There wasn’t really anyone selling coke on C wing, which also made it inconvenient to acquire once the gates to the other wings were all locked at 5pm. You would have to throw your money over to someone waiting at the gate of either D or B wing and trust them to go and buy it for you and throw it back. People would often not see their money again or get very small amounts of drugs sent back and it used to frustrate everyone. I filled this gap. I couldn’t have done it without the backing of the Colombians.
The main dealers who currently controlled nearly the entire market in the prison were two Colombian brothers, Jason and Julian. They were serving sentences for drug trafficking and gunrunning and had cornered the market with the help of their fellow countrymen. I knew them both well, having bought both drugs and alcohol from them on numerous occasions after Johann introduced me within a week of my arrival. They were open to doing business, but it was their territory and they would protect it. Before we really got started, Mario and his little group got together with me and Andrew and we all went to meet the brothers in order to discuss what we were going to do. They were reasonably OK about it as long as I also sold their drugs on C wing – the marijuana, base and cocaine.
Between us we agreed the prices at which the different drugs would be sold. A gram of cocaine, $6–8; marijuana $1–2 a pack; base, a matchbox full for $25–30 and individual wraps for a dollar. We agreed not to drop below these prices and so formed a monopoly. Some people preferred to buy the brothers’ products as they were generally different. I had no objections, and anyway I couldn’t have objected even had I wanted to. That was the only way this would work. Julian, the older brother, explained that now we were working together I also had their protection and backing. This was really helpful as no one crossed them. They had the guards paid off. As long as there were no problems like people getting killed or badly injured, which brought attention, they were permitted to carry on business unhindered. Julian said from now on the guards would have to leave me alone as well, but for that privilege I would need to make a weekly contribution of $150 to cover bribes. We agreed and that was the beginning of the business and virtual monopoly of C wing. We controlled the drugs, sold the alcohol, lent money and I rented cells. Things were looking up. This way I could live very comfortably and have an income during my sentence. Anything else, such as international trafficking, would be a bonus. Everyone was happy, or so I thought.
There were a few foreigners who liked to smoke crack cocaine and no one sold this in the prison as it wasn’t very well known by the South Americans; they only knew polvo, or base. The Europeans had never heard of this, and as it had an acrid smell and was not as strong as crack, they preferred to buy good cocaine and make their own crack to smoke. For this, the cocaine needed to be good quality in the first place or you would end up with very little crack.
We tried to talk to some good friends who had been buying a lot of coke for this purpose and help them lower the amounts they were taking. It was causing them problems as they were running up large debts to the gangs. One particular friend had been on a crack binge for three or four days. He lived on his own on the ground floor in the penultimate cell. One evening I was standing on my landing on the top floor with some others, looking down the wing. I started to notice smoke drifting upwards from downstairs, near my friend’s cell. I joked that he was really going for it tonight. As we stood and watched, the quantity of smoke began to increase dramatically and the acrid smell of burning plastic reached my nose. ‘Shit!’ I said to the friends with me. ‘Quick, come on. I think Mikey’s room is on fire.’ We rushed down the three flights of stairs and ran along the wing. By now there were one or two people banging on his door. ‘Mikey, Mikey! Open the door man.’ The smoke was becoming thicker and thicker, the smell of burning plastic choking us and stinging our eyes. We were panicking now: ‘Mikey, Mikey! Open the fucking door!’ Bang, bang, bang.
I sent someone to get a metal bar so that we could try to force the door open. However, these doors were designed to stop exactly that and Mikey’s door was locked from within. We were still pounding on the door and shouting as loud as we could. A large crowd had gathered now. All of a sudden there was the grating noise of metal on metal and the door flew open. A huge dense cloud of acrid toxic smoke came billowing out, followed by a dazed, half dead, black-faced Mikey, coughing and spluttering. ‘Jesus Christ Mikey, are you OK buddy?’ someone asked.
