Daniel Holmes: A Memoir From Malta's Prison: From a cage, on a rock, in a puddle...

by Daniel Holmes

  She told me she had forgotten she had had a few single paper joints, already rolled, which amounted to far less than a gram of cannabis.

  The policeman’s demeanour changed. Not only had they caught a foreigner, but also a woman. Now was his chance to hone his superiority skills.

  She was taken to the same cells I had been to; unfit for a man let alone a woman. She was taken before a magistrate, charged and remanded to prison. She had to go through all the dehumanising and beating of the soul that I endured. Now on bail, she was proceeding through the justice system at a snail’s pace and shrinking inside herself every day.

  We made an odd couple. Two broken souls trying to heal each other. We drank too much and never smoked enough. Together we could laugh off the absurdity of the world.

  She had a car and we used to go around the island, sightseeing, walking her dog or just sitting on the top of the cliffs at Xlendi, watching storms roll in from the sea. We’d smoke, we’d laugh and sometimes even forget. I don’t remember how many months we knew each other – not that long really, but we found an accord in each other’s pain.

  On November 21, 2007, Julie suffered a massive stroke and later died in hospital. I was with her, in mid-conversation, when the aneurysm occurred. I had never seen anything like it before. Seeing someone going through a stroke, I was helpless, she was dying. It’s a haunting memory. Before 8 a.m., I phoned for an ambulance, knowing that I was supposed to be at my house at the time. This could constitute a breach of bail, and land me right back inside. The inspector luckily had grander designs.

  I was at the hospital, waiting by her side, as the air ambulance tried to take her to the mainland. Her heart rate kept crashing which meant that each time they’d try to fly, they couldn’t. So she was taken to the Gozo hospital. She had always been stubborn. She’d always told me she would die in Gozo.

  That is when Inspector JM came into my life.

  He pulled me away from the bedside, shouting at me that I had killed her, that this was murder and what drugs had I given her? Bear in mind that she hadn’t passed away, and in truth, I hadn’t thought she would die. It was all I could do, not to knock him down. He was of weasel stature compared to my wolf. But those situations never end well.

  I had to scream for the doctor to explain to this simple man that she had suffered a massive stroke. When the doctor finally quelled the inspector, even getting irate with him at his stubbornness and incomprehension of the situation and wanting to get back to his dying patient, the inspector finally let go of my arm.

  As I turned to go be beside my friend, his last comment was, “I’ll get you soon.” Then some Maltese words of swearing, which are derogatory against Mary, Jesus and God.

  Julie died soon after. The minute the machines flatlined its horrific solid beep, I said my farewells and prayed for her soul. I walked out of hospital and fell right into that destructive addiction of mine again.

  And there I stayed, drowning in whisky, weed and a spoon.

  The night of the car

  That night was unforgettable. It was December 11, 2007, two days before my father’s birthday.

  I’d been in Xlendi most of the day, killing time on the high cliffs, watching a storm as I had done many a time with Julie. I was soaked, tired and I realised I’d been out too long, and my curfew was soon approaching.

  I had almost given up on life, but faith kept pulling me forward.

  The walk across the island would have taken hours, and there was no bus service at that time of year. Time had gotten away from me … it’s funny how many times I’ve said that.

  By the time I had walked to the bottom of the long road out of that craggy, little cove, another hour had passed. I must have looked a sorry sight: drenched to the bone and walking with a slight hunch under the weight of my problems. I stuck out my thumb as I walked, hoping to hitch a lift.

  I don’t even know if people do that anymore, I’ve seen none since and in truth I never thought anyone would stop, but I thought: what harm could it do? The streets were empty anyway, but maybe I’d have some luck.

  The noise of a car slowing, made me turn round. Some small 4x4 thing, towing a boat. I thought that it was just slowing to turn towards the road ahead, but when the horn beeped, I turned back. I walked towards the vehicle and bent down to the passenger’s open window. I was taken aback.

  Sitting in the driver’s seat was Barry, beaming as he always used to do then.

  “Wanna lift?” He spoke as naturally as if he’d just dropped me off. With no other thought than getting home, I eagerly jumped in beside him. I’d seen Barry drive many cars and even a few boats, so it didn’t even occur to me that there was anything untoward.

  He turned up the volume of the stereo and pushed the throttle, and told me in passing that he was taking the boat to a mutual acquaintance, Joey. Joey lived near me, so I was in luck, he’d run me home.

  The hill to get out of Xlendi is very steep and it was wet that night. The small Suzuki 4WD engine was struggling to pull the weight of us all up the long incline. I looked out the window and drifted mindlessly to the chugging movement.

  The next thing I knew, there were lights flashing and a car racing up from behind. Huh, typical boy racer I thought as the car tried to get past. Barry swerved and blocked the path. My heart sank. This was not good.

  Clearly, Barry was mixed up in some foolhardy plan. He was risking everything. He held more than my liberty in his hands: I knew he’d do anything not to be caught.

  The car was being pushed relentlessly by its motor. The load of us and the boat, meant that on one turn, as the engine struggled, traction was lost, leaving room for the other car to fly past with silhouettes of angry, shouting people inside. I looked at Barry’s face: sheer concentration. I wanted answers and I wanted them immediately.

