by Howard Marks
The media crowds were still there as the three of us were taken back to the prison van. I assumed they were all members of Palma’s newspapers and broadcasting companies. Mallorca was, after all, a small island. Local interest was understandable. Judy was looking stronger. She, too, had been allowed to talk to the children. We looked at each other as the prison van drove up to the Centro Penitenciario de Palma, and each of us knew that the other was recalling the time Rafael once pointed it out to us and remarked that its location had been carefully chosen as one in which there was no escape from the hot sun. We got out of the van and were greeted by friendly, smiling prison funcionarios and trusty prisoners (prisoners trusted by the authorities), smoking cigarettes and drinking cans of beer. They relieved me of my wedding and engagement rings. I never saw them again. They debated which cells to assign us to.
‘Can I have the same cell as my husband?’ asked Judy with a humour that came from God knows where.
The funcionarios roared with laughter.
‘May as well try it,’ said Judy, with a glimmer of a smile. She was walked off to the women’s section, Geoffrey and I to the men’s.
We were taken to an empty prison walking yard.
‘Sorry, Geoffrey. I didn’t expect anything like this to happen. I’m sure you’ll be released soon.’
‘Don’t worry. There’s no evidence of any wrongdoing of mine. And I would hate to be in your shoes with my wife locked up. This might be very serious for you, Howard. Very serious, indeed. And I really believe David Embley is behind this. Think about it.’
I couldn’t think about it.
Surprisingly, I was put into the same cell as Geoffrey. Within minutes, a trusty banged the door, pushing under it a variety of items. It was a care package from Roger Reaves. It contained cigarettes, cosmetics, writing materials, food, beer, magazines, prison money tokens, and a note in Roger’s handwriting. He’d seen our court appearance on the news. He had some dope to smoke if I needed it.
The cell door opened. I was told to pack up my stuff. I was being taken to the tubo, whatever that was. The escorting funcionarios stopped outside a cell door over which was written in huge block letters MUY PELIGROSO. Inside the cell was a very empty cage of slightly smaller dimensions. I was locked in the cage. The cage was locked in the cell. The cell was locked in the prison. I watched two large cockroaches cautiously emerge from a filthy toilet hole. They were a lot bigger here than in Brixton or Wandsworth prisons. It would be difficult to bond with these creatures. Night fell. I lay on a filthy mattress and chain-smoked until daybreak.
I heard a trolley wheel to a stop outside the cell door.
‘I am the morning funcionario. Would you like some breakfast, sir?’
Sir! This was different.
‘Yes please,’ I answered.
The cell door was opened, and a tray containing a sumptuous breakfast, good enough for a condemned man, was pushed through.
‘I will be back later, sir, to see if you need any more.’
He didn’t come back, but it was a nice thought.
I spent all the morning being interviewed by a series of prison officials and prison social workers. After the usual fingerprinting and photographic session, I was taken back to my cage and given another first-class meal. I fell asleep for a few minutes.
‘Dennis Hooward Marks,’ yelled a voice from beyond the cage.
I jumped up from the floor.
‘Sí.’
‘Tiene visita.’
The cell and inner cage were unlocked, and I was escorted from the tubo to the visiting area, which was a row of very low-walled cubicles seating prisoners on one side and visitors on the other. The prisoners all seemed to know each other’s visitors, who kept dashing from cubicle to cubicle, shouting at never-ending streams of screaming children. The noise was unbelievable. At any moment, each prisoner had an average of six visitors and was separated from them by a sheet of almost opaque bullet-proof glass. At the bottom of the glass were a few cigarette-sized holes through which conversation was meant to take place. One could see and hear everyone except one’s visitor.
‘Cabina número uno. Sólo cinco minutes, Hooward.’
Only five minutes! This was no conjugal visit. I sat opposite Masha. She seemed very much in control. The children were okay. She had seen Judy. The lawyer had just seen Judy and was currently having a meeting with the prison director. The police had taken away our cars. They had also removed many items from the house, but they had missed my personal dope stash. The Palma Nova flat, the one I’d bought from Rafael, had also been busted. That worried me because hidden somewhere in the ceiling was a large can of Mallorquian home-grown grass and one of my false passports. I explained to Masha where the hiding-place was. She would check. She had brought me some clothes, books, and the last three days’ British and Spanish newspapers. The package had been given to the funcionarios.
