Happiness is Door Shaped

by Ray Deveroux

  The judge noticed what we were doing and winked at us. Not all judges were stuck up; some had come up through sheer hard work from poor backgrounds and could mix with the likes of us.

  When it was time for Davidson to go up, I took him into the judge’s court we had seen earlier. As luck would have it, he got a suspended sentence that day and walked out of court. He thanked us all for being so kind and went on his way. No doubt, he would be back before the courts again, he was homeless and unable to look after himself. Cruel world.

  We had a few famous faces, like the footballer that had allegedly assaulted one of his fans. He was one smelly bastard; he farted all the way through the proceedings. He was threatened with jail, but got off with a “slap on the wrist”. I remember the judge saying to him that he deserved a jail sentence and he was minded to give him three months, at which point, his barrister, unwisely said:

  You can’t do that your Honour; if you were minded to give my client a custodial sentence, we will appeal it straight away.

  The judge looked over his glasses and said, Is that so? Then I will sentence your client to three months. You had better book a cab for yourself and your client.

  Pausing for a breath and smiling, he looked over to the dock and said:

  Take him down Officer.

  Well, the footballer was in fits, farting even more. Although he didn’t have a full grasp of English, he understood it when I grabbed his arm and hauled him downstairs to the cells.

  His barrister was there like a shot, red face muttering under his breath. We were grinning all over our faces; not only did we witness the footballers demise in front of a judge, we got to see his snotty barrister being put down.

  It wasn’t long before the clerk of the court requested that the footballer’s barrister present himself at the judge’s chambers. Off he went, in a huff.

  Shortly afterwards, we were told to bring the footballer back into the dock. By this time he didn’t have a clue what was going on, but never the less, he followed me up the stairs into the courtroom where his barrister was sitting red faced.

  The judge looked over to his barrister. You may continue, he said.

  Your Honour, he began, I wish to register my most humble apology for my outburst in your court, and request that your Honour reconsider my clients sentence.

  The judge was sitting there like the cat that had got the cream.

  Very well, the judge continued, the three months sentence will be suspended. However, your client must agree to undertake community service. Looking directly at the barrister, the judge said, is that alright with you?

  Yes your Honour, most gracious of you, said the barrister, rather sheepishly.

  The footballer was released from the dock and out of the court to a mass of press with cameras at the ready. I doubt any of them knew what had really happened in the courts that morning. It had just been reported that the footballer had been given Community Service. Oh how the press would have had a field day if they knew the truth.

  I could name a few more, but I would probably get sued. Having said that, the famous faces were quite boring and mostly looked down their noses at you as though you were something they had trodden on.

  We had a few comedians, like the defendant that had obviously been in front of a judge a few times and was cocky with it. When the judge gave him six months in custody, he laughed at him and said:

  Six months? I can do that standing on my head!

  At which point the judge replied:

  In that case you had better have twelve months. We don’t want you being released from prison on your head do we? Any other acrobatic moves you would like to discuss with the court?

  The comedian stood there open mouthed.

  You can’t do that judge, he said.

  His Honour replied, I think I can. In fact, I can do it without acrobatics, just sitting in my chair. Take him down Officer, before he ends up with a life sentence, he said, looking over to me in the dock.

  We were off down the stairs like a shot, the prisoner giving it a good round of fucks!

  The best ones were the nightclub bouncers, they were always arguing with their solicitors or barristers. Great fun in the dock when they interrupted the judge; the judge would turn all colours of the rainbow – how they dare interrupt the judge in THEIR court!

  The bouncers were normally ok with us. We were just doing a job, just like them. You could have a laugh with them.

  I was in the dock one day with this bouncer who had been convicted after a trial of assault and actual bodily harm – ABH. He was not happy and started shouting, first at the jury, calling them all blind wankers and then at the judge, who he called a fucking turnip head. The judge, quite rightly, told us to take him down, after sentencing him to nine months in prison.

  He was having none of it. He jumped over the dock and went for the judge. We went over the dock in pursuit. He shook me and Tino off like rag dolls when we grabbed him, but our actions gave the judge enough time to duck out of the court. Out of the door he ran, me and Tino after him down the corridor and out into the street. In time-honoured fashion, I ran straight into the main door of the court, sending me spinning sideways into a group of solicitors and men with wigs on. I was in full uniform, tunic jacket and thick itchy trousers: standard dress for crown courts. The bouncer was in an expensive light grey suit, tailored white shirt and one of those thin ties that all the bouncers wore. He was quite short and stocky, with a very shiny bald head. It looked as though he had polished it for the occasion. It was quite easy to spot his shiny bald head in the crowd, bobbing up and down.

  It was a hot day, a very hot day.

  Shouts of Mind where you’re going, you buffoon! followed me as I ran full pelt after my quarry. Now, let me tell you, chasing after a villain is nothing like the movies. No one gets out of the way and everyone cheers the villain with shouts of, Go on my son, don’t let the bastards get you! You’re on your own, with heroic thoughts of catching the escaped prisoner. You go over what you are going to say in your head when you catch him. You’re nicked! and You are under arrest! flash through your mind, the feeling of euphoria when gaining on the villain, ready to make good your capture.

