The Dead Ex(58)

The last three words were uttered with sarcastic emphasis.

‘Getting Billy Jones arrested.’

Why the heck had I said that?

‘Who was Billy Jones?’ asked the woman.

‘He was a boy at school who got into drugs and killed a man. The police issued a photofit. No one back home would shop him. So I did, providing they didn’t reveal me as the source.’

‘That must have taken some courage,’ said one of the men.

‘I didn’t tell anyone.’ I was feeling sick now. ‘Where I come from, people stick together. My father, like everyone else, knew he was bad news. But they also thought it would bring shame on the town if they identified him.’

‘So why did you?’

‘Because it was the right thing to do.’

‘Weren’t you scared of being found out?’

‘Of course! If the rest of the gang knew, they’d have killed me. But it was better than staying quiet and feeling bad about it for the rest of my life. That man who died had a wife and four kids.’

The first man was sitting back in his chair and looking at her.

‘You’re an attractive woman. How do you think that would go down in a male jail?’

I felt a wave of irritation. ‘My dad’s a union man. My mum died when I was young and I’ve learned to stand up for myself. And by the way, I don’t think you should ask questions like that in this day and age. It’s sexist.’

‘Thank you.’ The woman was writing furiously on the pad in front of her. ‘I think we’ve got all we need now.’

Six weeks later, after working a stint at McDonald’s to pay the bedsit rent, I came back to an official envelope.

I’d been accepted into the prison service.

It’s the day of my ‘directions hearing’.

I’d had my share of these as a young prison officer when I’d accompanied defendants to court. Each time I’d been struck by how quick they were. The lawyers outline the case and the judge makes a decision to grant or deny bail, almost as though the choice were between a cheese and pickle or ham and mustard sandwich.

This judge is a woman. Is she going to incarcerate me in a jail or allow me to go home under certain conditions? She observes me with interest as I give my ‘not guilty’ plea.

Oh God. What have I done? Desperately, I try to concentrate on the barrister that Penny has chosen to represent me in court – so confident with her navy suit and well-cut hair. ‘The defendant used to be a prison governor.’

The judge eyes me with a new interest.

‘Is that so?’

I feel myself flushing with shame. I’ve already sensed an undercurrent of glee amongst the officers who escorted me here that ‘one of the top brass’ is ‘for it’. There’s a great deal of hidden jealousy in my old profession, especially when it comes to promotion.

‘If Mrs Goudman goes to prison,’ continues my barrister, ‘it is possible that her life might be endangered because of her previous position. It’s even feasible that she might encounter criminals whom she once supervised.’

The judge does not seem moved by this. ‘But if she is convicted, this will happen anyway.’

It is all too true. I can see it now. This is an incestuous world. Prisoners are frequently locked up, released and then locked up again. Staff move around. People you knew ten years ago turn up again. There really is no escape – for either employees or the convicted. And that’s why it doesn’t do to hold grudges. Someone, somewhere will track you down.

‘My client is also epileptic, which can be triggered by stress. She would be safer at home.’

I feel myself redden as the judge’s eyes take on a new interest.

‘Is that the case? Yet surely she is on medication.’

‘She is but it doesn’t always control her condition.’

No one mentions that I sometimes don’t take the stuff.

‘In what way?’

‘She can have seizures at any time. Her memory has also been affected and she sometimes has no recollection of certain events.’

The judge frowns. ‘Then I rule that bail is denied. The defendant would be better off in prison, where her medical state can be constantly monitored.’

My worst fears have been realized. I am being thrown to the dogs! Many defendants are terrified because they don’t know what lies ahead. But I know all too well.

I will be eaten alive in prison. Inmates love it when another has a vulnerability such as mine. I once had a man with a terrible stutter who was constantly bullied. Jail can bring out the basest of natures: partly because the bullies are scared too. So they hide their fear by tormenting others. A former prison guv is a top prize. They will make mincemeat of me.

I also know the score from a practical point of view. In a minute I’ll be escorted down to the cell below the courtroom, where I’ll be allowed a few more words with my solicitor, and then into the van. Women’s prisons are divided into open, restricted and closed. I will be sent to one of the last two, where security is tight. Then I will wait there until I am tried in court. The judge didn’t set a specific date but I know from experience that it will be at least three months, although sometimes someone decides there’s a backlog and bumps things along. The barrister, meanwhile, will be preparing my case. I will be allowed legal visits once the paperwork is sorted.