Judy and I again had twenty minutes to ourselves, but we were still too numb and stultified to have any sort of rational communication. I had never seen anyone more overcome by misery. We were escorted back to our separate quarters.
In the early evening, my lawyers came to visit me. Katz was able to give more names of those arrested. They were Patty Hayes (Ernie’s girl-friend), Wyvonna Meyer (Gerry’s wife), Ronnie Robb, and Philip Sparrowhawk. Katz was also able to give names of others the DEA were trying to arrest: Jim Hobbs, George Lane, Salim Malik, Bradley Alexander (whom I’d never met or heard of), Gerry Wills, and Rick Brown. He was making a personal appeal to Assistant US Attorney O’Neill to allow Judy bail. Four days was long enough to be locked up without knowing what the charge was. He was going to insist on getting a copy of the indictment. Katz’s drug-lawyer friend in Michigan was going to get hold of a RICO expert, but Katz still didn’t know what RICO was. Both Katz and Morell would be back again to see me tomorrow. They were going to see Judy right away.
That night, back in the cage, I managed to get a good few hours’ proper sleep. I woke up refreshed. It was Friday, July 29th. I was hungry. I waited for the sound of the breakfast trolley. Instead, the cell and cage were opened by a very senior prison official, who spoke reasonable English.
‘Howard, please get your things. You are leaving.’
‘Where am I going?’ I asked.
‘We are not allowed to say.’
‘Can I see my wife?’
‘No. This is not allowed.’
‘Can I phone my children?’
‘I’m sorry, Howard. No.’
‘Can I inform my lawyer?’
‘No. But I will inform your family and your lawyers once you are at your destination.’
I was handcuffed and taken to the front gate. Roger Reaves was there, also in handcuffs.
‘Howard, it’s good to see you, but I’ve got the most godawful news. The Americans have charged me with the same shit they laid on you: RICO.’
‘What is RICO, Roger?’
‘God knows. They say I grew pot in the Philippines.’
‘But you didn’t, did you?’
‘No, but I was going to. Yes, siree. With the Good Lord’s help.’
‘What’s that got to do with America, Roger?’
‘That’s where I would have sold it. You know how much good weed goes for in the US these days?’
‘But you didn’t grow any weed, and you didn’t sell any. How can they convict you?’
‘Howard, let me tell you something about the US. Whatever those sons of bitches charge you with, they convict you. I’m talking about the Feds. If it’s a state charge, you can maybe beat it. I beat a bunch of them back home in Georgia. But our charges now are all federal charges. You can’t beat the Feds. The only chance is to plea-bargain a sentence you can handle.’
‘So you’re going to plead guilty to RICO even though you don’t know what RICO means and even though you didn’t grow any weed.’
‘You bet. If they get me to the US, that’s what I’ll do. For sure. But I’m praying I don’t go to the US. It looks as if I’m going to get extradited to Germany. With God’s help I’ll get my freedom there, or maybe even before. I almost got away last night. I’ll tell you later.’
We were both piled into a police van. I couldn’t get my wedding and engagement rings back. I was told they’d be sent to wherever I was going. At breakneck speed we were driven to the ferry terminal in Palma docks. Glimpses of familiar landmarks such as the imposing Belver castle, the magnificent cathedral, and the windmill discothèques hanging off the cliffs made me feel desolate. Would I ever enjoy them again with my wife and children?
Fourteen
SEÑOR MARCO
The van drove straight onto the ferry. Several armed police pointed at us with automatic rifles. There was no one else around. We were tightly gripped and marched down rickety gangways into the ship. At the end of a narrow corridor was a prison-type cell. We were pushed inside. The guards pointed to their rifles and wagged their fingers at us, indicating that any nonsense from us would result in our being shot. They threw in a brown paper bag of bocadillos and shut the door with a bang.
‘Why all this heavy stuff, Roger? Are we meant to be mass murderers?’
