Lessons From Lifers

By Jack Newmy

What can you learn from sharing a cell with a prisoner serving a life sentence? A lot. Especially about yourself.

Meet the lifer who has spent decades in prison and knows he will never get out. Meet the violent bodybuilder hiding the voices in his head. Meet the certified psychopath trying to manipulate others. Meet the criminal mastermind working the system for his own gain. It is through these encounters that Jack understands his own flaws.

Written as a series of stand-alone stories, Jack charts his descent into the bowels of the prison system, the people he meets, and how he changed his life. A frank and honest account of the life-changing experience of prison.

Winner of several Koestler Awards.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Newmy
• Release date: Jan 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201686611

Book preview

Arrival

Overwhelming emotions affect people in different ways. Stories of wartime atrocities describe soldiers folding into a foetal state, unable to move. Others retreat into a fantasy world of their own creation. Some lash out, fighting against the invading reality. In my case, I just go numb. I see my surroundings, note the hardness of the prison van seat, read the graffiti a previous prisoner etched into the cubicle wall and hear the radio of the van driver. Emotions register, but it’s as if I’m watching a film. My mind desperately wants this to be a dream, for me to wake up into my old life, as this reality is too horrible to take in. I’m going to prison.

I guess, in a way, waking up from a dream is actually what I’m doing. For the last few months, I’ve been on a path of my own choosing, doing whatever the hell I wanted without a care of the impact. The heavy drinking was just part of my self-delusion. I told myself at the time that what I was doing wasn’t a big deal and that lots of people were doing it. I wanted mine.

What had being a good person got me? Nothing. I earned a few quid from a boring job, but nothing compared to what others had. And I knew what I had was in danger of slipping away. Too many sharper people coming up around me. It’s...or ‘was?’... just a matter of time before my hangovers caused too many missed early morning meetings and I was found out as the fraud I am. Work hard, play hard, be nice to people and then get dumped on the scrapheap leaving nothing but a few Facebook posts. It wasn’t worth caring about.

Sure, the pre-sentence report mentioned my wife’s death as one of the causes of my down-slide. That took the ground from underneath my feet. I had no more balance, nothing to hang on to, nothing to look forward to. Nothing to live for. The booze got heavier, anything to block out the dark thoughts. The job got neglected. The friends offering help got ignored. The pain was too much to bear. But the pain seeped through the booze. The only break I had from the depression was distraction. Excitement.

I saw the opportunity. At first, I dismissed it. Then it took hold in my imagination. It was so simple, just jump in and do it, like so many others. Why not? Nothing was holding me back. I’d get mine. As if I cared whether I was successful or not, or whether I lived or died. It didn’t matter anymore.

So, I did it. The excitement distracted from my pain. The drama gave me something to live for. I knew it was wrong, but the wrongness was the excitement. If it was legal, I wouldn’t have done it. Yes, I knew I was hurting others. But I told myself that people get taken advantage of every day. It was them or me. And the ‘me’ was a hollow, soulless automaton, devoid of caring for anyone or anything, especially myself. And I got away with it. At least for a while.

Deep down, I always knew I’d be caught. Perhaps that was the point. To shoot like a rocket, blazing bright, explode into colours and then crash back down to earth. A cry for help. Except now I wasn’t just hitting the ground, I’m to be buried alive.

When the cops put the cuffs on me, the bullshit I had been telling myself fell away. The shell of the inner automaton running my life collapsed revealing what I’ve done. At the police station, I got the old ‘good cop/bad cop’ routine, and I took the side of the bad cop. I gladly confessed everything, even stuff they didn’t know about. Get it all out in the open, for all to see what a selfish dick I’ve been, what an awful person I am. My solicitor flipped when I plead guilty to everything. She said she could get me off several of the charges. No, I deserve it all. Bring it on. Assholes like me deserve to be in prison for many, many years. The judge obliged. He banged the gavel after reading out my sentence, the bailiff took me down into the holding cells, and they put me in a van bound for prison.

From my little greyed-out window, I see the prison van turn into an industrial estate and then down a road lined with razor-wire topped walls. The prison. My home for the best part of the next decade.

There’s a half dozen others on the van returning from court, each of us in our own separate cubicle. Once through the gate, the van arrives at a loading area and we’re unloaded, one by one. I’m led into a holding cell, magnolia painted brick with a battered wooden bench over an unswept cement floor. The cell stinks of stale disinfectant used to mop up urine. I wait for half an hour as I guess others are being processed.

From a distance, I see my mind roaring with competing thoughts. Fear seems to be winning out over humiliation, with self-loathing following up the rear, but it’s a close race. Scenes from old prison films crop up, too, in an attempt frame what I’m about to experience: Green Mile psychopaths, brutal guards of Midnight Express, the soul-searching of Dead Man Walking, Shawshank rape.... What’s my strategy? Do I attack another prisoner on the first day to establish my rank in the prison hierarchy? Do I join a gang for protection? Who am I kidding? I’m nearly 50 and haven’t been in a fight since school. I’ll be crushed by whomever wants to bother. And I guess that’s OK. That’s how life is. You fuck up and you pay the price. My old life ended when my wife died. Then I killed off whatever morality I had by committing crimes. The judge erases the crumbs of whatever I could call a life and the prison system incarcerates the leftover husk.