He was fighting for breath because of the smoke and lay down on the floor to recover. Someone brought him a wet cloth with which to wipe his face and eyes, and a drink of water. We let the smoke clear a little, then quickly went in to inspect the damage. The TV – or what was left of it – was a smoking melted pile of molten plastic.
‘Mikey, what the hell happened?’ I asked. Mikey explained that he had been awake so late smoking crack that he had passed out, leaving a candle burning on top of the TV. It had subsequently burned down into the TV and set it alight while Mikey slept the sleep of the dead. Which is exactly what he would have been had we not woken him up. The cell had bad smoke damage but was otherwise OK, and Mikey made a full recovery.
One of the other things I cottoned on to was the love of gambling people had here. Those who partook would gamble on anything. A few of the foreigners liked to play blackjack, so we set up a blackjack table and would run a game in the evenings. There was a new English guy on the wing by this point, called Ruben. He was from north London and had a nasal twang to his voice, partly because of his love of cocaine. He was 60-plus, grey-haired and very friendly. He had been a professional bookmaker and had his own spot on a racecourse until he took up gambling himself and blew over a million pounds in a year, ending up in prison in the UK for fraud. He had also worked as a croupier in a casino on the blackjack tables. This was great news. He became our croupier, for which I paid him a percentage of the profits if we won. We would normally make between $300 and $400 a night when we played. It was a great little business. All in all, things were going great.
CHAPTER TWELVE
HOTEL GARCIA MORENA
I HAD BEEN in the prison nearly a year and, now my sentence had been finalised, I knew I would be staying somewhat longer, so I turned my attention to buying a cell. Jean and I were discussing who had a cell for sale. His Serbian friend knew a Swedish guy on the top floor who he thought might be selling. He was an older, very intellectual guy called Sven. He had swept-back, greying hair and glasses. He was well-built, approaching 50 and had the look of a schoolteacher or professor. I went to meet him and he explained that he was due to be released soon. He offered to sell me half the cell for the money up front. I could move in and share with him and when he eventually got the actual date on which he was leaving I would pay him the other half and become full owner. Being on the top floor the cell got plenty of fresh air, and he had kept it tidy.
It sounded like a reasonable deal, so I went ahead and made arrangements to have $2,000 transferred to the person in Quito who he nominated to receive it. We then had to instruct the caporal to inform the social workers that I was moving cells so that they could change my location on the roll call. This took a little bit of money and a couple of days to arrange. Living with Sven was OK but he had his peculiarities and would like to get high and drunk every now and then, which he preferred to do alone. I had no problem with this as I respect everyone and their space. I would leave him to it and hang out with my friends until he was ready for me to go back. One good thing about the room was that we had a connection to a guy’s satellite dish downstairs so we had cable TV, which really passed the time.
One day Sven baked a chocolate cake but with a secret ingredient – marijuana, and lots of it. This was shared out between his friends and everyone got really high. It was potent. I was going back to my cell with a piece on a plate just as a guard came the opposite way. He was eyeing the chocolatey cake with enthusiasm. I thought it would be funny to give him the cake and see what happened. Luckily, a friend who was with me grabbed it just as
I was about to hand it over. He told me if I’d given the guard the cake and he had eaten it the guards would likely have beaten me to death. He probably saved my life that day.
After living with Sven for about six months, things became a little strained between us, as they often can when living in such a small space. I was in the exercise yard one morning doing circuit training when a friend came down to advise me that Sven was in the process of moving somebody out of his cell. At this point we had a big Ecuadorian fella living with us. He was tall and strong and closely resembled the big half-Native American chief, Chief Bromden, from the film One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I had nicknamed him Chief for this reason. I assumed it must be Chief that Sven was moving out of his cell, but my friend said, ‘No, he’s trying to move you out. He’s talking to the caporal at the moment to find a space for you in another cell.’
‘What the fuck!’ I shouted. ‘He can’t do that. I’ve paid him for half the cell.’
