Extradited (28 page)

A
fter a three-year battle to clear my name, the court had found me not guilty. According to the president judge’s summing up, it was due to the attacker having ‘never been described as sporting a beard’.

These were all things that should have been revealed in a competent investigation.

I walked out of the courtroom into the hallway and the first person I called was Riya. I choked up, but managed to say the words, ‘I’ve just been found innocent.’ All I could hear on the other end of the telephone were wailing cries.

I felt as though I should have been happy – of course I was –
but it wasn’t how I’d imagined it would feel. We’d been fighting for justice for so long, and we finally had it! I thought that I’d be over the moon because a weight that’d been holding me down for three years was instantly lifted. What bothered me was that the weight should never have been holding me down in the first place. I’d spent almost a year in prison – where was the justice in that? No one could ever make up for it, or even begin to understand how difficult it was for me.

The not-guilty verdict was too little too late, and it left me feeling completely exhausted. All I remember wanting to do at the time was go back to the apartment and lie down.

According to the trial transcript, three jurors out of a judicial panel of seven had voted guilty. It made no difference to the verdict, but still pissed me off massively. After witnessing what was (in my opinion) a massive sweep under the carpet regarding the police’s flawed investigation, I didn’t believe that the ratio was true.

There was no way on earth any jurors voted guilty. I couldn’t let this frustration go, so a couple of years later I did some investigating. I managed to find one of the jurors on Facebook because all of their names were listed in the transcript. I sent a message, explaining what the transcript had said about the verdict. I then asked about the process of voting and whether the ratio was true.

Luckily the juror spoke some English, and I received a response within an hour:

It was such a lovely message to receive, and I appreciated it greatly. A criminal complaint had been lodged against the investigating police officers in Zante. The response was that there was no evidence of any wrongdoing, and that their investigation was totally competent. As for the perjury suits in Greece, they seemed to have been completely forgotten about.

The flight from Athens International Airport to London Heathrow was something that I’d been dreaming about since I’d landed in Greece almost two years earlier. It’d finally become reality – I was sitting next to a window on the right-hand side of the cabin. The smell of aeroplane food and recycled oxygen brought back the memory of my extradition. It seemed like an eternity had passed since that day, yet I could remember it so vividly. I travelled back in my mind to how terrified I was, and how oblivious I was to everything that would follow. It could have been a week, a month, or even years before I could clear my name and return home. ‘I’ll probably only be there for two weeks and I’ll make bail back to the UK,’ is what I’d said to Riya on the morning that I was extradited. It had been a life-changing two years in Greece. Finally I was going home.

I stared out of the aircraft’s window and saw a few fluffy clouds beneath us. As we approached England, the clouds became bigger and greyer.
Ding
– the seat belt sign lit up. I looked out of the window again; I could see the same bright blue sky above us that I’d become accustomed to in Greece, but we were gliding over a dark, whitish bed of fleecy fog. The plane began its descent. The window next to me turned into a grey painting that was drenched in droplets of condensation from the outside. All of a sudden I could see the River Thames, the Houses of Parliament and the London Eye out of the window. It was an incredible sight, and London’s rain-clouded sky had never looked so beautiful.

The plane landed in London, and I didn’t know how to feel because I’d never been in the situation before – it was a perfect balance of nerves and excitement. My parents and I exited the plane and walked to the terminal. There was an empty maze of queue-divider belts that we had to weave through in order to get to passport control. There was no queue – only one family in front of us with about four or five young kids. The kids were standing in a line, holding on to each other and running through the empty queue dividers and screaming ‘We’re a caterpillar!’ Something about it gave me a happy feeling – probably because it reminded me of primary school. The boys in my class and I would sometimes hold on to each other and run around in a circle until we’d all fall over. The kids in the airport reminded me that my memories weren’t all about prisons and courtrooms. The burden of the case had been hanging over me for so long that I’d started to forget how it felt to be ‘me’. Something that I hadn’t thought about since I was six years old had suddenly come flooding back to me and filled me with joy.

