From Ruth

Ruth Wyner writes following the Court of Appeal verdict

I have had a lovely Christmas despite the decision on the appeal. Certainly disappointing. But it was good to have Christmas to be with the family and deal with the immediate angst.

My immediate and urgent concern is to find work and earn a living. I couldn't job-hunt while on bail but now I can.

It may not be possible for me to work in homelessness again but I may be able to help other charities with their fundraising and I now have an abiding interest in prison reform, quite a live issue at the moment - the Lord Chief Justice and the Chief Inspector of Prisons are both urging for arrangements to be made to send fewer people to prison. With the two major political parties vying to be seen as toughest on crime, there's a real struggle ahead.

Approximate justice
by Ruth Wyner

Over the past couple of years I've learnt that justice, British justice included, can only be approximate. Two years of being dragged through the courts has reminded me that humans are fallible, and that our institutions are too.

It's a salutary experience, having to stand in the dock in court while the truth twists and turns, while people say things about you and your actions that you know not to be right, but you cannot speak up to defend yourself. By the time you do get the chance to do so, considerable damage can have been done. And the effect of your eventual statements are then superseded by the cross-examination, which for me consisted of being shouted and sneered at by the prosecution for three days. I felt horrified as reality snaked out through the doors and windows of the court.

It must be unreal, to be convicted of knowingly allowing drug supply at a day centre when I, along with the staff team, had put so much energy in trying to counter the increasing invasion of heroin into the homeless scene, putting stricter policies into place, banning people, setting up a system of policing the toilets (which is where we reckoned most of the illegal activity happened), and hassling for more and better police liaison.

We did get that liaison, at inspector and beat bobby level, but these two officers knew nothing of the police operation against us. How could we liaise effectively when one long arm of the law when it didn't know what the other long arm was doing?

The crunch came, though we didn't realise it at the time, when the liaison inspector asked to see the names in our ban book. We refused, citing our agency's confidentiality policy. The appeal court judges criticised us for not taking this request to our trustees. As usual I had to sit schtumm while reality was twisted again: a trustee had been present when the request was made, and had backed us up.

We were presented with various other "should haves", all of which might make sense in hindsight but at the time were not up for consideration. How can you be expected to act against something if you don't know it's happening? Something shown up by a police eye-in-the-sky surveillance camera isn't necessarily apparent from the ground.

"It happens all the time," a journalist told me. She was talking about injustice: "Didn't you know?" Well, actually I didn't, and wonder how naïve one can be. That the appeal court refused to quash my conviction was to be expected, other people have said. It would have been too risky to do otherwise, would have given out the wrong messages. The decision was policy driven.

Now it's over and I can at least lick my wounds, try to leave it behind and thank my stars that my 5-year sentence was reduced and that I'm out of prison, not like the other 66,000 who continue to languish there.

I've spent 20 years working in homelessness and know that approximate justice, even blatant injustice, are part of the fabric for the homeless. Surely basic shelter is a human right, and food and warmth too. Instead they get woefully inadequate services. Despite the government spin, we know that there are just not enough beds for homeless people, or detox and rehab places for those who are addicted to drink or drugs and want to try to give up. And, since my arrest, there's a much more cautious welcome at shelters and hostels for those who won't or can't.

Where is the justice for a street homeless person who's been in council care, has suffered abuse, has been in and out of mental hospital, who's suffered a breakdown, has been in the forces, has just come out of prison, has been thrown out of home?

I am astonished that there has been so little in the media about the homeless this Christmas, one of our coldest Christmases for some time. The main story we got was Louise Casey, the homelessness tsar, defending the government's campaign to stop us giving to beggars this winter. Begging is after all rather disgusting: we'll have none of it. Rather extreme, but any agency challenging the government policy is these days openly threatened with loss of funding.

Now, thankfully, Crisis has had the courage to make a bit of a fuss about the shortage of night shelter places this winter. The government has refused to fund many of the usual cold weather shelters: after all, putting people into basic night shelters is, like begging, pretty disgusting. Shelters don't solve homelessness, we all know that, but people are sleeping out there, in the snow and ice for goodness sake. A roof over your head is better than nothing, can solve the problem for that one night, staff can help you find other solutions and, at the bottom line, it'll keep you alive.