The mistake I had made was not signing a contract but only having a gentleman’s agreement, so on paper Sven still retained full ownership and could decide what he wanted to do. I was furious. I stormed upstairs and confronted Sven at the cell. I asked him what the bloody hell he thought he was doing and reminded him I now owned half the cell. He replied that he was aware of this and that hadn’t changed but he wasn’t happy living with me. I asked him why and what the problem was but he wouldn’t tell me and became evasive. I soon found out he was concerned that because I was involved with several illegal business deals it might cause him trouble, and he didn’t need any problems this close to release. That was fair enough and I agreed to find somewhere else to live but asked for a couple of days. He reluctantly agreed.
I decided to buy another cell while I waited for Sven’s release. It was then I hit upon the idea of buying up various cells to rent out on visit days and for the cadadas (sleepovers). On the nights when people’s wives or girlfriends stayed over a great many people would be tossed out of their cells and have to sleep like sardines locked in the small gym at the end of the second-floor landing. The guards would still insist that everyone was at least by their relevant door when they came to do the roll call in the morning. It would generally end up being a bloody great party every two weeks. I would rent the cell for the rest of the week to someone who couldn’t afford to buy one or just didn’t want to. This would give me some extra income so that I wasn’t eating into my overall capital.
I approached Riccardo, an Italian-American friend of mine, and explained the situation with Sven and the cell and asked if I could perhaps move in with him. He happily agreed and then offered to sell me the cell as he too was about to go free any day now. I wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice and insisted that if I was buying it I should receive all the relevant paperwork and become the actual owner. I could (and probably should) have been buying a semi in Brixton through the Halifax. I told him he was welcome to stay in the cell until he left but it would be mine. He agreed and I became the proud owner of a second cell.
Riccardo was a cool guy to live with and we got on well. He was very congenial and had a big personality. He had a big build to go with it, a shaved head and a round face. Being of Italian descent he was quite fiery and could get very excitable at times. I liked him and we would have a laugh together. He taught me how to cook the best spaghetti Bolognese sauce ever, in my opinion. His girlfriend was a lawyer from Colombia who was doing her utmost to win the freedom of her man. She came to visit on a regular basis and even offered to take a look at my case and see if there might be a possibility of getting the sentence reduced. I said I would think about it, just to be polite, as I was fairly happy with the job Eva had been doing and didn’t want to start changing lawyers and upsetting people.
The cell directly in front of Riccardo’s on the third floor next to the stairwell had come up for sale. This was Youseff’s, the previous caporal’s old cell and a fairly good one. He had been released not long after I arrived on the wing. I bought it straight away and decided to completely refurbish it. Neither Sven nor Riccardo had yet been released so those cells were still tied up. I wanted to make this cell feel like my own and kit it out really nicely for the coming years. I was feeling pretty well settled now, had a lot of friends and backup, and some regular business generating income. All I had to do was sit tight, avoid problems and hopefully pay to get the sentence halved very soon and then get released with the 50 per cent rule. Things were going well and I was fairly in control.
I found a couple of Lithuanian inmates who were extremely good builders. You could have whatever you wanted brought in to refurbish cells, the government obviously being quite happy as it maintained the fabric of the building so they didn’t have to. Ruben, the older north-London guy, and my Russian friend Sasha said they would be happy to live there while I renovated it, even though it was going to be a mess and covered in dust. I hoped it would only take a month to get it completely sorted.
I had the builders take it right back to the masonry. We stripped out the tiled floor and started afresh. While we were doing this, we uncovered three hiding spaces left by previous owners. One of the spaces – carved into the wall and brilliantly hidden behind a false panel – had been for Youseff’s gun. You could even see where they had bored out little round holes for the ammunition. I would have liked to have used it myself, but the guards had to be informed, much to my chagrin. They were keeping a close eye on what I was doing and if they suspected I had made the hiding place it would have been big trouble and probably a transfer to another prison. That I didn’t need. We filled the hole in and showed the jefe de guia again so that he was happy, and got back to work.
