A Fair Cop. Michael Bunting

       The Beginning

      8th September 1999

      Within minutes of receiving a four-month prison sentence for common assault, I was given my first taste of being locked in a cell alone and I had already received my first death threat. Prisoners had daubed their names on the walls along with short messages, most of which were obscene. Little had they known that I, a serving policeman, would end up in the same cell as them. I would be transported from Leeds Crown Court to Armley Prison very shortly. I knew the prisoners would make my life hell when they realised I was living amongst them. I sank to the floor, buried my head in my hands and began to shake. My worst nightmare had come true.

      I remember one message in particular. It read, The Ointment are back. The Ointment is a gang of hard villains from Yorkshire. I had dealt with one of its members before. He had been owed money from a drug deal and when the deadline for paying the debt had passed, he used a machete to cut off the debtor’s arm at the elbow. He even paraded the injured man up and down the street while he was bleeding profusely, demonstrating what the outcome would be for other would-be defaulters. I was now in the same cell that was once occupied by one of this notorious gang. He had used human faeces to write the message. The stench was nauseating. I was in their world now, and I was petrified. There was a bench bolted down to the concrete floor, which was damp. A metal cage welded to the ceiling protected the light bulb. I took this personally. Did they really think I would damage the light? Society was against me now. At least that was how it felt. I was being treated in the same way as the hundreds of criminals I had arrested over the past six years or so. I would not allow myself to think that I was one of them, though, and I saw my conviction as a miscarriage of justice. I hoped it would be corrected.

      There was also a musty odour, a smell I was familiar with, as most police cell areas are like this. I could hear the voices of the court cell staff. They joked about something they had seen on television the night before, and discussed who was to do the sandwich run for lunch. Everything was normal for them. Occasionally, I’d hear an officer’s radio in very close proximity to my cell door. Each time I heard the jangling of keys, my hopes would be raised that I’d be let out. I had only been locked in the cell for about twenty minutes and already felt unbearably oppressed by the size of it. It seemed strange that I was sitting in such surroundings in my best suit. I knew that every stitch of my clothing would be taken from me at HMP Armley, the notorious category B prison in Leeds, home to hardened criminals, rapists and murderers. I would be known to them, as I was a serving Leeds officer and my case was in the media. This increased my fear as I consciously tried to stop the shaking. The consequences of being sent to a category B prison could, realistically, be fatal.

      After another ten minutes or so, though it seemed like hours, my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock of my cell door. As it opened, an old-looking Group 4 security officer greeted me. He was short and slightly built. His hair was grey and greased back, his fingers were stained yellow, and he smelt of tobacco. His shirt was dirty and displayed the parts of his breakfast he’d failed to get into his mouth. Opening the heavy steel cell door seemed a real effort for him. Despite all of this, he was kind-faced and he spoke with a soft, compassionate voice. ‘Come on, kid. Let’s get ya downstairs.’ He placed his hand on my back, not as a gesture of authority but one of sympathy. I immediately liked him and, in my vulnerable state, I needed him. ‘Bet you didn’t expect this, did you, lad?’

      ‘I knew,’ I replied. ‘The bloody judge told me five weeks ago he was sending me down. Can I see my brief before I go?’

      ‘It’s all been sorted. He’s waiting for you down there, kid.’

      ‘Cheers,’ I said.

      As I arrived at the basement level of the court building, I was taken to the booking desk. There was an abundance of Group 4 security staff and a distinct lack of other prisoners. It explained why I had been kept in the holding cell for an unusually long time. This had given the officers the opportunity to get all the other prisoners locked away. They would surely have heard the news of my sentence by now, especially if it had been announced in the news bulletin on the local radio, as all my other court appearances had. Information travels fast amongst inmates and an imprisoned policeman is big news; news that would inevitably unite them so that they could plan exactly what they were going to do about it. All of the officers looked at me with serious expressions, yet I felt they were sympathetic.

      I arrived at the desk. The officer there was also quite old. He looked at me and shook his head. ‘I can’t believe they’ve done this to you, lad. What the hell is this country coming to? Are you okay?’

      ‘It hasn’t sunk in yet, if I’m honest.’

      ‘The other prisoners know you’re here, so we’ll sort you out with separate transport to the prison. I’m not letting the bastards at you in the sweat box.’ (A sweat box is a large vehicle used to transport people in custody, and on long journeys they get warm, hence the name.)

      My safety was being taken seriously, although really it was a case of when, and not if, the prisoners would find a way of getting to me for my introduction to prison life. I’d heard of policemen getting sent down before and they rarely got out in one piece. I knew that a lot of prisoners at Armley had very little to lose, so doing a copper would mean nothing to them. As the officer filled in the paperwork for my records, it seemed highly ironic when he asked me for my occupation. He hesitated, looked deep into my eyes, shook his head again and then proceeded to write the words, police officer.

      When he’d finished, one of the younger officers walked me to another cell. I was already feeling institutionalised and so I just followed him, without even knowing why or where I was going. My barrister was sitting at a desk in this cell, seemingly hiding behind his opened briefcase. He held his grey wig in one hand and opened the top button of his shirt with the other.

      ‘Michael, I’m sorry,’ he said as I walked in. ‘We never stood a chance with that judge. You’re going down because you’re a policeman.’

       ‘I didn’t bloody well do it. I want to appeal.’

      ‘We will appeal, Michael, but it will take time. There’s plenty to go at. I can also try to have you released pending appeal, if you want me to.’

      In the five weeks from my conviction to the date of my sentence, I had considered very carefully what line to adopt if the worst happened, as it had done. There were two possible options. The first was to appeal immediately against conviction and to request bail pending my appeal, which would have meant I would not have served my sentence at this time. If, however, my appeal was unsuccessful, then I would face doing my time in prison at a later date. The second option was to serve my sentence with the appeal pending, meaning that my sentence would have been over by the outcome of the appeal.

      The list at the Court of Appeal was a very lengthy one, so yet more waiting was inevitable. The stress that the two years leading up to my conviction had placed on my family had been unbearable, and my mother hadn’t coped well at times. I don’t think she could have held out for much longer. She

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