Gang of One: One Man's Incredible Battle to Find His Missing

by Gary Mulgrew

  ‘Remove your jeans.’

  I removed them quickly, pressing the pockets as I did to see if I could feel anything in them. They felt empty. I turned again to face the wall as I listened intently to Marshal Dave working his way thoroughly through my jeans. All I could hear was his breathing and I grimaced as I imagined him finding a sugar sachet from the plane and suddenly shouting that I was trying to escape and beating me to the floor. But my pockets must have been empty as nothing happened, although the temptation to turn around and look was building and building.

  I was starting to feel more self-conscious standing there with just my boxer shorts and socks on, facing the wall with my hands up in the air.

  How far was this going to go? Hopefully not the whole way, I thought.

  ‘Remove your socks one by one,’ was the next instruction.

  He seemed to take an age searching my socks as I stood naked apart from my boxers, facing the wall with my arms held high up on the ceiling.

  ‘Right,’ he began. ‘I am now going to begin a physical examination.’ The words plunged into me. I considered asking him whether he thought he’d find any documents up there, four years after my indictment. But my own jokes didn’t amuse me at that point.

  ‘Turn around, keeping your arms raised and look straight ahead.’ I obliged; my arms were getting increasingly heavy, but I decided it was too risky to ask for a rest.

  ‘Relax your arms and open your mouth.’ He had a swab or something and had a surprisingly good rummage around. I tried not to look directly at him. He tussled through my hair and checked behind my ears and under my armpits. ‘Turn around, remove your underwear and then raise your arms again above your head.’

  ‘Oh God,’ I thought, ‘he’s going for the bum.’

  ‘Spread your legs apart!’

  I heard the unmistakable snap of surgical gloves. Each finger, snap, snap, snap. One by one those snaps resonated through the room as each finger became silicone wrapped.

  ‘Face the wall,’ he barked angrily as I glanced back at him. It wasn’t easy not to take a quick look in such circumstances.

  The snapping had stopped, but despite listening intently, I couldn’t hear the swish of the lubricant being applied. I surmised he was going in lube-free. In what was turning out to be a really bad day for me, this was yet another setback. I braced myself.

  ‘Now, bend forward and slowly moving your hands back, clasp each buttock and spread your cheeks.’

  I thought of England. Of Tony Blair. I remembered I had heard him saying how we would be well treated. How the magistrate and judges knew we would be well treated. I thought of my family, sitting at home wondering what was happening to me. Probably tuned into News at Ten by now, with some Labour puppet assuring everyone we were in the best possible hands. I wished they could switch over live from the studio to see exactly what good hands I was in.

  I clenched my buttocks. Nothing happened. I was desperate to look round. I thought about what Billy Connolly had once said about how the prostate was like a doughnut and the doctor has to check it hasn’t become like a bagel. Marshal Dave was taking his time checking out my bakery status.

  ‘Lift your sac,’ he ordered. I duly complied, thinking maybe it was impeding his attack. Then he said the magical words, ‘Turn around and pull your foreskin back.’ I never thought I would be so happy to hear those words in all my life. Not from a man anyway. I turned around gleefully – too gleefully.

  ‘What the fuck are you smiling at?’ he asked, tippy-toeing up to my eye level. The smile was instantly off my face. ‘You think I’m funny, English boy?’ he spat.

  I decided it wasn’t the time to point out I wasn’t English, and quickly answered, ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You think this whole thing’s a joke?’

  ‘He thinks it’s a joke, boss; he thinks it’s a joke.’ The RoboCop was back.

  I made mistake number two by glaring at him.

  ‘Don’t you look at him, you hear me? Lookin’ at him is an attempt to escape! You trying to escape, boy?’

  This was turning out badly. He was mad and I was naked. Naked in front of a marshal with anger issues.

  ‘No, sir; no, sir,’ I repeated quickly.

  Dave paused for a second, staring intently at me and I stood there, arms aloft, bollock naked in front of these two lunatics.

  ‘Then I’ll ask you again.’ More controlled now, more menacing. ‘What were you smiling at?’ His voice was a sinister monotone. I had to tiptoe out of this one.

