The Unusual Suspect

by Ben Machell

  “I was told that he had very sophisticated abilities, and that escape should be at the forefront of my mind when dealing with him,” says SSCF’s head of security, a large, steady man named Mark Potanas. “He was considered such an escape risk. There were very few prisoners we worried about to the extent that we worried about him. He was basically on lockdown.”

  This was not the first time Special Agent Scott Murray had encountered Stephen. He had interviewed him some months earlier, on the afternoon of his arrest in May 2008. Since then, Murray had been liaising with British detectives on a case. “I do a lot that involve firearms and explosives,” he says. “Every case is different, but this one is memorable. I guess that’s the best way to put it.”

  Stephen Jackley had, like many young people, looked around and concluded that the world was not fair. And like many young people, he’d wanted to make a difference. It’s just that, rather than going on protest marches, involving himself in politics, or running sponsored marathons, Stephen ended up robbing banks. Over a seven-month period in 2007 and 2008, he struck repeatedly and successfully. “You could not expect an educated person in his early twenties to commit a series of armed robberies across the country and internationally,” said one British detective, speaking to the press after his eventual capture. “It has been a complex and protracted investigation.”

  Special Agent Murray had spent enough time with the young man in front of him to judge that he was both intelligent and about as far from a typical bank robber as you could get. But there was something about him that he still struggled to understand, a side of his character that remained elusive and was hard to associate with the high-security surroundings they both now shared. He was calm, quiet, incongruous. Murray frowned. “I never felt I got a full scope of who he is.”

  One thing that struck everybody, though, was Stephen’s unusual habit of writing everything down. As British and American investigators dug into the evidence surrounding his case, it had become clear that Stephen had what seemed a compulsive need to commit his thoughts and deeds to paper. Everything he planned, he wrote down. Everything he did, he reflected on in his diaries—page after page after page filled in his careful, steady handwriting. “He was methodical in the way he wanted to write down what he wanted to do in the future and what he had done in the past,” says Murray.

  Back in the interview room at SSCF, the austere gray-haired agent explained to Stephen what the FBI was and what they did. In a deep, measured voice he said that the agency was helping British police with their investigation into his crimes. He produced a pile of photocopied papers covered in writing, numbers, dates, and strange codes. He sifted through them slowly and deliberately, found what he was looking for, and slid it across the table. It was a photocopy of a British banknote with the letters “RH” scrawled on it. The FBI man glanced at Murray. Could Stephen tell them, he asked, what it means? Stephen glanced at it. And he nodded.

  * * *

  —

  What follows is an extract of “Desperate Times,” an essay written by Stephen Jackley from a British prison and posted to several newspapers and one Court of Appeal judge in 2013.

  DESPERATE TIMES

  The world is spinning on the axis of oblivion. Humanity stands on the brink of massive change. Within just twenty years, scientists predict the depletion of fish stocks and widespread ecological disasters. Within fifty years it’s likely the world population will reach 10 billion people, with subsequent increases in carbon emissions and environmental pressures. Already species are going extinct by the day, ecosystems are being extinguished, and entire habitats are vanishing. Pollution, global warming and overpopulation is pushing the planet beyond its capacity to support life.

  The fate of our world is the concern of everyone, yet like all dependable things it is often taken for granted. As different as we are, each of us is a passenger on the same great vessel, members of a species responsible for so much destruction. Despite this, humanity as a whole cannot be blamed. From affluent western nations to Chinese towns, people are destroying the planet not for survival but to support a system that few even realise exists.

  Eighty-three percent of the world economy is controlled by the richest ⅕th of the population. Thirty-five of the biggest economic actors are companies and just 15 are governments. It is reasonable to conclude that the world is being run by and for a transnational capitalist class—a corporate oligarchy that hides behind both democracies and dictatorships. Every government is really a pawn to economic forces, as determined by the elite super-rich minority. Blinded by power and greed, this minority are not really concerned with impending ecological crisis. Perhaps they think they can escape it, just as they’ve escaped the economic hardships others have had to endure. Or perhaps they believe it will come anyway—that there’s no avoiding ‘the inevitable’—and therefore the best option is to enjoy life to the full. Either way, whether by intention or inheritance, the global oligarchy is a primary architect of the world’s devastation.

  People are starting to realise that the Earth is a giant Easter Island, and that it can only endure so much destruction before being irreversibly destroyed. Slow, tentative steps are being made, but they are not enough. It would take a drastic shift in behaviour to avoid the predictions of scientists. And a change in behaviour requires a change in thinking.

  Only comparatively recently has humanity realised that the planet is a delicately-balanced, interconnected system; that its resources and biological diversity can easily be extinguished; that every ecosystem is a complex web of mutually dependent species. Rather than seeing life as a biological arms race whereby every species competes with another, we are beginning to understand that it is more like a symbiotic relationship, where all species have their special roles in sustaining each other. Humans rely on this symbiosis: from the mitochondrion in every one of our cells (a distinct lifeform that gives us energy) and the bacteria in our digestive system to the food we consume and the oxygen-nitrogen air we inhale. Our very existence is because of other species. Despite this, humanity persists in a relentless path of destruction and blind competition—all in the name of ‘progress’.

