A Fair Cop

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 had seen the threat of a prison sentence hanging over me for those two years so I didn’t want to prolong it any further. I had already made the decision not to request bail. I looked at Mr Stewart, my barrister, and I felt that this was now a test of nerve. I imagined my reception at HMP Armley, and then stopped myself. I had to condemn myself to four months in prison; it was the right thing to do. Four months may not sound like a long time, but if the first twenty minutes in the holding cell were anything to go by, it would feel like a lifetime. This was without doubt the toughest decision that I have ever had to make in my life, but I remained true to my plan to serve my sentence immediately, for Mum’s sake. I had made the decision in the comfort of my own home, but carrying it out had proved much harder, now that I was actually standing in a cell.

I resigned myself to doing my full stretch in prison. I swallowed. It was painful, as my mouth was dry. I felt like someone who was trapped in a maze and, after hours of searching, seemed to have found a way out, only to realise it was yet another dead end. It was very frightening. I tried to stay focused and in control. I failed. My breathing became laboured and I had to sit down. I buried my face in my hands. ‘They’ll bloody well kill me in there. You can’t send a copper to Armley.’

Mr Stewart closed his briefcase, ready to leave the cell. He told me that he would work hard on my appeal. This was little comfort to me, as it had paled virtually into insignificance. My short-term welfare became the priority. For the first time in my life, I felt completely helpless. I was now in the hands of the prison service and the inmates at Armley. Anything could happen in there.

He slammed the door shut as he left. The lock was bolted into place making a loud metallic clunk which echoed down the cell passage. It was a sound I was to become all too familiar with whilst serving my sentence. Hearing anything similar today is a stark reminder of those very dark times I spent in prison. The silence in the cell was in stark contrast to what I had just heard and, once again, I was left with my own company and my autobiography of Tony Adams, the Arsenal and England footballer. My mum and dad had given this to me the day before as a birthday present. It was the only item I had taken to court with me, in the hope I’d be allowed to take it with me. I loosened my tie and opened the top couple of buttons of my shirt. The optimism which had been my main strength for the past two years had deserted me. I felt physically sick, as I really didn’t know how I would cope in prison. Throughout my whole service, I had been so proud of being a police officer. Now it was the worst thing in the world for me to be, but I was one, and I couldn’t change it. My fear of how the other inmates would treat me intensified. I began to think of my mum and dad. I hadn’t had the opportunity to see them since being given my sentence and I desperately wanted to speak to them, so that I could tell them that I was okay, even though I felt far from being so. I couldn’t begin to imagine Mum’s reaction. I knew that Dad would now be feeling the strain, too. He’s a tough character and had worked his way up the ranks in the police service through hard work. He’s self-educated, with few formal qualifications, which goes some way to show what a remarkable achievement it was for him to get to chief inspector, a rank that nowadays is often held by under-experienced academics with very little practical, hands-on knowledge. Dad was now Mum’s only hope of surviving the forthcoming months. I knew I could rely on him. I’d have to. I exhaled slowly through my lips. The loss of my identity had begun.

‘Boss, can I have a phone call?’ someone shouted from a neighbouring cell. (Criminals call law officials ‘boss’ when they are locked up.) This was the kind of question that I’d been asked whenever I worked in the police cell areas. I knew that, from now on, I would be asking it. I would have to ask for everything for the next four months, even a drink of water. I certainly wasn’t ‘boss’ now.

I tried in desperation to think of something positive. I failed, so I listened intently to what was going on outside my cell. I still hoped someone would open the door and tell me that a huge mistake had been made. Of course, this wasn’t going to happen. All I heard was a relentless jangling of keys and the distant slamming of cell doors. The place seemed very busy, yet in my cell I felt abandoned and alone. It was as though the world had forgotten I existed. My cell walls seemed to close in, and this prompted me to start walking around. In just a few paces, I had walked its length. I desperately searched for something to occupy my mind because I knew that worse was to come. I knew, with dread, that the fight against the boredom was going to be as hard as the fight against the conditions and other inmates. I needed to develop a strategy in order to get through the long days ahead.

