Mr Nice: an autobiography (58 page)

The incessantly repetitious questions wore us down. Judy was on the point of collapse, far too weak to hold back her tears. The journalists left. Judy and I were alone for twenty minutes. We were both far too exhausted and shattered to do anything other than look into each other’s eyes and hold hands.

‘Get me out of this mess, Howard,’ she said as the
funcionarios
came to take us away. ‘For God’s sake get me back to the children.’

One of the journalists had kindly commented that I stank of stale sweat. This must have got around. The
funcionarios
took me straight to the showers. I was certainly very grimy. There was no soap, but the shower felt good. Dodging the spray, I smoked one of the three joints Roger had given me. I thought of Bangkok massage parlours and Taiwanese bathhouses. Things change.

The next morning, after another politely served and first-class breakfast, I was taken to Mejuto’s office. The same interpreter was there.

‘The director wants to know if you are prepared to be interviewed by some television companies. They are his friends. You will be able to see your wife again. The director will take you there now.’

Judy looked worse than ever as the TV-AM crew entered the room. The interview was a re-run of yesterday’s press conference. We both made impassioned pleas for Judy’s release, emphasising her complete innocence and the totally unnecessary suffering she and our children were undergoing. We did the same for Spanish TV immediately afterwards. And then the same for another crowd of journalists. We were shown the day’s newspapers. Some accounts were stupidly sensational; others were very sympathetic. Bob Edwardes, good friend that he was, had given a long interview to the
Daily Mirror
in which he described me as being a quiet and devoted family man with a modest lifestyle. Some accounts were really bizarre. A couple of the tabloids reported Geoffrey Kenion as having hosted Prince Charles and Princess Diana to a slap-up dinner at Wellies.
The Times
carried a report of how the DEA had failed in an attempt to kidnap me from the Philippines and take me to America without going through extradition formalities. I wondered how they’d managed to fail. The British authorities, apparently, had refused to condone the kidnap on foreign soil of a British subject.

Judy and I again had twenty minutes to ourselves, but we were still too numb and stultified to have any sort of rational communication. I had never seen anyone more overcome by misery. We were escorted back to our separate quarters.

In the early evening, my lawyers came to visit me. Katz was able to give more names of those arrested. They were Patty Hayes (Ernie’s girl-friend), Wyvonna Meyer (Gerry’s wife), Ronnie Robb, and Philip Sparrowhawk. Katz was also able to give names of others the DEA were trying to arrest: Jim Hobbs, George Lane, Salim Malik, Bradley Alexander (whom I’d never met or heard of), Gerry Wills, and Rick Brown. He was making a personal appeal to Assistant US Attorney O’Neill to allow Judy bail. Four days was long enough to be locked up without knowing what the charge was. He was going to insist on getting a copy of the
indictment. Katz’s drug-lawyer friend in Michigan was going to get hold of a RICO expert, but Katz still didn’t know what RICO was. Both Katz and Morell would be back again to see me tomorrow. They were going to see Judy right away.

That night, back in the cage, I managed to get a good few hours’ proper sleep. I woke up refreshed. It was Friday, July 29th. I was hungry. I waited for the sound of the breakfast trolley. Instead, the cell and cage were opened by a very senior prison official, who spoke reasonable English.

‘Howard, please get your things. You are leaving.’

‘Where am I going?’ I asked.

‘We are not allowed to say.’

‘Can I see my wife?’

‘No. This is not allowed.’

‘Can I phone my children?’

‘I’m sorry, Howard. No.’

‘Can I inform my lawyer?’

‘No. But I will inform your family and your lawyers once you are at your destination.’

I was handcuffed and taken to the front gate. Roger Reaves was there, also in handcuffs.

‘Howard, it’s good to see you, but I’ve got the most godawful news. The Americans have charged me with the same shit they laid on you: RICO.’

‘What is RICO, Roger?’

‘God knows. They say I grew pot in the Philippines.’

‘But you didn’t, did you?’

‘No, but I was going to. Yes, siree. With the Good Lord’s help.’

‘What’s that got to do with America, Roger?’

‘That’s where I would have sold it. You know how much good weed goes for in the US these days?’

‘But you didn’t grow any weed, and you didn’t sell any. How can they convict you?’

‘Howard, let me tell you something about the US.
Whatever those sons of bitches charge you with, they convict you. I’m talking about the Feds. If it’s a state charge, you can maybe beat it. I beat a bunch of them back home in Georgia. But our charges now are all federal charges. You can’t beat the Feds. The only chance is to plea-bargain a sentence you can handle.’

‘So you’re going to plead guilty to RICO even though you don’t know what RICO means and even though you didn’t grow any weed.’

‘You bet. If they get me to the US, that’s what I’ll do. For sure. But I’m praying I don’t go to the US. It looks as if I’m going to get extradited to Germany. With God’s help I’ll get my freedom there, or maybe even before. I almost got away last night. I’ll tell you later.’

We were both piled into a police van. I couldn’t get my wedding and engagement rings back. I was told they’d be sent to wherever I was going. At breakneck speed we were driven to the ferry terminal in Palma docks. Glimpses of familiar landmarks such as the imposing Belver castle, the magnificent cathedral, and the windmill discothèques hanging off the cliffs made me feel desolate. Would I ever enjoy them again with my wife and children?

The van drove straight onto the ferry. Several armed police pointed at us with automatic rifles. There was no one else around. We were tightly gripped and marched down rickety gangways into the ship. At the end of a narrow corridor was a prison-type cell. We were pushed inside. The guards pointed to their rifles and wagged their fingers at us, indicating that any nonsense from us would result in our being shot. They threw in a brown paper bag of
bocadillos
and shut the door with a bang.