I had all new cabling put in for the electrics, including a new fuse box, an electric shower and spotlights throughout, power points for a fridge, TV, DVD player, kettle, microwave and hi-fi. We made a space for a gas bottle for a cooker. All the walls and ceiling were expertly re-plastered with a fantastic smooth finish. The back half of the cell, where the shower and toilet were located, both of which I replaced, was tiled from floor to ceiling in a beige ceramic marble effect. The other part of the cell, where the beds and seating area were, I had tiled in black porcelain with a white vein. It really looked fantastic. I then had it painted white. I commissioned new cupboards, two chairs, a table and large mirror from the carpentry shop. The chairs I had upholstered in a red damask silk. To top it all off I personally painted the Union Jack in enamel paints on the whole of the interior of the cell door so when it was open everyone could see it. I loved it and without doubt it was one of the best cells in the entire prison. I had brand new orthopaedic mattresses brought in for both me and Sasha, a Sony TV and DVD player, fridge, cooker, fan, small stereo … I was fully kitted out for my 12-year sentence.
Unfortunately I wasn’t to enjoy the cell for a great deal longer.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ANOTHER BLOODY SUNDAY
I WAS IN my cell on C wing watching a surfing DVD, wishing I was sitting on that beach in California with bikini-clad girls, soaking up the sunshine. But rather than drinking a tequila with said girls, I was in fact drinking a cup of Twinings Earl Grey tea. It was Sunday and visit day. Midday was approaching and my thoughts had turned to what I might have for lunch from one of the restaurants on the wing. There was Big Ivan the Russian, with his red cafe in the exercise yard, who cooked good homely food – sometimes borscht or other Russian specialities. Then there was Big Boris from Cartagena in Colombia who used to work for Pablo Escobar back in the day, running tons of coke up to Miami and the Florida Keys by boat from the northern Colombian coast. His food was in the Colombian style and very good as well.
A huge wave tore across the screen bearing a little man hanging on for dear life – a feeling all too familiar to me. Suddenly Sasha appeared in the doorway. He was out of breath, having run up the three flights of stairs to get to our room, and looked pale. He was gabbling away in his Russian-accented English and it took a minute for him
to calm down and explain what was happening.
‘Quick come with me, come look, they are killing Ruben!’ he stammered, waving his arms about and pacing nervously up and down the tiny cell.
‘What the fuck! What do you mean they’re killing Ruben?’ That familiar feeling of icy cold terror spread through my body, the adrenalin kicking in on top of the cocaine from the previous night.
I immediately thought he meant Ruben the Englishman from north London who lived on the wing, and with whom both Sasha and I were friendly. Ruben was forever getting into trouble borrowing money, getting cocaine on credit, running up bills, drinking, gambling and, worst of all, trying to organise drug trafficking business back to Britain. You would never have believed it from a guy who looked like your grandfather. It wouldn’t be unexpected if Ruben had a problem. I had bailed him out on numerous occasions and even, unbeknown to him, saved his life a couple of times when the local mafia had wanted to kill him for causing problems. There had been a couple of occasions during the renovation of my cell when I’d wanted to kill him myself, he had annoyed me that much. He had been living there while I was having it refurbished and he would refuse to get up in the mornings when I had people waiting to work on it, and become abusive. Added to that he owed me money at the time and it was proving difficult to collect. He used to drive me mad but I still liked him.
Sasha was virtually jumping up and down on the spot, pacing from side to side. ‘Come quick, come quick,’ he said, eager to get back to the bloody spectacle.
‘Where is this happening?’ I asked, trying not to panic while pulling on my shoes.
‘D wing, D wing, ground floor. There is blood every-fucking-where. They make big mess, big knife. Ruben is fucked. They going to kill him for sure. Lot of trouble. Come quick.’
El Infierno Page 9