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Once I’ve finished correcting my daily script, I turn my attention to the letters. Like my life, they are falling into a pattern of their own, some offering condolences on my mother’s death, others kindness and support. Many continue to comment on Mr Justice Potts’s summing-up, and the harshness of the sentence. I am bound to admit they bring back one’s faith in one’s fellow men…and women.
Alison, my PA, has written to say that I am receiving even more correspondence by every post at home, and she confirms that they are also running at three hundred to one in support. I hand one of the letters up to Terry. It’s from his cousin who’s read in the papers that we’re sharing a cell. Terry tells me that he’s serving a life sentence in Parkhurst for murder. My cellmate adds they haven’t spoken to each other for years. And it was only a couple of hours ago I was feeling low because I haven’t managed to speak to Mary today.
Day 8
Thursday 26 July 2001
5.03 am
I’ve slept for seven hours. When I wake, I begin to think about my first week in prison. The longest week of my life. For the first time, I consider the future and what it holds for me. Will I have to follow the path of two of my heroes, Emma Hamilton and Oscar Wilde, and choose to live a secluded life abroad, unable to enjoy the society that has been so much a part of my very existence?
Will I be able to visit old haunts – the National Theatre, Lord’s, Le Caprice, the Tate Gallery, the UGC Cinema in Fulham Road – or even walk down the street without people’s only thought being ‘
There’s the man who went to jail for perjury’? I can’t explain to every one of them that I didn’t get a fair trial. It’s so unlike me to be introspective or pessimistic, but when you’re locked up in a cell seven paces by four for hour upon hour every day, you begin to wonder if anyone out there even knows you’re still alive.
10.00 am
Mr Highland, a young officer, unlocks my cell door and tells me I have a legal visit at ten thirty. I ask if I might be allowed to take a shower and wash my hair.
‘No,’ he says. ‘Use the washbasin.’ Only the second officer to be offhand since I’ve arrived. I explain that it’s quite hard to have a shower in a washbasin. He tells me that I’ve got an ‘attitude’ problem, and says that if I go on like this, he’ll have to put me on report. It feels like being back at school at the wrong end of your life.
I shave and clean myself up as best I can before being escorted to yet another part of the building so that I can meet up with my lawyers. I am deposited in a room about eight foot by eight, with windows in all four walls; even lawyers have been known to bring in drugs for their clients. There’s a large oblong table in the centre of the room, with six chairs around it. A few moments later I’m joined by Nick Purnell QC and his junior Alex Cameron, who are accompanied by my solicitor, Ramona Mehta. Nick takes me slowly through the process of appeal against conviction and sentence. He’s fairly pessimistic about conviction, despite there being a considerable amount of evidence of the judge’s bias when summing up, but he says only those in the court room will remember the emphasis and exaggeration Potts put on certain words when he addressed the jury. The judge continually reminded the jurors that I hadn’t given evidence, and, holding up Mrs Peppiatt’s small diary not my large office diary, repeatedly remarked that ‘no one has denied this is a real diary’. He didn’t point out to the jury, however, that even if that diary had appeared in the original trial, it wouldn’t have made any material difference.
On the subject of sentence, Nick Purnell is more confident, as several leading members of the Bar have made it clear that they consider four years to be not only harsh, but unjust. And the public seem to be universally in agreement with the professionals. Reduction of sentence can make a great difference, because any conviction of four years or more requires a decision by the Parole Board before you can be set free. Any sentence of less than four years, even by one day, means you are automatically released after serving half your sentence, assuming you’ve been a model prisoner. You’re also eligible for tagging, which knocks off another two months, when you are restricted to your ‘chosen place of residence’ between the hours of seven pm and seven am the following morning.*
We go on to discuss whether this is the right time to issue a writ against Emma Nicholson for hinting that the millions of pounds I helped raise for the Kurds didn’t reach them, with the twisted implication that some of the money must therefore have ended up in my pocket. Nick points out that Sir Nicholas Young, the Chief Executive of the Red Cross, has come to my defence, and even the Evening Standard is saying I have no case to answer. Alex tells me that several articles are now being written in support of my position, including one by Trevor Kavanagh in the Sun. He also points out that the Daily Telegraph had a tilt at Max Hastings.
