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A Prison Diary
     

A Prison Diary

3.9 9
by Jeffrey Archer
 

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On July 19, 2001, following a conviction for perjury, international bestselling author Jeffrey Archer was sentenced to four years in prison. Prisoner FF8282, as Archer is now known, spent the first three weeks in the notorious HMP Belmarsh, a high-security prison in South London, home to murderers, terrorists and some of Britain's most violent criminals.

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Overview

On July 19, 2001, following a conviction for perjury, international bestselling author Jeffrey Archer was sentenced to four years in prison. Prisoner FF8282, as Archer is now known, spent the first three weeks in the notorious HMP Belmarsh, a high-security prison in South London, home to murderers, terrorists and some of Britain's most violent criminals.

On the last day of the trial, his mother dies, and the world's press accompany him to the funeral. On returning to prison, he's placed on the lifer's wing, where a cellmate sells his story to the tabloids. Prisoners and guards routinely line up outside his cell to ask for his autograph, to write letters, and to seek advice on their appeals.

For twenty-two days, Archer was locked in a cell with a murderer and a drug baron. He decided to use that time to write an hour-by-hour diary, detailing the worst three weeks of his life.

When A Prison Diary was published in England, it was condemned by the prison authorities, and praised by the critics.

Please note: This ebook edition does not contain all illustrations that appeared in the print edition.

Editorial Reviews

The Washington Post
Archer is sublimely unaware of his own absurdity. He seems surprised to discover that jails are full of criminals, many of whom take drugs, and that the food isn't quite up to the standards of his favorite London restaurant. After his first shower, he complains that Belmarsh prison doesn't have "quite the same facilities" as "my apartment on the Albert Embankment." Who would have guessed it? During his glory days, invitations to Archer's parties were famous for specifying that Krug champagne would be served, and even in jail he can't resist the allure of brand-names. "I start off with something called Coco Pops," he writes of one breakfast. "Not bad, but it's still almost impossible to beat good old Kellogg's cornflakes." — Francis Wheen
Publishers Weekly
Convicted of perjury in 2001, Archer, a bestselling novelist (Sons of Fortune) and member of the British House of Lords, penned this memoir about his first three weeks in prison, focusing on his daily life, the prisoners' lives and the state of the British penal system. An old hand at plotting novels and developing stories, Archer moves his memoir at a captivating pace, a credit to his storytelling skills considering the book's characters are in their cells for 22 hours a day. Deftly using mundane hour logs, he relates the slow passage of time without falling into the trap of recounting events minute by minute. Knowing that his story as a wealthy, educated celebrity with high-powered attorneys pales in comparison, Archer focuses on the sad, strange and even silly tales of his fellow inmates, a cast of hardened criminals and smalltime crooks. Concentrating on others also serves to help Archer avoid extended fits of melodramatic and self-serving prose (as when he compares himself to Oscar Wilde), which occur when he writes about his own case. But balancing this small flaw with his humorous descriptions of prison food and listening to a cricket match that seems as long as his four-year sentence adds a needed bit of humanity to this controversial politician. Of course, some of Archer's observations and the inmates' tales can't be taken as gospel since Archer is a convicted perjurer and his secondhand stories come from the mouths of murderers and other felons. But those caveats do not override the strong narrative and good writing that make this memoir an intriguing and engaging version of the often-trite prison journal. (Aug.) Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Best-selling novelist Archer (Sons of Fortune; The Eleventh Commandment) presents his diary of the 22 days he spent in 2001 in HMP Belmarsh, a London prison to which he was sent after a perjury conviction. Belmarsh was the first stopping point for Archer, who was sentenced to four years. Unlike the brutal Nevada prison system depicted by Jimmy Lerner in You Got Nothing Coming, Belmarsh is a relatively civilized place. Archer describes being treated as a celebrity by other prisoners, who seek his autograph and advice, sometimes waiting at the door to his cell. The book is organized chronologically and goes into great detail about the food, living conditions, and plight of fellow inmates. Archer clearly empathizes with the inmates, describing how they ended up with their lengthy sentences, criticizing the lack of rehabilitation opportunities, and noting the impact of drugs. Still, this is less a manifesto for penal reform than a grim travelog, which is especially interesting as a visit to a foreign prison system. Recommended for large collections, especially where Archer's fiction is popular.-Harry Charles, Attorney at Law, St. Louis Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Lord Archer of Weston-super-Mare, a.k.a. Prisoner #FF8282, offers his view of life in the slammer after serving the first three weeks of a four-year sentence. Archer, once Conservative candidate for Mayor of London and author of many a popular potboiler (Sons of Fortune, 2003, etc.), scarcely refers to the offense that took him from his Albert Embankment home to HMP Belmarsh, London's high-security prison, along with murderers, drug-dealers, and a football hooligan. He does not mention that his sentence was for perjury, forgery, and obstruction of justice. We hear more about the nasty judge who punished him, though, and he's mightily affronted about his treatment. The accommodations, the bedding, and the food are viewed with disdain and our diarist subsists largely on bottled water, digestive biscuits, and Spam. Clearly, he's a man of elevated sensibilities and, as he would have it, fellow cons generally forswear dirty words in deference to his Lordship. Indeed, according to his report, most hold him in warm esteem. Prisoners, identified by name and crime ("Tony [marijuana only], Billy [murder]," and so forth), they ask for autographs and advice and, in turn, offer protection, extra eats, and doleful tales of stealing, dealing, and buggery. Still a concerned citizen, our Peer notes that "there are going to be some speeches I will have to make should I ever return to the House of Lords." Meanwhile, he knows whom to address. "Are you still paying attention, Home Secretary?" When not concerned with prison procedures or politics outside (or filled with cricket gibberish), this is about the author's persecution. It's prefaced, naturally, by Ernest William Henley's "Invictus." Archer may indeedbe captain of his soul, but mastery of his fate, for a bit, was at the command of one Mr. Justice Potts. Be on notice: Archer is a known recidivist. He will write again.
From the Publisher
Praise for A Prison Diary, Vol. 1:

