Passport To Hell: How I Survived Sadistic Prison Guards and Hardened Criminals in Spain's Toughest Prisons
Page 18
I told Dr McCarthy about my sleepless nights and lack of appetite and he gave me a look as if to say, 'Is there something that you're leaving out?' I think he knew that I was hooked on drugs but was reluctant to force it out of me. I avoided his gaze and carried on relaying my symptoms. There was no way I was going to come clean about my habit. He could look at me like that all day.
Dr McCarthy eventually gave up trying to get to the truth and diagnosed me based upon the limited information that he had.
'You seem to be suffering from a high level of stress,' he said. 'You can't work in this state. I'm going to give you a sick note so that you can get incapacity benefit. You need to take it easy and try your hardest to relax. Do you want me to prescribe a dose of antidepressants?'
I didn't want to take any form of medication that I could possibly get addicted to. It was bad enough with just the one habit without adding Valium to my daily drug intake.
'I'll be OK without anything like that.'
'Are you sure?' Dr McCarthy asked, raising his eyebrows as if to suggest that he knew better. 'It might help you to sleep.'
Not with the mountains of amphetamine that I was pouring down my neck each night it wouldn't. I didn't want to risk mixing my drugs either. I had always been careful to only take one thing at a time. There was no telling what antidepressants would do in conjunction with speed and I didn't want to find out.
'Yeah, I'm OK,' I said. 'I'll just try to take it easy. Thanks for seeing me.'
As I left the surgery, I felt sad that I had lied to somebody who seemed so genuinely concerned about me. How was I going to get help if I couldn't even admit what was wrong? The fact that I was on the sick should have helped to reduce my stress but had the opposite effect. It only compounded my feeling of uselessness. Not only was I looking at ten years in prison but I was now forced to rely on government handouts to get by. My life had reached rock bottom and wasn't getting any better. My only ray of hope was the possibility that I might not have to go to Spain, but even if I managed to avoid being extradited, I was still an addict and most of my immediate circle of friends was hooked on crack cocaine, the worst drug of the lot.
The first time I saw Bruce smoking a rock he had seemed OK, but every time since then it was as if he was possessed whenever he got high. The atmosphere immediately turned sour and he was like a completely different person. He was always arguing with his friends and accusing them of smoking his drugs. This was probably true most of the time because they kept trying to sneak off to puff stones on their own so that they didn't have to pass the pipe on to their mates. They transformed from a close-knit group of friends into people who would stab each other in the back to get the largest share of rocks.
Smoking crack seemed anything but fun. Heroin might be more addictive but at least it chills people out. Crack makes people violent, agitated and above all untrustworthy. Once it gets a grip of someone, they won't think twice about stealing from their mates, a fact I found out first-hand when Bruce nicked all my DVDs and tried to sell them to get drug money. It's a good thing I had seen what happened to Pookie in New Jack City or I might have become like him. I owe a lot to Pookie and Zammo. They made me steer well clear of crack and heroin and for that they will forever have my gratitude.
Looking back, I think the only reason that I carried on knocking about with the same set of druggies was because I had become so needy that I was glad of the company. I didn't care that I was surrounded by crackheads; I just wanted people around me so that I wasn't left alone with my thoughts. After a rave had finished, I would usually chill out at one of their houses so that I didn't have to be on my own.
Although I spent a lot of time with Bruce and his friends, my family were still my main source of support. They were usually fast asleep when I returned from the parties but I could always count on them during the day. Kelly tried to take my mind off the extradition by chatting to me about other things. It was always nice to converse with somebody who didn't constantly bring up the possibility of being shipped off to Spain.
Mum was just as good to talk to. She knew that I was going through hell and did her best to reassure me that everything was going to be OK. I should have been more grateful but the base had hold of me. It wasn't quite in the same league as crack but made me moody and bad tempered and I was always kicking off about something, which must have made me a nightmare to be around.
I was particularly obnoxious in the weeks leading up to my hearing. Lack of sleep mingled with extreme anxiety and created monstrous temper tantrums. Mum had the patience of a saint. Anybody else would have thrown me out on my ear. I think what stressed me out the most was the idea that I might have my bail revoked and get remanded in custody straight after the case. It was scary to think that even the brief period of freedom whilst the authorities decided my fate might be snatched away from me.
I spent the night before the hearing going over how I would react if I was taken away in handcuffs. By the morning, I was in a right state. I prayed that even if things didn't go my way, I would at least get bail. My mum would be gutted if I was suddenly whisked away to prison. It didn't bear thinking about.