I sat on the bench and tried to think as I flicked through my book. Even Tony looked frightened on the front cover. I didn’t know what to do, so I stood up again and put my face right up to the closed hatch in my cell door in the hope I’d be able to see out. I couldn’t; it was too dirty. Then suddenly, the hatch fell open with a loud bang. Two eyes appeared at the slot. ‘Stand away from the door,’ came the forceful command. I complied and stood at the opposite side of my cell. My experience as a police officer had taught me just how daunting entering a cell is when it’s occupied by an unknown quantity, which is how I would be being viewed by the officers. As the door opened, an overweight individual confronted me. His uniform clung tightly to his bulging belly, but he had a pleasant demeanour. He had an air of superiority over me because he could go home and I couldn’t. He took me out of my cell to a door which led to the outside world. Two other Group 4 security officers waited for me. One of them was spinning a pair of handcuffs around his index finger, joking with his colleague about something. This made me very uneasy. I was relieved when his expression became more serious as he saw me walking towards him. I knew that he had probably been laughing at something entirely unrelated.

He looked at me. ‘I’m sorry, mate, we’re gonna have to put these on,’ he said as he held out the handcuffs. The reality of the situation hit me again and I really did not want to be restrained. I had no intention of trying to escape and to think that I was a risk to the safety of the officers was ludicrous.

The officer handcuffed me with my hands to the front and a second pair of handcuffs was used to handcuff me to the second officer. I felt like a gangster. I looked at the officer. ‘I’m not gonna kick off, mate,’ I assured him.

‘I know, but we have to do this,’ he said.

‘I know you do, but I’m here for a common assault that I didn’t even do. I’m a bloody copper, for God’s sake.’

‘I’ve got to, mate. Sorry.’

I wasn’t annoyed with them; they were just doing their job. ‘Sorry, mate. I’m just pissed off about all this now. It’s been going on for two years and they’ve fucking stitched me up because I’m a bloody policeman.’ I realised that I was beginning to get a little too vocal. ‘Sorry,’ I said again, ‘it’s not your problem.’

With this, there was a buzzing sound and a green light lit up on the door handle, indicating that the officers could open it. One of them put his thumb up to a camera over the door. I assumed that he was thanking a colleague who had remotely unlocked the door for him. ‘Come on then,’ he said.

As the door opened, I saw a Group 4 car waiting. Large metal shutters surrounded the yard. Another officer sat in the driver’s seat and the engine was running. The two officers led me to the car. We all got in, with me in the middle. It was very cramped and finding a comfortable position with my hands chained together was impossible. The driver switched on the radio. It was as though I was being given my last taste of civilisation, freedom and the outside world. The song, How Do I Live Without You?, by Leanne Rhymes, was playing. I find the irony of the song title quite amusing now, given the position I was in between the two guards. If I ever hear it, though, I feel physically sick, too. Every so often, the officer I was handcuffed to would glance at me. ‘If it’s any consolation to you, we’re all on your side,’ he said. ‘You should have a medal for what you did; you shouldn’t be getting this. It fucking stinks.’ I didn’t tell him, but it was a consolation, a big one.

The drive to Armley Prison took about ten minutes and I cherished every second. I wasn’t a free man, but this was the nearest I’d get to freedom for a while. People driving their cars had no idea how lucky they were to be free. It seemed that way, anyway.

Then, the sight I’d been dreading was in front of me. Armley Prison is an old stone building, blackened with pollution, and it looks similar to an ageing castle. It’s massive; it has to be, as it holds over a thousand inmates, some of the nastiest criminals in the UK. It stands as a visual representation of institutionalisation and is an enormous warning to anyone contemplating a crime. The walls are high and topped with about three feet of closely coiled barbed wire. There is no way out of this place. Stunned, I shook my head in despondency. The driver pulled up in front of two large doors. They were about ten feet tall and looked Victorian. We waited. I saw scores of prison officers coming and going, as there had obviously just been a shift changeover. They all seemed so intent on what they were doing, clutching their empty lunch boxes and pacing to their cars to go home and get on with their lives. Again, I felt abandoned. No one seemed bothered about me. Why should they be? When the doors eventually opened, I was horrified by what I saw. There were about fifteen prison officers standing around. Some stood with their hands in their pockets whilst others casually smoked cigarettes. Several others swung large bunches of keys on long chains around their fingers, just as the Group 4 officer had done with the handcuffs.

‘They always fucking keep us waiting here,’ said the driver, indicating his distaste for the prison officers. There had always been an antagonistic relationship between the Group 4 officers and the staff at Armley Prison. I didn’t know why.

One of the officers approached the driver’s window. ‘Who’ve we got here then?’ he asked.

‘Ummm what’s his name, lads?’ asked the driver to the officers sitting either side of me.

‘Bunting,’ came the reply.

‘Bunting,’ said the driver to the prison officer.

‘Okay. You’ll be in, in a minute,’ said the prison officer. He seemed to enjoy his power of being able to keep the Group 4 men waiting, but sure enough, after a couple of minutes the shutter finally began to open slowly. We entered the prisoner reception yard, which was about the size of a football pitch and surrounded by high walls, which led to the main building where all the wings were. There was a door in the far corner.

