Part 36 (2/2)

'Yes, okay, you can carry his bag. But please be quick.'

John Parry carrying my pillowcase and I smoking my ma.s.sive joint were led down the corridor. We were met by about ten uniformed guards and a few serious-looking men in sober suits.

'This is where I say so long, Howard. Stay strong.'

We were both in tears. We hugged and said our goodbyes.

Very quickly I was bundled into a van, taken to Madrid police station, and placed in a holding cell. Although very firm in denying me the opportunity to communicate with anyone, the police were more than friendly, almost apologetic, and plied me with food, coffee, and cigarettes. When locked up for the night, I swallowed the lump of has.h.i.+sh and fell asleep.

Very early the next morning, I was brought up from the cells. Alongside the Spanish police stood three very obvious Americans, one Hispanic, one Black, and one Irish.

'Are you Dennis Howard Marks?' asked the Hispanic.

I nodded.

'We are the United States of America Federal Marshals Service. We have a warrant to take you to the United States of America. You will now be relieved of all your possessions other than the clothes you are wearing. I will now perform a strip-search on your person.'

'He has already been searched,' lied one of the senior plain-clothes Spanish police.

'I would have preferred to search him myself. Please note that for the record. Mr Marks, kindly hand over those cigarettes of yours, and slip your hands into these handcuffs.'

'I'm a heavy smoker, particularly on planes.'

'We will administer you cigarettes when you require them.'

'I want one now.'

'You will have to wait until we get to the airport. We are pressed for time. We have been waiting for you since Friday. There was a lot of paperwork to do. In any event, I doubt if my Spanish colleagues would allow you to pollute their office with your cigarette smoke.'

'Por favor, hombre!' said the Interpol man, and handed me one of his cigarettes.

At breakneck speed, the three marshals, the Interpol man, and I were driven to Madrid airport. After an hour in a holding cell, I was taken at gunpoint aboard an absolutely empty Pan Am 747. A marshal sat each side of me, one behind. Regular pa.s.sengers were beginning to board. The Hispanic marshal suddenly looked very proud of himself.

'This is American territory. An American aircraft is on American territory wherever it is. Read him his Miranda rights.'

And they did, like they do in the movies.

Sixteen.

41526-004.

I hated every minute of the journey. Once we landed at New York, the Hispanic US Marshal put a chain around my waist and led me like a pet chimpanzee through a maze of corridors. At first the US Immigration and Naturalisation Service wouldn't let me through because I did not have a US visa and was a convicted, drug-dealing felon. Then the US Marshals were prevented from boarding because they had lost the onward flight tickets to Miami and had overlooked getting permission for the firearms they were carrying in order to kill me if I decided to jump out of the plane. Shortly before midnight, we arrived at Miami International Airport, where we were greeted by another US Marshal, a very young, very big, bald Black wearing a hideously multicoloured Mickey Mouse tee-s.h.i.+rt. The four US Marshals and I got into a large limousine driven by yet another US Marshal and drove down a freeway to a large complex containing apartment blocks, factory, chapel, and a lake. It looked like a garden village. A notice indicated that it was Miami Metropolitan Federal Correctional Center (Miami MCC), United States Federal Bureau of Prisons. An obese female sporting a semi-automatic and a grotesquely short mini-skirt waved us through to the reception area. I was the only arrival. The prison guards, called hacks rather than screws, took away all my personal possessions, stripped me naked, looked up my a.r.s.e, and made me pull my foreskin back. I was a.s.signed a number, 41526-004, had my photographs and fingerprints taken, and marched to a solitary cell. I couldn't sleep. Two hours later, at three o'clock in the morning, a guard shouted through the door.

'Name?'

'Marks,' I answered.

'Number?'

'I don't know. I've only just got here.'

'Number?'

'I don't know.'

The guard disappeared and came back with three more. They took me to a cold holding cell full of Colombian and Cuban cocaine dealers. I gathered we were all being taken to Miami Courthouse. Most of the Colombians and Cubans were on trial and were absolutely shattered. Each day they were woken at 3 a.m., kept in holding cells for five hours, handcuffed and shackled by US Marshals, taken by bus to the courthouse, produced in the actual courtroom for a maximum of four hours, held in the courthouse's 'bullpen' holding cell for several hours, and taken back to prison. They never got to sleep before midnight and were not allowed any books or papers during the hours they were awake. In these conditions, they fought the US Government for their freedom.

I was in the courtroom for a mere few minutes. The magistrate told me to come back tomorrow. For four or five days I was shunted between the prison and the courthouse, each day appearing for a few minutes. There was no DEA and no press. On the last occasion, I saw Robert O'Neill, the prosecuting a.s.sistant United States Attorney I had seen in Spain. He told me I had now been arraigned. I had been a.s.signed a lawyer, a federal public defender whose fees would be paid by the US Government. O'Neill advised me to pay for a better one.

After this last court appearance, I was taken back to Miami MCC. Having completed the first few days of mandatory isolation, I was now taken to dormitory accommodation in the main compound of the prison complex. The next morning was beautifully sunny, and at the permitted time I took a walk around the lake. There were ducks on the surface and a plastic alligator on the bank. Concrete tables and benches were scattered around. Racket-ball courts, tennis courts, outdoor gymnasium, jogging track, football field, horseshoe-throwing pitch, basketball court, bowling pitch, cafeteria, shop, library, outdoor cinema, pool rooms, television rooms, vending machines, lay conveniently close at hand. A man came running towards me. It was Malik.

'D. H. Marks. So we are here together. It is wish of Allah. And this, American b.a.s.t.a.r.d say, is G.o.d's country, land of free.'

'How the h.e.l.l did they manage to extradite you, Malik?'

'Political reason. With Zia, it would not happen in blue moon. But Ben.a.z.ir, she is now in charge. She wants American dollar. Appeal Court judges in Pakistan extradite me. Next day American pig give them US visa and Green Card. Now they live handsome life in Was.h.i.+ngton. They think they have left Third World for better life. DEA ask me to plead guilty and co-operate and become snitch. Then they will send me back to Pakistan. I say ”Why not?” I will tell them the bulls.h.i.+t.'

'Malik, you're not going to testify against me, are you?'

He smiled.

'If I do, D. H. Marks, then you can do the cross-examine. You will see what harm I do. I am just going to tell them the bulls.h.i.+t. We are in paper-mill business.'

'What's happened to your nephew Aftab?'

'He has become snitch against me.'

'Will he testify against me, too?'

'If DEA ask, he will do.'

Jim Hobbs and Ronnie Robb joined us. Both had been unceremoniously extradited from Holland and then offered immediate freedom if they agreed to plead guilty, become snitches, and gra.s.s up everyone they knew. They had declined the offer and were awaiting trial. Then I saw Ernie for the first time in ten years. He had lost all his excess weight and looked exactly like he did in 1973.

'Ain't this some s.h.i.+t?'

'Ernie, I'm sorry about all the goofs I made,' I said.

'Aw! Forget it. I made a few myself. Prison don't bother me, but I can't stand the thought of my Patty being inside for seven years. I'll do anything to get her out. Anything.'

Patrick Lane joined us. It had been five years since I'd seen him. Like Ernie, he looked remarkably healthy and suntanned.

'You must be pleased getting only a three-year sentence. That's close to an acquittal.'

'That's where you are wrong, Howard. The prosecution are appealing.'

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