by Lee, M
We started to be a bit more careful about the information we shared and how we organised our meetings.
MARCUS
By now the case had received a reasonable amount of media coverage in Australia, Dubai and beyond. The reports talked about AED44 million and suspicions of bribery, and Matt and I were now being identified.
It was a horrible feeling knowing that my parents were listening to these reports, especially with Allan so sick with cancer. I called them every few weeks. There wasn’t much I could say other than reassure them I was innocent and that we were doing everything we could to get me released. I tried not to even think about the possibility that I might not be free in time to see Allan before he succumbed to the disease.
Jail is a place where it is every man for himself, but there were small moments of camaraderie. Jamal would sometimes order in some special food from the trolley man. He would request a few salad ingredients and a baguette. The next day, when they came in, he would use our pooled money to buy them, along with anything else appetising that was available. Using a plastic phone card that he had sharpened in place of a knife, Jamal would slice the bread and tomato or whatever else we had, and we would sit and eat it on our bunks. It was a small respite from the surrounding hell.
Abdullah had his own way of coping. There were many in there who ‘self-medicated’ with illegal drugs, and others who claimed mental illness to persuade the authorities to give them medicine. I don’t know what it was, but it turned them into zombies almost instantly. They could shuffle around and talk, sort of, but they weren’t on the same planet as the rest of us. When they lay down they crashed out for ten hours at a time.
Abdullah told me he used his ‘special medicine’, supplied by a doctor after he went for some kind of psychiatric evaluation, to escape to an imaginary world called Aninac. He travelled there in his dreams and sometimes when he was awake, too — I would see him dialling Aninac on the phone that had been out of order for weeks, chatting happily away.
It was now the latter part of April. I was entering my fourth month of imprisonment. The overcrowded, unsanitary living conditions were an incubator for disease and I could feel myself going physically downhill again. In theory you could see a doctor if you were ill, but in practice if you were lucky you’d get looked at by one of the male nurses who handed out Panadol or some sort of strange paste or ointment for most ailments. I did this, but still felt crook. Over the next few days Julie brought me in some throat lozenges and then, as it got worse, some antibiotics.
It was hard for her to get the tablets to me — if the guard she dealt with was feeling mean, he’d just say no. Knowing this and feeling a bit better, I said I didn’t need any more. Within a day or two I was feverish. By the morning I was covered in sweat. My limbs felt leaden and it was all I could do to get up to see Wayne when he came.
WAYNE McKINLEY
I knew Marcus hadn’t been well, but it was a shock to see how sick he’d become since the day before. He made it out to the visiting area, but he had to lean against the wall to get to the cubicle and even when he sat down he had to use the phone through which we spoke to try hold himself up. After a couple of minutes he said, ‘I don’t know how much longer I can talk. I’ve got to go lie down again.’ It was upsetting enough to see him like that but he went even further downhill.
MARCUS
That afternoon I dragged myself to the phone to tell Julie not to come in for the second visiting session. I was burning up but I couldn’t keep any water down. Each time a prison roll-call happened, Jamal would explain to the guards how sick I was. Some of them let me be, but others insisted I get up, and then Jamal had to help me out to the corridor where I slid down the wall, trying not to pass out.
I can’t remember much of the following day; I collapsed on my bunk in delirium. Apparently I did get to the phone to speak to Julie at one point. She came down to bring some higher-strength antibiotics and an anaesthetic throat spray for me and was so worried she spoke to the consular officials. They told her I could either stay and tough it out or apply for transfer to the prisoners’ section of the police hospital where, they said, people were often handcuffed to beds in the corridors and left unattended. Julie agreed that staying in jail was the lesser of two evils.
But I just got sicker and sicker. This was the night I heard people talking over me, saying that my temperature was already well above 100°F (37.7°C) and that if it kept climbing I might go into cardiac arrest. I passed in and out of feverish nightmares and woke around 3 a.m., on fire, feeling as sick as I had ever been in my life.
