felt like a lifetime had passed.
Of course there was a big enquiry; new policies written, training packages updated, regular appointments to psychologists made. But it wouldn’t bring Andrew back. Although “young in service” his funeral was attended by nearly the whole jail. God rest his soul.
Back on the landing on house block two, a mixture of long termers and lifers, a busy place to work, alarm bells were ringing. Staff and sometimes prisoners set these off, when there is a fight, or assault on staff/prisoner, or someone is kicking off.
The bells were to alert the rest of the jail, and every available Officer would turn up. The bells were frequent in the beginning as the prisoners worked out their own pecking order.
There was an obvious, alpha male, top dog, who the other prisoners either avoided or stuck to like shit to a blanket. He was a big Asian guy called Mr. Singh. He was big, man, a
regular in the gym. He was like the proverbial Mr. Universe, always sporting a vest to show off his huge biceps and shorts to show his huge trunk-like legs. His head, shaved to the bone, gleamed under the harsh lighting of the prison. He never wore anything else even on the exercise yard in the freezing cold.
Everyone called him Mr. Singh, and he expected it. He always addressed others and us as Mr. and was very polite, never once arguing or causing a fuss. A man his size, didn’t even have to raise his voice to get noticed. He had been in jail for nearly thirty years, had seen and done it all, and nothing fazed him. He kept council on the landings and made sure that everyone knew their place. He was, after all, about seven foot tall and looked like one of the bandits in the Raiders Of The Lost Ark films, big turban and all. You half expected him to have a sabre tucked into his belt.
I was promoted to cleaning Officer. I say promoted; no one else wanted the job, especially Les who still hadn’t moved. He preferred the quiet life, only springing into action when an alarm bell sounded. I use the word spring in the loosest terms; he turned to see where the noise was coming from and usually walked in the opposite direction.
On one occasion as a cleaning Officer, I had set up the servery along with my lads ready to serve the evening meal, when I heard shouting from the landings; one of our prisoners, prone to indiscipline, didn’t want to be locked up. He was doing the shouting, the Officer doing his best to reason with him.
I was up on the landing like a shot, ready to back up my fellow Officer, but Andrew had the problem in hand and gestured for me to stay back.
Andrew, before getting his transfer to the SSU, worked with us mere mortals on the residential units. He was good at talking to prisoners, preferring dialogue to violence. We knew he could talk a prisoner round. In fact, he would often talk so much that the prisoner would just give in for the sake of his ears; Andrew could bore the hind legs off a donkey, with his droning voice.
I learnt a new and valuable lesson that day; never leave the servery full of grub unattended, for any reason – especially when there are prisoners around.