‘Just have a look on Gougli!’ I said.
He laughed. After everything that the three of them had put me through, they all stood up, shook my hand and kissed me on both cheeks – it was the Greek tradition when someone left prison.
The guards left me in a holding cell with about twelve other inmates for two hours before dumping me on the same transfer vehicle that I’d been transferred in almost a year earlier. Yet again, four prisoners were squeezed into a cage that was just about big enough to fit two people. It was scorching hot and the journey took over four hours. Every now and then I would poke my eye through the little hole so that I could see Greece. The world was still out there; I couldn’t give up hope that I’d be out there soon.
Journal extract – Day 316 – 1 June 2010
I don’t know where my mind was for those few hours. I just blanked out into a trance – I had to. At some points I found myself complaining in my mind, then I realised that it doesn’t help and only makes it more difficult to endure.
When we got to Patras we were mixed with some other prisoners and they dumped about twenty of us in another holding cell. Every half an hour they would take out two people at a time to be strip searched and have all their bags checked – it’s a very stressful process. Finally they called me to go through; I was the last one. I started unpacking my bag and all my clothes were thrown all over the floor. They were shouting ‘Pame pame – Hurry hurry’.
I remember a few weeks ago Zafeiris told me that Gamma wing in Patras Prison is the worst and to tell them to put me in Alpha because I’m Greek. I also remember what Yiannis Economou told me – the old man who I first saw in the police van as soon as I landed in Athens a year ago – ‘they’re going to fuck you in Patras’.
I was drenched in sweat. It was 5 p.m. and I hadn’t eaten or drunk any water for the entire day. I stood butt naked in the hallway of Patras Prison with several staff members walking past. It was the most stressful thing that I’d experienced and I was overwhelmed with humiliation. The ypallilos was allocating prisoners to the different prison wings. ‘Symeou – Gamma,’ he said.
I grinded my teeth when I heard the words; I couldn’t bear to be put in the worst wing of the prison.
‘Yiati Gamma? Eimai Ellinas! – Why Gamma? I’m Greek!’ I cried.
‘Ohi, den eisai Ellinas. Eisai Romanos – No, you’re not Greek, you’re Romanian.’
I picked up a fresh pair of boxers from the floor and started to put them on. ‘In all seriousness, I’m actually not Romanian. I don’t have a clue where you got that from, but I’m a Greek Cypriot from the UK. Listen to my accent, have you ever heard a Romanian talk like this?’
He tutted. ‘Romanos.’
‘Please, can’t you just put me in Alpha?’
He made no eye contact and tutted again. ‘Ohi, fiye – No, leave.’
I was drenched with fear and sent to find Gamma on my own. I didn’t feel the need to protest any more; I knew that it would be a waste of the little energy I had left.
I was allocated to cell six on the top floor and I made my way up the stairs. Patras Prison was laid out in a completely different way from Korydallos. The main hallway was a square shape and eight large cells ran off a thin corridor that led to a courtyard. I was emotionally drained, but my heart pounded as I entered my cell. As soon as I walked in my new cellmates helped me with my bags and prepared my bed for me. The cell was a large square with bunk beds in each corner and there was a separate room with a toilet and sink for some privacy. The windows were tall and wide, leaving the cell airy and cool. There were eight of us in there, and I noticed that one of them was an Albanian guy who used to serve the food in Korydallos.
‘Pineis? – Do you drink/snort?’ the biggest guy asked me.
‘No.’
‘Good, because if you did I would make you leave this cell.’
‘I’m glad you’ve said that.’
‘Yeah, no one does drugs here. I’ve been here since you were … maybe ten years old. The junkies … all they do is steal and make life difficult.’
