Free Wannabe in My Gang? by Bernard O'Mahoney Page B

months my mother was up and about and had been discharged from hospital. My heart kept telling me Mom was strong and would be OK, whatever had happened, but my head was telling me she wasn’t getting any younger and a similar fall could prove fatal. However depressing my thoughts, nothing could have prepared me for the shocking news that greeted us upon our arrival. My elderly mother wasn’t being cared for in a hospital ward, nor was she lying on a trolley in a hospital corridor. My mother, a woman who had never broken the law in her life, had been locked up in a police cell.
    At 10 a.m. Mom had been in a public telephone box making a call when she had suffered an epileptic fit. In her inside coat pocket was a medical card advising people what to do should they find her suffering from epilepsy. A police car arrived on the scene.
    She was picked up off the floor, put into the back of the car and taken to the police station. When they arrived, my mother, who was incoherent, was put in front of the custody officer and the arresting officer told him that she had been found drunk and incapable.
    The custody officer ordered her detention and she was put into a cell. When regular checks were made on her, it became apparent that she was ill, not drunk, and so a doctor was summoned. The doctor soon diagnosed my mother as having suffered from a fit and she was treated and released. When Michael told Paul and me what had happened, we went fucking berserk. Together we made our way to the police station and after identifying ourselves, were immediately arrested for the assault on Stuart Darley. A cynic may wonder if we had fallen for some sort of sinister ruse, but nobody could be that sick, could they?
    Paul and I were charged with assault and bailed to appear with Michael at Seisdon Magistrates Court the following week. We complained about the arrest of our mother, but red tape, excuses and bullshit encouraged her to ask my brother and me not to pursue the matter. Reluctantly we let it drop.
    The legal process is, at best, a fiasco and at times I wonder if it would be cost-effective to plead guilty at the earliest opportunity regardless of your innocence or guilt.
    Every other week we had to attend the Magistrates’ Court to answer our bail, apply to alter our bail conditions, enter a plea and finally attend to be told the matter was being sent to Crown Court for trial. During that long process, we had to take days off work, travel in the early hours of the morning to arrive on time from London and sit in the court waiting-room for the best part of a day whilst waiting for a meaningless five-minute hearing. Paul said he wasn’t going to be fucked about and pleaded guilty. Michael and I rowed with him outside the court, saying his guilty plea would ruin our chances of getting a not-guilty verdict. In his usual devil-may-care manner, he laughed and said, ‘Don’t worry about your plea, because I won’t be turning up for their silly fucking trial unless I’m in handcuffs.’
    Paul has never had any respect or concern for the law and those that administer it. As a teenager he was sentenced to six months to two years borstal training. In those days they used to offer the inmates incentives in order to curb their unruly behaviour. If you kept out of trouble you were allowed to wear a blue tie and blue tie wearers were given privileges, such as additional visits. The inmate would then progress through various coloured ties, earning more privileges and eventually freedom. Paul told them from day one they could keep their ties, keep their visits and keep their privileges. Nothing would ever make him change his mind. Eventually, two years and three weeks after being sentenced, he was booted out of the borstal.
    After months of being messed about, my brother Michael and I were informed that our trial would take place at Stafford Crown Court. A trial that is scheduled to last two weeks or perhaps even a month may only last a day if the