  It’s a misleading word, this ‘progress’. It’s often used interchangeably, if not equivalently, as ‘growth’. In today’s society it tends to mean only one thing: more. More houses, more roads, more jobs…more money. And meanwhile, as these are built and hoarded, the thing on which everything rests is being destroyed. The world is not infinite; its resources are not limitless. If humanity is to survive it must sacrifice the desire for ‘progress’ and replace it with sustainability. Each time ‘progress’ or ‘growth’ is promised, two questions need to be asked: for whom and for how long?

  ‘The economy’ is another misleading term. In the present socio-economic system, an economy is measured not by the happiness of a population or the ecological richness of an environment, but rather as the flow and accumulation of an esoteric substance known as capital. Possibly this is the greatest con trick of all. Few realise that nearly all money is created more or less from thin air; it is a representation which only bares a vague resemblance to reality. For example, over 90% of the UK’s money supply is created by commercial banks from interest-bearing loans—a scenario echoed across the world.

  Increasing food prices, taxation and inflation means more pressure for those at the bottom of the pyramid. A parallel could easily be made with feudal Britain, where rich lords increased taxes on the population in order to maintain their luxurious lifestyle. The cost of upper-class greed and folly would always be enacted on the lower class. It became apparent that I could fulfil the role of a hero, following in the footsteps of a man who had lived in similar times—a legend who had broken the law in order to bring wealth and justice to the people.

  I could become a modern day Robin Hood.

  Chapter Three

  It’s late March 2016, and I’m in a smal
l, drab meeting room above a thrift shop in Bristol, located in the southwest of England. Sitting across from me is Stephen, holding a mug of tea in both hands. It is the first time we have met. My initial impressions are that he is quiet, unobtrusive, and not particularly big on eye contact. In fact, everything about him seems calculated to deflect attention, from his plain T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms to his cropped dark hair to his simple rectangular glasses. Five minutes earlier, a pair of friendly elderly volunteers on the thrift-shop floor had told me where I could find him. And as they directed me to the staircase at the rear of the building, I couldn’t help wondering: Do they know? Do they actually know who Stephen is? Do they have any idea what he has done? Or where he has been? How would they respond, I ask myself, if I told them that Interpol, the FBI, and police forces in four countries all have files on the shy young man who works upstairs? By the time I finish this thought, the elderly couple have gone back to arranging old boxes of jigsaws on the shelves. So I thank them and make my way up. At the top of the stairs, I see that Stephen is already waiting for me, standing in silence. He wears an impassive expression, but keeps his eyes fixed on me as I climb.

  I introduce myself, and as he leads me through the empty gray-beige office space where he rents a desk, I attempt some small talk. It quickly becomes clear that Stephen is not very good at small talk. Open-ended, conversational questions are answered quickly and directly, often with one word. Silences hang in the air, long and unbroken. I remind myself that this is a young man who spent months in solitary confinement, conditions defined as torture by both the United Nations and Amnesty International, and who experienced the best part of his twenties behind bars.

  In May 2015, he was released from prison on probation, and from his manner it’s hard to know whether he is nervous, suspicious, or just ill-attuned to the kind of casual chitchat that regular society tends to demand of you. He makes us some tea and we move into a poky room with just enough space for a round wooden table and a couple of chairs. As he shuts the door behind us, I take out a notepad and place my digital Dictaphone on the table between us. He pauses, looks down at it, and for the first time a self-conscious smile plays on his lips. He says that it feels strange to finally talk to someone face-to-face about everything that has happened. About everything that he has done.

  “Looking back, the thing that strikes me is my naïveté,” he says gently, eyes fixed on the Dictaphone in front of him. “My inability to understand the full impact of my actions. I was someone who not only went off the rails, but who lacked an understanding of both the world and the consequences of what I was doing.” He looks up and pauses, choosing his words. “I thought what I was doing was necessary and right. But now I can see that, no, no, that was not the case.”

  * * *

  —

  Two weeks earlier I had cold-called a Bristol telephone number. A quiet, somewhat wary-sounding young man answered, and when I introduced myself and asked if it was possible to speak to Stephen Jackley, the line seemed to go dead before the voice told me that Stephen was not around, but that I could send an email explaining what I wanted. So I sent an email. I explained that I was a journalist who had heard about his heists, his obsession with Robin Hood, and his eventual capture and arrest during his attempted U.S. “mission.” I explained that I wanted to know how a shy, socially awkward geography student from rural Devon had arrived at the conclusion that it was his “duty”—a word he would use often—to rob from the rich and give to the poor as the global financial crisis unfolded. I wanted to know how he was able to steal thousands of pounds from banks while evading the police for months, and I wanted to know how and why he ultimately found himself languishing alone in a six-by-nine-foot concrete cell in the high-security wing of an American prison. I finished my email by asking if he would be willing to meet up so that we could talk about all of this. I honestly didn’t expect that he would. But you have to ask.