The driver took us towards it and parked. He turned off the engine. ‘Bloody useless. Where are they now?’ he shouted. With this, the officer who I was handcuffed to began to escort me out of the car.

‘Get him back in,’ came a bellowing voice from inside the building. ‘Bloody well get him back in. He’s a fucking v.o.’ (A v.o. is a violent offender.) At this moment, a prison officer charged out of the building with a German Shepherd dog on a lead. He approached the car. ‘For God’s sake,’ said the driver, ‘I think they’re expecting bother from you, kid.’

The dog jumped up at the side of the car and left damp patches on the window where it had pressed its nose against the glass. It opened its mouth and displayed a jaw full of lethal looking teeth. I cowered away like a child, pulling the officer with me, until we were allowed out.

As I alighted, the prison officer gave the lead more slack and so the dog was able to come right up to me. It frantically sniffed my leg. I was scared and knew that if I made a sudden movement, the innocent sniffing would turn into something a lot more sinister. I felt resentment towards this officer; I was to have similar feelings again.

He marched me to the prisoner reception door and unlocked the handcuffs. Both of the Group 4 officers shook my hand and wished me well. It was brief, but emotional. I found it emotional, anyway. I suspected that the prison officers weren’t going to be quite so understanding. I was placed into yet another holding cell, as there were about six or seven other prisoners waiting to be booked in. This cell shocked me just like the Crown Court cell had, except this one made the one at court seem like a room at the Hilton. There were puddles of urine all over the floor and I had to pull my jacket over my face in order to breathe without wanting to vomit, due to the stench. The familiar writing on the walls was also present in abundance. The prisoners outside my cell sounded rowdy and aggressive. My being placed into the holding cell so quickly must have been unusual, as I heard two or three asking whether or not I was a beast (a prison term for paedophile or rapist). Beasts are very vulnerable when inside, as other prisoners see it as their duty to give out their own form of punishment, usually in the form of violence. I would rather the prisoners knew I was a policeman than for them to think I was a beast. Neither option was ideal, but in prisoners’ eyes, there is nothing worse than a beast.

Fortunately, the questions soon passed and the other prisoners’ initial interest in me subsided, as a prison officer tried to combat the rowdy behaviour by threatening the prisoners with a ‘nicking’ or a reduction to basic status. This was followed with a chorus of ‘Sorry, boss,’ from the prisoners. Losing standard status in prison to basic status is a massive punishment to any person in custody.

There are four different statuses in prison: basic, standard, enhanced and super-enhanced. The privileges a person receives whilst they are serving their sentence are related to their status. For example, someone with super-enhanced status may get a paying job in prison and therefore will spend much of the day outside their cell. They have more money to spend on food, cigarettes, and phone cards. Super-enhanced prisoners can even get a television in their cell. Basic prisoners, on the other hand, get nothing other than the statutory one-hour exercise period each day and the bare minimum to spend on luxuries. Basic status is avoided at all costs and therefore encourages good behaviour in prison. Every prisoner enters with standard status and, following a minimum of four months good behaviour, he can then be offered enhanced status and eventually super-enhanced.

I continued to look around the cell. It was lit only by a small amount of light which penetrated the filthy window at the top of the far wall. These walls had never been decorated. They were bare brick and appeared damp. The light on the ceiling had been ripped off, despite a once-present protective metal cage. The bench was completely covered with cigarette burns, so I didn’t sit down. Saliva dripped down the walls. I was now living with the animals I had dealt with in the years I had been a policeman.

I was hit by nausea and I felt involuntary contractions of my stomach begin to take hold. This time I was going to vomit. I banged on the cell door with the side of a clenched fist in the hope that I would attract the attention of a prison officer. I wouldn’t have made the cell any dirtier if I had vomited on the floor, but I didn’t wish to add to its sordid state.

A prison officer opened the door. ‘What?’ he shouted.

I must have looked as ill as I felt, because he immediately pointed down the corridor to the nearest toilet. I managed to get there just in time. I was violently sick for several minutes. I looked round for something to wipe my mouth on, but there was nothing, not even any toilet roll, so I used the sleeve of my suit. My legs felt shaky as I walked towards the desk where the prisoners were being booked in. I was told to wait, as it was my turn next.