"A tale that is not only important but true."

The Washington Post

"The finest thing that he's ever written...riveting."

Independent on Sunday (UK)

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781429967174
Publisher:
St. Martin's Press
Publication date:
04/01/2010
Series:
A Prison Diary , #1
Sold by:
Macmillan
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
288
Sales rank:
138,858
File size:
883 KB

Read an Excerpt

A Prison Diary


By Jeffrey Archer

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2002 Jeffrey Archer
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-6717-4



CHAPTER 1

Day 1

Thursday 19 July 2001


12.07 pm

'You are sentenced to four years.' Mr Justice Potts stares down from the bench, unable to hide his delight. He orders me to be taken down.

A Securicor man who was sitting beside me while the verdict was read out points towards a door on my left which has not been opened during the seven-week trial. I turn and glance at my wife Mary seated at the back of the court, head bowed, ashen-faced, a son on either side to comfort her.

I'm led downstairs to be met by a court official, and thus I begin an endless process of form-filling. Name? Archer. Age? 61. Weight? 178lbs, I tell him.

'What's that in stones?' the prison officer demands.

'12st 10lbs,' I reply. I only know because I weighed myself in the gym this morning.

'Thank you, sir,' he says, and asks me to sign on the bottom of the page.

Another Securicor man – known by the prisoners as waterrats – leads me down a long bleak cream-painted bricked corridor to I know not where.

'How long did he give you?' he asks, matter-of-factly.

'Four years,' I reply.

'Oh, not too bad, you'll be out in two,' he responds, as if discussing a fortnight on the Costa del Sol.

