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The prisoner

The prisoner thought he would prove an excellent defence counsel in his own case. He had not bargained on prison justice

By Peter Wayne   February 1999

My bags were packed. George had been informed. In buoyant mood, with four other prisoners, I waited in the transfer cell to board the meatwagon which was to whisk me off (again!) to penal pastures new. In four hours I’d be sitting pretty in one of the cushiest nicks in England. In prison parlance, I’d “had a right result.” We heard the rattle of keys outside. “We’re off, lads. In-cell tellies, here we come.” But when the door opened, a long-faced screw stood staring me straight in the eye.”Wayne. Pick up your bags and get back to the draft.”

My…

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