From a distance, I let go. Just let it all free flow. I watch as my body is led by a guard to a counter where my voice answers questions. My hands remove my clothing for the guard to inspect. My hands put the clothes back on and the guard gives me a plastic bag of things to carry. He reads a long statement of meaningless words as I float overhead, surveying the scene: fat guards in a shelf-lined room with a long counter where a defeated convict sways on his feet.

Another man in a uniform stands in front of me with a clipboard, asking questions. ‘Do you know where you are? Do you know why you’re here? Do you feel like harming yourself?’ I have no idea how I answer but the uniform writes it all on a clipboard.

‘The first night centre is full, so we’re taking you directly to the wing.’ The uniform could not be more bored. ‘If you feel like harming yourself, speak to the duty officer on the wing,’ he recites quickly, like he’s said it fifty times a day for the last fifty years. He calls over another guard who beckons me to follow.

His hard shoes on cement floor join the sound of jingling of his keys and we walk down corridors intersected by gates. The keys go in, turn, he opens the gate, I walk through, then he closes and locks the gate behind. Then he jiggles the gate to make sure it’s locked. We go through countless gates during the walk, the same procedure for each.

Then we’re outside. The setting sun shines on rows of cell block wings, each with two rows of barred windows. There’s lawn, shrubs and concrete pathways leading between them. And more gates. The guard doesn’t speak to me as we walk, nor I to him.

We arrive at a cell block wing, he opens the door, then another set of gates, and I’m in. The guard hands over a folder of papers, my file, to the wing duty officer. The duty officer flips through my papers as I stand clutching my plastic bag.

The wing is like a big industrial warehouse lined with a walkway fronting rows of cells reached by a wide staircase at the end. It’s painted magnolia but the railings and staircase are a dark blue. Sunlight filters in through the skylight in the ceiling illuminating a cement floor of bolted-down tables, a pool table and men, many of whom stare at the newcomer. The place smells like the locker room of a school gymnasium. And there is a sense of tension; desperation and fear.

A bald officer with a grim face now holds my folder. He motions for me to stand by him. My feet propel my body while I shift the plastic bag from one hand to another.

‘You shouldn’t be here. You should be in the first night centre,’ he says. I feel as if he’s blaming me for breaking the rules. My face remains blank as I don’t know how to respond.

He continues, ‘But they’re full so they’ve dumped you on me. As usual.’ He flips through pages in my file then looks at me. ‘You’re not going to top yourself, are you? Or cut up?’ I shake my head no. ‘That’s a lot of paperwork. If you are going to do it, do me a favour and do it tomorrow when I’m off duty, OK?’ I nod. A pause.

‘Hey, look at me.’ He points at his eyes with two fingers. I look him in the eyes. He stares deeply into my eyes for a second then says ‘Right. I don’t think you’re a danger tonight. But if you are, push the cell com button and call for a Listener, OK?’ I have no idea what he’s talking about but nod yes.

‘You’re in with Ken. 32, top of the landing.’

I have no idea what that means, either, so I remain standing.

Grim bald officer rolls his eyes and, in a tone, meant for naughty children says, ‘See the numbers above the cell doors? That’s how you can tell them apart. Go to the cell with 32 written above the door. That’s where you live now. Got it?’ I nod yes.

Clutching my plastic bag with both hands, my body takes a few tentative steps towards the wide staircase at the other end of the wing. Leaving the doorway where the guards congregate fills me with dread, as if I’ve dived into an ocean with no understanding of the currents, the waves or what swims underneath the surface. Sink or swim.

I feel eyes on me as I walk. Some are glances, some are deep stares. The prisoners wear joggers or jeans and mostly blue t-shirts or jumpers. I get a peek into the open doors of cells: a jumble of bunk beds, clothes, people, tables and shelves. Tinny radios blare from a few of the cells mixing with the echoed clack of billiard balls. The staircase seems to stretch further into the distance as I walk towards it.

In the middle of the wing now, I can see the saloon door showers on the top landing and the servery area below. The shower is where the prison film rapes happen. But that’s not possible in these showers as they’re in the open. The servery area is where I’ll be expected to smash someone with a food tray to establish my place in the prison hierarchy. But it seems more like a school canteen than anything else. I see an open doorway leading to a fenced off yard. Is that where Morgan Freeman will hand me pearls of jail-house wisdom? Or is that where I get shanked?

The steel staircase reverberates as I place my foot on the lower step. I make my way up, clinging tightly to the railing, eyes focused on my shoes. The smaller my field of vision, the fewer terrors. At the top, I see a ‘32’ painted above a partially open door. The cell door is solid, painted blue, with a weird white handle and a flap-covered peek window, unlike any door I’ve ever seen. I pause, sucking in air, hoping my fear doesn’t overwhelm me.

