KC HillOn The Inside
September 9th 2008 11:35
There’s something surrealistic about being locked in the same jail you used to work in. I’d spent three years as a prison guard in the toughest maximum security jail in Australia, and now I was a prisoner in the very same jail.
As I was marched through the main gate into the jail, my wrists bound with the latest style in stainless steel handcuffs, I mused on how things had gone so wrong. I had known that I was in a rut, living out the same old thing day after day. I knew there was more to life than just teaching computer classes month after month, year after year.
Then I decided to start an Aboriginal Reconciliation group in town. The very first meeting attracted over ninety people. As it turned out, that upset some of the misguided police in town, who still thought that all blacks needed to be kept in their place.
The next day, I was arrested for the first time, and kept overnight in a cell at the police station. The charge was stealing a text book from the college I had taught at for three years. I was found not guilty, after police admitted they had actually put the book in my house during their first illegal search, then “found” it later when they finally got a search warrant.
It was at that time a former colleague from the jail I had worked in asked me to do them a favour. To pretend to be a prisoner, to talk to an inmate about a case we had worked on years before. I told him no. Way too dangerous.
After another fourteen such arrests, I was finally found guilty and sentenced, for supposedly assaulting a woman I had met at a disco. At the subsequent appeal eighteen months later, I was found not guilty. After each arrest, my former colleague asked for the same favour. I knew I needed to be worried.
The appeal judge’s decision when finding me not guilty me was made easier by the fact that the lady in question had three other men in court on the same day as my appeal, on the exact same charges, but all separate incidents. She also had eight prior matters in the previous five years, with eight different men being sent to jail, for exactly the same thing. Her criminal compensation payments from the government meant she could afford a very comfortable lifestyle. She is now in jail herself for the repeated false complaints. When her police protector was retired unfit, so was she.
The sentencing was devastating. I remember quite clearly the judge stating “I sentence you to eighteen years imprisonment.”
“That’s not good,” I thought to myself, “that’s definitely not good. Not good at all.”
My lawyer stood up and cleared his throat. “With all due respect your honour, eighteen years seems rather excessive.”
The judge seemed confused, as though he wasn’t quite sure where he was. “Did I say eighteen years?” He gave a nervous laugh, and smiled a false smile. “I’m sorry, I meant eighteen MONTHS. There, I hope that’s better now.”
It wasn’t really. Eighteen months still seemed like a hell of a long time. And I knew I had been set up. I noticed my former colleague was one of the court officers that day.
So I was marched into the jail I knew so well from when I was a guard. There was Smithy at the main gate, who I had known for ten years. He gave an incredulous single laugh, and seemed not to know what to say. He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head slowly “So I guess you’re not coming fishing on the weekend?” he asked.
I laughed, recognising he was trying to make the best of an awkward situation. “Doesn’t look like it,” I replied, taking the cigarette he offered.
I was taken to the high security section of the jail, reserved for high-risk-of-escape prisoners. There was a guard there who was new to the job, and I didn’t know him. I was stripped naked, and put in a completely empty cell, no blankets, no mattress, just a cold concrete floor and an open window with bars on it. It was snowing outside, and the icy wind blew through the cell. I had never seen this done when I was a guard.
“You’re on suicide watch,” the guard told me, with a sneer that showed he enjoyed what he was doing. “We can’t risk giving you clothes or blankets that you might hang yourself with. First time prisoners always cop this.” He slammed the door, and I could hear the bolt slipping into the hasp on the other side, then the key turning in the lock.
“Enjoy your stay at the Hilton.” He called through the door, as he gave it a hard kick to remind me where I was. He couldn’t have possibly understood the irony of what he had said, but I certainly did. The Hilton was the reason I was there. Just as it would have bearing on my life for many years to come.
Two hours later, the guard was back, with the Governor of the jail. The Governor looked through the perspex walls at me, huddled in the corner, trying to keep warm. There was a genuine remorse in his eyes, mixed with just a hint of anger at the guard. He motioned to the guard, and the door opened. The guard looked scared.
“Get this man his clothes and some blankets, and move him to a cell with a window and heater,” the Governor said. “This cell is condemned.”
The guard started to protest, and the Governor stopped him with a slow and deliberate “Keep your mouth shut.”
Then we were joined by the former colleague, who revealed the true reason for my being there. The Governor was apologetic. “We’ve known each other for a long time. I had no idea they were going to do this. I’m not part of them; you know that. I want you to understand that.”
“I know,” I replied. “Unfortunately now you know that I am part of them. That makes the job harder.” He looked a little worried about that, and left.
“You should have agreed when we asked you last year,” my former colleague stated. “Jesus, mate, I hated doing this, but we needed you, because of what you know about Denning from before.”
“You tried to set me up for his escape back in 1988.”
“That was the idiot that Tees got in to help him. Like I told you before, we can deal with him later. But it’s difficult. You know why. You can help us make that easier.”
“What about this cop you’ve had chasing me for the last year? Does he know the whole story?”
