Double Murderer Gets Payout—MPs Demand Crackdown on 'Human Rights Madness'

Paul Riverbank, 1/2/2026Double murderer’s payout sparks fierce debate over prisoner rights, legal costs, and justice reform.

Awale, now 36, found himself at the centre of this controversy not just due to his crimes—which included the murder of two teenagers, followed by the violent gripping of a prison officer with a blade—but because of what happened after he started serving his sentence. It was in segregation, behind doors watched by cameras and officers, where Awale’s case began to attract notice. Isolating a man for nearly two years—less than an hour a day outside, seldom interacting with other inmates—brought the practices of the prison system under the magnifying glass.

Solicitors argued that this enforced solitude pushed Awale into the depths of severe depression. Perhaps more importantly for the legal establishment, they pointed out that statutory rules requiring regular case reviews—designed to prevent such isolation from dragging on without check—were overlooked. When the High Court found in Awale’s favour, declaring a breach of Article 8 of the European Convention on Human Rights (which safeguards respect for private and family life), a predictable wave of criticism followed.

The compensation itself—£7,500—might raise eyebrows for its modesty, especially weighed against the crime and the man’s notoriety. Yet the legal bill attached to the decision, totalling just over £241,000 and funded by the taxpayer, is what truly captured public attention. It’s a figure that, unsurprisingly, sent politicians to their phones and microphones. Robert Jenrick, filling the role of Shadow Justice Secretary, pulled no punches, describing the outcome as “a sick joke” and invoking the spectre of terrorists' rights being elevated above staff safety.

A quick scan of public opinion reveals a weariness, or perhaps an outright anger, with any suggestion that men such as Awale reap the benefits of a system seen by some as too soft or too legalistic for its own good. Yet at the heart of the matter lies a stubborn, uncomfortable question: What becomes of the rule of law if it is only selectively applied? If the reviews required by law aren’t followed—even for those guilty of the most heinous acts—where does institutional accountability begin and end?

Deputy Prime Minister and Justice Secretary David Lammy wasted little time in pointing out that routine procedures were followed; the compensation, he claimed, was modest, the process standard. Lammy also signaled that reforms were incoming—operational, policy, and possibly legal—aimed at rebalancing the approach to prison security and the rights of the incarcerated.

Nonetheless, some voices are calling for far-reaching changes. Proposals have surfaced for “carving out” particular offenders from the safeguards of the ECHR, or even crafting emergency legislation to make such exclusions legal. Yet critics say this risks creating legal precedents that could one day be used in less extreme, more ambiguous cases—something the architects of the current system were keen to avoid. On one side stand those determined to place safety and retribution front and centre; on the other, voices warning that exceptional cases should not drive wholesale reforms.

All this arrives as the Ministry of Justice faces pressure not just to plug a legal loophole, but to restore public trust in a system that’s been called into question. The spectacle of a man like Awale being handed taxpayer money—even when the sum itself is dwarfed by costs incurred through litigation—undermines confidence among those who pay the bills.

For now, the story is unfinished. As policy reviews and consultations begin, one suspects the acrimony is far from over. What can be said with certainty is that the questions never quite resolve into easy answers. Can a civilised society afford to cut legal corners for its worst offenders? Does upholding principles matter less when the accused is an admitted killer? As politicians debate next steps and civil servants comb through procedures, the public awaits a resolution—and, perhaps, wonders where justice truly lies in a case like this.

For years, the name Fuad Awale rarely appeared outside the confines of the British prison system—a footnote, if anything, to two brutal killings in Milton Keynes and a later hostage-taking inside the cell blocks of HMP Woodhill. Now, however, he’s unintentionally become a lightning rod for a debate that cuts to the heart of British justice: when does protecting the rights of prisoners, even those found guilty of the worst crimes, come at too steep a cost for the public, both in principle and pounds?Awale, now 36, found himself at the centre of this controversy not just due to his crimes—which included the murder of two teenagers, followed by the violent gripping of a prison officer with a blade—but because of what happened after he started serving his sentence. It was in segregation, behind doors watched by cameras and officers, where Awale’s case began to attract notice. Isolating a man for nearly two years—less than an hour a day outside, seldom interacting with other inmates—brought the practices of the prison system under the magnifying glass.Solicitors argued that this enforced solitude pushed Awale into the depths of severe depression. Perhaps more importantly for the legal establishment, they pointed out that statutory rules requiring regular case reviews—designed to prevent such isolation from dragging on without check—were overlooked. When the High Court found in Awale’s favour, declaring a breach of Article 8 of the European Convention on Human Rights (which safeguards respect for private and family life), a predictable wave of criticism followed.The compensation itself—£7,500—might raise eyebrows for its modesty, especially weighed against the crime and the man’s notoriety. Yet the legal bill attached to the decision, totalling just over £241,000 and funded by the taxpayer, is what truly captured public attention. It’s a figure that, unsurprisingly, sent politicians to their phones and microphones. Robert Jenrick, filling the role of Shadow Justice Secretary, pulled no punches, describing the outcome as “a sick joke” and invoking the spectre of terrorists' rights being elevated above staff safety.A quick scan of public opinion reveals a weariness, or perhaps an outright anger, with any suggestion that men such as Awale reap the benefits of a system seen by some as too soft or too legalistic for its own good. Yet at the heart of the matter lies a stubborn, uncomfortable question: What becomes of the rule of law if it is only selectively applied? If the reviews required by law aren’t followed—even for those guilty of the most heinous acts—where does institutional accountability begin and end?Deputy Prime Minister and Justice Secretary David Lammy wasted little time in pointing out that routine procedures were followed; the compensation, he claimed, was modest, the process standard. Lammy also signaled that reforms were incoming—operational, policy, and possibly legal—aimed at rebalancing the approach to prison security and the rights of the incarcerated.Nonetheless, some voices are calling for far-reaching changes. Proposals have surfaced for “carving out” particular offenders from the safeguards of the ECHR, or even crafting emergency legislation to make such exclusions legal. Yet critics say this risks creating legal precedents that could one day be used in less extreme, more ambiguous cases—something the architects of the current system were keen to avoid. On one side stand those determined to place safety and retribution front and centre; on the other, voices warning that exceptional cases should not drive wholesale reforms.All this arrives as the Ministry of Justice faces pressure not just to plug a legal loophole, but to restore public trust in a system that’s been called into question. The spectacle of a man like Awale being handed taxpayer money—even when the sum itself is dwarfed by costs incurred through litigation—undermines confidence among those who pay the bills.For now, the story is unfinished. As policy reviews and consultations begin, one suspects the acrimony is far from over. What can be said with certainty is that the questions never quite resolve into easy answers. Can a civilised society afford to cut legal corners for its worst offenders? Does upholding principles matter less when the accused is an admitted killer? As politicians debate next steps and civil servants comb through procedures, the public awaits a resolution—and, perhaps, wonders where justice truly lies in a case like this.