All this reminds me of what happened in Manchester, maybe 15 years ago. They closed the grotty old night shelter because it wasn't good enough, and in the hope that having people on the streets would force the council to provide something better. Principles versus humanity. Former shelter residents did end up sleeping on the streets but no super hostel was forthcoming and eventually the old shelter had to be reopened again. For those sleeping rough it was no doubt a welcome return to a pragmatic approach.

The government has made an effort to address the homelessness problem. It's set up a Rough Sleepers Unit and put up some extra money, mainly to provide more housing support for people moving into their own places, and for street work. But no extra beds. No more institutional shelters and hostels. They are not acceptable, don't fit the New Labour image of how we should be. And homelessness agencies are having to keep quiet about it: the price they pay for taking New Labour's shilling. Not surprisingly, there have been dark mutterings about government takeover of the homeless sector, about agencies becoming subsumed under the statutory umbrella.

The fact is that shelters can be a lifeline for many, and there are a lot of people who can't cope with their own place, need an institution, but nowhere else will have them. The situation is hardly surprising: with the advent of community care we lost thousands of institutional bedspaces. People who need that sort of help aren't suddenly going to stop existing.

The only institution that is expanding is the prison estate. Perhaps that's it: throw the addicts, the drunks, all the street people into clink. That'll get them out of sight. It will also damage them further. I know from personal experience just how awful and injurious our prisons are. Not a case of principles versus humanity this time, more like doing without both. But no-one in the homeless sector would be able to complain, for fear of losing their funding. Our only hope is that the national agencies like Crisis and Shelter and the National Homeless Alliance will continue to find the courage to speak out against injustice among the homeless. Local groups are just too vulnerable, as I know to my cost.

The letter reveals Ruth's thoughts and feelings about the hearing for leave to appeal against their (Ruth Wyner and John Brock) convictions which took place at the Royal Courts of Justice in The Strand on Tuesday 11th July 2000, and at which Ruth and John were released on bail pending the appeal.
19th July 2000

When I walked into the appeal court it was lovely to see so many family and friends in the public gallery. I wanted to wave to everyone but the Securicor guard had told me that it was not advisable. I restrained myself.

After all the weeks of waiting, I felt incredibly tense. I'd been transferred to Holloway the day before. John went to Pentonville. We had travelled together during the gruelling three-and-a-half hour ride from Highpoint to London in the sweatbox, locked in our own compartments but opposite each other so we could wave and shout the odd greeting. It was so good to see John. Our prison transfers included endless processing and waiting in a series of rooms and cells. My one consolation during my night's stay at Holloway: I was given a single cell for the first time in prison. Even so, someone managed to steal some chocolate I had in my drawer while I was in the shower.

The last thing I saw as I left Holloway for court was two women going into a toilet for a 'boot' of heroin. Despite the strip searches etc., they had managed to get the heroin, silver foil and a lighter out with them. Very ironic I thought. Then at court I was shut in yet another cell, yet more waiting. I could hardly contain myself.

I went through a roller coaster of emotions at the hearing. As Michael Mansfield argued for leave to appeal against conviction, I was only hoping that the judges caught his points. It brought the trial back to me, how we had argued and argued on points that were dismissed by the judge over and over again.

About half way through, the judges seemed to be latching on but they gave little away until the end, when they emphasised the vital point: 'subjectivity'. I expected them to go out to consider but when they just went into a quick huddle and almost immediately granted us leave, I could hardly believe it and elbowed John hard (not too hard I hope John). But it was already nearly lunchtime. I didn't expect there'd be time to hear the full appeal.

So I was delighted when the judges asked the prosecution to proceed, and then devastated again when they said they weren't ready. It reminded me of how the prosecution had continually delayed and delayed during the run-up to the trial. Definitely another three months in prison, I thought, my heart sinking fast.

Then Justice Rose almost playfully invited Mansfield to make an application. Mansfield seemed to pause to enjoy the moment! I was desperately hissing "bail, bail", along with most of the legal team. Again, I could hardly believe how easily it was granted, a quick huddle and the decision was announced. We had applied for bail before, had always been knocked back, had always been made to feel like criminals at every court we went through: magistrates and crown. Now it felt as though we had some rights. Did we really have rights? Unconditional bail too, and the prosecution for once did not object. This was a very different court experience. The public gallery erupted and I wanted to join in.