‘I think I know why. Last night I offered the prison director, Mejuto, a million dollars if he’d help me escape. He said he would. I’d have been gone tonight. I guess the son of a bitch got scared and snitched on me.’
That would certainly explain it. I wondered what sort of accommodation we could look forward to now.
We sat in silence for a couple of hours, then the ferry started to move. We knew that ferries left this terminal for either Valencia or Barcelona. It would be an eight-hour trip. Roger read loudly from his pocket New Testament. He prayed and prayed. He asked the Lord for a sign of His ever-present help. None was forthcoming. We ate the bocadillos. Roger began to look angry.
‘That son of a bitch Moynihan must have been setting me up all this time. You did say not to trust him, but I didn’t think he’d do this to me. I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna kill the no-good son of a bitch.’
‘That’s not very Christian of you, Roger.’
‘Hey! I still want him to go to Heaven. I just want him to go now. Right now.’
The security precautions that veiled our departure from Palma had dissipated by the time we disembarked at what we recognised to be Barcelona. I saw Michael Katz surrounded by an excited crowd of TV cameramen and newspaper photographers. How did he get here? We were driven to Barcelona’s notorious Modelo prison. Every Spanish gangster has been there. There was none of the customary fingerprinting and photographing procedure, but watches and other personal property were taken from us. Roger and I were each given a plastic bottle of water and locked up in separate holding cells out of earshot of each other. Apart from me and my bottle, the cell was absolutely empty. There wasn’t even a stone bench or hole in the ground to use as a toilet. There was no daylight. There was no noise. No one responded to my yells for cigarettes, food, writing materials, and access to a bathroom. Using the plastic bottle as a pillow, I law on the tiled floor and caught a few snatches of sleep. I pissed in the corner. This was a very hard way of doing time, but I knew it couldn’t last. I just held on.
It lasted just over twenty-four hours, after which I was led out to a small exercise yard, brilliantly illuminated by massive searchlights, and told to walk around by myself for half an hour. I was allowed my cigarettes and watch. After the walk, I was given an excellent meal of roast chicken, taken to one of the prison’s cell blocks, and locked up, alone, in a normal cell. There was a bang on the door.
‘Cómo está, Howard?’
‘Bien, gracias. Y usted? Habla Inglés?’
‘Sí. I speak English, Howard. I am the night funcionario. Roger is in another cell in this unit. He sends you his best wishes. Tomorrow, my friend, one of the day funcionarios will put the two of you into the same cell. Okay? Good night, Howard.’
‘Marco Polo, quieres chocolate?’
The DEA’s name for me was beginning to take root. Did I want some hash? Of course I did. My best ideas came when I was stoned. I needed some now. Day had just broken.
‘Sí, por favor. Muchas gracias.’
A piece of Moroccan and a packet of cigarette papers appeared from under the door.
‘Tienes cigarrillos y cerillas?’
‘Sí. Tengo.’
I rolled a small joint. Suddenly, all the cell doors were opened and over two hundred prisoners were running down the gangways and out through a large door into the sunshine. Each was carrying a chair from his cell. I figured it was some kind of mass break-out. So did Roger, whom I saw tearing along clutching his chair, his eyes darting in all directions. I grabbed my chair and did the same. It was not an escape. It was merely a rush to find a shady spot in the exercise yard. It was a Sunday, and prisoners could stay out of their cells all day. Roger and I sat n
ext to each other in the sun. Within minutes, we were surrounded by gangs of other prisoners bringing us cups of coffee, cigarettes, and croissants. They knew all about us. We were pummelled with questions. Was I really the biggest dope dealer in the world? Had I really worked for the British Secret Service, the IRA, and the Mafia? Had Roger really offered a Spanish prison director a million dollars? They made us extraordinarily welcome and explained how much we would like Modelo. Everything was available here: alcohol, all manner of dope, hookers on conjugal visits, and even remote telephones. Looking around the exercise yard confirmed the existence of a somewhat laissez-faire regime. Groups of Moroccans, Nigerians, and Spanish gypsies were openly gambling with real money and smoking joint after joint. Ghetto-blasters boomed away. Mainlining junkies brandished syringes. Roger asked if there was any way of escaping from the prisons. The prisoners warned him to keep quiet as there were many chivatos (snitches/grasses) around. Roger questioned away regardless. My name was called on the Tannoy. I had a lawyer’s visit.
