I Plead Guilty
9th May 2013
"Honey I'm home." Brendan sings cheerfully.
He walks into the cell, taking the cup of tea and a half eaten rich tea biscuit out of his celly's hands.
"Just help yourself then."
"I miss dinner, a man's gotta eat." Brendan shrugs, gulping back half the contents of the cup in one go.
Used to his food being taken at this point, he stands to make himself another cup of tea without any further complaint. Brendan is behaving unprecedentedly casual, as if today is just like any other day. Robin wants to follow suite, but he can't hold it in any longer, needs to know what happened.
"How did it go?" He speaks with his back turned to Brendan, eyes unwaveringly set on the steam hiss of the boiling mini-kettle.
"It went."
"It went?" He questions, idly playing with the tea bag now floating in his mug. "Bren today was the last day of court, you have to have more to say than 'it went'."
Shortly after being arrested Brendan had been denied bail, expectedly. On the 7th of May his time on remand at HM Liverpool Prison has come to end and his summons date had finally arrived. The last three days have been spent in a courtroom, with journalists, barristers in wigs and a district judge sitting sure and pompous on his throne. His case was also open to the public, morbid freaks, groupies and those there simple to see the murderer punished.
For the first two days the Bench heard the entire prosecution case and then arguments from the prosecution and defence before ruling on the issue. Today, the last day of his case Brendan returned to court for sentencing, the Bench taking into consideration the police reports, along with evidence and witness statements.
"The Magistrates Court has concluded that as a more serious offence my case should be committed to the Crown Court, to be dealt with by a judge and jury."
"When?"
"Three months."
"Three months? Three more months of fucking limbo?"
"Apparently not serious enough to for a speedy trial."
Prisoners such as Brendan and Robin with longer sentences refer to time on remand as limbo. It is a time of unknown, oblivion. The only thing you know unquestionably is you will be serving time, you will not be found to be 'not guilty' and 'time served' isn't on the cards. Prison will be your home for an extensive period of time, but the justice system hasn't seen fit to tell you for how long exactly. Not having a release date, not knowing how much time you have left, it can be torture.
Jim had warned Brendan that this out come was more than likely, especially as he has only pleaded guilty to two of the five murders, Danny and his father. Jim was adamant on arguing to reduce the other three charges, in order to avoid a full life order. He was still attempting to claim Involuntary Manslaughter for Mick, Assisting Suicide for nana Flo and Self-Defence in the case of Walker. Meaning a drawn out cases, a jury, a High Court Judge and additional time on remand – more time in limbo.
After spending an extraordinarily long amount of time making a cup of tea he no longer has any desire to consume, Robin turns to face Brendan. The man looks fine, calm almost but Robin knows this had to be getting to him. His dad had insisted on spending all his savings on a legal team, who had petitioned the court for additional time in order to build a strong defence. This meant that he had spent more time on remand than most, with months to go still.
It may seem strange or hard to understand but a sense of clam over takes a man when he find out how many years, months and days he has. It's a type of finality, you have a release date and can just concentrate on doing you time. Brendan has been robbed of this.
Robin tips the tea down the drain, a better idea springing to mind.
"Follow me." The younger man instruct, in the most commanding voice he can muster.
Brendan raises an eyebrow. "Why?"
"You constantly give me orders, 'boy follow' and I never ask any questions. For once in your life please do as you're told." Brendan doesn't look convinced. "Trust me." He implores.
"This better be good."
"It will be." He grins.
-8-
It's late in the day, and the halls are quiet as most of the inmates are in the leisure room or already in their cells for the night. Robin vigilantly treads the familiar path to the kitchen, avoiding any guards with Brendan following.
"The kitchen?" Brendan questions. "See when I take you for a walk it's for a reason, to teach you something or pass on wisdom. This is a locked door."
"Oh ye of little faith." Robin smiles, taking out a set of keys from his jean pocket.
