Mr Nice: an autobiography (60 page)

A
funcionario
returned my visiting applications. Bob Edwardes and David Embley would not be allowed to visit me. Family and in-laws only. I smoked a joint.

In an interview with the
Sunday Times
, Lovato said he had disdain for me and that I had a weak character. He was getting very personal. Perhaps this could be his undoing. I wondered if there was much to what Katz had explained about Lovato’s illegal questioning of me. I filled out a visiting application for him. He wouldn’t be able to resist coming to question me, further breaching American law and bending the Spanish visiting rules in the process. It was worth a shot. I gave his address as the American Embassy, Madrid.

Unexpectedly, I was called again for a visit. Behind the glass this time was Gustavo Lopez Munoz y Larraz, one of Spain’s finest criminal lawyers. His English was absolutely fluent, and many of his mannerisms were more English/ American than Spanish. Both Bernard Simons and Katz had independently asked him to come and see me. Gustavo said he was quite expensive but definitely the most experienced extradition lawyer in Madrid. He would come to see me as often as I wished. He would liaise with Michael Katz and Bernie Simons in London and with Luis Morell in Palma. He was originally from Cuba, and his family practised law in Florida. Next week he was going to Miami for a ten-day holiday. He spent a lot of time in the United States. If I wanted to by-pass the prison mail procedures to communicate with Judy, or indeed anyone else, we could write to him, and he would forward the mail. I engaged him.

I spent most of the next few days in the
patio
with Zacarias and Claude and Pierre, the two Marseilles bank robbers.
The weather was really hot, but there was a cold shower cubicle to cool off. Nigerians huddled in shelters, gambled, and smoked dope out of sight of the solitary
funcionario
. A few Basque terrorists played chess. Young and fit Spaniards exercised strenuously. We walked.

‘Are you interested in escape, Marco Polo?’ asked Claude, the best English speaker of the three.

‘Aren’t we all? Why do you ask?’

‘The three of us have a plan to leave here at the end of this month. We would like you to join us. Quite a few people have escaped from here. It is not that hard. We don’t want money, but maybe you could help us after our escape with false passports. Zacarias knows where we can hide in Spain.’

Zacarias passed me a joint. He rarely took part in conversation. When he did, he spoke Spanish with a coarse Madrid accent.

‘
Sí, Marco Polo. Fuga es posible, chavalo. Es muy fácil
.’

‘Will anyone get hurt?’ I asked Claude.

‘Only if they do something very stupid. In time I will explain everything. You don’t have to answer now, Marco Polo. But please think about it.’

Zacarias bit off two chunks of his piece of Moroccan hash. One he gave to me; the other he tied to an AA battery with an elastic band and threw it out of the exercise yard and over the roof of the cell block.

‘The other side of that roof is the
patio
for prisoners under Artículo 10,’ explained Claude. ‘We take care of them as best we can. It’s really hard there.’

The same battery came flying over the roof back into our
patio
. A note was tied to it. The hash had been received. It was safe to send another missile.

The lack of both incoming letters and replies to my telegrams was puzzling me. All the other prisoners were receiving mail of some kind. Someone other than lawyers would surely be trying to contact me by now. I had been
there over a week. I was beginning to build up some anxiety about this when I was called for a visit.

As I walked to the visiting cubicles, I expected to see Katz or Gustavo. Instead, through the smudgy glass, I saw the heartbreaking sight of my parents’ faces, with their devastated eyes belying their welcoming, relieved smiles. We couldn’t touch each other. Quivering and trembling, we stared at each other. I was struck by the horrific reality that, failing either their extreme longevity or my ability to get out of this mess, I would never, as a free man, be able to see them again. Tears rolled down my face.

‘Howard
bach, cadw dy ysbryd
. Keep your spirit. We’ve just talked to Masha, and Judy and the children are all right. Well, not all right, but bearing up,’ said Mam, also unable to hold back the tears.

‘We’ll do whatever we can,’ said Dad.

‘Mam and Dad, I’m so sorry.’