  Three hours later, I received a short reply. He would, he said, be willing to do an interview. Which is how I came to be sitting with him in the odd little room above a thrift shop in Bristol. Over tea, he begins to speak, tentatively at first but then with an increasing composure. He does not rush or mumble, but instead talks with a kind of steady, slightly formal precision that reminds you, ironically enough, of a police officer. He has a mild squint. He looks, I realize after some time, very tired. We talk for around two hours, during which time we discuss his crimes, his double life as an unassuming geography student, and the methods he employed as a would-be Robin Hood. “Anyone with half a brain can rob a bank,” he says, evenly, on more than one occasion. “Without wishing to encourage it, it is extremely easy.”

  More than anything, though, Stephen talks about how his bank robberies had, at least to begin with, stemmed from a genuine desire to do something good. To change the world for the better. “I was portrayed in the press as a mad university student that suddenly decided to rob banks,” he says. “But it wasn’t a sudden process. It was gradual, and it happened due to different factors.”

  He is remorseful about his actions and the terror he caused, and I get the strong impression he is still trying to comprehend exactly how and why his previously quiet, solitary existence exploded into such wild, unpredictable drama. It would only be later, when I listened to the recording of our interview, that I would realize what the strangest thing about Stephen is. Hearing him talk in his steady, measured voice about events that were frenetic, dangerous, and daring, I realize that I had expected someone different. Given the scale and scope of his crimes, given the chaos he caused, I’d imagined that he would be somehow larger than life, a charismatic savant, fizzing with energy and vision. An actual Robin Hood. Instead, Stephen seems…normal. Or if not quite normal, then something very close: just a half step behind normal, an individual who could have easily passed his life in the same quiet, anonymous way he seems to be doing now.

  Prior to his heists, he did not have a criminal record, or even a passing prurient interest in crime. Instead, he liked hill walking, natural history, astronomy, and philosophy. He liked Star Trek, The Lord of the Rings, A Brief History of Time, and writing teenage poetry. He wanted to get a geography degree. He wanted to get a job. He wanted a girlfriend. These are normal things. He was, as he entered his late teens, increasingly anxious about humanity’s disregard for the environment and increasingly angry about the inequality perpetuated by global capitalism. Today, these concerns are so mainstream as to be uncontroversial beliefs shared by millions. To be anxious and angry about these things is normal.

  The interview runs in The Times. Over the weeks that follow, we remain in touch. I keep asking if he will do another interview, and he eventually agrees. We speak on the phone for a couple of hours and make plans to do so again. As the months pass, we speak regularly. Sometimes he comes to London and we arrange to meet at a café or vegetarian restaurant or at the Times offices so that I can ask him more questions.

  I try, on these occasions, to construct a picture of his life, although this is not easy. His living situation seems transient and precarious. He lived in Bristol. Then he moved to Glasgow. He spent long periods of time in southern Europe, leading an ascetic life and working as a farm laborer. He never mentions a girlfriend. He never mentions any friends, full stop. He barely has any family. An only child, he lost his father in 2008, and his mother will pass away in 2018. Most relatives more or less disowned him after his crimes were discovered. I know he has a parole officer, but beyond that, I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so alone.

  I sometimes email him questions or ask for more details on certain topics, and his responses are thoughtful and highly detailed, often essay length. He thinks that he might have something close to a photographic memory, as he is often able to recall long sequences of numbers and sketch intricate floor plans of American high-security prison wings. At times, when talking about the terror he deliberately caused in order to get bank
staff to hand over money, he’ll shut his eyes and almost seem to shrink into himself with self-reproach.

  One wet winter evening, we are eating veggie burgers in an East London café and discussing his crimes. At one point it becomes too much and he breaks away from the conversation. He puts his head in his hands. “What was I doing?” he quietly asks himself. The rain outside beats down, and we both sit in silence for what seems a very long time.

  * * *

  —

  One day we arrange to meet up and Stephen arrives holding several large plastic bags. Some are transparent and have her majesty’s prison services printed on them in large blue letters. They contain dozens of notepads, sketchbooks, and cardboard envelopes filled with sheets and sheets of correspondence, prison paperwork, legal documents, and more. The notepads date back to his early adolescence, when he first began keeping a diary. This was one of the reasons why, upon his eventual capture, securing a conviction was not particularly difficult: He had already confessed to everything.

  The notepads also contain pages and pages of poems, essays, short stories, cosmological theories, and pencil sketches of landscapes. In addition to these papers, Stephen gives me old family photo albums and rolls of undeveloped film. The rolls turn out to contain dozens of photographs of the Devon landscape, from rings of Neolithic standing stones on high, windswept moors to blurry snaps of rock formations, the significance of which only Stephen can know.