"You stole the keys?" Brenda asks, almost impressed.
"No, I was promoted to head of the kitchen, After what happened with Adil."
"Who's Adil?" Brendan has only bothered to learn the names of three guys in the six weeks of his incarceration.
"The Turk." Not getting any sort of recognition from Brendan, despite working along side the man, Robin continues. "Anyway, he's been smuggling in contraband, booze mostly. Apparently they arrested is supplier a few weeks back, found where the hooch was made, found out how it was all getting in, stored in cleaning bottles. Traced it all back to poor Adil." He puts the key in the lock and turns it. "Abracadabra!"
-8-
"Sit." Robin instructs.
Brendan sighs but does as he is told, and sits on one of the worktops. Robin climbs up onto the counter and reaches behind the extractor above the cooker. A half full plastic gallon bottle and two mugs in hand, he sits on the worktop across from Brendan.
"I don't do cheap, toxic, counterfeit hooch."
"This is Adil's person stash." Robin informs him while filling both mugs, "Top shelf bourbon."
"Now you're talking my language." Brendan smirks, reaching out for one of the mugs. "Sláinte."
"Cheers."
They clink their cups and both down a big mouthful, Robin coughing at the burn.
"Hungry?" Robin enquires after a moment of silence.
Brendan doesn't answer, just gives him a look that says 'do you really need to ask?'. No, he doesn't. Robin downs the remaining of his drink before going into the walk in fridge to gather eggs, milk and bread. Fifteen minutes later a late supper of French toast with lots of left over meat is ready. One portion much bigger than the other.
"If you want it you have to tell me what your lawyer said." Robin tells him, placing both plates to the side, standing in front of them to obscure Brendan's view.
"I could snap you in half without breaking a sweat." Brendan tells him, challenge in his voice.
"Then who would make that chicken and mushroom pie you like so much?"
"Extortion now, is it?"
"I learned from the best."
Brendan nods ever so slightly, conceding to the kid's demands. Robin grins as he tops up both mugs and Brendan fetches eating utensils.
Robin looks over at Brendan as they finally sit to eat. "Going to crown court, that's a good thing right?"
"How'd you figure?"
"Well you're shelling out all that money for a fancy lawyer-"
"Jim Mcginn is more of a master illusionist, conjuror of fairy tales, a 'truth' easy for the jury to buy. It will be convoluted and scandalous, by the time he's done they won't know which way is up."
"But he can get you less time, right?"
Brendan thinks about it, that's what he wanted, the reason for all this time, money and effort. He doesn't want to die in prison. But now after spending these weeks in prison without his loved ones, he's not sure if there is any point.
"That's the plan. Forty, maybe thirty-five years instead of life."
He'll be at least seventy before he gets out, the world will have changed by then, evolved. His boys will be middle aged by then with kids of their own, he may even have great-grandchildren. Cheryl will have moved on and Steven, Steven is so young and he still has a whole lifetime ahead of him.
A life without Brendan.
"But what will be left for me?" he considers aloud.
Robin doesn't answer, it's a rhetorical question. Brendan's talking to himself more than anything. They eat the rest of their meal in silence.
"I had a letter from my lawyers today, I've got a court date: July 11th."
"What is that, the Thursday or Friday?"
"Thursday."
"Mines the following Monday." Brendan tells him. "Lawyer says I'll definitely be transferred to high security in Manchester."
"Ditto."
Brendan looks up at the young boy in front of him, so fast that he almost gives himself whiplash. "Kid." Brendan mutters in such a low voice, it almost sounds like a condolence. Like 'I heard about –insert family member here– I'm sorry about your loss'. "Lawyers write that in the letter?"
"No, I've always known."
"You never said anything?"
"Not saying it out loud kind of makes it less real. But I've got a date now, there's no pretending like I won't happen. But you'll be there too."