‘Why all this heavy stuff, Roger? Are we meant to be mass murderers?’

‘I think I know why. Last night I offered the prison director, Mejuto, a million dollars if he’d help me escape. He said he would. I’d have been gone tonight. I guess the son of a bitch got scared and snitched on me.’

That would certainly explain it. I wondered what sort of accommodation we could look forward to now.

We sat in silence for a couple of hours, then the ferry started to move. We knew that ferries left this terminal for either Valencia or Barcelona. It would be an eight-hour trip. Roger read loudly from his pocket New Testament. He
prayed and prayed. He asked the Lord for a sign of His ever-present help. None was forthcoming. We ate the
bocadillos
. Roger began to look angry.

‘That son of a bitch Moynihan must have been setting me up all this time. You did say not to trust him, but I didn’t think he’d do this to me. I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna kill the no-good son of a bitch.’

‘That’s not very Christian of you, Roger.’

‘Hey! I still want him to go to Heaven. I just want him to go now. Right now.’

The security precautions that veiled our departure from Palma had dissipated by the time we disembarked at what we recognised to be Barcelona. I saw Michael Katz surrounded by an excited crowd of TV cameramen and newspaper photographers. How did he get here? We were driven to Barcelona’s notorious Modelo prison. Every Spanish gangster has been there. There was none of the customary fingerprinting and photographing procedure, but watches and other personal property were taken from us. Roger and I were each given a plastic bottle of water and locked up in separate holding cells out of earshot of each other. Apart from me and my bottle, the cell was absolutely empty. There wasn’t even a stone bench or hole in the ground to use as a toilet. There was no daylight. There was no noise. No one responded to my yells for cigarettes, food, writing materials, and access to a bathroom. Using the plastic bottle as a pillow, I law on the tiled floor and caught a few snatches of sleep. I pissed in the corner. This was a very hard way of doing time, but I knew it couldn’t last. I just held on.

It lasted just over twenty-four hours, after which I was led out to a small exercise yard, brilliantly illuminated by massive searchlights, and told to walk around by myself for half an hour. I was allowed my cigarettes and watch. After the walk, I was given an excellent meal of roast chicken, taken to one of the prison’s cell blocks, and locked up, alone, in a normal cell. There was a bang on the door.

‘
Cómo está
, Howard?’

‘
Bien, gracias. Y usted? Habla Inglés?
’

‘
Sí
. I speak English, Howard. I am the night
funcionario
. Roger is in another cell in this unit. He sends you his best wishes. Tomorrow, my friend, one of the day
funcionarios
will put the two of you into the same cell. Okay? Good night, Howard.’

‘Marco Polo,
quieres chocolate
?’

The DEA’s name for me was beginning to take root. Did I want some hash? Of course I did. My best ideas came when I was stoned. I needed some now. Day had just broken.

‘
Sí, por favor. Muchas gracias
.’

A piece of Moroccan and a packet of cigarette papers appeared from under the door.

‘
Tienes cigarrillos y cerillas?
’

‘
Sí. Tengo
.’

I rolled a small joint. Suddenly, all the cell doors were opened and over two hundred prisoners were running down the gangways and out through a large door into the sunshine. Each was carrying a chair from his cell. I figured it was some kind of mass break-out. So did Roger, whom I saw tearing along clutching his chair, his eyes darting in all directions. I grabbed my chair and did the same. It was not an escape. It was merely a rush to find a shady spot in the exercise yard. It was a Sunday, and prisoners could stay out of their cells all day. Roger and I sat next to each other in the sun. Within minutes, we were surrounded by gangs of other prisoners bringing us cups of coffee, cigarettes, and croissants. They knew all about us. We were pummelled with questions. Was I really the biggest dope dealer in the world? Had I really worked for the British Secret Service, the IRA, and the Mafia? Had Roger really offered a Spanish prison director a million dollars? They made us extraordinarily welcome and explained how much we would like Modelo. Everything was available here: alcohol, all manner of dope, hookers on conjugal visits, and even remote telephones. Looking around
the exercise yard confirmed the existence of a somewhat
laissez-faire
regime. Groups of Moroccans, Nigerians, and Spanish gypsies were openly gambling with real money and smoking joint after joint. Ghetto-blasters boomed away. Mainlining junkies brandished syringes. Roger asked if there was any way of escaping from the prisons. The prisoners warned him to keep quiet as there were many
chivatos
(snitches/grasses) around. Roger questioned away regardless. My name was called on the Tannoy. I had a lawyer’s visit.

Katz was sitting in a lawyer’s visiting cubicle. I sat opposite him. Glass separated us, but it was not as soundproof as that in Palma. Katz explained how he and Morell had been stonewalled when they had attempted to visit me the previous Friday. Katz had guessed I had been shipped to the mainland and had flown to Barcelona, rented a car, met the ferry, and followed the prison van to Modelo. It had taken forty-eight hours of hassling with the British Consulate, prison authorities, and judges to be allowed to visit me. Not easy at the weekend. Judy was still in Palma prison, but she and the children were as well as could be expected.

Katz’s briefcase lay facing me. He leaned over and opened it. I stared inside and looked into the lens of my JVC camcorder.

‘I smuggled it in,’ said Katz. ‘They’re very loose here. I’ll switch it on, and then you can give a video message to the children.’

I managed a few words.

Katz thought I would soon be moved to Carabanchel prison in Madrid. He’d come to see me there. He still didn’t know precisely what Judy and I had been charged with and was still unable to find out what RICO meant. He had been too busy trying to locate and see me. He intended to get on to it right away.