‘Did you get our letters,
bach
?’

‘No, Mam.’

‘Howard
bach
, I have to ask you one question. Dad and I will do what we can whatever you did, but did you have anything to do with hard drugs or guns?’

‘No, Mam, of course not. I hate those businesses. The Americans and the media have both gone mad.’

‘Well, the newspapers, I don’t bother with, ever. I know what they’re like. They’ll write anything to sell a story, whatever comes into their heads. There was a man from the
Daily Mirror
outside the prison when we were coming in. He was wanting to talk to us. I said “No.” I’ll never forgive them for what they did to us in 1974 when you were kidnapped on bail. No, I won’t talk to the newspapers, ever,’ said Mam.

‘I’ve got my doubts about the Americans, too. Never mind the newspapers. All that tripe about you being the biggest in the world, owning ships and banks,’ added Dad.

‘Now with cannabis,’ Mam went on, ‘we know you’re a bit
penstyff
about it. You’ve always had a bee in your bonnet, for some reason. If I know it’s just that, I’ll feel a lot better.’

‘It is just that, Mam.’

‘Talking about Americans, who is this Katz fellow?’ asked Dad. ‘He’s a weird bird, that one. He asked me for some money. I said I wanted to see you first.’

‘Yeah, he is weird, Dad. I’ve made arrangements to pay him.’

‘Do you still have some money, Howard?’

‘I think so, Dad, but I don’t know how much.’

‘Now Gustavo we thought was very nice,’ said Mam. ‘He brought us here this morning to make sure we had no problems seeing you. There’s a lot of red tape, isn’t there,
bach
? He’s talking to the director of the prison now to see if we can leave some things we brought: books and Welsh cakes, Howard
bach
. He said what they were doing to you and Judy was outrageous, but he said there was hope. Dad liked him, too.’

‘Yes, I liked him, too. I gave him a cheque for £5,000. And Bob Edwardes and I are making arrangements to give Luis Morell some money.’

‘I’m sure I’ve got enough to cover that,’ I said.

‘Well, Mam and I wanted to do it. We’ve also put some money in your account here. We’ll make sure Masha and the children won’t go without, while we can. Who is this Nigel fellow?’

‘He’s Masha’s boy-friend.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘I think so. I hardly know him.’

The twenty minutes were quickly over. My parents were visiting again the next day. I was taken to the
patio
. The authorities let the Welsh cakes in. I shared them with Zacarias and the two Frenchmen. I complained about the shortness of the visit and not being allowed to embrace my parents. Zacarias said he could arrange for me to have a contact visit for two hours tomorrow. One of the senior visiting guards was his friend, and Zacarias himself was
having a contact visit early the next morning. He would arrange things then. I thanked Zacarias profusely.

Zacarias was as good as his word. The next day, I was not taken to the visiting cubicles. I was taken to a large room with chairs and tables. My parents were sitting down, surrounded by groups of Spanish prisoners and visitors. After hugs and kisses, I sat down with them. The noise was deafening. I exchanged watches with my father. Wearing an Audemar Piquet in prison seemed silly. Dad would take care of it for me. Zacarias, quite openly smoking a joint, came up and asked if we wanted one of the bedrooms upstairs. One was free. It would be a lot quieter. Zacarias’s friendly
funcionario
took us upstairs to an enormous bedroom. I looked at the king-size bed. If they let Judy out of Palma, she could come to see me here. What a civilised prison system. We sat on a sofa and talked and went over everything. We talked about old times. They would come to see me as often as they could, at least once a month, health permitting.

‘Bye, Dad.’

‘Goodbye,
bach
. Stay strong, and remember to try to help others here as much as you can.’

‘Cheerio, Mam.’

‘Cheerio, Howard
bach. Cadw dy ysbryd
.’

Instead of being escorted back to the
patio
or to my cell, I was taken to the office of the Jefe de Servicios, the person in charge of the prison’s security. With him was a young bespectacled
funcionario
who spoke English.

