Mr Nice: an autobiography (61 page)

The week’s complete isolation ended with a delivery of a large parcel of newspapers, letters, and cards, mainly from family and friends. Judy was still in Palma. Bail could not be applied for because the Palma court dealing with such matters was closed for August. Geoffrey Kenion had been moved to Alcala-Meco and placed in the same cell block as Roger. The President of Pakistan, Zia ul-Haq, had been killed in a mysterious mid-air explosion. This wouldn’t be good news for Malik. He might lose some of his protection.

A large envelope came from Katz. He had got hold of the American indictment specifying the charges against me. Reading it was an unnerving introduction to United States law.

A British indictment is normally a straightforward one-page document clearly stating the allegations. My American indictment was forty pages of incomprehensible bureaucratese. Essentially, I had been charged with running, from 1970 until 1987, an enterprise devoted to cannabis dealing and money laundering. I had been separately charged with conspiring to run such an enterprise. These were the so-called RICO charges. I had also been separately charged with an enormous variety of specific acts and conspiracies, ranging from the 1973 rock-group speaker scams to money laundering in 1987. Much of the conduct in question seemed totally innocuous, such as my travelling from London to Rome in 1973 and my receiving telephone calls at my Palma home in 1986. The indictment said these acts, in themselves, were illegal because they ‘furthered a racketeering enterprise’. Judy and virtually all the other twenty co-defendants had been charged with conspiring to
import 15,500 kilos of hashish into the United States during 1986. A few of us had also been charged, in the American indictment, with conspiring to import several tons of Thai marijuana into Canada.

Although the charge against Judy and some others was absurd, the formal accusations against me, in general terms, were true, despite being a little over the top. I had been dope-dealing and money-laundering since 1970. I felt hard done by in being charged yet again for the 1973 speaker scam and felt puzzled by the inclusion in an American charging document of an importation to Canada scam, but presumably a good American attorney could get me some relief on these particular matters. The rest was down to what sort of evidence was needed to support the charges and how much of it they had. I would have to examine the evidence and concoct a story consistent with it. I had done it before. Until I saw the evidence, I could do nothing in this regard. It was important now to study American law and Spanish extradition law. I wrote to my sister requesting some basic books on American law and wrote to Katz requesting details of the statutes mentioned in the indictment and of the penalties for their infringement.

Each hour, five Artículo 10 prisoners took their exercise in the
patio
. To discourage friendships, the individuals were continually varied. Throughout my time on Artículo 10, I befriended just two prisoners: Juan, a Spanish gypsy from Andalusia, who was in the cell adjacent to mine, and Darin Bufalino from Boston, Massachusetts. They had both recently escaped from Spanish prisons. Darin was the grandson of Russell Bufalino, the head of one of New York’s five major crime families and the man accused of ordering the murder of Teamster boss Jimmy Hoffa. Darin was being extradited to the state of Massachusetts for the armed robbery of an armoured car and didn’t think it worthwhile even attempting to fight extradition. He didn’t know much about RICO but had heard it was a hard rap to beat.

Towards the end of August, Gustavo visited me. Judy had been transferred to Centro Penitenciario de Yeserias, Madrid’s prison for women. Gustavo would see her later that day and be registered as her lawyer. The prison authorities had told Gustavo I was put on Artículo 10 because I planned to escape. He was furious and planned to get me reclassified. He, too, had managed to get a copy of the indictment, as well as a copy of the United States Sentencing Reform Act. He explained that the Sentencing Reform Act, which abolished parole, allowed for only 15% remission for good behaviour, and provided for vastly increased terms of imprisonment for drugs offences, had been in force since November 1987, almost a year. However, it had been a rather controversial piece of legislation, and its constitutionality was currently being examined in the United States Supreme Court.

