Mr Nice: an autobiography (73 page)

The United States has a Freedom of Information Act. Through it one is meant to be able to acquire all government files referring to the individual making the request. It takes forever. The application is passed from one agency to the other. It gets lost. It’s going to cost. There’s a horrendous backlog. There are countless exceptions preventing some documents being released. Large chunks of documents finally released are blacked out under the guise of hindering DEA investigations. More often than not, one has to take the government agency to court to get anything remotely revealing. But with tenacity and motivation, documents will dribble through, and it’s always worth the effort. I got all sorts of stuff.

Lovato had written the following letter to Joe Meko, a Regional Director of Prisons:

SUBJECT: Request for Denial of Transfer of Inmate No. 41526004, Dennis Howard MARKS from a High Security System (Terre Haute, Indiana) to a Medium Security System.

Dear Mr Meko:

As per our telephone conversation this date, October 7, 1992, I am requesting that the consideration of the transfer of Inmate No. 41526004 Dennis Howard MARKS be denied.

Mr MARKS is an Oxford graduate (Graduate level degree). He was recruited and utilized briefly in the service of Her Majesty as an MI-5 operative. This service was discontinued when it was determined that Mr MARKS was a major international drug dealer. As case agent on the investigation code-named [Eclectic], I worked with the police departments of eleven different countries in an effort to dismantle Mr MARKS’ organization. Mr MARKS’ organization was world-wide, with offices in Pakistan, Thailand, Hong Kong, Manila, Australia, Canada, the United States, England, Spain and the Netherlands. During the principal year of investigation, Mr MARKS had five separate loads of cannabis being shipped to Europe, the United States and Australia. Mr MARKS netted 3 million dollars profit from just one of these loads (ten tons to Los Angeles, CA).

No monies were ever recovered from Mr MARKS. Mr MARKS has, in my opinion, several million dollars awaiting him should he escape. Mr MARKS, in my opinion, lacks the personal courage to attempt any type of physical escape. However, he would utilize his superior intellect to encourage the ‘System’ to open the doors for him. The first step in this procedure would be the transfer to a less secure facility than the one he is currently incarcerated in. Mr MARKS has a history of drug dealing dating back to 1970. More importantly, he has a history of evading or escaping law enforcement authorities. Mr MARKS was arrested circa 1973 on drug charges emanating out of the United States in England. Mr MARKS posted bond, then became a fugitive for a
period of (7) seven years. Mr MARKS fled Spain on this investigation on two separate occasions when he felt he was about to be arrested.

When apprehended in Spain in July 1988, Mr MARKS fought extradition to the United States for one year before the courts ordered him extradited. Mr MARKS has a documented life style which includes false passports and identities. Mr MARKS has a family in England. Mr MARKS has absolutely no reason to remain in prison for the next 25 years if given the opportunity to RUN!

I request that this opportunity not be afforded him. There are several police and Justice Department agencies, both in the United States and abroad, who would provide similar letters such as this if needed.

This explained why I was being kept in America’s toughest penitentiary.

To the government agency responsible for deciding whether or not I should be transferred, the DEA didn’t try any persuasive tactics. They just lied: ‘It should be noted as part of the plea agreement that the Assistant United States Attorney stated before the court that Mr MARKS would have to serve a minimum of twelve years in a US prison before any consideration be given for a request for a transfer.’ This explained why I was not, as requested by my sentencing judge, transferred to a British prison.

To the Case Manager at Terre Haute, the DEA wrote:

Enclosed please find information concerning an inmate in your institution, Dennis Howard Marks. Should MARKS file any further requests for parole, transfer to England, his native country, or any other actions influencing his incarceration, please contact: Group Supervisor Craig Lovato.

To me Group Supervisor Craig Lovato of the DEA wrote:

Howard,

I hope this communiqué does not offend you. If it does, just let me know and I’ll cease and desist. I think that Paul’s book personalized our relationship to a certain degree. As a result of that, I do find myself, on occasion, wondering how you are doing.

What prompted this missive was two things actually.

Terry Burke had called to inform me that you had once again made application for transfer to England and the second was an article in the
Arizona Republic
regarding the execution of murderous drug kingpins. No, I know you don’t fall into this category, but the site for these events is Terre Haute! I suppose this is not news to you but it was to me. It’s difficult, to a degree, to write to you, without giving the appearance of superciliousness. I trust that you will know that is not my intent. The truth is, that because of your imprisonment, your opinions and viewpoints on certain matters are a point of curiosity to me. The fact that you plead guilty allows me the latitude, with your permission, to communicate with you on matters of mutual interest. Unlike with Ernie, who continues to pursue avenues of quiet desperation. I am sure that your viewpoint, as a stranger to our land, must at times be contrary to that of John Doe citizen. If you wish to continue with our correspondence, drop me a line, and we will continue.

Craig.

Lovato was not only ensuring that I stayed in this hell-hole of a prison for another twelve years, but he was also taunting me about dope dealers getting executed outside my window, letting me know that he knew I was trying to get to England, and wanting to play some sick cat-and-mouse pen-friend game with me. I had no proof that he was also responsible
for persuading the Immigration authorities to prevent Judy from visiting me. Neither did I have proof to the contrary. I was convinced he was.