It was at that moment when I realised that Zafeiris’s view of Patras Prison’s Gamma wing was based purely on racism. Zafeiris himself was one of the junkies that my new cellmate was talking about. Zafeiris would have preferred to share a cell with a group of Greek junkies than respectful Albanians or Africans. I should have known better than to listen to him. My new cellmates were kind and offered to help me in any way that they could. Everyone in the cell was quiet and had respect for each other’s privacy and belongings. After fearing what Patras Prison would be like, it was an absolute sigh of relief. The majority of them were doing life sentences, some of them for drug crimes as minor as cannabis. I’d been suffering in prison for almost a year now, and hopefully this was the last hurdle.
It was the morning of 4 June, the day that I’d been waiting two years for. My legs were like jelly but I was excited to finally clear my name. My dad had brought me a suit to wear and I was dressed and ready to leave. It felt strange – it was the summer and I’d been wearing T-shirts and shorts in the baking sun. I hadn’t worn a suit since my High Court appeal in London!
I walked down the stairs onto the ground floor and I stood in the hallway of a new prison wearing a full suit. It made me feel uncomfortable because I looked ridiculous and out of place. I had a glance at the time – it was getting late and they still hadn’t called my name. ‘Eho dikastirio symera! – I have court today!’ I said to the ypallilos at the front of the wing.
‘Ohi, den eheis – No, you don’t,’ he said.
There was a lawyers’ strike on that day. My lawyer George Pyromallis had managed to get dispensation from it, so the trial was still set to go ahead. The prison had made the assumption that my trial must have been adjourned because of it.
‘Fere mou ta hartia sou yia na deite – Go and get me your papers for me to see,’ he said.
I ran back up to cell six on the top floor as fast as I could. Sweat was dripping through my suit in the summer heat. One of my cellmates asked, ‘How did it go?’
‘I haven’t gone yet,’ I mumbled, nervously hunting for the papers in my blue Nike sports bag.
‘Akoma!? – Still!?’ At least an hour had passed and I hadn’t left yet. The document was in the bottom of my bag. Phew, I thought. I ran downstairs and showed it to the ypallilos. He started to argue with his colleagues in Greek and I couldn’t really follow the conversation. I understood key bits like ‘but he has court!’ and ‘but how is he going to get there!?’ They ended up taking me in a van that was packed with old men who were going to hospital from the prison. I had to stand because there were no seats. One of the old men looked me up and down. ‘Tha pas sto nosokomeio? – You’re going to hospital?’ His facial expression reflected his confusion.
I opened my mouth, about to answer him when another old inmate butted in. ‘Vevaia den einai, to paidi foraei ena kostoumi reh vlaka! – Of course he’s not, the kid’s wearing a suit, you idiot!’
I was dropped off outside of the court, where a group of police officers were waiting for me. My heart began to race as they forced my wrists into handcuffs and escorted me into the building. I’d been guided through a back entrance and I was suddenly inside the courtroom. It had a distinctive smell of old wood and was laid out like a church. There were several rows of long, wooden seats facing a towering, wooden bench where three female judges sat below a large icon of Jesus Christ. I looked to my left as I walked in and could see my family; my dad offered me his ‘thumbs up’ gesture that he always did. My gran, who’d flown over from Cyprus, was there. I also saw my uncle Theo, my uncle George, my godfather Lef and my aunties Georgina and Teresa. In my peripheral vision I could see Chris and Charlie on the right side of the courtroom. The victim’s father was sitting just behind them. He’d travelled almost 2,000 miles overseas to watch the wrong man being tried for the murder of his son.
I sat down. Breathe, I told myself. I looked to my right; George Pyrom
allis acknowledged me and nodded – his assistant Vanessa offered a sympathetic smile.
The court assigned the jury, which took at least an hour. After this process there was the public prosecutor to the left, two jurors, three judges, and another two jurors to the right. They loomed above me and examined my every facial expression and movement. Their close scrutiny made me feel like I’d done something wrong, to the point where I almost had to remind myself that I was an innocent man.