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ I began falteringly. ‘I was relieved, sir.’

  ‘Relieved? Relieved?’ he asked, as if in disbelief. ‘You’re naked in a room with two marshals!? How the hell were you relieved?’

  I hesitated. Put that way, it did seem kind of strange.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded.

  ‘I thought, I thought you were going to put your finger up my arse, sir,’ I blurted out quickly, then clenched my teeth waiting for the fallout. It was immediate.

  ‘You what . . . you want . . .’ he stuttered. ‘You want my finger up your ass, boy?’ Dave exploded. Thrusting his face right into mine. The parrot was positively beside himself.

  ‘He wants your finger up his ass, boss. He wants it up his ass!’ he hollered as if he had just won the lottery.

  ‘You want my finger up your ass?’ Marshal Dave screeched again.

  ‘No, sir. No, sir,’ I repeated again, my aching arms still thrust up in the air.

  ‘’Cos I can put my finger up your ass, boy, if that’s what you’re wanting,’ he raged.

  ‘No, sir,’ I barked out. ‘I don’t want your finger up my arse!’

  He stood very close to me. We were both breathing hard. I was still naked. I still had my hands above my head. My heart was pounding. I was desperately trying not to look at him or RoboCop in the corner. The silence seemed to last an age.

  ‘Git your boxers back on, then git dressed,’ he finally said, as he stormed towards the door, adding charmingly, ‘Let’s get these British faggots locked up.’ Gratefully, I started to reassemble my clothing, minus my belt and my laces, my welcoming party to America complete.

  On the eve of my incarceration, my extradition and those first few hours in the United States already seemed a lifetime ago. Marshal Dave never did have the pleasure of locking me up, a political fix between the Blair and Bush governments ensuring we had the dubious pleasure of spending the next twenty-two months on tag and curfew whilst restricted to a small area of Houston. Now there was only one night left before the next stage, the worst stage, of my journey would begin. I wondered if that first experience of American Law Enforcement would be typical, and the thought made me shiver. I looked at the grey suit once more in the cupboard and decided I would leave it there tomorrow. I couldn’t eat and I didn’t want to drink. I didn’t want to call anyone at home in England or do anything other than just lie there and breathe. I closed my eyes to wait for tomorrow and tried not to think about how scared I felt.

  2

  THE PROMISE

  MY ALARM WENT OFF AT 4.30 A.M. I stumbled into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. Good, four days of growth, just what I had calculated as the optimum level. Long enough to give me an unkempt ‘hard man’ look, but short enough so the grey parts of my beard didn’t age me and diminish the impact. My hair was shaved very short – gone were the curls.

  But who was I kidding? I didn’t look intimidating. In for fraud and feeling like a fraud. I’d get devoured as soon as I arrived. What the hell would they do with a British guy? Why did I have to get the tough prison when Giles and David got easier time? I breathed out slowly. ‘Come on,’ I said out loud, breaking the eerie silence of the last few days. ‘You can do this. You will do this.’ It felt strangely comforting to hear my own voice and I played around with some facial expressions, trying to look tough.

  ‘Fuck, who am I kidding?’ I thought, as my fearsome look revealed something more like suppressed terror. ‘They’re
going to eat me alive.’

  I pulled on an old pair of blue jeans, no belt, a white T-shirt and some slip-on shoes, clothes I never expected to see again and which wouldn’t reveal me for the banker I once was. The taxi would already be downstairs waiting for me. I looked again at the only things I would carry – my mobile phone and my wallet. I would call Calum for the last time before I went in; I didn’t want to but I knew I had to. It was Wednesday today, so Calum, six hours ahead of me, would be sitting in a lesson at school in England. Gazing out of the window, perhaps? Thinking about this moment? I hoped not. What do you tell your son just before you begin a thirty-seven month stretch inside? Stay in touch? I won’t be long?