After my conviction in Miami, Bronis had submitted a Motion to Reduce Sentence. This was invariably done in all cases to give the judge the opportunity to modify a sentence after further reflection. Such a motion has to be filed within 120 days of conviction. The judge can take as long as he likes to rule on the motion. Judge Paine had sat on mine for four years. While it is pending, supplemental material relevant to the motion can also be filed for judicial consideration, and we had submitted a variety of letters from people concerned about the psychological damage to my children and the unfair way I was being treated. Somehow, Bronis managed to force the judge to grant a hearing in open court to consider, among other matters, the DEA’s malicious, sadistic, and mendacious behaviour with respect to my incarceration. The basis of the motion was that the sentence was turning out to be harsher than the judge had intended.

For the first time in four years, I left USP Terre Haute. Chained and shackled, I was air-freighted via a week’s stop in El Reno, Oklahoma, to Miami MCC. There I got the usual escape-risk treatment and was put into the hole. The hearing took place at West Palm Beach. Lovato had flown down to make sure the judge got his message. Julian Peto, as ever, was there to speak on my behalf. Lovato took the stand. He limped from an obviously painful knee injury. I felt sorry for him. Was I going mad? Lovato testified. Bronis destroyed him. Then Lovato said it wasn’t the case that Judy and the kids were short of money, because only a few weeks ago it had been reported to him that Judy could still afford to wear her Rolex watch. I had bought it for her on our second wedding anniversary together in 1981, twelve years ago. I knew the judge was on my side on this one. But Judge Paine didn’t rule. He said he’d let us know. I was taken to a West Palm Beach County Jail, where for five weeks I was the only
White in a cell block full of Blacks rapping and hip-hopping. I felt completely at home. Then back to Miami MCC for another week in the hole as a high-profile escape risk. Then to El Reno. Then back to Terre Haute. My good friend Charlot Fiocconi had been transferred to another penitentiary. I was going to miss him so much. I had been there a month before I was informed of Judge Paine’s three rulings: my sentence had been reduced by five years from twenty-five to twenty years; I was to be considered for immediate transfer to England; if any government agency prevented my transfer, I was to be imprisoned in a regular joint, not a penitentiary. No huge victory, it seemed. I’d only knocked a few years off, but it looked as if I might be leaving America.

The reduced sentence meant that my parole eligibility date was now in a few months. There was still no reason whatsoever to think that anything had changed with respect to big dope dealers never being granted parole, but I went through the motions and turned up in the prison’s parole hearing rooms to present my case on the last day of January 1995. Webster came with me and told the parole examiner I was the best teacher he had ever had and for sure I was going straight. I expected Lovato to be there. He wasn’t. I was waiting for the bullshit about how high-profile, international, gangster-like, and terrorist my evil dope empire had been. Instead the parole examiner began: ‘Please don’t mention anything to your family yet, but, Mr Marks, I am recommending to the United States Regional Parole Commissioners that you be released on parole on March 25th. It is their decision, which you will receive within three weeks, that is final. This hearing is terminated.’

I simultaneously experienced every emotion I had ever experienced in my life. I had been given maximum parole. This was unheard-of. I would be home in two months. Contrary to the examiner’s advice, I told my wife, children, parents, and sister. They all cried. I cried.

So did Lovato, I expect. I still don’t know for sure what
happened, but I think there are two possibilities. Either Judge Paine had a word with someone in the Parole Commission to cut me loose, or the USP authorities had failed (deliberately or incompetently) to inform Lovato of the parole hearing as the DEA had instructed them, so he was unable to raise official objections. I was terrified Lovato would find out, get to the Regional Commissioner and put a spanner in the works, but on St Valentine’s Day I received the heaven-sent confirmation. I was being paroled. I would be deported to England as soon as possible after my release date. I wouldn’t even have to abide by my parole conditions, there being no appropriate jurisdiction to enforce them, but if they wanted me to piss in a bottle every day and mail it to the nearest United States Embassy, I would.

No one leaves Terre Haute for freedom. They leave for court cases or are transferred to lower-security institutions on the long, gradual road to the prison gate. I felt sad and guilty about leaving these guys behind. Most of them would never see the outside world.

‘Just do one thing for me, Howard,’ said Big Jim Nolan. ‘Send me some of those European magazines of broads cat-fighting each other. That way I can jack off twice before breakfast. You know the Outlaws got a Chapter in England now. Go and say hello from me. I’ll be there one day.’

‘If we can ever do anything for you, Howard, let us know,’ said Victor ‘Vic the Boss’ Amuso.

‘A part of us is free, Howard, when you get home. God bless you,’ said Bear the Outlaw.

‘Keep this stone, Howard,’ said Daoud the Rastafarian ex-Black Panther. ‘It’s a sacred American Indian one. It goes invisible during shake-downs. No one will find it. This means a part of us will always be with you.’

Goodbye, guys. There’s a lot of you that will always be me, not just with me. I’ll never forget you, your courage, your sadness, your kindness to me, your suffering, your families, your patience, your strength, your goodness. I love you.

And so I left the United States Penitentiary, Terre Haute, still clad in escape-proof chains, to begin the seven-week journey that would end up with my sitting on a Continental Airlines plane rapidly losing altitude over Surrey. At Gatwick, Passport Control gave a two-second look at my emergency passport and waved me through. With this piece of paper, my plastic US Penitentiary Inmate Account card, and a copy of
Hunting Marco Polo
, I persuaded the airport’s Post Office to give me a British Visitors’ Passport valid for three weeks. I changed my US dollars to pounds and phoned all of my family. I bought a ticket to Mallorca. At Palma airport, I saw a beautiful eight-year-old boy. Seven years ago he had been struck dumb for eighteen months as his mother lay weeping in a Florida county jail. Then he cast his fate and his body to the winds not knowing what or who he was, and busted his bones. His blue eyes shone, and his soul smiled. He ran towards me.

‘Hi, Dad.’