It turned out that the court had failed to summon any witnesses. It was a joke. All they’d had to do was send the relevant witnesses letters via post. Shock was written all over the judges’ faces when they realised that Chris Kyriacou and Charlie Klitou were present. We knew that they hadn’t been summoned and they were only there because we’d told them to come. We feared that the court had failed to summon Jonathan Hiles’s friends too, so the charity Fair Trials International had sent them letters on our behalf. They were informed that the trial was set for 4 June and that they may not receive a summons. Mr Hiles was present, but his son’s five friends didn’t attend. It was in the interest of justice that the friends of the victim were there. I refused to continue with the trial unless all the witnesses were present, and George Pyromallis made that very clear to the judges.
I took the stand. It was a wooden lectern that faced the bench with an old copy of the Bible resting on the top – a book that I’d almost finished reading. I looked up at them. They towered over me like three powerful queens. Through a young, female translator, I pleaded with them that they grant me bail. I explained how difficult it is being the youngest foreign person in a maximum-security prison. After almost a year behind bars I couldn’t bear it any longer. I told the judges that I was unwilling to continue the trial without the prosecution witnesses and that it wasn’t my fault that they were absent. I wanted justice! I wanted every witness present for a full trial because I had nothing to hide – I wanted to clear my name!
They asked me if I would be able to financially support myself if let out of prison.
I replied, ‘Yes, my family are financially stable.’
‘Den ehei lefta! – They have no money!’ the translator blurted.
‘No…’ I said.
‘Ooh, sorry. EHEI lefta! – they DO have money!’ I had to stop myself from shaking my head in disbelief. What if I hadn’t understood a word of Greek? The judge’s decision to grant me bail would probably have been clouded by the assumption that I couldn’t afford to live.
George Pyromallis stood up to speak. ‘In my entire seventeen years as a criminal lawyer, I have never experienced a defendant request the summoning of prosecution witnesses!’ he bellowed in Greek. There was a deep tone to his voice that made it powerful, even when he was speaking softly. He demanded that the judges grant me bail and explained that I had a residence in Greece where I could live.
There was a recess. We were suspended in mid-air, waiting to either fly or fall. I was about to discover whether I’d have to go through the painful transfer back to Korydallos and live with the junkies or be with my family. I couldn’t bear the thought of going back there – it was like a nightmare. This time, they needed to make the right choice.
My gran asked a young police officer if he could kindly take me out of handcuffs. ‘Einai ena kalo paidi – He’s a good kid,’ the officer said, releasing them from my wrists. For the first time I was able to hug my family and it felt incredible. After months and months, to be with them all again in the flesh almost made me forget that I was about to discover something huge. Lef called Riya on his mobile and it was amazing hearing her voice. ‘If I make bail we’ll put you on the first plane out here,’ I told her. I didn’t want to raise my hopes, but I could feel my heart rate increasing as I heard the words escape my lips.
George Pyromallis had re-entered the courtroom after going for his cigarette break. ‘What do you think the likelihood of bail is?’ I asked him.
He always remained impartial when it came to these things. ‘It could go either way, Andrew. Let’s see.’
An hour had quickly passed and all those present in the court were asked to rise. The judges and jurors walked in and took their seats at the bench. Everyone was asked to sit and the main judge began to reveal the bail decision.
They had no idea what I’d been through; nobody did, not even my family. Even those reading this memoir will never truly understand. There’s only so much of a story you can tell on paper. The subtleties of prison life are difficult to put into words, as some of the most important things (which are almost too insignificant to mention) make my experience difficult to recreate. The smell of the prison air; the faces I would see every day; the Greek prison culture. I was the only one who lived it in there. I was the only one who saw it; who felt it; who smelled it – if I think hard enough I still can. Being in prison for something that I knew I hadn’t done was a rollercoaster of emotions: fear, sadness, frustration. But the cruellest test of all was patience; a test of how much I could take. My entire time in prison flashed before me in my mind. It seemed like years ago – landing in Athens and being dragged into the police van with toothless Yiannis Economou; the transfer jail; Patras and Zakynthos police stations with ‘Sean Penn’ and ‘Mel Gibson’; Avlona – Arnas; Fivos; Christos electrocuting himself and piercing his own tongue; prison school. Korydallos – Leonarde smiling on that first day; Stelios, Ashmul and Vasilis; the cockroaches; Apollo; heroin; the crazy riots. Alpha wing – the junkies; ‘Fuck him, he’s a murderer.’ It had all changed my life so much. It was like prison had chewed me up and spat me back out a different person. It had been a journey that I couldn’t have imagined ever happening. It was my experience – and it was over. My eyes began to stream as the translator informed me that I’d be released on bail for €30,000, but was not allowed to leave Greece.