  At the end of the last of many trips he had made to see me, I’d told him I would definitely be going to prison for a while. Just eleven years old by then, he’d seemed so small, so fragile, as he boarded that plane to go home. That was the last time I’d seen him. So young, so innocent, so loving – it was all so unfair. His name was called first, being unescorted, and I walked him to the front of the British Airways check-in desk. The air stewardess smiled kindly at him and he turned to me, but didn’t raise his head. Getting taller but still a wee boy, he buried his head into my chest and held me extra tight. I tried desperately not to cry. I wanted to say something to him but I just couldn’t speak. I was too afraid my words would sound weak and that would frighten him more. I felt a small tremor run through him. Keeping his face pressed hard against me, he squeezed me harder still.

  ‘Hey, you’re getting much stronger there, kid,’ I said, in the daft American accent we sometimes played with, feigning shortness of breath. He laughed a little. I put my arms around him and lifted him up. His face rested into my neck and I could feel the wetness of his tears.

  ‘I love you, Calum. I love you more than life itself. Do you know that?’

  ‘Yes . . . Dad,’ he managed to say, squeezing me ever tighter. There were people milling around waiting to start boarding after Calum, but I didn’t want to let go of my son. I knew Troy, the lawyer sent to escort me to the airport, would give us as long as we needed. He wasn’t the most sentimental guy, but he understood the significance of this goodbye.

  I gently lowered Calum down and lifted his chin so I could see his beautiful face. His sadness was crushing me, but I knew I had to be strong for him. Especially now.

  ‘Listen to me, Calum. Look at me,’ I said as he tried to turn his head, embarrassed by his own tears.

  ‘Uh, huh . . .’ he mumbled as he looked right at me. God, he was so young. Too young to have to deal with this. My heart was breaking.

  ‘I promise you I will be back. I will come back to you, Calum, and I will be there to bring you up and to be your father, OK?’ I said as emphatically as I could muster.

  ‘Y . . . yes, Dad,’ he managed, before he pressed his face back into my chest.

  ‘I will come home to you, Calum. Nothing bad will happen and I will be back, I promise. I promise,’ I said in a whisper, hoping against hope that what I was saying was true.

  I rocked him back and forth for a few moments longer. He kept holding me tightly. After a few more seconds, his breathing began to ease. He had calmed down. I kissed him once more.

  ‘You have to go, my little man,’ I said. I held him out at arm’s length and he smiled at me.

  ‘I love you, Dad,’ he said, and picked up his rucksack.

  ‘I love you too, Calum,’ I said, suddenly feeling completely alone as he stepped away from me. Taking the air stewardess’s hand, he walked confidently down the tunnel to board the flight. With his little rucksack decorated with badges from all his trips, he looked so small and inconsequential. I wanted to run after him and wrap him up in my arms. Halfway down he turned again, more confident now. ‘Love you, Dad!’ he shouted, then made the little ‘call me’ sign we had played around with over the last week as he beamed his smile at me. I tried to shout back, but initially the words got caught. ‘Love . . . ahem . . . love you too, kid,’ my affected American accent sounding a little hollow as it bounced down the gangplank.

  The tears surged up.

  He was gone. I was alone.

  Despite having held up the boarding, no one had bothered us – no one had said anything. When I turned round, four or five people looked away. One lady in a blue dress just smiled at me and another younger woman was sniffling. I gave a weak smile as people cleared a way through for me. One suited businessman had stopped talking on his phone and was looking downwards as I approached. I could see the sympathy in so many of their faces and that upset me even more. Then I saw Troy. He was crying.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘I had no idea.’ He didn’t finish as I walked past him, my own tears falling freely now and a physical, aching pain clutching at my chest.

  The memory of this last goodbye still felt raw as I looked at myself one more time in the mirror. This was all so hard. Was this man in front of me capable of handling this? I had no idea, but it didn’t look promising. I knelt down and blessed myself and did what I often had done during any crisis in my life. I prayed.

  ‘God give me strength,’ was all I said before I faltered once more. I hoped He would have been paying attention and would know the rest of it. I knelt in silence for a few more moments and tried to gather myself. Then I stood, turned, grabbed my wallet and phone and took one final look at the desolate flat that had been my pre-prison prison for the last twenty-two months. The grey suit hung silently in the cupboard where I would leave it; the rest of the flat was empty save for a few abandoned boxes. I had a flight to catch to Big Spring, Texas. My gaolers awaited, and God only knew what else.