The last remaining prisoner looked hard-featured. He was stocky and had a mass of tattoos all over him, including a picture of a dagger stabbing into his neck with blood dripping from the blade. He intimidated me just by his appearance. I dared not think of why he was in prison. I was trembling uncontrollably. It was cold and I already felt weak and I added to the stench of the place with the remnants of vomit on my jacket. The man stared at me, ignoring questions from the prison officer at the desk. He looked disgusted by my presence.

He took a pace towards me, meaning we were about an arm’s length apart. His eyes were piercing. He breathed rapidly through his mouth, making a panting noise as he did so. He smelt of alcohol. He screwed his face up in another look of disgust and edged even closer. He began making noises with his mouth as if he was accumulating saliva. Before I had chance to retreat, he spat in my face, and phlegm landed right on my cheek. I immediately began to wipe it off with the vomit-ridden sleeve. The officers made no reaction; in fact, they stopped asking him questions as if they were happy to let him do as he pleased. I looked towards the one behind the desk and, using facial gestures, expressed my bewilderment at the situation. The officer looked wary. I was completely baffled by what was happening, as it seemed like the man had taken control of the area he was occupying. Just as I finished wiping my face, he spat again, this time towards my feet. He opened his mouth and, with a flick of his tongue, removed his top set of teeth. I stepped back. As I did this, he raised his arm and with a swift movement punched me in the face, causing an immediate popping sensation in my nose. He laughed in my face. I felt a salty taste in the back of my throat and blood started to pour from my nostrils. I stumbled back, too scared to react other than to put my hands in a defensive position over my face. The man laughed again and said something under his breath, I don’t know what, then he turned away and walked off. With no fuss, a prison officer quietly led him away.

I bent over at the waist to prevent the blood getting onto my shirt. It dripped onto the floor and splattered onto my shoes. One of the officers approached me and unceremoniously gave me some toilet roll. My nose was riddled with pain and tears streamed down my face. I daren’t even complain to the prison officers. I hadn’t worked the place out and I didn’t want to make more enemies than I already had in there. There was seemingly little concern, though, and no repercussions for the man who had assaulted me. I saw the custody sheet on the desk. He was in for manslaughter. I wiped my nose and looked for a reaction from the staff. There wasn’t one. The next four months were going to be hell.

‘Right, Bunting. Clothes off !’ came the order from the officer at the desk. His attitude took me aback. I began to get undressed, but I found it rather embarrassing as there was no screen, and I was in full view of all of the officers in the area. There were also two cleaning ladies present, but they didn’t seem to take any notice. I guess they had seen it all before. I carefully placed each item of clothing onto the desk: my tie, my dirty jacket, my shirt, my trousers, my socks and my blooded shoes. In contrast to the care I had taken with my clothes, a prison officer then crammed them into a small box, wearing medical gloves. I wanted to ask him to be more careful with my property, but that might well have been counter-productive. This was prison, and I was an inmate.

‘I thought I said take your fucking clothes off,’ he said again.

‘Sorry?’ I asked. He pointed to my underpants, which I had left on. Surely they would allow me to remove these in private?

‘Off,’ he said. I couldn’t believe it. Another prison officer approached him and whispered something. I don’t know exactly what he said, but it instantly transformed his attitude towards me. ‘Oh, you’ll find a robe in that box,’ he said quietly. His behaviour generated a large amount of sympathy in me towards other prisoners, something which I never thought I would feel.

I placed my underpants into the box with my other clothes. The prison officer gave me a name board with my details and prison number on it: Michael E. Bunting. d.o.b. 7/9/73. DK8639. That number would become my identity for the whole of my sentence. I held the board up to my chest and, with a blinding flash of light, an officer took my photograph. Following this, I had my fingerprints taken. It was a terse task and the officer didn’t speak to me as he grabbed each finger and rolled it into the ink and then onto the paper. When he’d finished with me, I was covered in ink up to my wrists. I felt like a piece of meat. He told me to wash my hands, and I was sent to the supply room where I was given my prison clothing. The boxer shorts I was given were bloodstained. I cringed as I put them on. The T-shirt was so tight it seemed to almost squeeze the air from my lungs, and the jeans were so loose I had to hold them up to prevent them falling to my ankles. I remember there was a large drawing of a penis on the front of the left leg, drawn in ink by a previous inmate. The jumper had HMP ARMLEY written across the front of it. I wasn’t exactly likely to forget where I was, but this served as a constant reminder. One of the inmates working in the storeroom then gave me my bed pack, which comprised two blankets and a pillowcase. I clutched them under one arm, as I held my jeans up with the other. It was hard to accept that just minutes earlier I had been wearing my smart suit. Now I was wearing a degrading prison uniform, which already had splashes of blood on it from my injured nose.