The officer comes to a halt, unlocks a vast steel door, and then ushers me into a cell. The room is about ten feet by five, the walls are still cream, and there is a wooden bench running along the far end. No clock, no sense of time, nothing to do except contemplate, nothing to read, except messages on the walls:

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

A key is turning in the lock, and the heavy door swings open. The Securicor man has returned. 'You have a visit from your legals,' he announces. I am marched back down the long corridor, barred gates are unlocked and locked every few paces. Then I am ushered into a room only slightly larger than the cell to find my silk, Nicholas Purnell QC, and his junior, Alex Cameron, awaiting me.

Nick explains that four years means two, and Mr Justice Potts chose a custodial sentence aware that I would be unable to appeal to the Parole Board for early release. Of course they will appeal on my behalf, as they feel Potts has gone way over the top. Gilly Gray QC, an old friend, had warned me the previous evening that as the jury had been out for five days and I had not entered the witness box to defend myself, an appeal might not be received too favourably. Nick adds that in any case, my appeal will not be considered before Christmas, as only short sentences are dealt with quickly.

Nick goes on to tell me that Belmarsh Prison, in Woolwich, will be my first destination.

'At least it's a modern jail,' he comments, although he warns me that his abiding memory of the place was the constant noise, so he feared I wouldn't sleep for the first few nights. After a couple of weeks, he feels confident I will be transferred to a Category D prison – an open prison – probably Ford or the Isle of Sheppey.

Nick explains that he has to leave me and return to Court No. 7 to make an application for compassionate leave, so that I can attend my mother's funeral on Saturday. She died on the day the jury retired to consider their verdict, and I am only thankful that she never heard me sentenced.

I thank Nick and Alex for all they have done, and am then escorted back to my cell. The vast iron door is slammed shut. The prison officers don't have to lock it, only unlock it, as there is no handle on the inside. I sit on the wooden bench, to be reminded that Jim Dexter is inocent, OK! My mind is curiously blank as I try to take in what has happened and what will happen next.

The door is unlocked again – about fifteen minutes later as far as I can judge – and I'm taken to a signing-out room to fill in yet another set of forms. A large burly officer who only grunts takes away my money clip, £120 in cash, my credit card and a fountain pen. He places them in a plastic bag. They are sealed before he asks, 'Where would you like them sent?' I give the officer Mary's name and our home address. After I've signed two more forms in triplicate, I'm handcuffed to an overweight woman of around five foot three, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. They are obviously not anticipating any trouble. She is wearing the official uniform of the prison service: a white shirt, black tie, black trousers, black shoes and black socks.

She accompanies me out of the building and on to an elongated white van, not unlike a single-decker bus, except that the windows are blacked out. I am placed in what I could only describe as a cubicle – known to the recidivists as a sweatbox – and although I can see outside, the waiting press cannot see me; in any case, they have no idea which cubicle I'm in. Cameras flash pointlessly in front of each window as we wait to move off. Another long wait, before I hear a prisoner shout, 'I think Archer's in this van.' Eventually the vehicle jerks forward and moves slowly out of the Old Bailey courtyard on the first leg of a long circuitous journey to HMP Belmarsh.

As we travel slowly through the streets of the City, I spot an Evening Standard billboard already in place: ARCHER SENT TO JAIL. It looks as if it was printed some time before the verdict.

I am well acquainted with the journey the van is taking through London, as Mary and I follow the same route home to Cambridge on Friday evenings. Except on this occasion we suddenly turn right off the main road and into a little backstreet, to be greeted by another bevy of pressmen. But like their colleagues at the Old Bailey, all they can get is a photograph of a large white van with ten small black windows. As we draw up to the entrance gate, I see a sign declaring BELMARSH PRISON. Some wag has put a line through the B and replaced it with an H. Not the most propitious of welcomes.

We drive through two high-barred gates that are electronically operated before the van comes to a halt in a courtyard surrounded by a thirty-foot red-brick wall, with razor wire looped along the top. I once read that this is the only top-security prison in Britain from which no one has ever escaped. I look up at the wall and recall that the world record for the pole vault is 20ft 2in.