As we went out to be put back in our cells for processing once again, I said to John: "We're free!" "On bail," he reminded me. "You could go back to jail as the judge said," the Securicor guard added. But I was elated: I could go home. That was freedom enough for me.

Back in the cell I said to the Securicor guards, as they locked me in: "I'm free you know." They apologised and said it wouldn't be long. I sat down and wept, tears of joy and relief. Soon afterwards, John and I met the legal team. "She's hyper," they laughed when they saw me. Then we had the hitch over needing an address. I gave mine and had to endure another hour of lock-up, was given a virtually inedible lunch of microwaved vegetable curry and two slices of half-frozen bread, plus a cup of sweet tea which I drank and then rang the bell for a refill.

"I'm free you know," I kept saying to the guards. For many weeks, since we'd got the appeal date, I'd been trying not to hope for this moment, not to expect anything. But now it had happened and I wanted to get outside and with the family.

Going back into the court again I enjoyed hearing Justice Rose complain that his decision about unconditional bail had been questioned. By whom? The police were in court, looked very disgruntled at the decision, they had always pushed for conditions on our bail. There were no conditions this time. Real freedom. I couldn't wait to get outside. But there was more processing and the officials laughed at me as I urged them to get on with it.

Meeting everyone at the court entrance was fantastic. I wanted to hug and kiss everyone, but family first: my daughter wept as we embraced. What a relief for her. My husband swept me off my feet. I felt so lucky to have such wonderful people around me. The barrage of press outside was a huge surprise. I could not contain my elation. At the same time, I felt dreadfully sad that the women I'd met at Highpoint were still there, enduring that terrible life.

Now I have been free for a week, and have felt nothing but genuine happiness. There is so much I want to do, but I have to pace myself, as my energy levels are erratic and I often feel very tired. The first morning, I went with my husband to take the dog for a long walk but it was almost too much to take in: trees, countryside, sun and sky. It was a surprise to see the summer so well advanced: I'd missed 7 months of seasons, it felt like a block of time snatched from my life. On Sunday, I went into town with my daughter. We've missed our joint shopping trips. I've raided Tescos and am eating like a horse. Decent food at last.

Every time I look at my watch, I automatically think about what they'll be doing at Highpoint. I appreciate not having my time proscribed, not having a fixed routine, being able to walk outside whenever I want, pick up the phone and speak to people. The difficulty is in deciding what to do first. And I feel sad about the women I've left behind to endure the agonies of prison. I cannot fail to be hopeful about the full appeal hearing. I doubt that John and I will be incarcerated again, though it could happen, but feel an urgency to get the convictions quashed. The issues are wider than Wyner and Brock. The campaign so far has been more active and effective than I could have dared to hope. My legal team want the campaign to continue. We need to think about how and in what areas, and how we pace ourselves. It will be a delight to go to meetings.

Inevitably, some people will continue to believe we are guilty, and if the convictions are quashed that we'll be out on a technicality. I know these things aren't true and we'll just have to put up with a lot of this stuff, while refuting what we can. Some people's opinions are set, others use me as a scapegoat. Even so, since being freed, I have not had a single negative comment, but have been stopped many times by people, total strangers, wanting to tell me that they are pleased I'm out of jail. So am I!

I think the coverage for the appeal has been excellent in the national media but not quite so good locally, the local papers in particular not wanting to offend any of their readers I suppose. I think it's a shame they couldn't be a bit braver. The Richmond Comet, which is the local paper for the London area I grew up in, has been running a "Free Ruth Wyner Campaign" for some weeks. What a shame the Cambridge locals wouldn't take up the cause.

You ask if I have a message for my supporters. I do. It's: THANKYOU!!! Very very much. I am so grateful to everybody, to those who did a lot (and there are so many…) or just a little (many many more…) and that people found time to help John and I, and Wintercomfort which has shown everyone what a plucky organisation it is. Thank you to everyone who campaigned, got petition signatures, wrote to the powers that be, wrote lovely letters and sent cards to John and I in jail. It helped so much.

