A Good Man Inside

Diary of a White Collar Prisoner

Phillips, Will

• Publisher: Waterside Press
• Year: 2014
• Print ISBN: 9781909976030
• eBook ISBN: 9781908162717
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Criminology
• Index: Social Sciences

A Good Man Inside is the diary of one man's experiences of his time in prison written over 300 days as he reels from and makes sense of being under lock and key. A white collar criminal he sees himself as someone who should not really be in prison — as 'a good man' for whom his incarceration is doubly punitive, not practically necessary or achieving much other than the degradation and powerlessness of being in prison. But as time passes he accepts his fate and settles down to the regime, helping others and using the experience to best advantage. The book takes the reader through the day-to-day minutiae of prison life, prison conditions and the strange language of prisoner interchanges, hygiene, mental health and prison food. It emphasises the different worlds of captors and captured and deals with the preoccupations of someone who has known better times and wishes to get back to what is left of his life and family and start all over again. Captures the essence of the sudden incarceration of a previously respectable white collar offender whose reputation and comfortable life have been turned upside down. Not only from self-interest, does he try to explain the futility of locking up people like himself making the book of interest to prison reformers as well as general readers.Set out as a diary and very easy to read.Illustrated by the author.Humorous, sometimes dark, critical, insightful and of particular interest to prison reformers.

Introduction

I always believed myself to be a good man. So how is it that I found myself behind bars in one of England’s most grim Victorian prisons? After a childhood filled with unhappiness, my adulthood had been blessed with contentment until another sadness struck to the heart of me. A deep and dark depression.

What brought it on? A change of fortunes, a run of bad luck? A mid-life crisis, or a nervous breakdown? A combination of all the above maybe. But I think I now know what it was that began the rot. It was an overwhelming sense of so much loss.

My daughter had flown the nest, my businesses had failed and been taken away, the family home had been re-possessed, and I was on the verge of divorce from my wife of 25 years. I was bankrupt in every way!

Whatever the reasons that influenced me, my actions and wrongdoings had led me to this dreadful place. The banging of the prison cell doors, the jangling of the jailer’s keys and the howling of the inmates would help me loose another piece of my already lost mind.

But I told myself to hold on. Probation had told me to only expect a suspended sentence. Therefore, I would win my appeal and my four year prison sentence would be judged to be excessive. I would be free in no time at all. Everything would be alright.

Thank God I didn’t know then what I do know now! This is a story about people, both good and bad, and those of us that walk the line in-between.

The Warrior of Light unwittingly takes a false step and plunges into the abyss.

Ghosts frighten him and solitude torments him.

His aim had been to fight the good fight; and he never imagined that this would happen to him, but it did.

Shrouded in darkness, he contacts his master.

‘Master, I have fallen into the abyss,’ he says. ‘The waters are deep and dark.’

‘Remember one thing,’ replies his master. ‘You do not drown simply by plunging into the water. You only drown if you stay beneath the surface.’

Day 1: A Broken Man

I had been ordered to appear in court at 1.30 pm for sentencing. However, an earlier trial had overrun it’s allotted time, meaning that I was taken away in handcuffs and kept in the cell below court until the previous hearing was concluded. Little did I know just how much this ordeal would pale into insignificance when compared to the suffering that awaited me in the months to come.

Fate had ordained that the trial in question, and the reason for my early incarceration, related to a man whose company I would have to tolerate 24-hours a day, seven days a week for the next two months. In the beginning I would help him survive the shock of imprisonment we both suffered but ultimately he would become my nemesis.

This would not be my first taste of incarceration but it was my first taste of imprisonment. Following the death of my father my childhood was interrupted by a deep and dark depression treated with sabbaticals to asylums in Devon and Cornwall, in tandem with a small, or large, dosage of electric shock treatment. I cannot remember how much. In fact, I can’t remember anything at all because of the electrocompulsive therapy (ECT). Although I can testify that ECT does not work, as it was my second major depressive disorder, combined with prescription drugs and excessive alcohol that resulted in my changed behaviour and helped explain my illicit actions.

My estranged wife sent a friend to report on the day’s events. But other than that in the courtroom I had no benefactors. I was friendless and defenceless. The probation officer conducted an interview with me before sentencing and the pre-sentence report, which contained a potted history of my life — the highs, which were not inconsiderable, and the lows — concluded that I deserved a suspended sentence. Judge Willington however, was reading a different misleading script.

He described me as ‘A man who lived beyond his means and lied to his family to maintain their lifestyle.’ In his closing address to the court, he remarked that he was sending me to prison ‘a ruined and broken man.’ That is what he wanted for me. That and a harsh four year exemplary sentence to make sure. However, he was wrong, he did not know me. I had other plans, which included a future. He took away my money and belongings, but was powerless where it really mattered. I retained the few people who loved me and their motivation to carry on helped me use my talents to pursue my hopes and dreams.

I intend to write this journal, day-by-day, so the events will be fresh in my memory. Today I went to Crown Court, to be sentenced with high hopes of returning home tonight. The judge’s closing remarks included the words ‘ten years plus sentence’ if he tried to sentence each crime individually. But, as if doing me a big favour, he would settle on four years. I went into court hoping for a suspended sentence and left feeling relieved I only got four years. The judge dismissed the pre-sentence report, suggesting a suspended sentence, and any mitigating circumstances, such as my four year depression and addiction to prescription drugs. Any previous good character and having no previous convictions were not mentioned. My solicitor said little and probably busied himself with thoughts of his next Mercedes Benz.