  The car pulled in front and slammed on its brakes, forcing Barry to stop. The wet roads and the traction meant that when he pressed the accelerator, the car and boat slipped backwards, jack-knifing and blocking the road. The next thing I knew, the car door was open, and Barry was gone.

  I was still not totally sure what was happening. I am no fool (although you may think I am) but I was shell-shocked and reacted slowly. Also, I didn’t really have time to think because the minute the passenger door opened, there was a very angry man, shouting, screaming and cursing in Maltese.

  I believe he took a swing at me, I moved, his fist impacted somewhere on the car. That completed my six charges of theft, damage and bodily harm. After more screaming on their part, I understood that they had just had their car and boat stolen. I felt a sudden exhaustion wave over me. I didn’t budge. I didn’t scream back. I just waited, for I knew what was coming: those flashing blue lights.

  I told them straight away I was the passenger, and I had hitched a lift. Did I know the driver? I went dumb. I’m no snitch, ever.

  From the description given by the other drivers, the owners of the car and boat, they immediately guessed it was Barry. By then we were joined by more flashing lights – we had illuminated the whole world.

  Once again, I climbed into the back of a police car. They wasted no time, and in minutes we were walking up the front steps of the Rabat police station. I kept telling them I was the passenger, they didn’t want to listen, pulling and pushing me every inch. They said I became irate. Who wouldn’t have, in my situation?

  They took no statement and I was thrown in front of the inspector’s desk. When I looked up, my eyes found the smirking face of inspector JM.

  “Ha, tonight you spend a night in my cells.”

  He spat at me with absolute authority.

  “Yeah,” I said. “We’ll see.”

  Like most people, I’m my worst enemy.

  I stared into his soulless eyes and raised my handcuffed arms to my throat, pressing the chain against my windpipe, trying to suffocate myself. The other officers jumped into action, trying to stop me, until all their faces fell into fog.

  I woke up on
the floor, a few moments later. Bruised after hitting his desk, dazed but resigned. There was no way I was staying in their charge, I told them. I needed my psychiatrist as I was going to kill myself.

  I don’t even know if I meant it or not, but I must have looked rather serious about it. With the inspector foaming at the mouth, I was taken by the policemen to the Mental Health Department of the Gozo hospital. They knew me. They knew of my depression and addiction problems.

  (In fact, I had been given a drug called Paroxetine, an antidepressant of the SSRI class. Until one day, after I asked some questions about the medication, the doctor just stopped the prescription. In fact, at the time, my father had to come to Gozo to look after me, because the withdrawals from the pills took me far off in a very dark place.)

  On that night of the car, the kind nurses on duty took pity on me. I had been semi-unconscious, blacked out. And by that point I was irrational and incoherent. So, there was nothing they could do really but keep me in the hospital for the night, locked in an observation room. For nutters. Again, I was finally home.

  When Inspector JM came to see why I was taking so long to be taken back to the station and his “Garage of Cells”, he found me sitting on a hospital bed, locked behind Plexiglass windows, sipping a cup of tea.

  He was livid.

  The next day I was collected from the hospital, feeling quite rested and dry. The van sped its way to the court building and once again I found myself standing next to Barry in the dock.

  That day, we were both remanded to custody, at the CCF.

  Sentencing for a crime

  November 21, 2001. It was a normal day. No, it was a perfect day. I was settling into life as a father. The nights deprived of sleep; the wonder in the child’s eyes. Hours and days spent staring at that new life and adjusting to the comforting routines that a baby brings along.

  I’d been out with Leighton the night before. It had only been for a few hours and a couple of beers. It is something I still regret. Had I known that that was to be my last night for almost seven years with my fiancée and daughter, I would have obviously stayed in.

  My wife still remembers it. The decision still haunts me. But how could I have known? He had offered to give me a lift to court in the morning and that was going to spare me half the day travelling on Malta’s bone-shaking roads. My wife and I had recently moved into an apartment in Qawra; too little furnishings and too much rent. I had work at 5 p.m., I needed to be back from court, and go and buy some nappies, talc, and a little list of things needed for the girls.

  It was cold outside; they’d just sleep till I got back. They hardly even stirred, as I kissed their foreheads, grabbed my jacket and headed out the door. It was just another day.

  On the way to Valletta, I was smiling. Court. Every time I’d gone to one of these sittings, in Gozo or Malta, I would never have an idea what was going on. Lawyers on their mobile phones filled the court rooms talking loudly. The proceedings were mostly in Maltese, so I was completely out of it.

  Even after the sittings, my many lawyers would never have the time to brief me on what would have happened. They could only spare me a few seconds to tell me, “Yes, yes, it’s all good, I’m speaking to prosecutors, I’m having dinner with them.” And more farcical tales I once believed.

  Just another day in court, I thought. I’ll be in and out.

  In fact, Leighton waited for me in the Valletta square outside over a coffee.

  I walked through the hallways, filled with people. The only way to discern the two sides, was by their outfits: the lawyers wore flowing black gowns like the teachers I had once had in school.