Of course it's not over yet. We have the final appeal in the autumn. I'm taking time out right now to be with family and friends, to be at home, and trying to get myself level again. I need to get a job but can't do anything until after the autumn hearing. I hope to get away on holiday for a week or so but will also be meeting with the campaign team - at last I can help. I really hope we can get to the truth of why this prosecution was brought.

I also hope that we can help in a small way to highlight issues around homelessness provision, around the way drug addicts are treated, the lack of services, and the needs that continue in society. I returned to the Bus project today, the first time in two years, and was struck by how little things have changed for the homeless, how much remains still to be done.

Staff are doing a marvellous job with the resources they have. I hope that the support nationwide that has rallied for John and I over the past few months can somehow be redirected to support for homelessness agencies and for those who work with the drug addicted, and that we can contribute to an ongoing and fruitful debate.

Ruth

Ruth Wyner, Prisoner EH6324 Wyner writes to supporters of the Cambridge Two Campaign web site
5th July 2000

Prison life grinds on mercilessly, the same stultifying routine for the past six months, and that's just the start of my sentence. I was pleased to see last week that a new 'Manifesto for Penal Reform 2000' has been launched with the backing of 40 voluntary organisations.

For the past 20-30 years, we've been dismantling our old psychiatric hospitals and setting up smaller units and care in the community, albeit with varying success. After my experience of the past six months, similar work with our prison institution seems long overdue.

I watch people in here running around after the drugs that come in and as time goes by get to understand more about why they do it. Prison eats away at your soul. Last night I dreamt I'd been condemned to death.

Someone told me about her experience in a bail hostel, where Class A and B drugs were easily available. She found herself using a lot of the Class B but told me about someone she knew who went in with an alcohol problem and came out with a heroin habit.

Another fellow inmate explained how Leicester Night Shelter approaches their knowledge of heroin use among the street population pragmatically, by providing clean needles for addicts and the customary 'sharps bins', where people can safely dispose of their old, used syringes. The bail hostel had sharps bins too.

In court, John and I were criticised for using sharps bins at the day centre even for just a short while. "It's harm minimisation", we protested, "for public safety". The prosecution even suggested that we searched people coming in, for their syringes. Hadn't he ever heard of NHS - run needles exchanges at pharmacies all around the country? You don't deprive addicts of needles, you try to ensure they have clean ones and safely dispose of the old ones. And he seemed unimpressed when I explained that a searching procedure could be dangerous. I wouldn't want workers contracting HIV or Hepatitis illnesses from accidental needle pricks.

The prison does what it can but has to be pragmatic too, to some extent. On the way to one of my prison visits, to see my family, the officer escorting us inmates said, with regard to drugs: "We know you swallow the stuff before we can get to it." "That's knowingly allowing." I said. She replied: "I know it's very difficult, Ruth."

I still haven't got my writing back, or my private journal. The prison confiscated it at the start of June, concerned about what I might be writing. Everything I send out goes through the office. Thankfully, I've sent copies of most of the important pieces of my writing to a potential publisher, though much work remains to be done. He will hold on to them for me. It feels a real intrusion for the prison to keep my personal journal. I don't know if I'll get it back.

The writing has been keeping me afloat and I feel the loss of it keenly. It's as if they have found a way to get to me. Prison breeds that kind of paranoia and it's not always ill-placed. The officers have so much power over inmates, and it's such a secret and closed environment, a fertile ground for abuse.

I fear sending this out, that I may suffer some retribution for it, but know that some prison governors and officers are themselves keen to see some reform of our outdated, ineffective and obsolete prisons. The system itself is counter-productive.

As the day of the appeal approaches, I become increasingly unsettled and, when I can, work out the stress in the gym. Everyone feels the strain in here. Whenever I get out, I shall always remember the pain and fortitude of my compatriots, which I have got to know intimately.

Very best wishes

Ruth

The approaching date of the appeal has somehow cut into the equilibrium I have managed to achieve in prison. I am feeling a bit less settled. Thoughts of getting home pop into my head, which doesn't help to cope with prison life. But of course I 'm glad that we have a date at last.

Having had the experience of Crown Court, I daren't be too optimistic. I just hope that the Appeal Court will see the absolute nonsense of the convictions, let alone of the sentences. We shall see. My other worry is that the full appeal might not be heard on that day and that we may have to wait another two or three months for a second hearing.

