By Peter Pringle
Law and justice aren't regularly one and an analogous. at the 27 November 1980, Peter Pringle waited in an Irish courtroom to listen to the next phrases: 'Peter Pringle, for the crime of capital homicide ... the legislations prescribes just one penalty, and that penalty is death.' the matter used to be that Peter didn't dedicate this crime. dealing with a sentence of dying through placing, Peter sought the interior power and backbone to outlive. while his sentence used to be replaced to 40 years with out remission he got down to turn out his innocence. Fifteen years later, he's ultimately a loose guy. this can be his tale.
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Extra resources for About Time. Surviving Ireland's Death Row
This induction or education course included history, politics, IRA rules and regulations, debate and question and-answer sessions, all aimed at the recruiting officer being able to decide whether to accept or reject a potential volunteer. We were told in no uncertain terms not to expect anything romantic about being in the IRA, that it was not a democratic organisation. It was the Irish Republican Army and required discipline and obedience from its volunteers. It was made clear to us that we might have to face the prospect of imprisonment, injury or even death.
Two of them even slipped me a sixpenny piece with a wink. After the dentist we all went to the hotel for lunch but Aunt Mainie was only able to sip a bowl of soup. I don’t remember much about the trip home. With all the excitement of the day, the motion of the trap and the rhythm of the pony’s hooves, I fell asleep and only woke up as we were turning into the farmyard. But I helped Grandad un-harness the pony and wipe him down and stow the harness before going up to the house for supper. I don’t remember going to bed either, but I slept the night through.
But when I returned to school I’d be behind the rest of the class in my studies, which brought even more trouble from the sadistic Brothers. Ultimately I decided it was better to attend and try to stay unnoticed, rather than give them an excuse to focus on me. Our dog Spot was a floppy-eared mongrel, black with a white spot on his chest. He’d follow me most of the way to school and meet me on my way home. When I crossed Richmond Street he would usually turn back. But one morning he came after me and was knocked down by an army truck.
About Time. Surviving Ireland's Death Row by Peter Pringle