paid cash, went home. I didn’t even see them, but they can’t have been far away when I got out of there, because according to the camera in the store ‘I came back in’ two minutes later with my hoody pulled up and a balaclava on.
When you watch the footage, the guy does have a similar build to me. But as I pointed out in court – whoever it is, they’re doing a better job of walking properly than I did. I was way too drunk to be able to dodge the bargain bins and get the knife out of the back of my jeans all at the same time.
I had no idea any of this had happened until two days later when I was arrested at work.
They got the kid at the till to unlock the safe. There was four thousand five hundred pounds in there. They were smart, or maybe just experienced – they didn’t speak any more than they had to, and so when the kid gave evidence she hardly had anything to recount. Other than the knife pointed in her face, obviously.
I was on CCTV. I had a previous criminal record. They pulled me in.
Once I’d been charged they wouldn’t grant me bail. My lawyer took me on because he was interested, and he felt confident in the only witness, the girl at the till, but they got to her as well in the end. We were expecting her to stand up there and say the guy who came in the second time couldn’t have been me. That she’d seen me in the off-licence before and I’d been perfectly nice and not tried to nick anything.
But she pointed at me across the courtroom. Said it was me for sure. It was like a living nightmare, I can’t even tell you. I could just see it playing out, and watch how the jury members’ faces changed, but I couldn’t do anything. I tried to get up and speak and the judge just shouted at me – you’re not allowed to talk out of turn. My turn never seemed to come, though. By the time they got to questioning me, everyone’s mind was made up.
Sal asked me bullshit stupid questions, and I didn’t get the chance to say anything good, my head was all over the place, I just hadn’t thought it would come to that. The prosecution played on my dodgy record from a few years back – I’d got in a couple of fights on nights out when I was nineteen, when I was at my lowest (that’s another story, and I swear it isn’t as bad as it sounds). They made out like I was violent. They even dredged up a guy I used to work with in a café who properly hated me – we’d fallen out over some girl he’d liked in college, who I’d ended up taking to the prom or some other crap like that. It was kind of amazing, watching them spin it. I can see why the jury believed I was guilty. Those lawyers were really fucking good at making it sound true.
They sentenced me to eight years for armed robbery.
So here I am. I can’t even tell you. Every time I write it out or tell it to someone I can’t believe it even more, if that makes sense. All I get is angrier.
It wasn’t a complicated case. We all thought Sal would sort it on appeal. (Sal’s the lawyer, by the way.) But he hasn’t fucking got to the appeal yet. I was sentenced last November and there’s no appeal even in sight. I know Leon is trying to sort it, and I love that man for it, but the fact is nobody gives a shit about getting me out of here except him. And Mam, I guess.
I’ll be honest with you, Tiffy, I’m shaking now. I want to scream. These times are the worst – there’s nowhere to go. Press-ups are your friend, but sometimes you need to run, and when you’ve got three steps between your bed and your toilet, there’s not a lot of room for that.
Anyway. This is a very long letter, and I know it took me a while to write it – you’ve maybe forgotten about the whole conversation we had by now. You don’t have to reply, but if you want to, Leon can send it with his next letter maybe – if you do write, please send stamps and