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DAY 151
SUNDAY 16 DECEMBER 2001
7.30 am
Only five inmates turn up for early morning surgery. Linda explains that although the prison has a photographic club, woodwork shop, library, gym and chapel, a lot of the prisoners spend the weekend in bed, rising only to eat or watch a football match on TV. It seems such a waste of their lives.
2.00 pm
My visitors today are Malcolm and Edith Rifkind. Malcolm and I entered the House around the same time, and have remained friends ever since. Malcolm is one of those rare animals in politics who has few enemies. He was Secretary of State for Defence and Foreign Secretary under John Major, and I can’t help reflecting how no profession other than politics happily divests itself of its most able people when they are at their peak. It’s the equivalent of dropping Beckham or Wilkinson at the age of twenty-five. Still, that’s the prerogative of the electorate, and one of the few disadvantages of living in a democracy.
Malcolm and his wife Edith want to know all about prison life, while I wish to hear all the latest gossip from Westminster. Malcolm makes one political comment that will remain fixed in my memory: ‘If in 1979 the electorate had offered us a contract for eighteen years, we would have happily signed it, so we can’t complain if we now have to spend a few years in the wilderness.’ He and Edith have travelled up from London to see me, and they will now drive on to Edinburgh. I cannot emphasize often enough how much I appreciate the kindness of friends.
8.00 pm
Mr Baker drops in for coffee and a chat. The officers’ mess is closed over the weekend, so the hospital is the natural pit stop. He tells me that one prisoner has absconded, while another, on returning from his town visit, was so drunk that he had to be helped out of his wife’s car. That will be his last town visit for several months. And here’s the rub, it was his first day out of prison for six years.
DAY 152
MONDAY 17 DECEMBER 2001
8.50 am
‘Papa to Hotel, Papa to Hotel, how do you read me?’
This is PO New’s call sign to Linda, and I’m bound to say that the hospital is the nearest I’m going to get to a hotel while I remain incarcerated in one of Her Majesty’s establishments.
It’s a freezing morning in this flat, open part of Lincolnshire, so there’s a long queue for the doctor. First in line are those on the paper chase, due for release tomorrow. The second group comprises those facing adjudication — one caught injecting heroin, a second in possession of money (£20) and finally the inmate who came back drunk last night. The doctor declares all three fit, and can see no medical reason that might be used as mitigating circumstances in their defence. The heroin addict is subsequently transferred back to Lincoln. The prisoner found with £20 in his room claims that he just forgot to hand it in when he returned from a town visit, so ends up with seven days added. The drunk gets twenty-one days added to his sentence, and no further town visits until further notice. He is also warned that next time, it’s back to a B-cat.
Those in the third group — by far the largest — are either genuinely ill or don’t feel like working on the farm at below-zero temperatures. Most are told to return to work immediately or they will be put on report and come up in front of the governor.
2.00 pm
I phone Mary, who has some interesting news. I feel I should point out that Mr Justice Potts claimed at the end of my trial that this is, ‘As serious an offence of perjury as I have had experience of and as I have been able to find in the books’.
A Reader in Law at the University of Buckingham has been checking sentencing for those convicted of perjury. She has discovered that, in the period 1991—2000, 1,024 people were charged with this offence in the United Kingdom. Of the 830 convicted, just under 400 received no custodial sentence at all, while in the case of 410, the sentence was eighteen months or less. Only four people were given a four-year sentence upheld on appeal. One of these framed an innocent man, who served thirty-one months of a seventeen year sentence for a crime he did not commit; the second stood trial twice for a murder of which he was acquitted, but was later convicted of perjury during those trials. The other two were for false declarations related to marriage as part of a large-scale immigration racket.
7.17 pm
There’s a knock on my door, and as the hospital is out of bounds after six o’clock unless it’s an emergency, I assume it’s an officer. It isn’t. It’s a jolly West Indian called Wright. He’s always cheerful, and never complains about anything except the weather.
‘Hi, Jeff, I think I’ve broken my finger.’
I study his hand as if I had more than a first-aid badge from my days as a Boy Scout in the 1950s. I suggest we visit his unit officer. Mr Cole is unsympathetic, but finally agrees Wright should be taken to the Pilgrim Hospital. Wright reports back an hour later with his finger in a splint.
‘By the way,’ I ask, ‘how did you break your finger?’
‘Slammed it in a door, didn’t I.’
‘Strange,’ I say, ‘because I think I’ve just seen the door walking around, and it’s got a black eye.’
DAY 153
TUESDAY 18 DECEMBER 2001
10.00 am
In my mailbag is a registered letter from the court of appeal. I print it in full. (See overleaf.) The prison authorities or the courts seem to have been dilatory, as my appeal may be put off until February, rather than held in December. The experts on the subject of appeals, and by that I mean my fellow inmates, tell me that the usual period of time between receiving the above letter and learning the date of one’s appeal is around three weeks. It’s then another ten days before the appeal itself.
