Erwin James
Journalist and editor of Inside Time who began writing while serving a life sentence for murder
ERWIN JAMES, who has died in an accident aged 66, stood up publicly for those – like him – who wanted to change their lives in prison and on release. As the first serving prisoner in Britain to write a regular newspaper column in a national newspaper (The Guardian) and, once out, as a speaker, campaigner, author and latterly editor of Inside Time, the national newspaper for prisoners, he both made and embodied a compelling case that everyone deserves a second chance.
When given a life sentence at the Old Bailey in 1985 for two murders, he was described by the judge as “brutal, vicious and callous”. By the time of his release in 2004, however, James had used his time in prison constructively, making good for the lack of education in his itinerant, chaotic childhood by gaining a history degree from the Open University and a qualification in journalism, and engaging with what intermittent help was available to seek a better understanding of why he had done what he had done.
His 2016 memoir, Redeemable, was dedicated to Joan Branton, the psychologist in HMP Wakefield, “who persuaded me I was valuable”.
Known in prison as Jimmy – James was his middle name – he ditched his surname, Monahan, in 1994 and signed himself Erwin James on a letter submitted to the Independent newspaper on a prison issue in the news. That led to a commission to write a longer article.
Others followed and a friendship developed with the Irish novelist and screenwriter Ronan Bennett, who had served time for an IRA murder, though the conviction was subsequently quashed.
Through Bennett, the invitation came to write a regular column, “A Life Inside”, for The Guardian. It ran from 2000 to 2004. Though he would make no financial gain from his journalism, as prison rules insist (he donated his fees to the Prisoners’ Advice Service), it nearly did not happen at all: the governor at HMP Littlehey refused him permission, but the then prison minister, Paul Boateng, was persuaded to overrule him.
“How Beggsy fell out with Bob”, his first column, described an argument on the wing landing over who could read a copy of a newspaper first: “These things don’t usually escalate to the point of violence, but the tension can get unbearable. These men aren’t in for driving offences.”
Month by month, he gave readers a rare insight into how prison really works, and in the process humanised, though never sanitised, those locked away from the rest of society. The column proved so popular that in 2003 a selection was published in book form.
Later, as editor of Inside Time, a unique channel of communication between prisoners and the world beyond the walls, Erwin James successfully walked a delicate line between giving voice to their enthusiasms, needs and sometimes legitimate grievances, and operating within the prison system that controls the distribution of the paper in every jail.
Those who came to know him said James became the very opposite of the judge’s description at his trial: gentle not brutal, generous not vicious, and full of selfrecrimination.
He could not have been a more effective campaigner for the idea that people can and do change.
“My behaviour was unforgiveable,” he wrote after his release, “and I seek no forgiveness.” He was conscious, too, of the continuing pain of the families of his victims. Referring to the attention he attracted as a writer, he reflected: “I know my ‘success’ is still painful for at least some of these people.”
Erwin James Monahan was born on April 18 1957 in Somerset to Scottish parents. His father, also Erwin, was a driver, labourer and violent alcoholic. His mother, Jeanie, from Paisley, was a gentler soul. Her death in a drunken car crash when James was seven robbed him and his 13-month-old sister Alison of any security and unconditional love.
Of his father, “Big Erwin”, who died while he was in prison, James later lamented: “I had loved him for all my life, but hated him too for a good part of it.”
His childhood was spent largely in Yorkshire with a series of stepmothers, or being handed round sometimes reluctant relatives. Though he did well when at school, his attendance was sporadic. By the time he was 10 he was stealing boxes of fudge from the market stall where he worked.
Spells in care and in a youth detention centre followed. The arrival of two daughters, Nadia and Louise, by different mothers when he was barely out of his teens, did little to change the trajectory of his life.
His crimes escalated until in late 1982, with an accomplice, William Ross, he murdered a theatrical agent, Greville Hallam, and a solicitor, Angus Cochrane, in separate robberies. Hallam was found strangled in his home in London. Cochrane died after being mugged – punched, kicked and battered with a brick – three months later.
James tried to escape justice by fleeing to France and joining the Foreign Legion, but after 18 months his crimes were catching up with him. He handed himself in at a French police station and was extradited. At his trial, his tariff – the earliest possible date he could be released under his life sentence – was set by the judge at 14 years.
With a discipline learnt for the first time in the Legion, he determined to use what opportunities existed for rehabilitation to work towards a new future, but 10 years into his sentence the Home Secretary increased it to 25 years.
The decision was not based on the progress he had made, it turned out, and with the help of the Prisoners’ Advisory Service (PAS) he successfully challenged the ruling. The new tariff was reduced to 20 years, which included two knocked off for exceptional achievement while inside.
It is often said that those who are released from prison stand a much better chance of not reoffending if they have a home, a family and a job to go to. James was in that sense blessed. His marriage, very soon after his release, to Margaret (who had first got to know him through his writings from prison) was one of the pillars on which he built his new life. “You know the worst of me and brought out the best,” he wrote to her in his memoir. Yet coming out after so long in prison is never easy. “It felt as if I was walking on air,” he recalled. “Then out of nowhere, I was hit by an almighty sense of despair and emptiness.”
There was another book, in 2009, The Home Stretch from Prison to Parole, work as a fundraiser for PAS, and joining the trustee board of the Prison Reform Trust. Invitations to speak kept coming in from those anxious to better understand prisoners and prisons, among them the Royal Society in Edinburgh, the Probation Union at the Danish Parliament, and the Festival of Dangerous Ideas at the Sydney Opera House.
It was, however, at Inside Time that he made his biggest impact on individual prisoners, offering them a lifeline to the outside world and the reassurance that there could be another, different, better future when they came out.
In his quieter moments, he remained haunted that he would always in some way be, in his own words, “a failed human being”, but at the home he and Margaret created in Wales and latterly in Devon, he brought to his life the energy and enthusiasm of one who was forever making up for lost time.
Inside Time reported that Erwin James was “believed to have tripped on the quayside at a marina in Devon… and fallen into the water, hitting his head”.
His wife Margaret survives him with his two daughters.