  3

  IF THE SOAP DROPS . . .

  THE LOBBY OF MY APARTMENT BLOCK was deserted and I looked up to check the wall clock at precisely 5 a.m. – an apt time, it seemed, to be hauling yourself off to prison. The cab was parked directly outside. I had to meet Reid, my lawyer, at his hotel and then catch the 8.20 a.m. flight to Midland/Odessa. From there it would be around a two-hour drive through to Big Spring, Texas; my new home.

  ‘Where to, buddy?’ the much too enthusiastic driver asked.

  ‘Downtown Hilton, please,’ I responded morosely. Houston was empty, and the quiet added to my isolation. I was trying to hold back wave after wave of fear. Part of me kept questioning why I was going through with this; why I wasn’t fighting, screaming, doing something, anything, to avoid what was happening to me. It seemed bizarre to be calmly taking myself off to prison.

  I thought about calling someone in the UK – it was nearly 11 a.m. there – but who would I call? What would I say? ‘I’m just off to prison,’ or ‘Don’t forget to write?’ I decided against it; I knew that if I called, then what little strength I had left would fail me. I had to face this alone.

  The taxi arrived at Reid’s hotel way too quickly. I stood for a moment looking down Lamar Street, now deserted and silent again, save for the taxi pulling away. It wasn’t daybreak yet, and there were no birds singing, just the sound of the occasional car horn in the distance. I’d never known Houston this quiet during my enforced stay here. I had grown to love the city and its inhabitants, despite everything. The population was just over two million people, with an unfeasible number wearing cowboy boots and cowboy hats, none of whom seemed to be a real cowboy. Now there wasn’t a cowboy hat in sight as I stood, my back to the hotel, reluctant to move. It was surprisingly chilly for Houston, even for late April, and I regretted not wearing an old jacket for warmth. I gave an involuntary shudder – was that the cold or the fear I wondered?

  ‘Thinking of running?’ It was Reid behind me, right on time as usual.

  ‘I was thinking about it, but I wore the wrong shoes.’ I turned round to face him. He was immaculate as usual: suit and tie; clean-shaven; perfectly polished shoes; Ivy League parting in his tidy, sandy blonde hair. He was in his early fifties, still fit and trim, with a style like an older Don Draper from Mad Men.

  ‘You look like a lawyer,�
� I said to him, meaning it as an insult.

  ‘Well, thanks!’ he smiled, taking it as a compliment. ‘I wasn’t sure what to wear, to be honest.’ We were both silent for a moment. ‘You want a cup of coffee?’ he asked finally. ‘We’ve got plenty of time. I got you here early because I know what a nightmare you are for showing up anywhere on time!’

  His smile was sympathetic, almost sad. Reid didn’t have to come with me. He wasn’t getting paid and had taken time off just to come with me as a friend. I’d tried to discourage him, but in the end I was glad he was there. Even though we’d lost, I’d never regretted hiring Reid, Kevin and David as my legal team – they had done their best for me.

  We sat silently for a while in a cafe. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Reid eventually asked, looking up from his coffee cup. ‘Or we can talk about something else.’

  ‘No, it’s fine, we can talk about it.’ I realised he had something he wanted to say.

  His question was frank, brutal and to the point. The lawyer in him had usurped the friend for a few critical moments; his icy blue eyes looked right into me. ‘Are you afraid?’

  He was very matter-of-fact now and I realised I’d liked it better when he was a hesitant, embarrassed friend. I paused for a moment. Of course I was afraid of going to prison and I was especially afraid of going to an American prison. I had seen all the television programmes; I’d watched The Shawshank Redemption, like everyone else. I knew that, as non-US nationals, we wouldn’t be allowed to go to the low security relaxed, open regime of what the Americans term a ‘Camp’ – that it would be much tougher for us. Tougher still for a Scot who was part of a high-profile case. How true to life would those TV shows, those movies, be? How would I cope with the tattooed nutcases, the hardened criminals, the psychopaths? I’d had some very dark moments, where I felt deeply afraid.