'But you'll be there too', by this Robin means that he and Brendan can get through it together. They can be there for one and other, for support. Usually Brendan would tell him to stop acting like a fucking girl, but this boy is on the edge of cliff. He's been holding it together for months, but he could fall apart any second. Prison can break the strongest of men, God knows it almost had Brendan's first stint inside. Manchester's category A prison makes this lower security facility they currently reside in comparable to a weekend st Butlin's.
"Yeah, I'll be there too."
He says because the boy needs it, he needs it too. They drink some more, letting the moment pass.
"How much time do your lawyers think you'll get."
"Life, no parole." Robin lets a breathy, humourless laugh.
It's no funny.
"Life?" Brendan repeats shocked.
Yes, Robin has killed three people but after what they did to his sister and having to witness it. Surely there should be some kind of extenuating circumstances to take into account?
"Lawyers not claiming diminished responsibility?"
"After my arrest I spent the first three weeks in psychiatric hospital. Lawyers brought in doctor after doctor, a slew of specialists looking for just one person to diagnose me as criminally insane. But alas the search was futile, every single one of them deemed me to be mentally competent. The insanity defence isn't going to work."
Brendan is not entirely sure living life out in a mental institution is any better than life in prison. Sure it's safer, but you'd be drugged up to your eyeballs twenty-four seven, your brain permanently shut down. But in prison your brain may as well be turned off, stuck in a box like a caged animal, living by somebody else's rules. What time to wake up, when to eat, even when to exercise. Mental prison or physical prison? It's a lose-lose situation.
Brendan could spend all night debating the pros and cons between prion and a psychiatric hospital, but it's beside the point.
A jury is made up of twelve normal people, normal people have a tendency to sympathy in cases such as this. Thirteen-year-old boy witnesses the gang rape of his sister, sister dies, boy now age nineteen goes on to kill said rapists. Any juror with basic human compassion would be grasping at anything that could stop them finding him guilty beyond reasonable doubt. Even if he was found guilty, because he is guilty, he did do it. Even if the evidence in its entirety was indisputable Brendan still can't imagine a judge actually giving him life, let alone life in a maximum-security facility.
Judges like to make an example of men like Brendan, he's a thug, known criminal, cold-blooded murderer and shows no visible remorse. Whereas Robin Watson is a teenage boy, that went through a mentality traumatic childhood and as a result took the life of the three men responsible. Judges don't make examples of boys like Robin, he will certainly win over the hearts' of the public making it bad press.
"Premeditation, planning, abduction and sadistic conduct. Basically I hit the hat-trick, winning me a whole life order." Robin says, as if reading Brendan's mind.
"Why bother shelling out all that money for your fancy lawyers?" Brendan asks, because the boy seems resigned to his fate.
"For dad's conscience more than anything, he thinks he let me down, that all this is his fault. No one's letting me walk the streets anytime soon, I know it and the lawyers know it."
"Enough with the pity party, we have 30 to life for that." Brendan jest as he fills their cups.
They spend the next few hours downing a little under two litters of bourbon whiskey between them. Robin feels almost normal, talking and laughing like two olds friends catching up in a bar. Something unfamiliar to a prison happens: time is forgot and before they know it is edging towards 10pm.
buzz buzz buzz
Both men look up at the speakers in the corner of the room and then at each other. The buzzer is a warning, indicating that there are three minutes till the end of day roll call, just three minuets till they are supposed to be standing out side their cell ready for count. And they're here, in the kitchen, not even in the same building and drunk off their tits.
Both men stand up, running to the door before Robin heads back, scrambling to put the whiskey back in it's hiding place.
"Come on, come on!" Brendan screams, holding open the door.
They sprint the entire way, almost slamming into people, skidding around corners and rushing through corridors with inmates already lined up. When they finally reach their own corridor they almost run straight past the cell in their haste. Luckily the guards haven't reached them yet, some sort of dispute holding them up.
"Gum." Robin demands.
"What?"
"We stink of booze." He laughs. "Gum!"