The door of the van is opened and we are let out one by one before being led off to a reception area, and then herded into a large glass cell that holds about twenty people. The authorities can't risk putting that many prisoners in the same room without being able to see exactly what we're up to. This will often be the first time co-defendants have a chance to speak to each other since they were sentenced. I sit on a bench on the far side of the wall, and am joined by a tall, well-dressed, good-looking young Pakistani, who explains that he is not a prisoner, but on remand. I ask him what he's been charged with. 'GBH – grievous bodily harm. I beat up my wife when I found her in bed with another man, and now they've banged me up in Belmarsh because the trial can't begin until she gets back from Greece, where the two of them are on holiday.'

I recall Nick Purnell's parting words, 'Don't believe anything anyone tells you in prison, and never discuss your case or your appeal.'

'Archer,' yells a voice. I leave the glass cell and return to reception where I am told to fill out another form. 'Name, age, height, weight?' the prison officer behind the counter demands.

'Archer, 61, 5ft 10, 178lbs.'

'What's that in stones?' he asks.

'12st 10lbs,' I tell him, and he fills in yet another little square box.

'Right, go next door, Archer, where you'll find my colleague waiting for you.'

This time I am met by two officers. One standing, one sitting behind a desk. The one behind the desk asks me to stand under an arc light and strip. The two officers try to carry out the entire exercise as humanely as possible. First, I take off my jacket, then my tie, followed by my shirt. 'Aquascutum, Hilditch & Key, and YSL,' says the officer who is standing up, while the other writes this information down in the appropriate box. The first officer then asks me to raise my arms above my head and turn a complete circle, while a video camera attached to the wall whirrs away in the background. My shirt is returned, but they hold on to my House of Commons cufflinks. They hand back my jacket, but not my tie. I am then asked to slip off my shoes, socks, trousers and pants. 'Church's, Aquascutum and Calvin Klein,' he announces. I complete another circle, and this time the officer asks me to lift the soles of my feet for inspection. He explains that drugs are sometimes concealed under plasters. I tell them I've never taken a drug in my life. He shows no interest. They return my pants, trousers, socks and shoes but not my leather belt.

'Is this yours?' he asks, pointing to a yellow backpack on the table beside me.

'No, I've never seen it before,' I tell him.

He checks the label. 'William Archer,' he says.

'Sorry, it must be my son's.'

The officer pulls open the zip to reveal two shirts, two pairs of pants, a sweater, a pair of casual shoes and a washbag containing everything I will need. The washbag is immediately confiscated while the rest of the clothes are placed in a line on the counter. The officer then hands me a large plastic bag with HMP Belmarsh printed in dark blue letters, supported by a crown. Everything has a logo nowadays. While I transfer the possessions I am allowed to keep into the large plastic bag, the officer tells me that the yellow backpack will be returned to my son, at the government's expense. I thank him. He looks surprised. Another officer escorts me back to the glass cell, while I cling onto my plastic bag.

This time I sit next to a different prisoner, who tells me his name is Ashmil; he's from Kosovo, and still in the middle of his trial. 'What are you charged with?' I enquire.

'The illegal importing of immigrants,' he tells me, and before I can offer any comment he adds, 'They're all political prisoners who would be in jail, or worse, if they were still in their own country.' It sounds like a well-rehearsed line. 'What are you in for?' he asks.

'Archer,' rings out the same officious voice, and I leave him to return to the reception area.

'The doctor will see you now,' the desk officer says, pointing to a green door behind him.

I don't know why I'm surprised to encounter a fresh-faced young GP, who rises from behind his desk the moment I walk in.

'David Haskins,' he announces, and adds, 'I'm sorry we have to meet in these circumstances.' I take a seat on the other side of the desk while he opens a drawer and produces yet another form.

'Do you smoke?'