The only thing I could think of was the need to be cool and wet. I had to get to the bathroom. Feebly, by inches, I reached for the towel hanging over my bunk and, hunched over, dripping sweat and sobbing to myself with the effort, I staggered out into the corridor. Abdullah was passed out on his bunk and Jamal was down in the TV room. Matt was in his bunk. Perhaps he was sleeping. The bathroom was only twenty metres away but I couldn’t stay upright. I fell to the floor and started crawling on my hands and knees, one agonising movement after the other, for what felt like hours. I was dimly aware of others regarding me from their cells, but even the aggressive druggies who roamed around at night looking for trouble just stepped around me. I was so pathetic I wasn’t even worth a kick.
I made it to the bathroom and reached up to the steel trough sink. The drain was blocked, as usual, with god only knows what, but I had no strength left to turn on the tap. Instead I dipped my towel into the foul liquid and managed to pull it over my head as I sank down onto the disgusting floor. Picturing Julie laughing in the sunlight in Monterosso, I felt beyond sadness. I might never wake, might never see her again.
Somehow, though, I did survive. I was weak for a long time afterwards and couldn’t eat or drink for days. In hindsight it seems likely that I had severe pneumonia, which could have killed me under those conditions. But as the days passed I could get up again for short periods, to see or call Julie and try to eat something to build up my strength.
JULIE
It was so distressing to see Marcus in such a state. I didn’t know how much more of this he could take. Wayne extended his ticket to stay until the end of April and he and I would go every week to see Mr Ali. Every week I would ask if we could go and see the prosecutor to outline Marcus’s innocence but Mr Ali would say, ‘Not yet, not yet.’ Then one week he just shrugged and said OK. He knew it might not change anything, but he could see I just had to try.
The meeting was set for 26 April — right around the time Marcus was really sick. I was vibrating with stress. We hadn’t been able to find out anything about what the prosecutors were planning. Dubai’s lawyers typically knew someone with inside connections at the prosecutor’s office who could give them a heads-up. But even those sources were coming back with nothing to report.
Wayne and I had mapped out an approach for the meeting — I would talk about the transaction and the paper trail and Wayne would talk about the family.
The meeting was really unpleasant. I had dressed conservatively but I may as well have been invisible. We sat on a couch and Wayne sat closest to the prosecutor — as the male he was the channel for communication. Allan had urged us to use his illness if it would help, so Wayne talked about Marcus’s family and how much his parents, especially his mother, were suffering.
I had to fight an almost overwhelming urge to throw myself at the prosecutor’s feet and beg him for Marcus’s freedom. I managed to keep control of myself and focus on the business case report and the train of events. At one point I said about the ‘bribes’, ‘Marcus has not received one dirham. Not one dirham.’ The prosecutor had an interpreter with him because he supposedly didn’t speak English, but at this he said, ‘Ah, not yet.’ I felt like they were just laughing at us, treating us like criminals. Mr Ali communicated politely in Arabic to the prosecutor and at the end of it the prosecutor just said, ‘A month. Insha’Allah it will all be over for Marcus within a month.’
/>
Mr Ali continued to see the prosecutor on an almost daily basis to try to get Marcus dropped from the case.
Meanwhile Ange was trying to pull strings with high-profile connections back in Australia. She and Martin Amad focused on Alexander Downer, the former Australian Foreign Minister. After the Howard government’s defeat, Downer had gone into partnership in a consultancy called Bespoke Approach, offering ‘discreet, strategic, corporate and political advice’ for those who can afford it. For a fee, I was told, Downer would get involved on behalf of Matt and Marcus.