“No. He’s another idiot. Couldn’t trust him with anything like that. We didn’t tell him to get the girl involved, either. That’s the trouble with cops. They try to be creative. She’s just a local police informer. I talked to her today, and told her she would be hurt if she didn’t leave town. She won’t be back, and you’ll get out on appeal. Not much we can do about the cop, though. He thought we wanted you because you helped Denning escape.” He smiled, and I had to too.
“Nice touch. I guess I don’t have much choice.”
After that, things were better. I had a lot of experiences in the short time in jail, and, surprisingly, most of them were positive. I got a new outlook on life, and learnt a lot about people in general. Most importantly, I had the time to learn about myself. I also realised that my situation was a lot more dangerous because of the job I had been forced into.
After four weeks, I was released on bail pending appeal, on the condition I not reside in or enter New South Wales for any reason except to attend court. Outside the court, my former colleague was waiting.
“The cop is causing a bit of trouble,” he told me. ” He can’t take a hint. We need time to deal with it.”
“Which means you have something else in mind for me.” I returned.
“No. You did the job, so it’s finished.”
“But I didn’t get enough information for what you need to do. I know you too well. It’s not finished. And I am still on bail, so you have the upper hand.”
“They don’t want you doing the Aboriginal stuff in their town. They can’t control you,” he said with a knowing smile. “But we have a job for you on an Aboriginal community in Central Queensland, where you can do the work you like, and no one will interfere. Does Deputy Principal of a High School sound OK to you? Just go up there for a year, and let things settle down here. The cop won’t be a problem when you come back.” I never went back.
Eighteen months later, the jail sentence was dismissed, and I was sentenced to a two year good behaviour bond, not to enter New South Wales in that two years, for any reason whatsoever. Talk about feeling like you’re not wanted! It wasn’t part of the deal, and I realised that, like it or not, I was back in the service for the long haul.
Anyway, a lot of positive things came out of that four weeks in jail, as well as the time as Deputy Principal on an Aboriginal community. In that job, my jail experience, from both sides of the bars, could help me relate to the people in the community. That later led to me working with Aboriginal street kids in Rockhampton, on more Aboriginal communities, and with street people in major cities in Australia and obverseas.
Later, I toured China for a year, lecturing at universities about Aboriginal education. I have now visited nine countries outside Australia. I wrote for major national media publications, and worked as a researcher for a federal senator, particularly on homelessness, marginalisation and Aboriginal affairs.
In hindsight, if I hadn’t spent that four weeks in jail, my life would never have changed. And in this case, I believe it changed for the positive. Life is what you make it.
More stories by this author after the following important information
As I was marched through the main gate into the jail, my wrists bound with the latest style in stainless steel handcuffs, I mused on how things had gone so wrong. I had known that I was in a rut, living out the same old thing day after day. I knew there was more to life than just teaching computer classes month after month, year after year.
Then I decided to start an Aboriginal Reconciliation group in town. The very first meeting attracted over ninety people. As it turned out, that upset some of the misguided police in town, who still thought that all blacks needed to be kept in their place.
The next day, I was arrested for the first time, and kept overnight in a cell at the police station. The charge was stealing a text book from the college I had taught at for three years. I was found not guilty, after police admitted they had actually put the book in my house during their first illegal search, then “found” it later when they finally got a search warrant.
It was at that time a former colleague from the jail I had worked in asked me to do them a favour. To pretend to be a prisoner, to talk to an inmate about a case we had worked on years before. I told him no. Way too dangerous.
After another fourteen such arrests, I was finally found guilty and sentenced, for supposedly assaulting a woman I had met at a disco. At the subsequent appeal eighteen months later, I was found not guilty. After each arrest, my former colleague asked for the same favour. I knew I needed to be worried.
The appeal judge’s decision when finding me not guilty me was made easier by the fact that the lady in question had three other men in court on the same day as my appeal, on the exact same charges, but all separate incidents. She also had eight prior matters in the previous five years, with eight different men being sent to jail, for exactly the same thing. Her criminal compensation payments from the government meant she could afford a very comfortable lifestyle. She is now in jail herself for the repeated false complaints. When her police protector was retired unfit, so was she.
The sentencing was devastating. I remember quite clearly the judge stating “I sentence you to eighteen years imprisonment.”
“That’s not good,” I thought to myself, “that’s definitely not good. Not good at all.”
My lawyer stood up and cleared his throat. “With all due respect your honour, eighteen years seems rather excessive.”
The judge seemed confused, as though he wasn’t quite sure where he was. “Did I say eighteen years?” He gave a nervous laugh, and smiled a false smile. “I’m sorry, I meant eighteen MONTHS. There, I hope that’s better now.”
It wasn’t really. Eighteen months still seemed like a hell of a long time. And I knew I had been set up. I noticed my former colleague was one of the court officers that day.
So I was marched into the jail I knew so well from when I was a guard. There was Smithy at the main gate, who I had known for ten years. He gave an incredulous single laugh, and seemed not to know what to say. He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head slowly “So I guess you’re not coming fishing on the weekend?” he asked.
I laughed, recognising he was trying to make the best of an awkward situation. “Doesn’t look like it,” I replied, taking the cigarette he offered.