‘
Los periodistas están aquí. Quieren hablar con usted
,’ said the Jefe.

The young officer interpreted.

‘Men from newspapers are here. They wish to speak with you. You do not have to. You have no obligation.’

‘Which newspapers?’ I asked.

‘
El País
from here in Madrid and the
Daily Mirror
from England and the
Paris-Match
from France. You are not required to speak with them.’

‘Oh, I don’t object to seeing them,’ I said.

‘But you have no obligation,’ he insisted.

‘I understand, but I agree to see them.’

‘
Firma acquí
,’ said a very disgruntled Jefe, giving me a form to sign.

In a well-furnished meeting room, I spent three hours being rudely interrogated by the
Daily Mirror
, gently questioned by
Paris-Match
, and heavily sympathised with by
El País
, who at first simply could not believe that the charges against me involved nothing other than cannabis. Each of the journalists found Judy’s incarceration outrageous. The
Paris-Match
lady said that in France I was already a hero. The
El País
interviewer explained that her newspaper colleagues were taking a great interest in the case, and I would be asked many times to be interviewed and photographed while here in Alcala-Meco.

Once again, I was starting to get turned on by the glamour of publicity, but this time I resolved to use it to advantage. Maybe if I kept Judy’s plight long enough in the public eye, either the Spanish or the Americans would be shamed into letting her go. I made several pleas for her release.

With a parting gift of a carton of cigarettes, the journalists left me in the meeting room. The Jefe, his English-speaking sidekick, and four
funcionarios
walked in. I was stripped of all my clothes and possessions. I assumed it was to check the journalists hadn’t given me anything they shouldn’t have, but I was wrong.

‘Howard, you are to be placed under Artículo 10. This is effective immediately and will remain effective until the next meeting of the
junta
[a national panel of senior prison bureaucrats], when there will be a review of all Artículo 10 prisoners. You will now be taken to the Artículo 10
modulo
. You will be kept in complete isolation for a week. You will be allowed twenty minutes’ exercise a day, alone in the
patio
. You are not allowed to look at or make signals to other prisoners. After a week, you may exercise in the
patio
one
hour a day with other Artículo 10 prisoners and receive one ten-minute visit through glass each week. There will be no contact or conjugal visits. You are permitted six books, a daily newspaper, and a weekly magazine. You are permitted cigarettes. You are permitted to write and receive letters and telegrams. Once a month you may receive from your family one small parcel of food and clothes. You are not permitted to sit on your bed between 7 a.m. and 11 p.m. Do you understand these conditions?’

‘Why am I placed under Article 10? What have I done wrong? Is it because I spoke to the journalists?’

‘The
junta
will explain to you at their next meeting. Do you understand the conditions?’

‘And when is that?’

‘The
junta
will meet in December. Do you understand the conditions, Howard?’

‘No, I do not understand the conditions.’

‘I will read them again for you, Howard. If you still do not understand them, we will have to put you in Artículo 10
celdas
, where you have no cigarettes, no books, no visits …’

‘I understand the conditions.’

‘Good. Sign here.’

The Artículo 10 cell block was grim, bare, and dark. The cell was filthy and full of cockroaches. Inedible and disgusting food was thrown in twice a day by some illtempered and nasty
funcionarios
, who wielded riot sticks and pocket tear-gas sprays. The window gave an oblique view of the
patio
, in which handfuls of prisoners took turns to exercise. Besides me, at least two Artículo 10 prisoners were prohibited from association with others. As I did my turn of solitary exercise, I was stared at by dozens of pairs of eyes looking out from their cells. A couple of guys waved and smiled. I waved back and was yelled at by the
funcionarios
for doing so.

Each day dragged. One of them was my forty-third birthday. No mail was delivered. It was obviously being held
back. My mother would have sent at least three birthday cards well in advance. There was no visit or word from Katz or Gustavo. I was miserable. I had no idea why I was held under Artículo 10. I didn’t know what I had been charged with. Where was Judy? How was she? Were the children okay? Was Katz able to get hold of my money?