When I leave Michael’s cell to rejoin the others I spot Ms Roberts, the Deputy Governor, who came to visit me when I was on the medical wing. She is surrounded by lifers. Ms Roberts has a real gift for putting these desperate men at ease.
I finally give up and join the phone queue, aware that we are fast approaching lock-up. When at last I make the one spare phone out of two a lifer who is on the other line leans over to warn me that any conversations made on these phones are tape-recorded by the police. I thank him, but can’t imagine what they would find of interest eavesdropping on a chat with my wife. A hotel operator answers the call and puts me through to her room. The phone rings and rings.
7.00 pm
I return to my cell to be faced with another mountain of mail. Terry helps by taking them out of their envelopes before placing them in piles, cards on one side, letters on the other, while I continue to go over the script I’ve written that day. Terry asks if he can keep one or two of the cards as a memento. ‘Only if they hve no address,’ I tell him, ‘as it’s still my intention to reply to every one of them.’
Once I’ve finished correcting my daily script, I turn my attention to the letters. Like my life, they are falling into a pattern of their own, some offering condolences on my mother’s death, others kindness and support. Many continue to comment on Mr Justice Potts’s summing-up, and the harshness of the sentence. I am bound to admit they bring back one’s faith in one’s fellow men…and women.
Alison, my PA, has written to say that I am receiving even more correspondence by every post at home, and she confirms that they are also running at three hundred to one in support. I hand one of the letters up to Terry. It’s from his cousin who’s read in the papers that we’re sharing a cell. Terry tells me that he’s serving a life sentence in Parkhurst for murder. My cellmate adds they haven’t spoken to each other for years. And it was only a couple of hours ago I was feeling low because I haven’t managed to speak to Mary today.
Day 8 Thursday 26 July 2001
5.03 am
I’ve slept for seven hours. When I wake, I begin to think about my first week in prison. The longest week of my life. For the first time, I consider the future and what it holds for me. Will I have to follow the path of two of my heroes, Emma Hamilton and Oscar Wilde, and choose to live a secluded life abroad, unable to enjoy the society that has been so much a part of my very existence?
Will I be able to visit old haunts – the National Theatre, Lord’s, Le Caprice, the Tate Gallery, the UGC Cinema in Fulham Road – or even walk down the street without people’s only thought being ‘There’s the man who went to jail for perjury’? I can’t explain to every one of them that I didn’t get a fair trial. It’s so unlike me to be introspective or pessimistic, but when you’re locked up in a cell seven paces by four for hour upon hour every day, you begin to wonder if anyone out there even knows you’re still alive.
10.00 am
Mr Highland, a young officer, unlocks my cell door and tells me I have a legal visit at ten thirty. I ask if I might be allowed to take a shower and wash my hair.
‘No,’ he says. ‘Use the washbasin.’ Only the second officer to be offhand since I’ve arrived. I explain that it’s quite hard to have a shower in a washbasin. He tells me that I’ve got an ‘attitude’ problem, and says that if I go on like this, he’ll have to put me on report. It feels like being back at school at the wrong end of your life.
I shave and clean myself up as best I can before being escorted to yet another part of the building so that I can meet up with my lawyers. I am deposited in a room about eight foot by eight, with windows in all four walls; even lawyers have been known to bring in drugs for their clients. There’s a large oblong table in the centre of the room, with six chairs around it. A few moments later I’m joined by Nick Purnell QC and his junior Alex Cameron, who are accompanied by my solicitor, Ramona Mehta. Nick takes me slowly through the process of appeal against conviction and sentence. He’s fairly pessimistic about conviction, despite there being a considerable amount of evidence of the judge’s bias when summing up, but he says only those in the court room will remember the emphasis and exaggeration Potts put on certain words when he addressed the jury. The judge continually reminded the jurors that I hadn’t given evidence, and, holding up Mrs Peppiatt’s small diary not my large office diary, repeatedly remarked that ‘no one has denied this is a real diary’. He didn’t point out to the jury, however, that even if that diary had appeared in the original trial, it wouldn’t have made any material difference.
On the subject of sentence, Nick Purnell is more confident, as several leading members of the Bar have made it clear that they consider four years to be not only harsh, but unjust. And the public seem to be universally in agreement with the professionals. Reduction of sentence can make a great difference, because any conviction of four years or more requires a decision by the Parole Board before you can be set free. Any sentence of less than four years, even by one day, means you are automatically released after serving half your sentence, assuming you’ve been a model prisoner. You’re also eligible for tagging, which knocks off another two months, when you are restricted to your ‘chosen place of residence’ between the hours of seven pm and seven am the following morning. [20]Jeffrey Archer – %5bA Prison Diary 01%5d – Hell (v5.0) (html)/A_Prison_Diary.html – filepos493179
We go on to discuss whether this is the right time to issue a writ against Emma Nicholson for hinting that the millions of pounds I helped raise for the Kurds didn’t reach them, with the twisted implication that some of the money must therefore have ended up in my pocket. Nick points out that Sir Nicholas Young, the Chief Executive of the Red Cross, has come to my defence, and even the Evening Standard is saying I have no case to answer. Alex tells me that several articles are now being written in support of my position, including one by Trevor Kavanagh in the Sun. He also points out that the Daily Telegraph had a tilt at Max Hastings.
I tell Nick that I want to issue a writ against Ted Francis to recover the £12,000 I loaned him, and for claiming that over twenty years ago he’d seen a Nigerian prostitute climbing out of my bedroom window. This is quite an achievement as Francis and I stayed at different hotels and my room was on the top floor. I do hope the poor girl was a member of the Lagos mountain rescue team.
My legal team understand my anger, but want to wait until the dust has settled. I reluctantly agree, but remain unconvinced. I can’t help remembering that when I complained to Nick about Mr Justice Potts’s prejudiced attitude during the pre-trial hearings and the trial itself, he advised me against raising the matter with the judge in chambers, saying it would only exacerbate the problem.
On the hour I leave them to return to their world, while I am escorted back to mine.
12 noon
I take one look at what they’re offering at the hotplate for lunch, and return to my cell with an empty plastic plate. I add a packet of crisps to my opened tin of Spam, before pouring myself a mug of cranberry juice topped up with Highland Spring. My supplies are already running low.
2.00 pm
Mr Weedon comes to my cell to let me know that I have a personal visit at three o’clock.