Back in the dim light of my dirty cell, I read the Sentencing Reform Act. It made for chilling reading. If Judy was convicted of the solitary charge against her, she would be sentenced to a minimum term of ten years’ imprisonment with no possibility of parole. If I was convicted of any of the main charges against me, I would be sentenced to a mandatory term of life imprisonment with no possibility of parole. Life meant life. If the new Sentencing Reform Act applied to me, if I couldn’t beat extradition, and if I got convicted, I would never be a free man again. Even if I lived to be a hundred, I would die in a federal prison. I would never again be able to go to a bar, a restaurant, a disco, a concert, a party, a shop, an office, or a house. No more country walks, sea views, or loud music. No more hashish hilarity with old friends. No more drunken nights in Europe’s and Asia’s capitals. I wouldn’t be able to bring up my children, or even see them being brought up. No more cuddles and excitement. None of that joy. Nothing to look forward to. I would never make love again.

That night I heard my children screaming. I jumped out
of bed and ran to their bedroom door. It turned into cold steel.

I spent a few weeks of almost sleepless nights pathetically freaking out in my misery, sadness, and madness. A letter from Judy didn’t help. Where would the children go to school? How would little one-year-old Patrick manage without his mummy? Why wouldn’t they let her out on bail? Did one have to be a real criminal to be granted such relief? Her isolation from the children, Masha, and Palma friends coupled with the atrocious conditions in Yeserias prison were taking their toll. She was questioning her ability to survive any longer in these circumstances. I could not begin to let her know that she might be looking at a minimum sentence of ten years.

There was nothing but disappointment, uncertainty, and loneliness. George Bush was to become President of the United States, so there would be no change for the better in American drug policy.

At his first attempt Gustavo was unable to get Judy bail. He failed to get me off Artículo 10 and failed to get permission for Judy and me to see each other. Scotland Yard would not return to Katz the truckful of possessions they had seized from our Chelsea flat and my office at Hong Kong International Travel Centre. The Spanish court would not order the Palma police to return the cars and other possessions to Masha in Palma.

The Americans amplified their extradition process to include a further extradition request specifically for the 1973 speaker scam. This came from the Federal District of Nevada, making it the fourth separate authority to charge me with precisely the same offence. Lovato did not grab the bait I had offered. He did not come to see me surreptitiously and illegally question me. Instead, he and US Attorney Bob O’Neill formally applied to the Spanish authorities through Comisión Rogatoria, a legal device used by co-operating countries’ law enforcement bodies for purposes such as
obtaining witnesses’ sworn testimony, obtaining documentary evidence, or questioning nationals held on foreign soil. The Audiencia Nacional readily granted the application. Gustavo countered by applying for permission to question Lovato and O’Neill while they were in Madrid. The Audiencia Nacional quickly denied that request without saying why.

After being granted an extension of a further forty days, the United States Government finally served the extradition papers. These included evidence seeking to establish a prima-facie case against Judy, Geoffrey Kenion, and me. Lovato had written some of the accompanying affidavits, swearing statements that were models of DEA ungrammatical hyperbole. He had apparently personally identified over 160 members of my organisation. One of them, Roger Reaves, was my ‘agronomist’. According to Lovato, Judy had ‘instructed members of the organisation in the furtherance of their illegal activities. These instructions included money transfers, co-ordinating travel and communications between the members of the organisation. JUDITH MARKS has full knowledge of all alias’ [sic] and codes utilised by the organisation and such [sic] can pass instructions in the absence of her husband, DENNIS HOWARD MARKS, with the same proficiency as he.’

There were dozens of summaries of investigations, tapped telephone calls, and surveillances carried out by the DEA in Palma, New York, Bangkok, California, Manila, Florida, and Karachi (where they were enthusiastically assisted by Michael Stephenson, Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise man in Pakistan). HM Customs had also carried out extensive observations in London. It seemed that no actual illegal activity had been seen or overheard in any of these places, but this obstacle had been overcome by Lovato’s long-winded explanations of what lay between the lines and behind the scenes. As far as he was concerned, we were all dopers; therefore, all our conversations were about dope
deals, all our activities were scams, and all our financial transactions were money laundering. A rather circular argument, but in most cases he had correctly guessed what was going on. But certainly not always. There were loads of mistaken identifications and off-the-wall conjectures and speculations.