We walked through the arrivals gate and were bombarded with loud cheers and screams – I couldn’t stop smiling. Several of my family and friends were there and they all ran towards me
and hugged me – some of them jumped on me and I could hardly breathe. It was all too much – my granddad was there – some of my best friends were too. I remember hugging my cousins Andreas, Eleni and Charlotte with my auntie Mary. I was so happy to see that my uncle Theo, Pav, Koulla and Aki were there. Georgina, Teresa, Jenna, Sarah, Luke and even Sophie’s friend Danielle was there too. It was emotional hugging everyone, especially my grandma. They were holding banners and balloons saying: ‘WELCOME HOME ANDREW’. I held Riya in my arms for the first time in three years as a free man – it was the best feeling in the world.

We stepped out of the terminal. London’s air was cool and I felt fine droplets of rain on my face. I still couldn’t believe that I was even there – it was so bizarre. It was so strange to see right-hand-drive cars and English registration plates again.

Riya drove me home – my friends George, Kyri and Pani were squashed into the back seat. Music was playing on the radio – I turned the volume up to full blast and we were all dancing in our seats.

When we arrived, there were about fifty of my family and friends on my driveway – cheering with a massive banner that said: ‘WELCOME HOME SYMEOU FAMILY!’ It was emotional and overwhelming to see everyone there, together, in my house after two years.

I couldn’t believe that I was in my house again. It was the strangest feeling in the world. More and more friends and family kept turning up and we partied until the early hours of the morning.

Someone pinned a ‘21 today’ badge on me, because I’d spent my twenty-first birthday in prison. My friends had had T-shirts custom-made with my face on the front, which said ‘He’s Back!’ A group of my best friends put them on and then put one on me
and started to sing ‘Happy Birthday’, ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’ and then did a countdown to ‘Happy New Year!’ twice in a row because I’d been gone for two years. It was amazing and everyone in my house must have been smiling.

When I was in Greece I always felt like I was missing out on special moments back home. But on my first night back, I felt like I hadn’t missed them at all. They were always there – waiting for me to celebrate.

I was given two Christmases, two Easters, two birthdays, and two New Year’s Eves rolled into one huge party – it was one of the best nights of my life.

M
onths passed. I had my life back, but I still couldn’t shake the feeling of anxiety for some reason. Prior to my arrest I’d been a positive person who took each day as it came – suddenly I couldn’t stop worrying about the future. I knew that I was expected to go to university and then become successful in one of the most competitive cities in the world. I started to doubt myself and felt incapable. Most of my friends seemed to be comfortable in the workplace, some in huge central London firms. The thought of it terrified me; even the thought of university terrified me. It may sound strange, but I would have felt more comfortable in Korydallos Prison. Once I’d become used to the violence, lack of hygiene and drug problems, all I had to do was wake up in the morning, make a
frappe
, spin my
pegleri
between my fingers and stay out of trouble! I’m not saying that I liked Korydallos Prison, or that I would rather go back there than go to work. In prison (or even out on bail) I didn’t have to socialise with people on an intellectual level. I didn’t have to prove myself to anyone, or work towards anything on a daily basis. In fact, nobody had expected anything of me for the previous three years! All of a sudden I had an entire life to live and I felt like I was too scared to live it.

I knew what I had to do: I had to draw the positives from my experience and realise that I could mould my life into anything that I wanted it to be. This is, of course, far easier said than done – but I gave it a go. In October 2011 I attended Middlesex University to pursue a degree in Psychology with Marketing and worked part time in a local bar. I forced myself to take small steps towards ‘normality’ and focus on everyday tasks. Life was falling into place, but something still never felt quite right. For months and months, I felt like my mind was always elsewhere. Throughout my experience in Greece I would constantly attempt to escape my environment, and I would do so by losing myself in thought for long periods of time. The nightmare had ended; I had my life back – so why I was still in ‘think’ mode? If I wasn’t reliving things that had happened in prison or elements of the trial, I was worrying about having to find my right path in life.
What if I go down the wrong route and I have regrets? I’ve wasted too much time, I can’t waste any more.
They were pointless thoughts and I felt like I couldn’t stop them. I just didn’t feel like ‘me’ any more. I was trying to be fun and happy like my friends, but I couldn’t do it. Even when I was relaxing with my girlfriend or we’d be out on the weekends, I would constantly overthink and not live in the moment. We took a trip to Venice, which was lovely, but as I overlooked the stunning city from the top of St Mark’s clock tower, it felt as though I couldn’t even absorb it. My body was there, but my mind was flowing in and out. I’d started to realise that I felt most comfortable when in my room, concentrating on my university work – alone.