'No.'

'Drink?'

'No, unless you count the occasional glass of red wine at dinner.'

'Take any drugs?'

'No.'

'Do you have any history of mental illness?'

'No.'

'Have you ever tried to abuse yourself?'

'No.'

He continues through a series of questions as if he were doing no more than filling in details for an insurance policy, to which I continue to reply, no, no, no, no and no. He ticks every box.

'Although I don't think it's necessary,' he said looking down at the form, 'I'm going to put you in the medical wing overnight before the Governor decides which block to put you on.'

I smile, as the medical wing sounds to me like a more pleasant option. He doesn't return the smile. We shake hands, and I go back to the glass cell. I only have to wait for a few more moments before a young lady in prison uniform asks me to accompany her to the medical wing. I grab my plastic bag and follow her.

We climb three floors of green iron steps before we reach our destination. As I walk down the long corridor my heart sinks. Every person I come across seems to be in an advanced state of depression or suffering from some sort of mental illness.

'Why have they put me in here?' I demand, but she doesn't reply. I later learn that most first-time offenders spend their first night in the medical centre because it is during your first twenty-four hours in prison that you are most likely to try and commit suicide.

I'm not, as I thought I might be, placed in a hospital ward but in another cell. When the door slams behind me I begin to understand why one might contemplate suicide. The cell measures five paces by three, and this time the brick walls are painted a depressing mauve. In one corner is a single bed with a rock-hard mattress that could well be an army reject. Against the side wall, opposite the bed, is a small square steel table and a steel chair. On the far wall next to the inch-thick iron door is a steel washbasin and an open lavatory that has no lid and no flush. I am determined not to use it. On the wall behind the bed is a window encased with four thick iron bars, painted black, and caked in dirt. No curtains, no curtain rail. Stark, cold and unwelcoming would be a generous description of my temporary residence on the medical wing. No wonder the doctor didn't return my smile. I am left alone in this bleak abode for over an hour, by which time I'm beginning to experience a profound depression.

A key finally turns in the lock to allow another young woman to enter. She is dark-haired, short and slim, dressed in a smart striped suit. She shakes me warmly by the hand, sits on the end of the bed, and introduces herself as Ms Roberts, the Deputy Governor. She can't be a day over twenty-six.

'What am I doing here?' I ask. 'I'm not a mass murderer.'

'Most prisoners spend their first night on the medical wing,' she explains, 'and we can't make any exceptions, I'm afraid, and especially not for you.' I don't say anything – what is there to say? 'One more form to complete,' she tells me, 'that's if you still want to attend your mother's funeral on Saturday.' I can sense that Ms Roberts is trying hard to be understanding and considerate, but I fear I am quite unable to hide my distress.

'You will be moved onto an induction block tomorrow,' she assures me, 'and just as soon as you've been categorized A, B, C, or D, we'll transfer you to another prison. I have no doubt you'll be Category D – no previous convictions, and no history of violence.' She rises from the end of the bed. Every officer carries a large bunch of keys that jingle whenever they move. 'I'll see you again in the morning. Have you been able to make a phone call?' she asks as she bangs on the heavy door with the palm of her hand.

'No,' I reply as the cell door is opened by a large West Indian with an even larger smile.

'Then I'll see what I can do,' she promises before stepping out into the corridor and slamming the door closed behind her.

I sit on the end of the bed and rummage through my plastic bag to discover that my elder son, William, has included amongst my permitted items a copy of David Niven's The Moon's a Balloon. I flick open the cover to find a message:

Hope you never have to read this, Dad, but if you do, chin up,

we love you and your appeal is on its way,

William xx James xx


Thank God for a family I adore, and who still seem to care about me. I'm not sure how I would have got through the last few weeks without them. They made so many sacrifices to be with me for every day of the seven-week trial.

There is a rap on the cell door, and a steel grille that resembles a large letter box is pulled up to reveal the grinning West Indian.