I was pleased to read in Hansard that MPs were demanding that my appeal be heard "next week" in a debate on a clause put forward by my MP Anne Campbell to clarify Section 8 of the Misuse of Drugs Act, on June 12th in the Commons (Hansard 676 - 689). I'm grateful to Anne and other MPs who raised their concerns about my situation and hope that the judges take note.

There was an interesting statement from Paul Boetang MP (Minister of State at the Home Office): "it was argued that if people, for instance, did not tip off the police as to their suspicions that someone was taking drugs on the premises, that would in some way breach Section 8. Nothing in Section 8 should give cause for that belief."

The judge told the jury at our trial that they should find us guilty if they thought it reasonable for us to have "tipped off" the police by giving the names of suspected dealers. Is it a new application of the law that you have to give the police names of suspected dealers and not of suspected users? Does that include people who, as is typical among drug addicts, sell off a bit to make up their own hit, as well as those who do it for profit? It is a bit much to watch the goalposts moving in the middle of your trial, as we did, and to see them still shifting about while you're stuck in prison. Perhaps these goalposts are just not clear and that's the problem. If so, the law is open to the prejudices and misunderstandings of the judge and jury.

-----------------------------

I have been able to keep in contact with my solicitor during my incarceration and have had one visit from the barristers. I've been told to expect a second at the end of June. I'm waiting to see the paperwork relating to the appeal but understand that the barristers are still finalising things. They are anxious to get things right, as we all are.

It has been hard to maintain contact with John. I write to him and get a letter back, occasionally. I fear he is feeling very low and expect he finds it easiest to cope by keeping his head down.

I guess I am managing better and try to keep positive and make the most of my days, even though they are proscribed by the perimeter fence and the various gates we get locked behind. Prison is meant to be a painful experience and I work to minimise any damage, the worst of which is being done to my poor lungs as I've taken up smoking again after ten years of abstinence. The immediate effect of Holloway was to fire up my old nicotine addiction. I know I'll stop when I get out.

Keeping busy is my main defence mechanism and being able to do a bit of writing has been my salvation in here. This past week I sent off two articles about prison: one to the Prison Service Journal about my experiences as an inmate, the second for the Prison Reform Trust's newsletter as a response to their recent and superb report 'Justice for Women: the need for reform'. I don't know if they will get used, but they were suggested by the publications' editors. I continue to write about homelessness to the best of my ability. There is a lot to do. My husband Gordon said: "They had to lock you up to get you to write." True, I never had the time 'outside'.

The prison seems to be very paranoid about my writing, even though I pass to the officers everything I send out for possible publication, now or in the future, and tell them what it is. One of the Governors has taken away my drafts on homelessness to read, and also my personal journal which feels extremely intrusive. My solicitor has written to complain about the removal of my journal, having heard about it from Gordon.

Gordon and I have not been apart in 26 years. I miss him dreadfully. Also my daughter who is at home with him and in the middle of her GCSEs. Both of them have been, after the initial dreadful upset of the first few weeks, enormously brave and strong. It's very hard for them. I long to get back to my rightful place at home. The dog misses me. The poor old boy hangs on to anyone female who visits the house. Two of my three cats have taken to sleeping on my side of the bed whenever possible. The third stands guard at the front of the house. I miss them all. My son is doing his masters degree in Birmingham. I've discovered that he writes lovely letters. A friend is looking after my garden. The whole situation is ludicrous. Let's hope it doesn't go on too long.

Work

I've been working in the homeless sector for 20 years, first in Norwich where I spent 10 years doing shifts at an old church night shelter while my two children were growing up, going on to manage a new-build shelter which I had help to set up. Then I went to Great Yarmouth to run a resettlement scheme and set up a new hostel and some move-on housing.

In January 1995 I moved to Cambridge with my family to take on the job of Director of Wintercomfort. It seemed like my kind of organisation, involved in campaigning for the homeless as well as setting up and running projects. The homeless problem in Cambridge was the worst I had seen throughout East and Mid-Anglia and I aimed to publicise that locally and nationally as well as working to improve services.

We managed to get more money in from the government as well as charitable trusts and local funders to develop The Bus drop-in centre, the resettlement work, extending shelter provision, setting up street outreach work and running training schemes for the homeless. There was a lot of support from local people as Wintercomfort became more high profile. Donations came in, which helped us to keep going, and we had hundreds of volunteers on our books.