Almost a year had passed and I ended up completely destroying my relationship with Riya. After everything that we’d been through together, it felt like I couldn’t even help it. Losing her was so difficult to accept that I don’t even want to write about it.

O
ver a year had passed since my return and our lives were back on track. My parents were both working again and I’d managed to start putting my experience behind me. I’d lost almost seventy pounds in weight and passed my first year of university with a first grade. One of my lecturers had selected me as a ‘student learning assistant’ in my second year of university, so I was being paid to help first-year students with their work in seminars, as well as conducting my own group and one-on-one learning sessions. I was technically a member of staff, so I didn’t feel like a normal student. After all the years of being made to feel insignificant, I had a sense of importance – and it felt pretty good.

It was November 2012 and I’d just finished helping a first-year group prepare a presentation assessment. It’d been a long day and I made my way home. I stepped into the house and my mum called me from upstairs. She was sitting in our study, holding a letter in her hands. ‘How would you feel about testifying in the Coroner’s Court for Jonathan Hiles’s inquest?’ she asked.

I tutted. ‘I wasn’t there, so what could I have to add!?’

‘Well, that’s exactly what you’ll have to tell them.’

She handed me the document, which was an official summons from the Cardiff coroner.

Things were going so well in my life; I’d put everything that had happened behind me. What did they want from me now!?

‘Can’t I just make a written statement?’

‘It doesn’t look like it,’ said my mum.

I was legally required to attend, even though I really didn’t want to. After the years of moving forward and rebuilding my life, all the stress came flooding back.

It was Day 1 of Jonathan Hiles’s inquest and I sat on the second row of the public benches. I couldn’t believe that I was being dragged into it all over again. My parents had appointed a barrister to defend me from any slanderous comments – other than that I was simply there to tell the coroner that I wasn’t present on the night that Jonathan was allegedly attacked.

My parents were sitting to my right, and to my left were two South Wales police officers who were there to testify. The entire left wall of the courtroom was filled with journalists and reporters. I glanced at one of the journalists who held a pen and notebook in her hands. I looked at the blank, white page of her notebook and wondered what she would end up filling it with. I had absolutely no idea what was about to happen.

Chris Kyriacou and Charlie Klitou walked into the court – they’d been summoned too. I could see both of them in my peripheral vision walking past to the left of me, but I didn’t make eye contact with them. The last time I’d seen them had been two years earlier, at the trial in Patras. Even then I hadn’t spoken to them. I’d never blamed them for what had happened in Zante: they were put in an awful situation and they did what they had to do to get out of it. Although I’d never held anything against
them, I felt like I couldn’t be a friend to them any more. Not after everything that had happened.

Jonathan Hiles’s five friends entered the courtroom just after Chris and Charlie. I didn’t make eye contact with them either – looking at them would have brought back too many dark thoughts that were already behind me.

The courtroom began to fill with the family and friends of the victim – it left a silent tension in the room.

I learned that coroner’s courts are quite informal; so all witnesses are present throughout the entirety of the inquests.

The inquest ended up being like another full-blown trial! It began with the testimonies of Jonathan Hiles’s five friends, who were with him on the night of the attack. They were each called to testify. The coroner pressed each of them on the point that their statements made to South Wales Police and to the Greek authorities were completely different. For example, the first of them to be questioned by her was Lee Burgess:

‘I told them the same thing that I’ve told you,’ Lee answered.

It was a stressful and emotional two-day inquest. Mark O’Gorman (the only eyewitness) identified me with complete certainty as the attacker again. Mark and his four friends seemed to hold onto the proposition that they didn’t give a full description
of the attacker, or male urinating, because they didn’t understand the importance of the South Wales Police statements.

The coroner later commented on Mark O’Gorman’s testimony:

Mark O’Gorman was handed the original copy of his statement. ‘Erm … yeah.’

‘Thank you,’ said the coroner.

Over two days the coroner heard evidence from a pathologist, the five friends of the victim, Chris Kyriacou, Charlie Klitou,
myself and two South Wales police officers. The coroner’s ruling was as follows:

I completely agreed with the verdict. It had been said from the very beginning that a punch was thrown, which was indeed unlawful.

The coroner continued: