The degree of media attention paid to Liam Lawlor's prison conditions is truly extraordinary. We have been told in salivating detail what he eats, how long he spends locked up, whether he uses a bucket or an in-cell toilet to relieve himself. All of this has been bracketed with snide commentary on the house in which he usually resides.
My sympathy for Mr Lawlor could probably be measured in minus figures, as there is absolutely no doubt that he deserved to be found guilty of contempt of court. Yet there is something prurient and unpleasant about the glee displayed because someone like Liam Lawlor has to do time in Mountjoy. There has been a degree of self-righteous huffing and puffing as well about the fact that his conditions are allegedly better than those of the average prisoner. Let us look at that claim a little more closely.
He was allowed to evade the posse of press and photographers outside the prison. It is hardly fundamental to the democratic process that there should be footage and photographs of his humiliation. It would seem to be a humane decision on the part of the prison authorities, even if it did cause some gnashing of teeth amongst the media.
What about the other alleged privileges? He is being housed in the medical wing, where rooms are of a reasonable size, where there are windows and, wonder of wonders, there is in-cell sanitation. Why isn't he slopping out like the other prisoners, some cry. A far better question might be: why is anyone, even the most hardened criminal, forced to use a bucket for basic bodily processes at a time when this country has never been wealthier.
Imagine in-cell sanitation being seen as a bonus. Yes, I can see that one catching on for the rest of us. Property advertisements will henceforth trumpet in-bedroom sanitation. Have the luxury of your very own stainless steel toilet in the corner of your room.
The question is not why Liam Lawlor has in-cell sanitation but what it says about our attitude to crime and punishment that such a basic facility is seen as some kind of privilege.
The reaction to Liam Lawlor's incarceration is illuminating on a number of fronts as to what we really feel about prison and punishment. The idea still lingers that loss of freedom is insufficient. The conditions in which prisoners find themselves should also be grim and inhumane. We do not even pay lip service to the idea that prison should be rehabilitative in any way.
Hence the fact that there is little or no outcry at the massive prison-building programme, except from organisations like the Irish Penal Reform Trust. Yet there is no evidence that prison by itself lowers crime rates in any way, unlike measures such as neighbourhood watch and juvenile liaison schemes, which do lower the rate of crime.
We have seen massive expenditure on prisons but no equivalent spending on education or rehabilitation services. This is in spite of the fact that the governor of Mountjoy Prison, John Lonergan, has repeatedly pointed out that the vast majority of prisoners come from pockets of six postal districts in Dublin, the very areas which have had a shameful history of neglect. Tackling that neglect is not a votegrabber. Locking people up apparently is.
There are a number of reasons why Liam Lawlor's time in Mountjoy grabs our attention. Firstly, it is rare for the middle classes to spend time in prison, so we feel an extra frisson that a public representative should be humiliated in this way. Such humiliation is apparently all right for the poor because their conditions give us not a moment's pause.
Secondly, there is a public hunger out there for someone to pay a price for the highly visible corruption in our system. That is understandable, but let us think about it in a rational manner. Liam Lawlor has been convicted of no crime save of contempt of court. Despite the rhetoric of vindication, this prison sentence does not vindicate the existence of the tribunals.
THE nature of tribunals is that a trade-off is made between procuring information as to what happened and the possibility of eventual prosecutions. I very much doubt that anyone will spend time in prison as a result of being convicted of corruption due to evidence unearthed at the tribunals.
The cliche of the moment is that some of those called to the tribunals know where the bodies are buried. To use the cliche a touch literally, suppose it emerges that a body is buried in a back garden. As it currently stands, gardai will have to show that they procured that knowledge other than via a tribunal in order to convict. How will a jury or, indeed, a judge ignore all the publicity surrounding tribunal revelations, and how then can anyone receive a fair trial? We have no idea how criminal trials would proceed as a result of information unearthed at a tribunal. Or even if they could.
However, given all that, a scarcely examined question remains. Should we as a society be so focused on prison as a punishment and a deterrent to crime? Perhaps prison should be reserved for categories of offence, such as murder, which are so serious that they must be marked with incarceration, or for individuals who are so dangerous that they must be held in secure conditions until they are safe to release.
There is a widespread desire among the public to see people go to prison, but far more important is knowledge which will make it more difficult for power to be abused in the future.
We need to explore what form of punishment could bring home to people who accepted bribes or distorted the planning process that these are not victimless crimes. Those who engage in corruption abuse undoubted talent in pursuit of personal gain. What could be more appropriate than being directed to use those talents in unpaid service to the communities most damaged by abuse of power?
Not as spectacular as a hanging or flogging, perhaps, but ultimately more just.
bobrien@irish-times.ie