I was at the peak of anxiety during the journey to Bow Street. It didn't help that there was a load of press waiting outside the court to photo some Americans who were involved in a big fraud case. It was intimidating having to walk through a seething mass of paparazzi to get inside the building. When you're sleep deprived and on a comedown, something like that can really take it out of you. I just hoped the end result would make it all worthwhile.
The spectators' gallery in the court was also full of reporters. The Americans were facing extradition straight after my hearing and the media didn't want to miss a thing. It would have been nerve-wracking enough without every seat in the room being filled. My heart was beating so fast that I thought it would explode.
Judge Evans looked just as snooty as he had done during my first time at Bow Street. He spoke with a plum-in-the-mouth Etonian accent and had a hard edge to his voice, as if he thought that everybody who entered his court was scum and needed locking up. The prosecutor seemed a little bit more sympathetic. She had a kindly demeanour and every now and again, I caught her giving me a concerned look, as if to say, 'Am I really doing the right thing here?' Unfortunately in order to do her job correctly, she couldn't let her personal opinions come into play. She was going to try her best to have me extradited irrespective of how bad it made her feel.
My barrister spoke in detail about how unfair my trial in Spain had been. He talked about the lack of real evidence, the misinterpretation of my diary and the fact that I was denied a translator. Judge Evans didn't seem to give a monkey's. As far as he was concerned, I was as guilty as could be.
'I do not accept as truthful what she says about the lack of interpretation,' he scoffed. 'The Spanish legal authorities were clearly aware of their legal obligations to provide interpreters. The trial judge would have also understood his duty to ensure that there was no lack of interpretation such as might prejudice Ms Daniels' full involvement in the trial.'
This was somewhat ridiculous, considering that all he had to go from was his own misguided belief in the fairness of the Spanish legal system. The prosecutor didn't dispute the lack of interpretation. She argued that my trial lawyer could have explained what had gone on after the court case had finished because he spoke perfect English.
'A lawyer able to speak the defendant's own language is no substitute for a proper interpreter, interpreting the proceedings fully and simultaneously,' my barrister countered. 'In addition to this, explaining the case after it has concluded is very different to having it translated word for word as it is taking place.'
'I am committing this case to the High Court,' said Judge Evans, looking upset that he hadn't been able to order my immediate extradition. 'You are to attend a hearing on 28 January, at which point a decision will be made.'
This meant that I had eight more months in the UK. I was disappoint
ed that I hadn't been granted the right to stay but at the same time relieved I wasn't being remanded. As I left the court, I found myself longing for the day when I would no longer have to explain myself to jumped-up toffs in wigs. I was looking forward to it all being over and never having to see another judge again.
During the months leading up to my High Court appearance, I almost worried myself into an early grave. As it got nearer to the date, I became even more nervous and upset and felt as if I was teetering on the edge of a breakdown.
I knew that this court only heard the most high-profile cases, which made it very intimidating. It didn't get more serious than this. If I failed here then I would have to pack my suntan lotion ready for Spain.
On the day of the hearing, I got the train to London with my mum and spent the journey discussing all the possible outcomes of the case. I was absolutely wetting myself. Even though I had already been to court a couple of times before, the thought of people publicly going through the intimate details of my life still made me feel extremely anxious and uncomfortable. The fact that it was the High Court made it even worse. They were probably used to dealing with the likes of Ronnie Biggs and Howard Marks. It would be a shock for them to see a frightened girl from rural Buckinghamshire standing before them.
We arrived at Euston Station and hopped on the tube to The Strand. I almost had a warrant issued for my arrest because I couldn't find the court but managed to locate it in the nick of time. It was one of the most imposing buildings I have ever seen in my life. It looked like a big white castle and had a huge arch at the front, which I could have imagined a drawbridge extending out from. The pavement outside was also swarming with protestors because there was a demonstration going on in support of fox hunting.
'Just my bloody luck,' I thought.
First it was the paparazzi, now this. It was as if the world wanted to turn out to witness my downfall.
As I navigated my way through crowds of placard-bearers and people holding toy foxes, I felt a fresh wave of fear wash over me. This was it; the day of reckoning. If I failed to convince the judges that I had got a raw deal at my trial, I could say goodbye to England. At least then I would be able to get my sentence over with. Not knowing my fate was tearing me apart. I felt as if I had waited long enough.
The High Court is a little different to the magistrates in that there are three judges instead of one. You would have thought this would have given me a greater chance of getting somebody vaguely human but no, they were all old and obnoxious with a compassionless air to them.
The hearing was very similar to the one at Bow Street. The prosecution and defence came out with the same arguments and the judges seemed just as disinterested as Judge Evans had been. They gave the impression that they had already made up their minds that I was going to be extradited.