I was taken to the high security section of the jail, reserved for high-risk-of-escape prisoners. There was a guard there who was new to the job, and I didn’t know him. I was stripped naked, and put in a completely empty cell, no blankets, no mattress, just a cold concrete floor and an open window with bars on it. It was snowing outside, and the icy wind blew through the cell. I had never seen this done when I was a guard.
“You’re on suicide watch,” the guard told me, with a sneer that showed he enjoyed what he was doing. “We can’t risk giving you clothes or blankets that you might hang yourself with. First time prisoners always cop this.” He slammed the door, and I could hear the bolt slipping into the hasp on the other side, then the key turning in the lock.
“Enjoy your stay at the Hilton.” He called through the door, as he gave it a hard kick to remind me where I was. He couldn’t have possibly understood the irony of what he had said, but I certainly did. The Hilton was the reason I was there. Just as it would have bearing on my life for many years to come.
Two hours later, the guard was back, with the Governor of the jail. The Governor looked through the perspex walls at me, huddled in the corner, trying to keep warm. There was a genuine remorse in his eyes, mixed with just a hint of anger at the guard. He motioned to the guard, and the door opened. The guard looked scared.
“Get this man his clothes and some blankets, and move him to a cell with a window and heater,” the Governor said. “This cell is condemned.”
The guard started to protest, and the Governor stopped him with a slow and deliberate “Keep your mouth shut.”
Then we were joined by the former colleague, who revealed the true reason for my being there. The Governor was apologetic. “We’ve known each other for a long time. I had no idea they were going to do this. I’m not part of them; you know that. I want you to understand that.”
“I know,” I replied. “Unfortunately now you know that I am part of them. That makes the job harder.” He looked a little worried about that, and left.
“You should have agreed when we asked you last year,” my former colleague stated. “Jesus, mate, I hated doing this, but we needed you, because of what you know about Denning from before.”
“You tried to set me up for his escape back in 1988.”
“That was the idiot that Tees got in to help him. Like I told you before, we can deal with him later. But it’s difficult. You know why. You can help us make that easier.”
“What about this cop you’ve had chasing me for the last year? Does he know the whole story?”
“No. He’s another idiot. Couldn’t trust him with anything like that. We didn’t tell him to get the girl involved, either. That’s the trouble with cops. They try to be creative. She’s just a local police informer. I talked to her today, and told her she would be hurt if she didn’t leave town. She won’t be back, and you’ll get out on appeal. Not much we can do about the cop, though. He thought we wanted you because you helped Denning escape.” He smiled, and I had to too.
“Nice touch. I guess I don’t have much choice.”
After that, things were better. I had a lot of experiences in the short time in jail, and, surprisingly, most of them were positive. I got a new outlook on life, and learnt a lot about people in general. Most importantly, I had the time to learn about myself. I also realised that my situation was a lot more dangerous because of the job I had been forced into.
After four weeks, I was released on bail pending appeal, on the condition I not reside in or enter New South Wales for any reason except to attend court. Outside the court, my former colleague was waiting.
“The cop is causing a bit of trouble,” he told me. ” He can’t take a hint. We need time to deal with it.”
“Which means you have something else in mind for me.” I returned.
“No. You did the job, so it’s finished.”
“But I didn’t get enough information for what you need to do. I know you too well. It’s not finished. And I am still on bail, so you have the upper hand.”
“They don’t want you doing the Aboriginal stuff in their town. They can’t control you,” he said with a knowing smile. “But we have a job for you on an Aboriginal community in Central Queensland, where you can do the work you like, and no one will interfere. Does Deputy Principal of a High School sound OK to you? Just go up there for a year, and let things settle down here. The cop won’t be a problem when you come back.” I never went back.
Eighteen months later, the jail sentence was dismissed, and I was sentenced to a two year good behaviour bond, not to enter New South Wales in that two years, for any reason whatsoever. Talk about feeling like you’re not wanted! It wasn’t part of the deal, and I realised that, like it or not, I was back in the service for the long haul.
Anyway, a lot of positive things came out of that four weeks in jail, as well as the time as Deputy Principal on an Aboriginal community. In that job, my jail experience, from both sides of the bars, could help me relate to the people in the community. That later led to me working with Aboriginal street kids in Rockhampton, on more Aboriginal communities, and with street people in major cities in Australia and obverseas.
Later, I toured China for a year, lecturing at universities about Aboriginal education. I have now visited nine countries outside Australia. I wrote for major national media publications, and worked as a researcher for a federal senator, particularly on homelessness, marginalisation and Aboriginal affairs.
In hindsight, if I hadn’t spent that four weeks in jail, my life would never have changed. And in this case, I believe it changed for the positive. Life is what you make it.
More stories by this author after the following important information
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Comment by Cheryl J
Rhythmatism
Budget Centsability
It's great to hear something positive has come through your experience. Perhaps you can be an inspiration to others to keep their heads held high and not have your spirit broken.
If you love to read I would recommend a book called Shantaram about a former prisoner whose life made the most dramatic and amazing turns.
Good luck!