  At last I found the courtroom.

  An usher started talking to me in Maltese, then in broken English. He was asking me, irately, where my lawyer was and other questions I had no answers for. He left in a frustrated huff. You’re not the only one, I thought.

  He came rushing back and ushered me inside the hall, not before telling me to do my tie up, and tutting at my lack-of-respect black shirt.

  On entering the court room, he bowed, and automatically I did so too. The usher pointed to a small wooden raised platform with a wooden balustrade. The dock. Just another day in court.

  I was asked again, “Where’s your lawyer?”

  “I don’t know,” I was, by now, totally confused and not understanding anything.

  The heavy, wooden doors, creaked open and every face turned. There, entering the court wearing one of those black capes, was my only hope. He was red-faced and carried a bundle of untidy paperwork. Like a breathless schoolboy my lawyer had arrived.

  I smiled and nodded. Nothing. He went round the room making salutations and apologies, like a hostess working the room, before finally coming to my side. No real words, just facial gestures, typical of Mediterranean people.

  Lawyers, judges, magistrates. Mortal men. But not today. Today, they were playing at gods. It all started in a blur as always. Other people talking all around me, while not even looking my way.

  Finally, my lawyer turned to me and gave me some attention. In a minute the judge was going to read out the charges and I would have to reply with a formal answer. Guilty or not guilty.

  I had admitted from day one to possession of cannabis. If anyone asked me, I’d tell them. I was not ashamed. In fact I’d tried to get the five charges split, so I could plead guilty on some of them, but it was never arranged. I see now they wanted all or nothing.

  My lawyer had previously told me that if I pleaded guilty, admitting to the charges of importation, trafficking, cultivation and two counts of possession, the Attorney General would recommend six years, not life. My lawyer was arguing for the minimum sentence, of four years and so, in order to save the court time and expenses, the Judge would settle on a number of years between the two. Dice were being rolled.

  I was told that the jurors waiting outside for jury selection were told to go home and the court was happy because it meant saving money. I had already served a year straight; I was told this would count. My lawyer swore that I’d only have to serve minimal custodial time. He was very convincing.

  This was five and a half years since my initial arrest. I was so tired. So, fed up with an existence of not knowing, I did all I could do and put my faith in the man who had been paid thousands to bring me justice.

  Three knocks of a wooden gavel brought the court to order. Everyone rose to their feet, I followed suit, dry-mouthed and sweaty-palmed. A judge in his robes strode to his throne and sat down. Everyone else fell to their seat. I went to follow suit, but the usher pointed and said, “Not you.” I remained standing in my little dock of dead wood.

  The exact words, I cannot remember. Other than when asked, the word GUILTY, came from my mouth as if spoken by someone else. There was noise; scraping of chairs, rushing of feet, flapping of robes. There were words that danced around me, making no sense, only the tones that flowed like dramatic music.

  My lawyer finally turned to me and said, “It’s good, back for sentencing in three days.”

  OK, cool, I thought, things are moving on. I felt a hand on my arm. I was looking dazed and confused. My lawyer added words to this effect, as if it were nothing:

  “Oh, you’re remanded in custody till then, don’t worry, it’s all good.”

  And with that, he was gone from before me in a flurry.

  I started rapidly talking and pulling away from the police.

  I had to tell my friend who was waiting outside for me. I had to tell my wife. My boss.

  I had nothing else on me. The hand-me-down suit that Mike had left me and nothing in my pockets, the faith I had brought in had vanished with my lawyer.

  After what seemed like eternity – but now I know how long that really is – somebody went to inform my friend and from a window in the courtroom I was painfully allowed to watch him leave, before I was led in a stupor to the waiting van underneath.

  Once again, the faces blurred, the words blurred and all I remember is that
dreaded van bouncing along the streets, to flashing light, sirens and the cursing of the driver who was always frantic. I could only daydream of the van crashing, burning and that being that.

  Day 9

  Obviously, that never happened, although we had many a scrape, scratch and near miss.

  I was shocked to find myself remanded within the CCF Division XIII, Cell 9.

  I was not allowed to phone my fiancée and daughter, my boss or have any contact with the outside world. The clothes I was in were drenched by the sweat of fear. I was lucky to meet two English lads who donated me boxer shorts, socks and some cigarettes.

  Again, I found myself depending on the charity of others and again I found myself waiting.

  Two days later I was back in front of the judge.

  The beginning of the end

  Those vans. All I’ll always remember about court sittings is those vans. The feeling of utter lack of control, while someone else plays with your life by driving like a lunatic. There are no seatbelts in the vans and the caged interior is a death trap even when stationary. When hurtling along busy streets, filled with a few large males, it was time for prayer.

  The holding pen under the Maltese courts is a depressing place. You’re locked in and the guards are indifferent to men pleading for their innocence, common sense, coffee and cigarettes. Their pleas are rarely answered.

  I pace the small area, not wanting conversation or eye contact.

  I’m pacing. I can’t stand still. Locked in that cage underneath the courts of Valletta, I feel like one of those trapped beasts I saw at the zoo when I was a child. A proud animal, reduced to this, a broken shell of a former self.