During April emails went back and forth between Martin Amad and Downer’s partner in the agency, Ian Smith, about what they could offer and what it would cost. Bespoke agreed to contact Mohammed bin Zayed bin Al Nahyan, Crown Prince of neighbouring Abu Dhabi and brother of the UAE President, and ask for his assistance in securing bail. The cost would be AUD60,000. Supposedly it would be split between the Joyces and us, but when I made it clear that there was no way I could afford half, Ange gave me the clear impression that the Joyces would foot the initial outlay. Martin tried to argue for a ‘success fee’, dependent on bail being granted as a direct result of the Sheikh’s intervention. Smith wasn’t having that. The fee would be charged when bail was granted, with no onus on Bespoke to prove it had been a result of their actions.
Martin had engaged Bespoke to represent Matt and Marcus — as he advised DFAT on 21 April as a courtesy. Martin’s understanding was that Downer would seek a meeting with the Sheikh. But in a letter Downer sent on 27 April, he didn’t seek a meeting at all. He opened with a couple of paragraphs soft-soaping the Sheikh (‘I always valued very much your insights into the difficult and complex world of Middle Eastern politics’), big-noting himself (‘[I now] run the peace process in Cyprus’) and said he’d like to ‘catch-up’ sometime.
Then he wrote, ‘In the mean time [sic] there is one issue I want to raise with you and that relates to an Australian citizen Mr Mathew [sic] Joyce who is, I understand, being held in Dubai pending charges being laid against him. I am not really familiar with all the details of the case but it has become a controversial issue here in Australia and it might help ease the pressure of this issue by allowing Mr Joyce out on bail but remaining in the Emirates pending any final decision in relation to him by the relevant local court. This would be the normal situation in our country and if there is anything you could do to assist with Mr Joyce being granted bail that would I think help to stave off controversy about Mr Joyce’s arrest.’
No mention of Marcus. When Downer was eventually asked about this in a Foreign Correspondent interview in 2014, he said, ‘I just simply wasn’t approached about him so I simply don’t know about his case’.
Martin Amad found out about the letter thanks to a DFAT official. Over the next few days there were emails back and forth between Smith and Martin, with Martin asking to see a copy of Downer’s letter and writing that he had understood Bespoke would assist both men. Smith wrote that ‘Mr Lee has been mentioned’ in their discussions but went on to say he thought Marcus was represented by a PR firm, implying that he therefore didn’t need Bespoke’s help. Martin replied to say this was not the case and Smith was confusing Marcus with Reed’s company Prudentia. Smith wrote back, ‘I was unaware we would specifically represent Mr Lee too. Anyway that may be possible subject to Alex’s views.’
Ange had indicated to me that it was all going ahead and she was very hopeful about Downer’s influence. She also made it plain that Marcus and I should be appreciative of what she had organised. It wasn’t until more than a week later that I saw a copy of the letter and learned the truth. In the past she had tried to brush over things, saying that whatever was good for Matt would be good for Marcus, so there was no point even voicing my anger. I didn’t have the heart to tell Marcus; things were already so difficult and confronting, this would have broken him.
MARCUS
On 30 April the afternoon visiting time was suddenly abolished. On 3 May we had another Tamdeed hearing: another 30-day extension. At this point, Mr Ali said it was time for him to go and see the prosecutor, to formally request that I be dropped from the case. He came out of the meeting with wonderful news: the prosecutor had given him ‘the green light’ to get bail for me on the basis that I had no involvement with the case. Apparently Mr Ali’s bail application would now go to another branch of the judicial system, the Technical Office, for their approval.
I was still bubbling with this exciting news two days later. I got up at first light, as was my habit, to get a jump on the phone queue for my ‘Good morning’ call to Julie. I was speaking to her when Jamal came up and interrupted me. Something was wrong.
‘We’re being moved to Central,’ he said. ‘The main prison. We have to get our stuff, we’re going now.’
Chapter 15
THE LOSS OF HOPE
JULIE
Wayne had to return to Australia. He was only going to be home for a few weeks and then he had said he would come back and stay for as long as it took to get Marcus out. I didn’t feel I could cope alone. I asked Rosemary Adams if she would come. She flew in the day Wayne flew out, in what turned out to be one of Marcus’s last days in Port Rashid Jail.