But as so often happens in this work, when you campaign hard, when you pop your head above the parapet to fight for your cause, we had enemies as well as friends. Often people are disgusted and frightened by the homeless, their plight stirs up emotions that they would rather ignore.

Wintercomfort is, as its patron says, doing the hardest work, at the coalface. The customer group is treated with respect, there is a real community feel to the organisation. It is a great place to work, and provides a local response to local needs. I enjoyed my time there.

Why was I arrested?

When I was arrested in May 1998 I was on the verge of setting up a new £1 million housing and rehabilitation project for homeless people, particularly those living on the streets. We had a site, planning permission and a large proportion of the cost required.

The project had caused a lot of controversy: many of the people living nearby had strenuously objected and one person was running a campaign against us. Even the police had objected to it, in writing. As a result of my arrest and imprisonment, that project has had to be postponed. Meanwhile, Cambridge continues to have one of the highest levels of street homelessness in the country.

I often wonder whether the work I'd been doing to set up this project was behind my arrest. At the time, we thought we had good police liaison at the Bus Day Centre: regular visits from the local beat bobby and six-weekly Advisory Group meetings on the site, attended by a police Inspector.

We were all concerned about the increasing use of heroin among the homeless population and discussed it often and openly, thinking we had the support and assistance of the police. The Inspector reassured us that we were "working within our remit", but did say that his view was not shared by all of his colleagues. When I offered to speak to them he said his "softly softly"approach was best.

The only sign of any real disagreement came at an Advisory Group meeting, when the Inspector asked for the names of all the people we had banned from The Bus day centre in the last few months for infringement of our drugs policy, for using on the site, or for suspected dealing.

Everyone at the meeting said that this was not possible and we explained our confidentiality policy. The Inspector said no more and seemed satisfied, but less than a month afterwards I was arrested. I later discovered that the police had mounted a secret surveillance camera, which showed dealing going on in our courtyard of which staff and I were not aware. We did not have the "eye in the sky" vantage point that the camera had, set up in the roof of a building over the road.

Why the court refused to believe that John and I did not know of this dealing, I will never understand. We had been doing a lot to strengthen our drug policies and the implementation of them, and they were seen as quite strict. In fact, the National Day Centres Project used our policies as model ones for other projects.

Cambridge had a particularly bad heroin problem at the time, the streets were awash with the stuff and we saw first hand the devastation it had caused to people's lives. Perhaps Cambridge Police should be called to account for not controlling things better.

It seems to me that opinions were split among the local Police, some wanting to attack Wintercomfort, others horrified that such a step was taken. We were a small local charity and maybe seen as an easy target. It also seems that by working with destitute people, the dispossessed and those often in despair, we came to be viewed as part of the problem instead of as part of the solution.

I'm concerned that our prosecution could have the effect of limiting the availability of help for drug addicts because workers are understandably anxious to protect themselves. But forcing addicts to stay on the streets hardly seems a sensible solution for society as a whole.

Life in prison

Inactivity is the major frustration of prison life. I am used to working long hours and enjoying a busy home life with my family. Here, with the constant lock-ups, the monotony of life and the continuous restrictions in a boring environment, it is hard to become motivated to do anything.

The working day is around 5 hours: 8.45 am - 11.30 am in the morning and 1.45 pm to 4.00 pm in the afternoons. The education department here has little to offer me, all the courses are very basic, but there is an art class. Initially I did that in the mornings and worked in the gardens in the afternoon, both activities that I normally consider to be leisure pursuits. Then a publisher wrote to me, encouraging me to do some writing. It took me nearly three months to get hold of a typewriter, I am allowed no access to computers to do my own work. I now do my own writing on the unit in the mornings and I've stuck with the afternoon gardening: it's good to get outside and have a bit of activity, even if it's just cutting the grass or whatever.

At weekends we have no work and get locked up from 12.00 to 6.00 pm. I manage to get to the gym two or three times a week. Generally, prison life is typified by lots of lock up, boring routine and hanging around, your life feeling like it is no longer your own. Needless to say, the food is pretty bad. I manage to ring home most evenings and have four one and a half hour visits a month which helps me keep in contact with the family.

