Page 81 of The Dead Ex
‘Then you didn’t do much good, did you?’
‘Maybe not. But it was better than not trying at all.’
‘What’s your biggest achievement, Vicki?’ This was the first man again. ‘Apart, of course, from your first-class degree?’
The last threewords were uttered with sarcastic emphasis.
‘Getting Billy Jones arrested.’
Why the heck had I said that?
‘Who was Billy Jones?’ asked the woman.
‘He was a boy at school who got into drugs and killed a man. The police issued a photofit. No one back home would shop him. So I did, providing they didn’t reveal me as the source.’
‘That must have taken some courage,’ said one of the men.
‘I didn’ttell anyone.’ I was feeling sick now. ‘Where I come from, people stick together. My father, like everyone else, knew he was bad news. But they also thought it would bring shame on the town if they identified him.’
‘So why did you?’
‘Because it was the right thing to do.’
‘Weren’t you scared of being found out?’
‘Of course! If the rest of the gang knew, they’d have killed me. But it was betterthan staying quiet and feeling bad about it for the rest of my life. That man who died had a wife and four kids.’
The first man was sitting back in his chair and looking at her.
‘You’re an attractive woman. How do you think that would go down in a male jail?’
I felt a wave of irritation. ‘My dad’s a union man. My mum died when I was young and I’ve learned to stand up for myself. And by theway, I don’t think you should ask questions like that in this day and age. It’s sexist.’
‘Thank you.’ The woman was writing furiously on the pad in front of her. ‘I think we’ve got all we need now.’
Six weeks later, after working a stint at McDonald’s to pay the bedsit rent, I came back to an official envelope.
I’d been accepted into the prison service.
It’s the day of my ‘directions hearing’.
I’d had my share of these as a young prison officer when I’d accompanied defendants to court. Each time I’d been struck by how quick they were. The lawyers outline the case and the judge makes a decision to grant or deny bail, almost as though the choice were between a cheese and pickle or ham and mustard sandwich.
This judge is a woman. Is she going to incarcerate me in a jail or allow me togo home under certain conditions? She observes me with interest as I give my ‘not guilty’ plea.
Oh God. What have I done? Desperately, I try to concentrate on the barrister that Penny has chosen to represent me in court – so confident with her navy suit and well-cut hair. ‘The defendant used to be a prison governor.’
The judge eyes me with a new interest.
‘Is that so?’
I feel myself flushingwith shame. I’ve already sensed an undercurrent of glee amongst the officers who escorted me here that ‘one of the top brass’ is ‘for it’. There’s a great deal of hidden jealousy in my old profession, especially when it comes to promotion.
‘If Mrs Goudman goes to prison,’ continues my barrister, ‘it is possible that her life might be endangered because of her previous position. It’s even feasiblethat she might encounter criminals whom she once supervised.’
The judge does not seem moved by this. ‘But if she is convicted, this will happen anyway.’
It is all too true. I can see it now. This is an incestuous world. Prisoners are frequently locked up, released and then locked up again. Staff move around. People you knew ten years ago turn up again. There really is no escape – for eitheremployees or the convicted. And that’s why it doesn’t do to hold grudges. Someone, somewhere will track you down.
