Irish Prison Service deserves justice

Retired prison officer John Cuffe looks at the ins and outs of the service, and asks what we want from it.

THAT a prisoner produced a TV remote control in the Special Criminal Court, to prove his easy access to a mobile phone, should set the alarm bells ringing. That it wasn’t something more serious is of little comfort to the general public.

On joining the prison service in 1978, I found myself working within a system that would not be out of date a hundred years earlier. In fact, Mountjoy in the late 1800s was a more hygienic jail than the foul-smelling human zoo I entered for the first time in May 1978.

Prison staff uniform was of the cheapest material. Slopping out was de rigueur, and modern security apparatus was virtually non-existent. Prison staff credited the Provisional IRA circa 1972 and the Troubles for the start of a modernisation of the prison service. Unlike the Garda Síochána, army, and navy, who have a visible, uniformed member at their head, the prison service is a Department of Justice run enclave, which has been franchised into the Irish Prison Service. Its current head came from the Probation Service, prior to that, Brian Purcell from Social Welfare oversaw it.

For a time, such was the hunger for an identifiable prison figure that John Lonergan became a media feature, but less well known was the chaotic system he inherited. How a prisoner can produce a TV remote control in, of all places, the Special Criminal Courts will lead to an inquiry. Knowing prisons and prison staff, a period of near paranoia will now ensue. Checks and searches will be more rigorous. What will not have made headlines is the thousands of prison escorts that are routinely carried out without a hitch.

The conundrum is this: What type of prison system does Ireland envisage in the coming years? From the relative quiet years of the 1960s when parts of Mountjoy were closed down and jails were mothballed, to the start of the Troubles and the advent of the massive drug problem, prisons have adapted and limped along, like a guest invited to a wedding at the last minute.

At the root of the prison system in my 30 years’ service, two glaring facts stood out. The first was the human interaction of the prison officer. The second was the total absence of real involvement by the Department of Justice. Prisons essentially are the homes of the inmates. Cells reflect their personalities. Some have bare furnishing, others are tasteful reflections of the inhabitant.

This is where we come to an interface liable to cause conflict. To eliminate drugs, to eliminate mobile phones, to streamline prisons into foolproof zones, the denial of certain comforts is essential. Visiting areas have to have glass partitions, with no personal contact allowed during visits. Orange boiler suits replace personal garb, cells just have a chair, a table, and a bed. A return to single cells where the inmate will be safer and properly supervised, will lead to a massive drop in drugs and contraband, including mobile phones.

But is this the way to go in Ireland?

Bear in mind that most jails run above capacity; many are Victorian relics totally unsuitable for purpose. Packing large numbers into bigger jails leads to one thing — bigger problems. There is loss of identity for both staff and inmate; and often a loss of services as frontline staff are redeployed.

Prisons are grey and steel. Boredom and repetition become bedfellows. That those who work there, and those sent there, manage to overcome such a state of affairs is to their credit. Of course, when routine becomes a norm, the guard will drop, and errors can creep in. This is because humans run our prisons — humans that remain out of sight until a light is shone on the system. In 1982, Eamon Mongey, a Mayo GAA great, recalled the deeds of his 1950/51 All Ireland successes this way: “What we achieved was despite them [county board] and nothing in the intervening years would cause me to change my mind about them.”

I would choose the same words to describe my 30 years on the frontline of the prison service. Leo Varadkar belatedly and perfectly described the Department of Justice as “not fit for purpose” — my own sentiments, from long experience.

Prisons are not perfect but then neither is society. While many believe the health service is almost beyond reform, we can only hope the prison system will not suffer the same fate.

John Cuffe holds a Masters in the criminal justice system, a H Dip in public service management and a BA.