I grew up the son of an immigrant in inner city Birmingham – aged six, I wore a brand new parka to school and when I got home, it was entirely covered in spit. We lived near a football ground: on Saturdays, I wasn’t allowed out. Dad said don’t bother reporting it to the police, they don’t care. Access to justice, I learned, wasn’t available to everyone.
My parents wanted me to see Pakistan. When I was eight, they drove us there in a Ford Transit van. On the way back, my cousin, who was the same age as me, fell ill. She died in Belgium. My mother put her in my arms and I held her on the four-hour ferry to Dover. We arrived and I realised what had happened. There and then I decided nobody would die on my watch again.
The three role models I had when contemplating a career in the law were Atticus Finch, Nelson Mandela, and Gandhi. One was fictional, one imprisoned and the other murdered. The careers conversation with my dad didn’t go very well.
Prosecutor by day, DJ by night. That was me in the early 90s. I was part of the Camden scene, on the decks and promoting house, trance and dance events. Then I saw a superstar DJ I’d booked for a night snorting cocaine on the turntable, and realised I probably shouldn’t be there. Also, I wasn’t very good.
Nothing human scares me these days. In 2006, Special Branch told me my name was on al-Qaida’s hit list – I think it’s still on there. In 2012, my house was attacked by far-right thugs. Now all I fear is God.
People misunderstand the role of a prosecutor. I’ve kept more people out of the justice system than any defence lawyer, by only bringing the appropriate cases to court.
I don’t have many friends these days, after letting them down for so long by prioritising other commitments. A few years ago I made a conscious decision to only focus on family and work.
Never walk under a ladder. I did 10 years ago and something heavy landed on my head.
People in authority so rarely have empathy. The justice system, like so many institutions, prides itself on process rather than understanding the experiences of the people with whom it interacts.
Every night before bed, wherever I am, I say a prayer. It’s a passage from the Qur’an: “Thank you for allowing me to survive this day, and please allow me to spend another one here.”
After my father had a series of strokes, I couldn’t face seeing him. Him being unable to speak and think as I knew him? I couldn’t bear it. For weeks, I stayed away. Then one morning I sucked up the courage and visited. He died an hour later. It’s as if he was waiting for me. I’ll forever regret not being there for him through that time. I was weak.
Somehow I’m Chancellor of Manchester University. Any graduation, award ceremony or envelope opening… I’m there. It’s a privilege, but I must admit…. I’m a fraud. I sit in all these rooms and rarely understand a single word said.
There’s nothing worse than a bigot with a warrant card. Yes, I’ve worked with thousands of good police officers. Like any community, it has racists, misogynists and homophobes within its ranks. But the Metropolitan Police’s refusal to accept these problems are institutionalised is incomprehensible.
Often in online meetings, I might appear to be listening intently, when I’m actually listening to House of Pain’s “Jump Around” through my headphones on full blast.
The Prosecutor by Nazir Afzal (Penguin, £9.99) is available at guardianbookshop.com for £9.59