ROSEMARY ADAMS
Marcus had always been there for me, with practical help as well as friendship. In 2003, for example, I had a bad car accident and hurt my back, leaving me unable to sit and work at my desktop computer — Marcus bought me a laptop. There was no question I would be there for him and Julie.
I knew there was no way Marcus had done anything wrong. He was so particular about making sure that he and anyone with him respected all the rules and customs in Dubai; we used to tease him about it.
When Julie rang to ask if I could come to Dubai, I had just opened my own psychology practice. How was I going to do this? If I upset the few patients I had by going away, how would I get my practice going when I came back? I was a single woman supporting myself and it was a financially precarious time. But they needed me, so I rearranged my appointments to give myself about ten days’ space to go to Dubai and just crossed my fingers and hoped I would be able to sort things out when I got back.
Julie met me at the airport and as soon as we got to their house, she started to show me all the evidence that she had accumulated. The family room was set up like an office. The computer was in constant use, documents and papers were everywhere. Julie was very stressed and drawn, barely getting any sleep and she had no interest in eating. Her entire conversation was about the evidence or the case. Every day she spent hours composing emails and questions for their lawyer or the consulate, as well as the daily message that was sent to concerned friends and family.
We went to visit Marcus in Port Rashid that day. He was still recovering from his terrible illness, and as he approached the visiting area he had to stop every few steps to lean against the wall. He was so thin and drawn and his clothes were hanging loosely off him. His complexion was a sallow greyish colour and his skin looked clammy. His eyes were sunken and dull, and every now and then he was overtaken by a coughing fit, struggling to regain his breath so that he could continue talking. It was heartbreaking.
JULIE
When we learned Marcus was being moved Rosemary and I jumped in the car and raced down there, hoping we might make it before he left. We did, and he and I had a brief ‘contact visit’ on the couch before he was told to go and join the group being transported to the main prison. It was impossible not to cry, not knowing when we would be able to talk or see each other again. I hadn’t even made it out to the reception area when my mobile rang. It was Marcus calling from inside to say there had been a change. Even though all their stuff was sitting in a big pile ready to load onto the prison bus, and other desperate prisoners had ‘scavenged’ their bedding and anything else they’d had to leave behind, they wouldn’t be leaving until tomorrow. Another Dubai moment.
MARCUS
The following day about 30 of us, including me, Matt and the
‘serial killers’, were cuffed, loaded into a large dark green prison bus, and driven to Central Prison, commonly called Al Aweer from the name of the desert area that surrounds it. The sprawling complex sits all alone 30 kilometres out from the city.
I was terrified by the move. I was still physically weak and struggling emotionally and now I was being sent to the prison the guards in solitary had threatened me with. Jamal said that he knew a man who he said was ‘a foreman’ at the prison, so if all went well we would be looked after.
But when we pulled up at one of the first of many buildings Jamal’s name was called out and he was taken off the bus without even the chance to say goodbye. With him went any chance of inside knowledge or protection and the all-vital translations from Arabic.
As part of the processing we were each given a plastic bag containing loose white drawstring pants and a long white Arabic over-shirt. We were forbidden to wear anything that wasn’t white. Those who had cash were allowed to keep AED400 (about AUD140) each, as well as our phone cards. Loud buzzing accompanied the unlocking of the automatic doors and after being individually searched we went up a flight of stairs in the two-storey concrete building.
Single file, we were marched through more buzzing doors into a wing off to one side. The guards departed and a prisoner, dressed in whites like us, came out and told us to line up, then asked everyone their name and nationality. We were standing in a central area with two large rooms leading off it. These were the dormitories. It was a very different layout to Port Rashid, and much larger. Each dormitory had rows of bunks, two high and about ten rows deep, bolted to the floor in adjoining rows of two, each group separated by a narrow aisle. In this way, 100 bunks fit into each dormitory.