The Big Interview: Erwin James

[lead]The convicted murderer turned Guardian columnist speaks to Conor Shearman on the reality of prison life and why the system needs urgent change.[/lead][hr gap="2"]The man opposite me is a murderer. He’s just mentioned it a few minutes ago.  Deep furrows pierce a brow which turns towards me as he offers his hand. His handshake is steely, an unflinching vice. I wouldn’t have expected anything else. I wonder if I should have shaken his hand at all. Why did I just offer him a level of dignity and respect which he never gave to his victims? This is precisely the question which Erwin James aims to answer.An articulate, composed figure, he states that criminals are people too, often badly disfigured and dysfunctional characters, but human beings nonetheless. They deserve to be treated as humans. The reality for convicted criminals, James explains, is far too often this is not the case.

"You end up being a caricature of a man. That’s what prison does; it creates a caricature of a man.”

Erwin James knows quite a bit about prison. Released in 2004 after serving a 20-year life sentence for two murder-robberies, he is something of an authority on the matter. Imprisonment though was a regular feature of his life long before his murder conviction, with a career of petty crime beginning in childhood.His upbringing was chaotic and by the age of 10 he was regularly living between the street and care homes; still he remains quick to admit it offers no defence for his crime. “It always feels like I’m making a bit of an excuse, know what I mean? I don’t make excuses for my sins.”  It was this dysfunction which would characterise his adult years; amassing dozens of convictions prior to his sentence for murder.The murders committed by himself and an accomplice are not details which he dwells on. He fled to France following the killings and joined the French Foreign Legion, the discipline of the regiment offering him a sense of purpose for the first time, which led him to give himself up to French authorities.He describes the immediate sense of being sent to prison as a positive one; “When I first went I was relieved” – a happiness he conveys at the fact he could no longer bring pain to his own and others’ lives. It was not a feeling which would last; the brutal reality of living on a ward filled entirely with those serving life sentences quickly hit him.“There was anxiety; anxiety about living in there with all these dysfunctional people like me, all these strangers. People often think prison is this club, full of all your mates together. Prisons are full of strangers, all with various problems and dysfunctions.”The acerbity of the prison life which James describes is one at odds with an often touted tabloid stereotype of luxury. He describes a hierarchical system built on violence where “fear is the common currency.”The inherent male posturing and attempts to physically dominate reflect, James believes, the erosion of male identity behind bars: “The odd thing is on one level it emasculates and yet it creates an exaggerated sense of manhood. You end up being a caricature of a man. That’s what prison does; it creates a caricature of a man.”

“Prisons won’t change until attitudes change. Prison and prisoners are the last great taboo.”

Although violence may have been an episodic aspect of prison life, the omnipresent danger was the one inside one’s own head. James’s self-possession must hail from coping under a period of extreme mental duress.His first year in Wandsworth Prison alone was spent in solitary lock up 23 hours a day. His answer to coping with the prospect of looking to the future in such circumstances is simple: “You don’t, you don’t look too far ahead; you can’t.”An anecdote James tells of his first Christmas in confinement speaks volumes on how mental health is discussed amongst prisoners, namely it isn’t. A man in the cell above his own had hanged himself over night. The news spread across breakfast tables the following morning by way of jokes. The shock which reverberated around his skull at the news was expressed in laughter. Prison he explains is a place for those with very poor communication skills.Education was the means by which James began to find redemption. He is adamant in his belief that education is fundamental to rehabilitating prisoners. “60% of prisoners [in Britain] are illiterate and only 30% of the prison population can access full time education,” an investment he feels would yield far greater benefit to society. It costs €65,000 per annum to house a prisoner in Ireland; the preventative role, James believes, of education in halting the reoffending rate of prisoners would be huge.James found writing increasingly providing him with a purpose in prison, nor was he alone in the tradition, describing many incarcerated using it as “a way of understanding yourself in some way.” He wrote a letter to The Independent on sensationalist media reporting of prison life and was invited to write an article for the paper, which was duly published. Fast-forward several years and he is writing a regular column for The Guardian on life behind bars: ‘A life inside’.Writing shaped his self-identity and offered him the promise of a career beyond prison walls. When he finally walked through the prison gates in 2004 he should have felt optimistic about the hope of a second chance; instead he felt miserable. “It was depressing… I was coping with the guilt of my freedom.”

“60% of prisoners [in Britain] are illiterate and only 30% of the prison population can access full time education.”

Realising he couldn’t wallow in his misery, he recalled the words of a prison psychologist; he owed it to his victims to make the best of his life.Speaking out on the reality of prison and the reform it requires is one of the means by which he attempts to bring forward some positive from his experience. The most significant change required, he believes, is one which can only take place outside the prison walls. “Prisons won’t change until attitudes change. Prison and prisoners are the last great taboo.” The sensationalism offered in the tabloid press, he suggests, is a hallmark of the lack of humanity criminals are treated with. Prison is not the luxurious stable bed it is often portrayed as.For James, the Scandinavian prison system is the model which should be emulated. Far lower rates of imprisonment in Sweden, Finland and Norway are often heralded as being due to the humanising philosophy of their prison and justice system. Genuine belief exists that even those convicted of the most serious of crimes have the capability to be rehabilitated. James believes it represents a basic building block of humanity; “We’re letting down ourselves, it should be an ennobling thing.”Change, as James has shown, is not something which one can merely hope for, but can be actively pursued and created. If such a dysfunctional existence can be reformed, change in any aspect of life seems possible.James is no longer afraid to look to the future. He continues to relish writing for The Guardian and has a book coming out in the not too distant future. His crime though will never escape him. Does the guilt ever fade I ask? “No.” He pauses… “No.”