Mark Conway: Party like a litigant

Mark Conway

When I fell into the world of addiction fueled criminality I did so as a naive layman in respect of all things legal. I was actually heartened to discover that due to the seriousness of the charges laid against me I would automatically qualify for legal aid for my defence. My first impression upon meeting my legal representatives did nothing to dispel this innate, societal gratitude. The solicitor who took up my case was as earnest as I could possibly wish for. The advocate whose services were subsequently engaged displayed a razor sharp intellect and seemingly unflappable self-assurance. I felt that I was in good hands. Yet, and without casting unmerited aspersions, by the end of the judicial process I was left feeling undervalued and under represented. Above all else I felt that the system had given me no opportunity to convey my own opinions, to offer justifications for the mitigatory factors I felt existed.

Partly this was down to my own willingness to go meekly into the night. Suitably wracked with remorse for my crime, and the weakness that I had shown in letting it occur, I readily sought early resolution by way of an early plea. Doing so eventually brought due recognition at the sentencing diet, although the utilitarian benefit to myself felt somewhat diminished by what I considered to be an excessive starting point. Harsh, was the term mooted by my counsel. To me, though, the lasting impression was one of lost opportunity. The opportunity to express my own view on the offence, as well as on the condition that had underpinned my commissioning of it. This however is the price one pays for amortising the potential risk. While no taxation without representation may have cost George III the colonies, the converse, no representation without taxation, is the tenet upon which accelerated justice hangs.

I had a voice but I felt that it was one that no one cared to hear. This did not change following my remand to prison. Our establishments of penal reform are filled with lost souls with stories untold. While it may be argued that any story with sufficient merit to attract an audience will inevitably do so, the fact is that the authorities in charge of our prisons, and also our community justice disposals, actively discourage such voices being heard. If children should be seen and not heard then prisoners should be neither seen nor heard. Under closed conditions prison managers can effectively stifle cries to the wilderness through monitoring of phone conversations and vetting of postal mail. For those progressed to open conditions a whole raft of conditions are imposed to suppress outside contact, even when considered suitable for temporary access to the community, including bans on use of electronic communications, social media and contact with media representatives.

Release under licence conditions, as imposed by the Parole Board, can often seem just as prohibitive and unnecessarily draconian. My own conditions include limits on the use of phones, internet and a continued ban on using social media. Even speaking to another living human being is frowned upon under a condition which directs that I must not ‘approach or communicate in any way, or attempt to approach or communicate in any way, either directly or indirectly, with persons whom you know to be, or should have reasonable cause to believe may be persons who gamble.’ According to the Scottish Health Survey 2017 it was identified that 63 per cent of adults in Scotland had gambled in the previous 12 months. Precognised with such a fact it seems reasonable to assume that every adult I ever meet may fall in to the category of being a person who gambles and that for me to approach such a contact thinking anything otherwise would constitute unreasonable behaviour.

Read the full article on the SLN website