The journey from court to HM Prison X took forever, literally. Prisoners are cooped up in seated cubicles (sweatboxes) inside a van with the provision of a small window. We passed landmarks of two counties I’d become so familiar with — roads and turnoffs Karen and I had recently visited on our way to enjoying nice times. Sadly, I knew this trip wasn’t going to be so much fun. You could say I had devoted my life to Miss Kitty since my breakdown and she had become my reason for living. She hasn’t had the best run of good fortune — that includes meeting me! I hope before the end of this diary I will be able to report some good news and an end to her run of bad luck, mine too.

HMP X is an austere Victorian building, straight out of the Hammer House of Horrors. A rambling, blood-red brick edifice covered in barbed wire with a token pot plant to encourage hope. All the men who arrived with me at the prison took the shocking experience in their stride, except one. Charlie ‘I shouldn’t be here!’ Bass cried his way through admission all the way to his cell. As I write this, his alarm bell is ringing continuously, but other than setting him free there’s nothing his jailers can do for him. I’ve quickly learned that you must remain positive and stay focused, otherwise you’ll drown in the negativity of your predicament.

The media report that prisons are like Butlins. I don’t think Butlins would still be in business if it conducted its holiday camps like Colditz. The first thing required is the Hotel Inspector to sort out the bedding and the breakfast!

Tomorrow I will try to explain the apparition I experienced whilst in bed on my first night, and even more difficult to describe, prison food.

Day 2: My Angel

The cocktail of anti-depressants prescribed during my last nervous breakdown period, and the negative effect they had on my behaviour persuaded me not to employ their dubious benefits when offered them on arrival at the prison. Therefore the spiritual experience of the first night cannot be explained away by medication.

As if the sleeping arrangements aren’t bad enough, we have a prison cat, which prowls and howls his way through the night. Combine this with cigarette burnt sheets, holier than the Pope, a mattress thinner than a water biscuit and sleep is the last thing on your mind. I think I was half awake lying on the top bunk, listening to HMP cat when a woman bathed in a golden glow lay beside me. I was filled with an overwhelming feeling of happiness and calmness. Was it the Virgin Mary or just a compassionate angel, or was it indeed Kitty visiting in spirit, to comfort me and repair my broken soul. Whatever it was, hope it happens again… soon!

I’ve never believed in things you can’t feel or touch but if it happens again I could be converted. One thing I’d rather not touch again is prison food. I’m beginning to think that it consists mainly of… perhaps I better not say what in writing.

It wouldn’t be a great hardship to embark on a hunger strike. I’m starting to miss Farley’s Rusks and other baby food products. I don’t think prison life will begin in earnest until I’m moved upstairs to the prison proper. Tonight there are angry, scary noises resonating from the cells there: shouting, swearing and (without sounding racist) some good chimpanzee impressions. I’d rather be locked up with real monkeys. There would be more conversation.

Day 3: God, Where Are You?

The day starts at 8.05 am with a continental breakfast of Weetabix, yesterday’s toast and a sausage sadder than the inmates. I’m going to make an attempt at escaping my cell and attending prison chapel later today.

The Sunday Service was the best experience I’ve enjoyed since Thursday — the prayer of thanksgiving, not sure what I’m thanking God for — moved me to tears and was followed by Holy Communion, the taking of wine and bread, Jesus’ flesh and blood. Reverend Bill explained that we were all travelling on a journey; hope it’s not a one-way fare! A journey forward, that our past was behind us and that, if we open our hearts to God, the future will be bright. It will be filled with success, a career, a wife and family. Trouble is, I had all that and it didn’t make me happy. But, I’m willing to open my heart to God and anybody nice who wants to pop in.

After the service a little old lady spied me as the gentlest of the flock and sat beside me, jotting down some notes to reiterate as a prayer. I asked her to pray for Kitty, Jodie, my mother and my speedy release from this hell hole. She mentioned that HMP X is inhumane and there were plans to close it down, forever!

Day 4: Invisible Man

Yesterday I enjoyed my first shower and encountered my first homophobic experience. Being accused of being gay when you dislike men as much as you do is a bitter pill to swallow. However, I just retorted ‘I’ve had more girlfriends than you’ll serve hot meals in prison, sonny,’ which raised a scowl.

Last night should be the last night I live underground. Today I will be moved upstairs to a grown-up cell with fewer facilities. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Prison has the remarkable ability of turning a bad situation into something worse.

My experience of prison so far has only highlighted the lack of any real commitment to rehabilitate prisoners. It has been all about punishment, which is served up cold via endless boredom. I’ve only been let out of my cell for one hour each day. Thank God for this pen and paper. It’s obvious that this prison is at breaking point, too many prisoners being demoralised but too few opportunities to do meaningful work or education, watched over by too few prison guards. Considering the state of the nation’s economy and cutbacks things can only get worse unless they begin using prisons for dangerous, ‘proper job’ criminals.

I think these difficult times have helped me understand better than before how infinitely rich and beautiful life was in every way. And, that so many things one goes around worrying about are of no importance whatsoever!

There are many challenges to overcome in a lifetime and I haven’t always been able to tackle them in the right frame of mind. It might have been useful if I’d been taught cognitive behaviour in primary school. It could have saved me from incarceration in two asylums and now prison. Whenever I’ve had to face adversity, too often my answer has been to fall apart. I’ve thought for too long that I should be successful in all things, career, family life, sport and love life. That I should be smart, witty, liked by everyone. Looking back now I think I was rather good at some of the above, but, sadly, never quite good enough for my troubled mind. CBT, cognit...

Table of contents

• Copyright and Publication Details
• About the Author
• Dedication
• Acknowledgements
• Introduction