US Attorney Bob O’Neill had also written a sworn affidavit purporting to explain the appropriate American law. It failed miserably to do so, largely by assuming that words and phrases such as ‘felon’, ‘Grand Jury’, ‘racketeering enterprise’, ‘pattern of racketeering activity’, ‘interstate transportation of wagering paraphernalia’, ‘wire fraud’, ‘laundering of monetary instruments’, and ‘lending money at a usurious rate at least twice the enforcement rate’ were common parlance in Europe. Gustavo and I still did not understand what RICO really was.

The Audiencia Nacional, however, didn’t have these problems of non-comprehension. As far as they were concerned, the papers were perfectly in order, and unless we objected at a forthcoming court appearance, they were happy to proceed with our extradition. Should we object, there would be a court hearing sometime in the New Year. We objected.

In October, Judy’s youngest brother Marcus and his wife packed up their home and carpentry business in the Dordogne. In return for a living wage, they had agreed to move to Madrid, visit Judy and me as often as permitted, and liaise between us, our lawyers, our co-defendants’ lawyers, our friends, and our families. They brought Amber, Francesca, and Patrick to visit me. Although I was relieved to see them alive and well and very comforted to hear of the support being given them by Bob Edwardes and their school, a ten-minute meeting through glass left me deeply depressed. A visit from my parents intensified the depression. I was being brought to terms with what I was missing. I had lost control of everything. I didn’t want any more visits. didn’t want to reply to the scores of letters I was now
receiving from known and unknown well-wishers. Even when I saw Judy at the extradition hearing, I just felt numb and couldn’t speak. I saw despair and accusation in her eyes. Why hadn’t I stopped smuggling when she told me to? How could I let them do this to her? Why had I ruined our children’s lives? All was now lost.

I curled up in my cell. The winter had started. Artículo 10 prisoners were not allowed heating or hot water. I shivered in my misery and fear. What was going to happen to my family? What was going to happen to me? Life in the cell forever. I’d had enough of this life if this was what it amounted to.

I’m not going to do myself in, but there’s nothing for me to look forward to now. I’m never getting out of prison. No one’s going to come and save me. I can’t have hope, like a hostage. I can’t even help anyone; I don’t see anyone. There’s no one I can love and touch. I suppose I’ll just live it out. I could read lots of books. But what would be the point? I could never apply what I learned. I could become fit and do a million push-ups a day, but why? I would only become healthier and have to live through more of this. The next meaningful experience would be death. Maybe after that, things would look up. Oh, God! Why hadn’t I still sorted out whether or not this life was all we had? All those stone circles, cathedrals, monasteries, and temples I’d visited in my travels had been no help. If there was a better time ahead, I could handle this one. Elvis and John Lennon were still kind of around somewhere, weren’t they?

And what about Jesus Christ? Sweet Jesus, if you really did beat this death rap and if you really do know there’s lots of good times to come, please, please, make sure we, whom I sincerely believe you love, also know.

I read the Bible. The Old Testament was upsetting. Lots of wars and killing. God was much nastier than they’d told us in Chapel in Wales. Was He American? St Paul was a disappointment. I didn’t like the bit about always obeying authority. But Jesus was great.

But what about all the Hindu and Buddhist stuff? Weird gods and monsters and lots of lives to live. That would be handy. I could get into that. Jesus didn’t say there wasn’t any reincarnation. I could prepare myself for the next lives while just being a remote spectator of this one.

My sister had sent me a book on yoga. I remembered how the same book had helped me during my last time in prison. This time, the conditions were infinitely worse, but it might still help. I spent several hours a day contorting myself, breathing deeply, and meditating. I fasted on many days and ate very little on the others. My strength and spirit began to return.

Juan, the Andalusian gypsy, and I were in the
patio
. We were spending our exercise period watching large ants. We needed some hashish. Neither of us had smoked any for weeks. The flying battery service did occasionally operate, but it never had anything for me, Juan, or Bufalino. Juan said it was easy to smuggle hashish into the cell block by hiding it in books. He had no money, but if I wanted to arrange to send him a book concealing some hashish, he would take the risk of receiving it this end, and we could split it between us. Marcus sent him a suitably doctored copy of the Spanish translation of James Clavell’s
Whirlwind
. We had enough top-quality Moroccan to get stoned every night for a few weeks.