You're prison bound

Such were the emotions elicited by reading Peter App’s searing indictment of regulatory failure that resulted in the tragedy of the Grenfell fire of 2017. I also had convergent professional and personal memories evoked by Grenfell Tower that predated the fire, but which occurred within the shadow of the building.

Prior to undertaking my post-graduate social work qualification, I had worked as an Education Welfare Officer (EWO) for five years, mainly in the area of West London in which Grenfell Tower was located. I had attended case conferences and made home-school visits and had gained a street level familiarity with the area that served me well when I became a probation officer. The field probation office that I was to spend more than a decade working at covered the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea.

I had been allocated through-care responsibility for Kojo (not his real name), who was serving a sentence for non-domestic burglaries. We had established prior contact by phone, when he rang me with a somewhat plaintive request to ask if I could home visit his mother ahead of his application for temporary release.

Kojo’s mother greeted me on arrival. The cumulative stress of successive prison sentences and the separation they had occasioned had evidently taken its toll on her health.

I had anticipated a straightforward process of sanctioned approval, but this proved to be anything but the case. Her marked reluctance to have her son at her address was a well-founded one. She explained that he had become inured to living dishonestly from his offending and showed little sign of wanting to desist.

I acknowledged her ambivalence and indicated that alternate arrangements would need to be offered to ensure that the release would be approved.

When I returned to the probation office, a telephone call awaited. I spoke to Kojo’s mother, who had thought further about her earlier decision. She did not want to “reject” her son, but she did want him to “change his ways”. On this basis, I found the address suitable and awaited prison governor approval.

Some weeks later, I returned to the address to meet Kojo (his mother was elsewhere). He exuded a warm bonhomie, enjoying the freedom of temporary release, part of which was ostensibly to attend a job interview.

After some appreciative comments, it was clear that his timetable was at variance with some of the stated expectations of release. I found it challenging to explore just how he proposed to spend his time constructively. “Mr Guilfoyle, I reported to probation and seen you now. I have me plans”.

A day or so later, I received a telephone call from a detective in the burglary squad informing me that Kojo had been linked to a shop burglary during the short time he had been on release and was now wanted for questioning. He had not returned to prison and was therefore unlawfully at large.

I felt a heavy-hearted despondency that I had perhaps not acted more decisively when the application for temporary release had been mooted. Kojo’s mother's misgivings seem to have been well-placed and I awaited the outcome of the police investigation and his return to prison.

At the time, one of the venues that I visited socially was also in this neighbourhood. It offered some raucous blues evenings and was a well-known venue. I was in the company of one of my good friends from my days as a EWO and as we settled into the evening’s entertainment my attention was drawn to a corner of the pub where a conspiratorial huddle was gathered.

I thought to myself I was being overly zealous, but I was convinced that Kojo was part of this group. Uncertain how best to proceed, I contented myself with waiting for the band to finish their set and I would then speak to him. As the music stopped and the lights came on, I looked again. This time he was nowhere to be seen. Was it really Kojo I had seen through the smoky haze?

Kojo was subsequently arrested and remanded in custody. He was eventually sentenced for his role in this new offence, consecutive to his existing sentence, and our through-care prison contact came to an end. He was later deported.

He sent me a letter from prison, bemoaning his poor judgement, not listening to advice, and falling too easily in with “bad company”. His mother was mentioned, but he seemed sadly detached from her long suffering maternal perseverance.

One of the cover songs that was belted out at the music venue that night was ‘Midnight Special’, which contained the lyrics: “the next thing you know you’re prison bound”.

I have wondered since if Kojo had been listening to the song before he made his hasty exit.

Mike Guilfoyle is a retired probation officer. This post is dedicated to the memory of Steve Downer