  I was sweating like a pig in my uniform, but I wasn’t going to give up, oh no; this was my chance to play the hero!

  I got as far as East Croydon station, when he stopped, out of breath.

  Ha! Caught him!

  Ha! Not likely! As I got close to him, about to grab his arm, he put his arms up in surrender, and then changed his posture to a Kung Fu pose. I stood square, turning slightly to the left so as to make a smaller target for him if he decided to kick me.

  Leave it out mate, the bouncer said, I ain’t going nowhere wiv you!

  Sorry, but I’m going to take you back to court; you’re in my custody, I said.

  Don’t think so mate, the bouncer replied, and with that, he head-butted me and left me on the pavement, blood pouring from my nose. This was in front of a jeering crowd who had just got off the 2.15 from London Kings Cross. I don’t know what was redder, my shirt with the blood, or my face with the humiliation and embarrassment.

  Tino was behind me and sirens were wailing. I was on my hands and knees, not wanting to get up and face the jeering crowd.

  A bit young for a screw, a fat woman was saying to Tino.

  Bit old for puppy fat aren’t you, he replied. Tino had a dry sense of humour. I stood up laughing and spitting blood. The jeering crowd dispersed, not want to get covered in my claret.

  The police came, along with an ambulance. My nose was broken and one of my bottom teeth was loose and my pride was damaged. Not like the movies at all!

  The bouncer was soon caught. Apparently, he had cut his head on my tooth and was bleeding down his £200 shirt. The poor sod.

  The judge gave him another four months for doing a runner and assaulting me.

  Result!

  Friday was the busiest day in crown courts. It was normally sentencing da
y; the clerks would fix it for the judges to have the trials during the week, with sentencing on a Friday so everyone could get off early. We called it P.O.E.T.S. day – Piss Off Early, Tomorrows Saturday. It was a nightmare for the prison Officers; you never knew what time you were going to get home. It was our job to transport all those who had been given a custodial sentence to the appropriate prison. The worst, by far, was HM Prison Holloway, a female prison in Islington, North London. It was the last place you could possibly want to go in the rush hour on a Friday.

  We would call upon one of the female reception staff to come along with us for the sentencing day, and usually it was Rebecca. Becky was a forty-one year old mother of four blond-haired, blue-eyed boys. Her husband owned the local gym and was like the Muscles from Brussels, but a really nice bloke. Becky was a stunning woman who was everyone’s friend, a good Officer and a hard worker. She never used her looks or her figure to get favours and we all liked her for that. We needed a female Officer to search any of the women who were sentenced on that day.

  Becky was on holiday, so we got the only other female Officer.

  Maggie was a fifty-something barrel of a woman with thick glasses, a bad hair do and a nasty temper. She did not want to go with us to the courts, especially on a Friday, because her finish time was five o’clock sharp. She needed to get home to let her dog out, a small terrier type thing that looked like a rat on a stick. We used to laugh at the way she fussed over the dog. Her husband would drive all of the hundred yards from where they lived at the end of the street to collect Maggie. He would have the dog on a lead from the car across the ten feet or so to the front gate, where Maggie would immediately pick up the dog and start rubbing it in her face. The poor thing must have been horrified, having a fat woman that needed a shave rubbing herself on its face.

  Anyway, we were stuck with Maggie for the day. Even the court staff were disappointed; they were hoping for a chat with Becky, and ended up coming face to face with a bearded fat woman with a bad temper. Maggie did not put herself out for anyone. She was slow, rude and unhelpful. She refused to go up into the courtroom, claiming that as a reception Officer it was her job to stay down in the cell area to book people in and out, which she did – painfully slowly.

  On this occasion we had a woman being sentenced for possession of drugs with intent. We knew that it would result in a custodial sentence and we would be taking a trip to Holloway. Maggie was unhappy about this. She was mumbling under her breath all day about being late back to the jail.

  The woman turned up late for her slot in the court and the judge was getting restless. She had been drinking and wobbled around on high heels, which were inappropriate for a woman of her age. She wore tight jeans, a tight white-ish blouse that you could see her deep red bra through and a sort of beehive hairdo that looked as though it would fall off her head any minute. She had a number of aliases and dates of birth, so we weren’t sure what her age was. She looked sixteen from the back and sixty-four from the front, so we called her Kronenbourg.

  Maggie was as usual, taking her time to book her in. Despite the courts ringing down for her half a dozen times, she would not speed up. In the end, one of the clerks of the court came down to fetch her, a formidable woman who was more than a match for Maggie. Kronenbourg was swiftly marched upstairs to number two court where the judge was, by now, fuming, his Friday afternoon game of golf now history. He was even less impressed when the first words that came out of Kronenbourg’s mouth were: I want a piss.

  He sent her back down to the cells. The clerk promised the judge that she wouldn’t be a moment. Kronenbourg went into the ladies and stayed there. She refused to come out, claiming the judge had got it in for her (too right) and she wouldn’t get a fair hearing, Maggie, to her disgust, had to retrieve her and take her back to the courtroom, where the judge was waiting. I don’t know how Maggie managed to extract the woman from the ladies toilet and get her to return to court, though I suspect that there were some threats involved.