We had been talking for just two minutes when I felt someone tugging at my trouser leg. I looked around and saw Roger Reaves. He was on all fours, looking up at me and brandishing a can of beer and three ready-rolled joints.
‘Drink the beer and hide the joints down your crotch. I hate to see you all like this. Man, I couldn’t believe what I saw on TV. Why did those sons of bitches pick Judy up? I’ve been praying for her. You know they did the same thing to me in Georgia all them years ago. They picked Marie up. The dirty sons of bitches. But now I’ve got me a way outa here. I’ve been praying to God for it. Marie’s going to fire a rope over the wall into the exercise yard. She’ll use a crossbow. I’ve got me a few funcionarios paid off. I can get you out of your cell at night. You can come with me. We’ll come back for Judy. Then we can go to South Africa and grow pot. Marie and Judy would love it there. Lord, it’s a wonderful country. There’s a guy here from Rotterdam. He can ship the stuff from South Africa to Holland. You know how much good weed goes for in Holland now? By the way, that Irish friend of yours definitely ripped us all off.’
I was finding this all a bit hard to take.
‘Roger, I must talk to Masha. I’ve only got another couple of minutes more.’
‘Oh! Lord! Howard. I’m sorry. Please excuse me. I’ll see you all later. God bless you.’
‘Michael Katz has come over,’ said Masha. ‘He’s going to try to see you with the Spanish lawyer.’
‘Termina, Hooward, por favor, ahora.’
Masha was asked to leave. The visit was over. I was given the package of clothing and reading material she had brought and taken back to the tubo, and then immediately back to the same visiting cubicle. This time it was my Spanish lawyer, Luis Morell. He gave it to me straight. The Americans wanted me badly. The media was giving my arrest maximum publicity. It would be almost impossible to persuade Spain not to extradite me. Judy had a much better chance. Eventually, we would both have to be transferred to Madrid prisons in good time for the Audiencia Nacional’s final decision. He would try to get Judy bail or, failing that, keep her in Palma for as long as possible so she could keep in touch with the children. He and Michael Katz would come to see us later for a long visit.
Back in the cage at the tubo, I looked at the newspaper reports of yesterday’s court appearance and the day before’s arrest. They were unreal. Both broadsheets and tabloids reported official statements from the Florida United States Attorney’s Office that they had just busted the ‘biggest marijuana operation the world has ever seen’. It was ‘the biggest drug bust in history’. According to Thomas Cash, official spokesman for the DEA, I was the ‘Marco Polo of drug trafficking’ and shipped in ‘thousands of tons’. According to the Daily Express and Daily Mirror, I ran a ‘£200,000,000 cannabis empire’, using as part of my modus operandi ‘undersea hollows and hideaways marked by oceanographic buoys’. One of these hideaways, a cave on the Costa Brava, had just been busted and inside was discovered a ‘huge hashish supermarket’, well stocked with fifteen tons of the finest Lebanese, several fast boats, and a cache of machine-guns. I owned
a fleet of freighters. I owned finance houses. I had homes all over the world. I had connections with top gangsters, secret services, and terrorist organisations. I had boasted I was ‘too smart, too sophisticated for any law agency to catch’. The Daily Mirror described me as the head of ‘a multi-billion pound international empire’ and as ‘one of the most sophisticated drug barons of all time, with a ruthless organisation matching anything operated by the Mafia or the feared Colombians’. One of my terrorist underlings, James McCann of the Provisional IRA, had also been arrested in Palma.
What the hell was Jim doing in Palma?
The report of McCann’s arrest prompted the Republican Press Centre in Belfast to make what I believe was the IRA’s first official statement concerning McCann’s links with them. It read: ‘The Irish Republican Army repudiates any suggestion by the media that James McCann, arrested for involvement in drug smuggling, has ever had any connection with our movement or our struggle. Our attitude to drugs and drug trafficking is well known.’