I find the other inmates generally friendly but know that a lot of damage is being done by this incarceration to them and their families, and in so many cases it does not seem necessary.

I suppose working in a night shelter is a good preparation for jail, except that here it's 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. The officers are mostly easy enough to get on with. They were a bit wary of me at first and don't have what I would see as a particularly attractive job, keeping control in what is basically a pretty inhumane environment. Some seem to enjoy the power that they have over us inmates. I often feel in the dark about what they are doing. We have male and female officers here, generally referred to as "screws" or "kangas" (kangaroo=screw).

The future

I enjoyed working in the homelessness sector and felt a passion for my job. That has now been taken away, so it seems, and it's hard to see what may be ahead for me personally. I have learnt a lot from being in prison, about myself and about what prison really means.

Maybe in the future I will have an opportunity to contribute in a different way. I also hope to produce something with my writing that might be of some interest to the general public, but have a great deal of work yet to do. Working with a typewriter is a lot slower than on a computer. I have been heartened to discover that, Woody Allen no less, has always written on a typewriter and still does. I'm in good company.

I hope that the case does not badly affect the rest of the homeless sector and its ability to work with people who misuse drugs. This group forms a significant section of the homeless population. Perhaps the case will add to the debate of how we can best work with people who have problems with drugs. I, of course, meet a lot of addicts in prison and cannot see that jailing them does much good. They seem to spend their time longing to get out and have another hit. Drugs are, of course, available to some extent in prison.

Finally

I would like to thank all the people who have written to me in prison, and who continue to write: friends, colleagues, people who I've never met, and all those who are supporting John and I, and those campaigning against the injustice that has been perpetrated against us.

I very much hope that Wintercomfort carries on, as it is doing, with its imaginative and effective work. It is a very special organisation.

I am indebted to my family which has remained so strong for me: Gordon my husband (we have been together for 26 years), my 23 year old son Joel, my 16 year old daughter Rachel (now doing her GCSEs), my mother, my sister and her family, and all my extended family.

I feel most particularly for my close family. As the saying goes in here: "They do your sentence with you." Let's hope for the right result with the appeal.

With all good wishes

Ruth Wyner

I write in response to your article, 'A Jailbird's Eye View' in the December issue.

Being just under a month into a five-year sentence, my experience of prison is as yet fairly limited, but I feel Ellen Moxley in her nevertheless excellent piece missed something that seems to me to be at the core of inmate's responses.

Prison is painful. It is meant to be so. It is meant to hurt. And you can see it on the women's faces, feel it when you speak with them.

The most painful part, other than the omnipresent incarceration, is separation from family, and most particularly from one's children. My youngest child is 16 and still at home. Being away from her is bad enough. But a high proportion of women prisoners have young children and they feel huge distress at being torn apart from these little ones. The children, of course, feel it also and the internal experience will be with them for all of their lives.

Prison is also infantilising. With the constant assault on one's dignity. It is hard to hold onto the person that you know yourself to be. It is this that I find to be the 'biggest humiliation', not the strip searches as in Ellen's case, which frankly I couldn't care less about.

There is the potential in prison of finding one's deepest strength, of reaching into one's very core. But the anxiety of not being able to lead a normal life and fulfil your responsibilities on the 'outside' is very great indeed, of primary importance.

I was convicted because heroin was traded on the premises of a day centre for the homeless in Cambridge, one of five projects run by the charity called Wintercomfort, of which I was director. The court decided that I and my manager, John Brock, who was sentenced to four years 'must have known' about this illicit and secretive supply of drugs.

The police wanted us to give them the names of people we banned for drugs. We would not, because we had a confidentiality policy in force, in common with most professional agencies. However, the judge directed the jury to ignore the policy.

While not a Christian myself, I welcome and acknowledge the valuable help Christian groups give to the homeless sector. Long may it continue.

Yours sincerely
Ruth Wyner

"The shock subsided after two or three weeks, during which other inmates were very kind, and helped me a lot. It is a sobering situation, one in which you have to use all your strength to stay intact.