I could hear my family sobbing behind me – it was a surreal feeling. I was bursting with happiness because I didn’t have to go back to Korydallos, but furious because my bail should have been granted a year earlier. I rotted in a series of Greek prisons for almost a year; how was I supposed to feel? Did they not understand how that can affect a young person’s life? Was I supposed to thank them now? Was I supposed to feel grateful that they’d let me go free? Fuck them – I shouldn’t have been there in the first place. At the time it reminded me of the line from the Oasis song ‘Half the world away’: ‘You can’t give me the dreams that were mine anyway.’
When I left the court in the custody of the police officers, the young officer high-fived me before the handcuffs went back on. ‘Amazing, man! You are free! Now you can go party in Mykonos! Yeah baby!’ he said.
‘I don’t think so,’ I replied – still overwhelmed with shock. The news was yet to sink in.
I could see that there were journalists with cameras outside of the court waiting for me to exit. ‘Here, do this,’ the officer said while putting my suit jacket over my head to cover my face like I was Josef Fritzl.
‘No!’ I said. ‘What do I have to hide?’
‘OK, whatever you want, my friend!’ he replied before we walked out. My head was held high.
It took a week for the bail money to be transferred to the court and for the prison to let me go. On the day of my release, one of the inmates in my cell helped me pack my things and wished me luck. He shook my hand. ‘You remind me of myself when I was your age. Don’t waste your life,’ he said.
After four hours of being held in a holding cell on my own, a couple of police officers entered the prison and handcuffed me. ‘Why are you handcuffing me!? I’m a free man!’ I said while they escorted me to their unmarked police car and sat me in the back seat.
They sat in the front and turned on the engine. ‘Because you are a foreigner, we have to take you to the police station and you will sign some papers first.’
‘Then I’ll be free?’ I asked.
I could tell from the back of the driver’s head that he was smiling. ‘Yes. What will you do tonight?’ on
e of them asked.
‘Tonight, I’ll be spending time with my family.’
I recalled the morning of the day I was extradited – almost a year had passed since then. I remembered the journey from Belgravia Police Station to Heathrow Airport. ‘I can’t tell you what’s going to happen in Greece, but I won’t be handcuffing you’, was what one of the Scotland Yard officers said. I could still hear the sound of his deep voice in my mind. It felt like an eternity ago, and I couldn’t believe how much had happened since.
For the entire hour’s drive to Patras town centre, I stared out of the window in amazement. The view was very different from that of a city. Everything travels so fast when watching central London from a moving car; shops and buildings fly by and it blurs into a shade of concrete grey. This view stayed the same for almost the entire journey, and it was as though I was staring at a beautiful painted canvas. After almost a year of being locked up, I watched a sparkling blue sea with a soaring mountain in the distance. It was carpeted with hundreds of trees that reflected a leafy, green glow, and the mountain was mirrored on the surface of the wavy sea beneath it. The peak of the mountain was right in front of me, and it was the closest to it that I’d ever been so far. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was the most stunning thing that I’d ever seen.
* * *
PART IV
* * *
There is a higher court than courts of justice and that is the court of conscience. It supersedes all other courts.
– Mahatma Gandhi
4 June 2010, BBC News
ANDREW SYMEOU GRANTED BAIL OVER DEATH ON GREEK ISLAND
A student held in a Greek jail on suspicion of killing an 18-year-old Welsh roller-hockey player on holiday has been granted bail.
Extradited Page 24