I tell Nick that I want to issue a writ against Ted Francis to recover the £12,000 I loaned him, and for claiming that over twenty years ago he’d seen a Nigerian prostitute climbing out of my bedroom window. This is quite an achievement as Francis and I stayed at different hotels and my room was on the top floor. I do hope the poor girl was a member of the Lagos mountain rescue team.
My legal team understand my anger, but want to wait until the dust has settled. I reluctantly agree, but remain unconvinced. I can’t help remembering that when I complained to Nick about Mr Justice Potts’s prejudiced attitude during the pre-trial hearings and the trial itself, he advised me against raising the matter with the judge in chambers, saying it would only exacerbate the problem.
On the hour I leave them to return to their world, while I am escorted back to mine.
12 noon
I take one look at what they’re offering at the hotplate for lunch, and return to my cell with an empty plastic plate. I add a packet of crisps to my opened tin of Spam, before pouring myself a mug of cranberry juice topped up with Highland Spring. My supplies are already running low.
2.00 pm
Mr Weedon comes to my cell to let me know that I have a personal visit at three o’clock.
‘Who?’ I enquire.
He checks his list. ‘William and James Archer.’
I am about to suggest it might have been more considerate of someone to warn me yesterday rather than tell me a few minutes before my sons are due to arrive. However, as Mr Highland has already threatened to place me on report for such insolence, I decide to keep my counsel.
3.00 pm
Over eighty prisoners from all four blocks are streaming towards the visitors’ area. On the long walk to the other side of the building, I come across some inmates from my short stay on House Block Three. It’s rather like meeting up with old school chums. ‘How are you?’ ‘What have you been up to?’ ‘Have you met up with…?’ When we arrive in the waiting area, the search is far more rigorous than usual. Del Boy had already warned me that this is the one time the staff are nervous about the transfer of money, drugs, blades, knives, even guns, and anything else that might be passed from a relation or family friend on to a prisoner. I am pleased to discover that my own search is fairly cursory. After the search, I am asked to place a yellow sash over my shoulder so I look like a child about to go on a bike ride. This is to indicate that I’m a prisoner, so that I can’t stroll out with my sons once the visit is over. I’m bound to say that I find this tiny act humiliating.
I’m then ushered into a room about the size of a large gymnasium. Chairs are set out in five long rows marked A to E. I report to a desk that is raised three or four feet above the ground, and another officer checks his list and then tells me to go to C11. All the prisoners sit on the right-hand side, opposite their visitors who sit on the left. There is a small, low table in between us which is screwed to the floor, and is meant to keep you apart. There is also a balcony above us that overlooks the whole room, with even more officers staring down on the proceedings to see if they can spot anything being passed across the tables below them. They are assisted by several CCTV cameras. A notice on the walls states that the tapes can be used as evidence for a further prosecution, and in capitals adds: THIS APPLIES TO BOTH PRISONERS AND THEIR VISITORS.
I walk down three rows to find William sitting on his own. He jumps up and gives me a big hug, and I’m reminded just how much I’ve missed him. James, he tells me, is at the canteen purchasing my favourite beverage. He appears a few minutes later, carrying a tray of Diet Cokes and several KitKats. The boys laugh when I pull all three Cokes towards my side of the table, and make no attempt to offer them even a stick of the KitKat.
Will begins by telling me about Mary’s visit to Strathclyde University, where she made a short statement to the press before delivering her lecture. She began by remarking that it was the largest turnout she had ever managed for a lecture on quantum solar-energy conversion.
Will is not surprised to learn that I have received over a thousand letters and cards in the first few days at Belmarsh, and he tells me there are almost three times that number back at the flat. Support is coming in from every quarter, James adds, including thoughtful statements from John Major and George Carey.