The newspaper reports also revealed that my organisation had been stumbled upon when Scotland Yard and the FBI were jointly investigating the whereabouts of the proceeds of the November 1983 Brinks-Mat £26,000,000 gold bullion robbery at London’s Heathrow airport. Finally, proof of my ingenuity had been provided by the discovery in my home of empty toothpaste tubes used for concealing messages carried throughout the world by my couriers.
I was vainly attempting to grasp all this when I was again taken from the tubo, this time to the director’s office. Inside were Joaquín Mejuto, director of Centro Penitenciario de Palma, Luis Morell, and Michael Katz. Katz was wearing one of my shirts, one that Amber had given me. Luis explained that due to the high-profile nature of my arrest and its presumed legal complexity, Señor Mejuto had been kind enough to allow us to use his offices for visits from my lawyers. Señor Mejuto would now leave us in private, but was there anything that I needed? I said I would like to see Judy. Señor Mejuto nodded and left.
‘Thanks for coming, Michael,’ I said. ‘Who else has been arrested?’
‘The only names I have are Roger Reaves, John Denbigh, Ernie Combs …’
‘Wait a minute, Michael. These guys have already been in prison for ages.’
‘I suppose they’ve been re-arrested for this charge. The other names are Patrick Lane, Balendo Lo, James Newton, Teresita Caballero, John Francis, Brian Daniels …’
‘Those last three names mean nothing to me.’
‘I believe they’re charged in the indictment. There are other arrests. Altogether there were arrests in nine different countries: England, Spain, Philippines, Thailand, Holland, Pakistan, Switzerland, America, and Canada.’
‘What exactly has everyone been charged with?’
‘No one will tell us at this stage, but I’m pretty sure you have been charged with conspiracy and RICO.’
‘What’s RICO?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll ask a friend of mine who is a drugs lawyer in Michigan.’
‘Where are they holding McCann?’
‘James McCann was not arrested, Howard. The Spanish authorities have officially stated that the report of his being arrested in Palma was erroneous. They have also officially stated that the fifteen tons of Lebanese found in a cave on the Costa Brava did not concern you. Have you seen any of the DEA?’
‘Yeah, I saw Craig Lovato at the police station. He said he was coming to see me again today. I’m hoping to fix up a deal to voluntarily extradite myself to set Judy free.’
‘Well, that’s up to you. But I’d advise against it. Was this the same DEA agent who arrested you at your house? Did this DEA agent question you?’
‘Yes, a bit. He was the only cop who did.’
‘Aha! He’s broken American law!’ Katz yelled excitedly.
‘Which law?’ I asked.
‘The Mansfield Amendment. It was enacted a few years ago to deter DEA agents from further engagement in torture/interrogation sessions held in Mexico. The DEA had been having a great time down there stubbing cigarettes on American dope dealers’ balls. Accordingly, United States law enforcement agents are no longer allowed to participate in a foreign arrest or question those arrested in another country. Lovato has goofed badly. You can beat your extradition on this.’
I perked up at this possibility, but Luis Morell looked singularly unimpressed.
‘You know Lord Moynihan set you up,’ said Katz.
‘I know he was trying to. But I never did anything with him and never said anything to him I shouldn’t have.’
‘Well, he’s the star witness against you, but the point is that co-conspirator evidence, especially from an agent provocateur, is not admissible in a Spanish court. Neither are phone taps. In order to extradite you, a prima-facie case, governed by Spanish court rules, has to be established. What can they present? They don’t seem to have anything usable. As for Judy, she’ll be released almost immediately. She’s been charged with conspiracy. There’s no offence of conspiracy recognisable in Spanish law. All extradition treaties have a dual-criminality clause. Judy can’t be extradited from Spain to America unless what the Americans allege she did is recognisable under Spanish law. For example, if the Saudi Arabians accused me of drinking alcohol while praying in Mecca, no country where alcohol is legal would allow Saudi Arabia to extradite me. Judy’s been charged with conspiracy. That doesn’t exist in the Napoleonic legal code, which forms the basis of Spanish law. The Spanish have to let her go, or at least give her bail until the court in Madrid denies her extradition. It is my opinion that a similar lack-of-dual-criminality argument might be able to be made in your case, depending on the exact nature of the charges, of course.’