Part way through the hearing, a representative for Fair Trials International got up and walked out of the room in disgust. He was incensed that they were paying so little attention to the points that my solicitor was making. I looked over at my mum and she looked back at me. We were both in a state of shock. I had been hoping this would be the point my fortune finally turned. How wrong I had been.
'I see there are a lot of factors to be taken into consideration,' the head judge summed up. 'You will be informed of our decision via a letter sent to your solicitor.'
I knew things hadn't gone as planned but still felt relieved that the proceedings were over. It was time for me to go home and get trolleyed to take my mind off things. It was looking increasingly unlikely that I was going to remain in the UK so there was no reason to stay sober. I figured that I might as well go flat out until my extradition.
Mum went on holiday to Tenerife shortly after the court case, which enabled me to go out every other night. I shovelled so much speed down my throat during this period that I probably helped a couple of dealers to pay off their mortgages. Terrifying highs and cataclysmic lows cycled continuously round and round as I downed bag after bag of paste. On the day that my solicitor finally phoned with my result, I had been awake for four nights in a row. My brain felt as if it had been used as a football.
'Your case has been referred to the Home Secretary Charles Clarke,' he said. 'He'll have the final say on whether you stay in England.'
The home secretary is the most senior figure that can decide on the result of an extradition case. I felt a mixture of emotions; on the one hand I was worn down by the fact that things were dragging on so long, but on the other, I felt a strange glimmer of hope. Charles Clarke could say, 'This girl's been through enough. She's going nowhere.' Then again he could well say, 'Send her to Spain immediately. She needs locking up.'
Whilst Mr Clarke pored over the details of my case, I poured mounds of high-strength amphetamine out of a plastic sealer bag. I also poured myself glass after glass of Malibu. The further I drew towards my fate, the more reckless I became. I no longer cared how much damage I did to my body. Nothing mattered any more apart from the outcome of my case.
It was August by the time my solicitor rang up to inform me of the final verdict.
'I'm sorry Terry,' he told me. 'The Home Secretary wants the authorities to go ahead with your extradition.'
I felt as if my heart had been ripped out of my chest. All of my trips back and forth to court had been for nothing in the end. It's bad enough going to prison in England but the thought of being locked up in a country where I was unable to speak the language was absolutely terrifying. This was it; I had used up all my chances. I was off to sunny Spain. Years of uncertainty had been thrust on me because of a crime that somebody else committed and now I was being jailed for it as well. It beggared belief.
Chapter 15
THE EXTRADITION
Tears formed in my eyes as I thought about everything that I would have to leave behind. My life in Buckinghamshire had gone a bit pear-shaped but still beat sitting cooped up in a cell for a decade. I had no idea how long it was going to be before Scotland Yard got back to me with my extradition date. The Spanish authorities are very unpredictable. Sometimes they can take months to make the simplest decisions. For all I knew, it could be anything from a week to a year before I heard when I was going.
If I hadn't already been taking the maximum amount of whiz that I could possibly consume, then I probably would have gone even crazier on it than before, but as it was, I carried on at a steady rate of knots. None of my drug-taking friends were particularly surprised about the outcome of my case. They had known there was a strong possibility things wouldn't go my way. Some of them were in denial and thought that I was going to be spared at the last minute, but other more realistic raving buddies said their goodbyes and wished me a hassle-free sentence.
I was going to miss my fellow ravers but the raves themselves were the one thing from the free world that I would be happy to do without. Drugs had got me into this mess in the first place. If I had never touched cocaine then I wouldn't have started knocking about with Antonio and he would have gone to Brazil on his own. Excessive partying was the cause of all my problems. It was something that my time inside would hopefully iron out.
At 10 a.m. on Tuesday, 18 October, Scotland Yard finally phoned to tell me the date of my flight. I was being extradited in two days' time. It was nice of them to let me know so far in advance. I was still awake from the previous night but didn't want to waste what little time I had left so I decided to go without sleep until the twentieth. I didn't stop to consider the fact that this would mean I had to travel to Spain whilst on a comedown. Once again my impulsive, drugged-up brain had put a plan into motion without considering the consequences.
Shortly after hearing the news, I headed round to Bruce's house to say goodbye. I wasn't particularly bothered that I was leaving him behind because we never really had a proper relationship anyway. We only ever saw each other when we were taking drugs. Still, it was only right to let him know that I was off. I couldn't have him thinking I had disappeared into thin air.
There was no romantic Hollywood farewell from Bruce. We sat up taking drugs together until he fell asleep at 5 a.m. and I then headed home. Arriving back at the house felt like turning up at my own funeral. My mum and sister were trying to remain strong but both looked absolutely devastated. I spent the day chatting away to them to try and make up for how little I was going to see them over the next decade. It broke my heart to see them so upset. I would have given anything in the world to have had another week with them.