My mate McKenzie

In my decade in prison I have represented myself – I have never used a solicitor or prison lawyer. At my parole hearing I reasoned I would have a far better understanding of my offence and my imprisonment than any ‘brief’ who might skim my dossier and ad lib the same tired clichés in front of the panel.

That I was granted parole would fairly vindicate my decision, but not all men are able or suited to representing themselves in formal hearings. In these instances, if legal representation is not available, the person at the centre of proceedings can ask for a McKenzie friend – a layperson who can offer them support.

While I have always been willing to offer peer-to-peer support to lads, I have been loathe to get involved in any disciplinary proceedings. I’m no crusader, I don’t want to be identified as a barrack-room lawyer – I am categorically NOT Spartacus. But I have made one exception.

I can’t remember the lad’s name, but he was in his mid-20’s. I greeted him on the induction unit and he asked me for help. He was a diagnosed schizophrenic and was concerned that he didn’t have his meds. I helped him to fill in the applications he needed, he knew his GP by name and the surgery address and we expressed the urgency of this matter to healthcare and to senior kangas. Over the next few days the lad’s behaviour started to deteriorate steadily. He became increasingly paranoid, refusing to come out of his cell unless he and I were the only people unlocked – even then he shuffled around the perimeter of the landings with his back always to the wall. When I collected food for both of us I gave him my plate – it stood to reason that ‘they’ weren’t out to drug me, so he threw his food in the bin and ate mine.

I persisted in highlighting the escalating issue to all, but to no avail – mental health services are like fire-fighters in prisons, their triage process is ruthless and the bar is set very high for attention. After a week the lad was moved to the healthcare unit – I was worn out and I figured he was finally going to be looked after. A week later a senior Kanga (three striper) came to the unit and told me I was needed down in the segregation unit. It was only when I got down there that I found out I wasn’t in trouble – my erstwhile ward had been nicked and had asked for me as a McKenzie friend.

I stepped into the holding cell with him and he was in a bad way. He was dishevelled, stinking, gaunt and rocking back and forth. When I asked him what had happened he told me that he had smashed his cell up. His nicking sheet read like a Greatest Hits with damaging prison property, threatening and abusive behaviour and failing to follow a lawful instruction among the classics.

I had never had a nicking (still nicking and adjudication free today!) so I had no idea what the procedure was, but I figured it would be fairly informal – wouldn’t it? How wrong was I.

We were ushered into a room with the governor sitting behind a desk looking every bit as officious and welcoming as a goblin from Gringotts Bank. The 3 stripe Kanga was stood behind the governor’s left shoulder and there was a 2-striper between the governor and the seats for the accused, along with the 2-striper that led us into the room. My pal and I stood in front of the desk and I stopped him from sitting down until we were invited to sit.

The governor looked over the paperwork at the pair of us and asked who the McKenzie was, to which I raised my hand. I will do my best to quote the instructions that I was given.

“You are here as a McKenzie friend to act in support of Mr XXXXX and that is it. You are not a lawyer. You may not address me, question witnesses or contribute to proceedings beyond supporting your friend. Is that clear?” I think he took my gulp and squirm as an affirmative.

After that he started to read out the charges and then asked for a plea. My pal looked at me and I asked if he had done the things that they described. Well that led to pandemonium as he acknowledged that he had smashed things, but wasn’t guilty of damaging prison property. The more detail that the 3 & 2 striper provided, the more confusing the matter became. The governor became angrier, my pal became more upset and I felt useless. The governor finally pronounced himself satisfied that the charges had been proven and that my pal was guilty – and technically he was right. But before the governor could hand out punishment I spoke to my friend directly, not addressing proceedings as such, but loudly enough for all in the room to hear.

“Perhaps you could ask the governor to consider some mitigating circumstances before he decides on a punishment?” I suggested. When my pal merely said ‘Yes’ I had to nudge him and get him to repeat what I had said – so he asked the governor if he could present mitigation and the governor allowed it.

“You might want to tell the governor that you highlighted your diagnosis as a schizophrenic when you arrived at reception.”

“Yes” my pal said, then getting the game he repeated the line I fed him.

“You could point out that you also informed healthcare, the chaplaincy and safer custody of your concerns on your first day in custody.”

The 3 striper behind the desk was struggling not to smile as my pal listed a litany of errors over the two weeks he had been in custody that amounted to nothing less than neglect. Even the governor had softened somewhat. When he / we had finished speaking, the governor looked behind him and asked the 3 striper if this was all true. A step out of the room and 3 minutes of phone calls confirmed all that had led to the nicking. The governor then decided that my pal was guilty of the offences, but that the contributing factors were significant.

The governor asked my pal if he had any money on his canteen. He didn’t.
Did he have his own clothing? He didn’t.
Was he in employment? He wasn’t.

I got where he was going.

“Do you like using the gym?” the governor asked.
“Not really.” My pal replied.

“You told me that you love the gym” I ventured.
He didn’t get it. The 2 striper tried to help, “I’m sure you were asking me when the gym sessions were.”

It must have been like a cartoon, all of us nodding and encouraging my pal, “Yes! You like the gym!”

Finally, whether he twigged it or not, my pal said, “I don’t mind the gym.”

“Very well,” the governor said, “You are to lose gym privileges for one week as punishment for the offences listed.” A form was stamped and signed and that was that. I was allowed to walk with my pal as he was taken back to healthcare and not only was his meds sorted, but within a few weeks he was moved to a secure psychiatric unit for treatment.

When he had been locked in his cell the 3 striper showed me the cell he had smashed up. He had demolished what was described as a high-risk smash-proof cell – the toilet and wash basin were porcelain shards and even the wires had been ripped out of the walls. It took over £10,000 of damage to reach the triage threshold for mental health services.

That was 10 years ago, before the advent of ‘Spice’ and other New Psychiatric Substances. The incidence of mental health is far higher in prison today and the triage threshold is higher than ever before.