I looked expectantly at Luis Morell.
‘Do you agree, Luis?’ asked Katz.
‘For Judy, yes, maybe. But the Spanish do not want to upset the Americans. It will be hard to stop you from being extradited. I think we should go now. Señor Mejuto, the director, is coming back. We will come to see you again tomorrow.’
They left after thanking Mejuto. With Mejuto was a trusty prisoner, who spoke perfect English and Spanish. Mejuto wanted to ask me some questions. The trusty interpreted.
‘The director wants to know if you will now speak to the press.’
‘No.’
‘The director understands you wish to see your wife.’
‘Yes. Can I?’
‘The press are friends of the director. The director would like you to see them. Then, afterwards, he will leave you alone with your wife for twenty minutes.’
Clearly, Joaquín Mejuto was getting a backhander from some journalists.
‘Okay, I’ll see them.’
‘The director is going to fetch your wife.’
Completely unescorted, I followed the trusty to a room containing a few chairs, table, and a sofa. I sat down. A few minutes later, Judy came in and sat beside me. She looked awful. She was very upset.
‘Howard, what’s happening? I’m not talking to the press. Have you seen the garbage they wrote about us in the papers?’
‘Judy, this was just a way of seeing you. But people should know what’s being done to you. Public sympathy can only help.’
The door burst open, and at least thirty journalists barged in. They jostled each other for the best seats, setting off flashes and placing tape-recorders in strategic positions. They threw us cigarettes and barraged us with questions.
I trotted out the same statements that I’d given the Old Bailey and the Inland Revenue. I said that I had not been involved with marijuana smuggling since 1973. Sure, I maintained friendships with people in the marijuana business and strongly campaigned for its legalisation, but my money, what little there was, was straight. It came from my travel business, my various trading companies, and other financial projects that I’d participated in throughout the world. I accurately described the details of my arrest and strongly proclaimed Judy’s innocence, publicly pleading with the Spanish authorities to let her
go.
The incessantly repetitious questions wore us down. Judy was on the point of collapse, far too weak to hold back her tears. The journalists left. Judy and I were alone for twenty minutes. We were both far too exhausted and shattered to do anything other than look into each other’s eyes and hold hands.
‘Get me out of this mess, Howard,’ she said as the funcionarios came to take us away. ‘For God’s sake get me back to the children.’
One of the journalists had kindly commented that I stank of stale sweat. This must have got around. The funcionarios took me straight to the showers. I was certainly very grimy. There was no soap, but the shower felt good. Dodging the spray, I smoked one of the three joints Roger had given me. I thought of Bangkok massage parlours and Taiwanese bathhouses. Things change.
The next morning, after another politely served and first-class breakfast, I was taken to Mejuto’s office. The same interpreter was there.
‘The director wants to know if you are prepared to be interviewed by some television companies. They are his friends. You will be able to see your wife again. The director will take you there now.’
Judy looked worse than ever as the TV-AM crew entered the room. The interview was a re-run of yesterday’s press conference. We both made impassioned pleas for Judy’s release, emphasising her complete innocence and the totally unnecessary suffering she and our children were undergoing. We did the same for Spanish TV immediately afterwards. And then the same for another crowd of journalists. We were shown the day’s newspapers. Some accounts were stupidly sensational; others were very sympathetic. Bob Edwardes, good friend that he was, had given a long interview to the Daily Mirror in which he described me as being a quiet and devoted family man with a modest lifestyle. Some accounts were really bizarre. A couple of the tabloids reported Geoffrey Kenion as having hosted Prince Charles and Princess Diana to a slap-up dinner at Wellies. The Times carried a report of how the DEA had failed in an attempt to kidnap me from the Philippines and take me to America without going through extradition formalities. I wondered how they’d managed to fail. The British authorities, apparently, had refused to condone the kidnap on foreign soil of a British subject.