An irony for me is that at Highpoint there is a Listeners scheme in which local Samaritans are training inmates to help their fellows to limit the pain of this situation. I have been accepted on the training scheme and during the first session, the importance of complete confidentiality was emphasized. For everything, I venture, even drugs? They insist this has to be so, saying that otherwise Listeners could not gain the trust of those they seek to help. The irony is bittersweet: it was to a considerable extent by upholding confidentiality that I got into this situation in the first place.

I am enormously proud of my family, overwhelmed, greatly lifted and deeply humbled by the energy and commitment people have given to the campaign and by the many letters and cards I have received. They are a great help. The ongoing support for Wintercomfort is a great joy to me, the staff and volunteers are loyal and dedicated, a wonderful bunch of people. My thanks to all."

Dear Home Secretary,

I wish to report to you the fact that Class A and B drugs are being supplied at this prison, where I am currently being held, as well as at other prisons.

As Director of the Cambridge charity Wintercomfort, "Number One" as it were, I was convicted for allowing drugs supply of which I was not specifically aware. I therefore feel it is my duty, in order to ensure the safety of the Home secretary, to make you aware of this supply as you are, of course, the "Number One" in regard to prison management.

After all, I do not want to see you doing a 5-year stretch as I am. This is my first offence.

I was charged under Section 8 of the Misuse of Drugs Act. At court, my judge directed that my co-defendant and I were guilty if we "were unwilling to use any reasonable means that were readily available .. to prevent the prohibited activity." Furthermore, Judge Haworth directed that if there was a failure to implement these means effectively then the offence was also committed.

These reasonable means included, according to the judge, closure of the project. The failure to adopt such a measure if other measures to stop the activity had failed would, Judge Haworth said, indicate an unwillingness to use a "reasonable" step and as such be evidence of permitting drug supply.

You may also wish to note that in questions to Paul Boateng, M.P. in the House of Commons on 31.1.00 (nos. 164-7 inc.), Peter Bottomley M.P. was informed that in 1999 there were 17,789 positive drug tests in prisons and 13,409 proven cases of unauthorised uses of a controlled drug in prison. Over the same period, 823 visitors were arrested for bringing drugs into prisons.

In my case, Wintercomfort banned those caught dealing or using illicit drugs at its day centre. But there was additional dealing that was caught on a secret police surveillance camera, of which we were not specifically aware.

We were, however, said in court to "know" because we had discussed our concerns about drug use at the project with, among others, the police.

The similarities are striking: the prison service has caught some dealers but clearly not the majority of people dealing on prison premises, visitors or inmates.

Your methods are clearly ineffective. As you live under the same laws as I do, I believe you are liable to arrest. Or would you like me to perform a citizen's arrest on the governor here?

I look forward to your reply.

Yours sincerely
Ruth Wyner

Copies to Anne Campbell MP for Cambridge, Peter Bottomley MP. Shelley & Co, solicitors, Alex Masters, Chairman of the Cambridge Two Campaign.

From Ruth Wyner, EH6524 Wyner

I hope that I can through your column express my deep gratitude to all the people who have taken the time to send letters and cards to me since I was sent to prison on December 17, first to Holloway and now at Highpoint prison, which feels a little closer to home.

Prison life is hard. I now know that the effects of such incarceration are difficult to fully appreciate unless experienced first hand. Contact from the outside gives an enormous lift and all the mail I have received has been very precious to me.

My supplies of writing materials and stamps are, like everything in here, very limited and I am sorry that I cannot reply personally to everyone.

The Passivity of prison life is one of the hardest things for me to cope with. But I am finding ways to manage, things to do, and learning a lot as well. While not a welcome experience, it certainly is an extraordinary one.

The other inmates have been very good to me. One said: "you look after us when we're out there, so we can look after you in here." They certainly have helped me through some difficult days.

My family is coping well. I am proud of them and am sure that the support, and the campaign that has been set up, have been a great help to them, too.

Highpoint Prison
Stradishall
Newmarket
CB8 9YG

When they open the gate for exercise I'm walking high in the Cornish cliffs the lake district carpet passes stream-laden Welsh hills and the sky scape of flattened fens

Today my thoughts are bounded by the tall fenced concrete path which hugs our prison unit in a tight embrace indifferent to my yearning

Britain evergreen will have to wait for my release while the sweep of nature's brush fails to colour my mind as I walk into the blues.

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