My knees tremble as I knock on the cell door. It makes no sound, or is drowned out by the din of the wing. I push on it and put my face around the door. A large man with a white beard jumps up from the lower bunk. He grabs for the plastic remote to mute the blaring TV. He eyes me warily. It sinks in that I’ll be locked in with this man.

‘Is this 32?’ I say, just to have something to say.

‘Yes...’ He stands slowly but keeps his eyes on me, ready for action. He’s a big guy, but in his 60s.

‘They told me that I’m sleeping here.’

He changes his expression to less wary, more curious.

‘How long have you been in?’

I think he means how long have I been in prison. ‘Just arrived today.’

He visibly relaxes, no longer tensed for a possible fight. Now he looks annoyed.

‘Great. They dump the new fish on me.’ He sighs. ‘Top bunk’s yours.’ He pats the thin mattress on the top bunk. ‘I’m Ken. On my seventh year.’

‘Sure. Thanks.’ I put my plastic bag on the bunk and tell Ken my name, but I can’t help but be blown away by seven years in this place. That’s close to what I’ll have to serve. Ken’s already done what I have to do. It’s beyond my imagination.

The cell is made up of bunk beds along one wall, broken down cupboards bolted to the opposite wall, a curtained window on one end, a TV hanging a foot from the ceiling, a small plastic chair at the end of the bunk and a toilet in a wooden cubicle by the front door. There are boxes full of Ken’s stuff, clothing and papers, protruding from under the bottom bunk and the shelves are piled with other flotsam. It feels cramped and stifling but I also feel relieved that I’m not out on the wing.

‘Where’s your bedding? You need to get bedding.’ He is insistent and wants me to act now.

‘Where do I get that?’

‘See the rep. Do it now before dinner.’

‘Who is that?’

‘Cell 12 on the ground floor. Better be quick,’ and as an afterthought adds, ‘and don’t tell him anything. He’s a gossip and will tell everyone on the wing. Just get your stuff.’

I leave the safety of the cell into the noisy wing. It’s brighter and noisier now that I’ve experienced the relative quiet of the cell. Down the steps, past the stares of others to cell 12. A man in his late 30s, blonde and with glasses sits on a single bunk, alone. A single cell. What I wouldn’t give for a single cell.

I steel my nerve to say, ‘Hi. I’m new. I’m told I need bedding.’

‘Oh hi. I heard we had someone new. I’m Steve, the Wing Rep. First time?’ He seems friendly and helpful. So different from everyone else I’ve met today.

‘Yeah, I’ve never been to jail before.’

Steve smiles. ‘Same here. It’s not too bad when you get used to it. What are you in for?’

I tense, remembering what Ken said. ‘Uh, just some stupid shit.’

Steve nods knowingly. ‘I understand. Some other time. Well, first off you need a mess kit and bedding. We’ll get that sorted now.’

Steve stands and leads me out of his cell and into the melee of the wing. He continues to talk about what time different things happen, names of people and guards, but it’s all too much for me. I have no idea what he’s talking about. Within a few minutes, I’m loaded up with rolled bedsheets, a plastic bag with a duvet, towel and pillow and a plate, bowl, cup and cutlery, all plastic. Finally, I’m given another plastic bag with toiletries. I scarcely get it all back to my cell when Ken excitedly announces, ‘Food time! Get your plate and follow me! Quick!’

Ken’s not kidding. He waves impatiently for me to follow. I dig out my plate and fork we venture out. Down the stairs and into a queue of other prisoners, all carrying plates. A bain-marie has been wheeled out into the wing manned by white-suited prisoners. A guard hands them serving utensils and food is dolloped onto plates. Ken is in front of me in the queue. He tells the prisoner with the clipboard his name, and indicates towards me, ‘He’s new’. Clipboard guy looks at me and ticks something on his clipboard and shouts to the servery staff, ‘Basic!’ while pointing to me. The servery guys look and nod while slopping food onto plates.

I follow everyone’s example and hold my plate out as food is dumped on. Mashed potatoes mixed veg and some sort of stew looking thing. It smells wrong. But I keep moving and take a seat next to Ken at the small tables with attached chairs. Ken is already halfway through his meal. My stomach is in knots, so I just have a few mouthfuls and take in the scene of so many different people eating, laughing and talking. I follow Ken as he rinses off his plate in the big sink next to the servery.  I’m happy I didn’t have to start a fight, like in the movies. I follow him up to the cell, not sure what happens next.

The confusion of uncertainty persists, like a nervous person not knowing what to do with their hands. Where do I stand? Where do I go? What do I do?

I make up my bed, which is difficult as Ken lays back on his bunk to watch TV and I’m in his way. The cell feels increasingly smaller as I move around in it, made worse by the proximity of the other person. It’s as if he is on top of me, sucking the air out of my lungs. I leave the cell and stand at the railing surveying the wing. A few guys mill about but there is no purpose. They’re just killing time.

A presence arrives at my side and leans against