  In the end, the woman got five and a half years. Which, to be fair, was about normal.

  She was the last to be sentenced and we were packing up ready to leave. Maggie, as usual, was holding everyone up with her inability to move any faster than a snail. Maggie demanded to sit in the front of the prison van, even though prisoner’s property was supposed to be there to keep it separate from our charges. This was because none of the property had been searched and we had no idea what was in there. We couldn’t take any chances. She was also supposed to be cuffed to the female prisoner. However, we were quite happy on this occasion, because we would not have to listen to Maggie moaning all the way and because she would frighten anyone who tried to look into the van.

  On our arrival at Holloway we parked as normal outside the reception area. Immediately after we stopped we could hear soft tapping noises against the roof of the van. We knew what it was. Maggie didn’t; she had never been to Holloway before.

  Maggie had to get out of the front of the van to the side door where she would have to escort out female prisoner, who was snoring loudly, to the reception desk. The desk was under cover and out of sight of the cell windows of the adult female unit. While Maggie was in there, the driver would turn the van around in the courtyard ready for a quick exit. We didn’t want to be in there too long, the passenger door now being in full sight of the female unit.

  What Maggie didn’t know was that the tapping noise, was actually used tampons being thrown at the van from the female unit. The women would hang out of their cell windows and swing their used tampons like catapults to try and hit the van. When Maggie came out of reception and headed for the passenger door she was pelted with used tampons. By the time she got into the van, shouting and screaming at the women who were using her as target practice, she looked like Mrs. Blobby.

  Maggie refused to come with us again.

  Sometimes we had high profile cases. We were briefed on these prior to taking the prisoners to the court. Some were going to last a number of weeks and we were allocated an individual prisoner so that we could monitor and report on him on a daily basis throughout the trial. The prisoner I was responsible for on one such occasion was one of the top men involved in trafficking, drugs, prostitution, money laundering and murder. He was quite an intelligent and polite man, with an easy sense of humour. He did not seem a bit bothered about the trial or the fact that he was facing a life sentence if convicted. He was about fifty, well dressed with silvery grey hair at his temples, well-manicured fingers – someone used to the trappings of the high life. He looked more like a politician than a criminal. But then again, some politicians look like criminals.

  We had a police escort to and from the courts, usually a motorcycle outrider in front with police car following us up at the rear. In the courts, there were three of us in the dock; one sitting next to the prisoner (me) and two just behind at the top of the stairs, out of sight of the judge, who insisted that only one Officer should remain in court with the accused. After all, he was not guilty of anything yet. There was a veritable feast of highly paid and highly strung barristers, solicitors and hangers on, with the public gallery being full to bursting, mainly press. Although reporting restrictions were in place, it didn’t stop them from making notes and drawing their pictures.

  The trial itself was long and boring. The prisoner had three other accomplices with him who, like our man, were constantly leaning over and whispering something or passing notes to their briefs. They, like our man, were given police escorts to and from the courts. However, they were split up between different jails so they couldn’t hatch any plans. Or so we thought.

  At the end of the trial all were found guilty and all were remanded in custody until a date to be fixed for sentencing. All were warned that they were facing life in prison.

  It had been a late day for all of us. The jury wanted another night in the hotel for deliberations. The judge wasn’t having any of it. He kept sending them back into the jury room to consider the verdic
t. In the end, they got the message that they were not going to spend another night at the taxpayers’ expense, so a verdict was reached about seven in the evening.

  Good for us – the traffic would be lighter and we would get back a bit earlier.

  Bad for us – the police escorts wouldn’t wait, they were finished at six.

  It didn’t matter, the traffic was light and we were steaming along at a good pace without the police escorts. We were all in high spirits, the trial was coming to an end and we could all get back to normal.

  Normal seemed far away when a skip lorry shunted us from behind. We didn’t see the black transit pulling across the front of our prison van until it was too late. Four men, two with sawn off shotguns and two with baseball bats, got out of the black transit. They were all wearing black ski masks and boiler suits. It was like something out of The Sweeny. Our driver immediately put his hands up. The first man with a shotgun was drawing a finger across his throat, indicating that our driver should cut the engine. No one was going to be a hero – the engine died.

  My man, knowing I had the keys to the cuffs he was wearing, asked very politely if I could do the honours, holding up his wrists, the key holes facing me. The men with shotguns were gesturing to my colleagues to open the side door. One of the Officers with me was shaking his head, while the other was nodding.

  For fucks sake, open the fucking door, I shouted, remembering our briefing – don’t put your life on the line for these scumbags. We can always get the scumbags back – we can’t bring you back to life.

  And with a slight wave of his hand and a farewell adios, our prisoner was gone.

  Everything seemed to have happened in slow motion. Although it was only minutes, it seemed like hours. When it was all over, we just sat there looking at each other in shock. We were all shaking in our boots; no one could say they weren’t shitting themselves with sawn of shotguns pointing at them.