Almost everything you do in prison is documented but sometimes even the things you don’t do or have nothing to do with get put on your file and are stuck there forever. A few cases are written about below.
Security?
On a disclosure document I saw that I had been marked as a potential drug dealer by the Security Department.
The entry on my file actually read: “Information received that the prisoner in cell #53 is a drug dealer.” On the scale of ‘Low – Medium – High’ the quality of the information was graded as being ‘High’.
That I have never even been reprimanded during my incarceration doesn’t matter. That I never had any link to drugs didn’t matter. Some prisoner had decided to tell the security department that the guy who lived in cell 53 was a drug dealer and that was enough to have this entry on my file – forever.
But thankfully there was a caveat attached to the entry. “No unit was specified by the informant. There are 3 units with a cell number #53. [MY NAME] resides in one of those three cells.”
Really?
Further down I saw another Security Entry, graded as ‘HIGH’ which read “It is believed that [MY NAME] is communicating through an agent through an alias on twitter.”
Could that be referring to the @jailhousemoose account that was sanctioned and is monitored by the Ministry of Justice Press Office?
But it’s not just me. I’ve asked around and I didn’t have to go far to find some beauties that some of my peers had found on their files.
One read, “[PRISONER] has had £1,000,000 cash sent in to the prison.” Again the intelligence was rated as being ‘HIGH’. The guy in question was livid – he told me, “Despite numerous applications and letters they just wouldn’t tell me what they had done with my million quid!”
But perhaps my personal favourite was told to me by a great pal, Steve.
Steve worked in the Farms & Gardens party. Their job was to look after designated areas in the prison – Steve was responsible for the grounds around the chapel. He would tend the flower beds, cut the grass, clear out the pond and collect any fallen leaves and detritus. Steve was a decent bloke and a very conscientious worker – the grounds around the chapel were always immaculate. When he received his parole dossier with a full disclosure of information he came to my cell with the bundle of papers. He had his finger wedged in the dossier – marking one particular page.
“Get on this” said he as he perched on the edge of my bed, “about two years ago I was working in the chapel grounds. I had cut the grass and was just sorting out one of the flower beds when I saw a blue plastic shopping bag tangled in a wee bush. I bend over, pick it up and see that it’s empty – but rather than walk all the way back to the wheel barrow and then come back, I just stuffed it into my jacket pocket so I could finish off the weeding and hoeing. All of a sudden I see screws running from every direction. I think nothing of it, but I just rest my arm on the handle of my rake so I can watch whatever these numpties are up to. Well it only takes a second until my arse falls out – they’re all running at me!”
He jumps up from the bed and raises his hands in surrender – acting out the story. Great man for a yarn was Steve.
“Anyway, they start shouting at me to drop the tools – so I do and I stand there hands up wondering what the fuck is going on. All of a sudden there are five of them all around me – radios are crackling and through the fence I see even more screws charging to see what the alarm is about. Two of them grab my arms and start twisting me over while a third one is listening to the radio – I can hear a voice saying front right jacket pocket. Well this third guy comes over like Columbo and smiles as he pulls the blue plastic bag from my pocket. But he starts frowning when he sees it’s empty. The three musketeers then start giving me a rub down search – emptying everything out of my pockets – all the while more screws are appearing from everywhere. I can see that two of the high cameras are spun directly on me – people still going to and fro on radios. Then a group of screws start doing a fingertip sweep around the gardens while another pair start using the rake and hoe to start digging around the flower beds.”
He slumps his head forwards and mimics a man with hands locked behind his back “Well the three that had started with me lead me off to the Seg (Segregation Unit) as I watch the other fuckers shredding my garden. I’m put through a strip search and put on the BOSS chair – obviously they find nothing – cos I have nothing. But after I get dressed the one guy produces an evidence bag – inside of which is the blue plastic bag. He asks me, ‘Would you like to explain this?’ I tell him, ‘I think it’s called a bag. You put things in it Gov.’” Always a cheeky smart-arse our Steve. ‘Why have you got a bag?’ ‘Because it is my job to pick up rubbish in my area Gov.’
“Anyway, they get word on the radio that there is nothing in the grounds. They glower at me a bit then tell me to fuck off on my way. After that I waited a couple of weeks and when nothing happened I just sort of forgot about it. Until today. You will never guess what the fucker wrote.”
Steve opened up his parole dossier and pointed to an entry – rated HIGH it read “2PM [DATE] STEVE was searched while in the grounds of the chapel. On his person we found what could have been an improvised parachute for a drone.”