'I'm Lester,' he declares as he pushes through a pillow – rock hard; one pillow case – mauve; followed by one sheet – green; and one blanket – brown. I thank Lester and then take some considerable time making the bed. After all, there's nothing else to do.

When I've completed the task, I sit on the bed and start trying to read The Moon's a Balloon, but my mind continually wanders. I manage about fifty pages, often stopping to consider the jury's verdict, and although I feel tired, even exhausted, I can't begin to think about sleep. The promised phone call has not materialized, so I finally turn off the fluorescent light that shines above the bed, place my head on the rock-hard pillow and despite the agonizing cries of the patients from the cells on either side of me, I eventually fall asleep. An hour later I'm woken again when the fluorescent light is switched back on, the letter box reopens and two different eyes peer in at me – a procedure that is repeated every hour, on the hour – to make sure I haven't tried to take my own life. The suicide watch.

I eventually fall asleep again, and when I wake just after 4 am, I lie on my back in a straight line, because both my ears are aching after hours on the rock-hard pillow. I think about the verdict, and the fact that it had never crossed my mind even for a moment that the jury could find Francis innocent and me guilty of the same charge. How could we have conspired if one of us didn't realize a conspiracy was taking place? They also appeared to accept the word of my former secretary, Angie Peppiatt, a woman who stole thousands of pounds from me, while deceiving me and my family for years.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from A Prison Diary by Jeffrey Archer. Copyright © 2002 Jeffrey Archer. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Jeffrey Archer was educated at Oxford University. In 1969, aged 29, he became one of the youngest Members of Parliament; he was appointed Deputy Chairman of the Conservative Party in 1985, and in 1992 was elevated to the House of Lords. All of his novels and short story collections-including Kane and Abel, Honor Among Thieves, and most recently, Sons of Fortune-have been international bestsellers.

Archer is married, has two children, and lives in England.


Jeffrey Archer was educated at Oxford University. He has served five years in Britain’s House of Commons and twenty-four years in the House of Lords. All of his novels and short story collections—including Best Kept Secret, The Sins of the Father, Only Time Will Tell, and Kane and Abel—have been international bestselling books. Archer is married with two sons and lives in London and Cambridge.

Brief Biography

Hometown:
London and the Old Vicarage, Grantchester
Date of Birth:
April 15, 1940
Education:
Attended Brasenose College, Oxford, 1963-66. Received a diploma in sports education from Oxford Institute

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A Prison Diary 3.9 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 9 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I found Archer's A PRISON DIARY unexpectedly thoughtful, moving and irresistable. It's prose is quick-witted, and thoroughly enjoyable though the descriptions of the murderers and heinous crimes are disturding at best. I read this book in quick time and have recommended it many times over. Read and learn. Read and enjoy.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This was captivating reading, one of those books I literally couldn't put down until I'd read it through.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I had sought and expected the usual Archer novel-a light summer read. Ironically, on the eve of the Blackout of 2003, I found myself absorbing yet another set of unthinkable circumstances. 'A Prison Diary' was a stark surprise-- a riveting, wry and instructive account of Britsh prison life. Archer (at least by his account), adapted to unnatural and confining conditions with class and intelligence. He even managed to produce a revealing book that represents a contribution to British society. Perhaps I'm naive, but I believe him. (I also believe Martha Stewart....)
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
A great insight to prison life. After his stay in prison, he could run a prison much better than the authorities on the outside who have no idea of life outside of their privileged upbringings.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Guest More than 1 year ago
Come on! Reading this book was like watching paint dry. So he sat next to a murderer for a few minutes. Big deal. He could have told the whole story in 10 pages. Instead he stretched it out to over 200 pages. I am sorry but this book is not worth reading.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I have no opinion regarding the justice of the sentence which sent Jeffrey Archer to prison. Yet, if boredom is a crime then this book unquestionably a felonious act for which the author deserves time.