In prison, I met a lot of men who said they shouldn’t be there. They presented detailed mitigations, and listed all the flaws in the prosecution’s evidence. The truth is though, that most of us had been sentenced for crimes we’d committed. There were very few men inside who shouldn’t have been there.
Mark, though, did not belong in prison. I first met Mark in HMP Wandsworth when he became my fourth cellmate. He was a quiet lad, with dark floppy hair which he hid behind, avoiding my gaze. It didn’t take long to realise something was very wrong with him. We watched the news; we watched the soaps: Mark couldn’t tell the difference between them. He thought everything on TV was factual. The concept of categories confused him; he couldn’t understand that two people could both be actors, or both share a first name. I felt as though I shared my cell with a very young child.
Mark struggled to function. Leaving the cell terrified him, so he only went out to get food, avoiding showers, exercise, and any contact with other prisoners. I asked what had happened to make him so afraid. ‘Some people weren’t kind to me,’ was all he’d say. He tried to make dinner, and tea, in our kettle, ruining it. Mark seemed worried I’d be angry. I just felt pity for him, this lost child in a man’s body. We found another kettle.
I felt as though I shared my cell with a very young child
Mark told me he’d been released halfway through his 18-week sentence, only to be recalled for 14 further days inside. I couldn’t see the point; an 18-week sentence provides no time for education, training or any meaningful rehabilitation. If the original sentence was bad enough, the 14-day recall seemed laughable. What could it possibly achieve?
Although Mark kept hold of his court paperwork, he still didn’t really understand why he was in prison. As I read through it, I discovered that Mark had been jailed for trying to break back into his family home, where he was no longer welcome. Mark did know his IQ: ‘I’ve been tested. I got 75. That’s good, isn’t it?’
We shared a cell for six days. As his release drew closer he became more anxious and worried about finding somewhere to live in the outside world. Mark had medical paperwork explaining his vulnerability. He hoped this would be enough for the council to house him.
People who lack capacity are not supposed to stand trial. Our system is meant to recognise that it may not be right to prosecute people suffering from a mental disorder, a learning disability, a brain injury or dementia. This makes sense; most of us recognise that someone who is not in their own mind, or who lacks a typical adult’s mental capacity, should not be treated as a criminal.
Police officers had interviewed Mark. In court, a duty solicitor represented him. Professionals questioned him. Yet after half an hour in Mark’s company, I could tell something was very wrong. Did these officials not see what I did? The Sentencing Council considers an IQ of 70-80 to be ‘borderline’, stating that people with this level of intellectual disability ‘can live independently, but are particularly vulnerable if they enter the criminal justice system’. Given Mark’s obvious vulnerability, and the relatively minor nature of his crime, I can’t see who benefited from imprisoning him.
I’ve thought a lot about Mark this week. An inquest is underway into the death at HMP Styal in Cheshire of an 18-year-old girl, Annelise Sanderson. In June 2020, Annelise was sentenced to 12 months in prison for assaulting a paramedic after trying to set herself on fire at a petrol station. Annelise had a ‘complex history of mental ill health, self-harm and suicide attempts. She had spent time in local authority care and had experienced significant trauma’.
Shortly after arriving at HMP Styal, Annelise was identified as being at risk of self-harm as she had tied a ligature in her cell. The prison placed Annelise under the ACCT (Assessment, Care in Custody and Teamwork) process, with the aim of minimising her risk of self-harm or suicide. Eight days later, her ACCT was closed.
Just before Christmas 2020, Annelise was found dead in her cell. The inquest into her death is expected to conclude tomorrow. Our prisons are supposed to hold those who have done wrong, and to keep the public safe. They should not be used to manage the difficult behaviours of people with serious mental illness or learning disabilities. People who need care, and treatment are unlikely to find it inside our jails.
Prison is a gruelling, tough place. Placing such vulnerable people inside makes self-harm and suicide more likely. We need proper assessments, and moral charging decisions; people like Mark and Annelise do not belong in prison.
Why do we send the wrong people to prison?
13
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18.01.2024
In prison, I met a lot of men who said they shouldn’t be there. They presented detailed mitigations, and listed all the flaws in the prosecution’s evidence. The truth is though, that most of us had been sentenced for crimes we’d committed. There were very few men inside who shouldn’t have been there.
Mark, though, did not belong in prison. I first met Mark in HMP Wandsworth when he became my fourth cellmate. He was a quiet lad, with dark floppy hair which he hid behind, avoiding my gaze. It didn’t take long to realise something was very wrong with him. We watched the news; we watched the soaps: Mark couldn’t tell the difference between them. He thought everything on TV was factual. The concept of categories confused him; he couldn’t understand that two people could both be actors, or both share a first name. I felt as though I shared my cell with a very young child.
Mark struggled to function. Leaving the cell terrified him, so he only went out to get food, avoiding showers, exercise, and any contact with other prisoners. I asked what had happened to make him so afraid. ‘Some people weren’t kind to me,’ was all he’d say. He tried to make dinner, and tea, in our........
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