Katz was sitting in a lawyer’s visiting cubicle. I sat opposite him. Glass separated us, but it was not as soundproof as that in Palma. Katz explained how he and Morell had been stonewalled when they had attempted to visit me the previous Friday. Katz had guessed I had been shipped to the mainland and had flown to Barcelona, rented a car, met the ferry, and followed the prison van to Modelo. It had taken forty-eight hours of hassling with the British Consulate, prison authorities, and judges to be allowed to visit me. Not easy at the weekend. Judy was still in Palma prison, but she and the children were as well as could be expected.
Katz’s briefcase lay facing me. He leaned over and opened it. I stared inside and looked into the lens of my JVC camcorder.
‘I smuggled it in,’ said Katz. ‘They’re very loose here. I’ll switch it on, and then you can give a video message to the children.’
I managed a few words.
Katz thought I would soon be moved to Carabanchel prison in Madrid. He’d come to see me there. He still didn’t know precisely what Judy and I had been charged with and was still unable to find out what RICO meant. He had been too busy trying to locate and see me. He intended to get on to it right away.
At the end of our conversation, another prisoner just terminating his legal visit came up to me.
‘Are you the Marco Polo?’
‘I’m rapidly becoming so, yes. But my real name is Howard.’
‘I know. My name is Jacques Canavaggio. I am from Corsica. We have not met, but everybody now thinks we are old partners. A week ago they arrested me in the Costa Brava with fifteen tons of hashish. The newspapers said it was yours. I am sorry if I make your problems worse.’
We shook hands.
‘Jacques, it’s hardly your fault. For my part I’m very pleased and honoured to meet you.’
‘The honour is mine.’
The prisoners were still gathered around Roger when I was returned to the exercise yard. He was continuing his loud enquiries into escape possibilities and extolling the virtues of South Africa as a headquarters for marijuana farming. The weekend’s Barcelona and Mallorca newspapers were given to us to read. One of them, quoting a report in The Times, stated that I had been moved from Palma prison because of fears that I might be released by a Mallorquian magistrate. Most accounts explained our secret transfer as being due to Roger’s attempt to bribe his way to freedom. All reported we were going to end up in Alcala-Meco prison just outside Madrid. A prisoner explained to us that this was bad news.
There are two men’s prisons in Madrid. The main one is Carabanchel, run, apparently, along the same lines as Modelo. You can get whatever you want. It houses a few thousand Spanish and foreign prisoners, including extradition cases. The other prison is called Alcala-Meco and is situated just outside the ancient university settlement of Alcala de Henares. It was recently built, with help from the Germans, to house ETA terrorists. The regime was Spartan.
The crowd thickened around both of us, and we were again inundated with small gifts of coffee, cigarettes, and food. Several funcionarios then broke through the crowd and frog-marched Roger and me to a double cell on the third floor and locked us up. Roger became irate and tore the wash-basin and fittings from the wall. Water gushed into the cell.
It took a good half-hour for the funcionarios to unlock us, by which time there was a waterfall down several landings. With our possessions, we were taken to another cell block and locked up there until the next morning. I had stamps and writing materials. I took the opportunity to write to my parents, sister, and eldest daughter. They were heartbreaking letters to write. I imagined my parents’ deep unhappiness and distress on hearing the news of the arrest of Judy and myself. They really thought I had straightened out completely. The current allegations would flatten them. My sister, at the age of thirty-seven and against medical advice, had become pregnant for the first time. She didn’t need this mess. Myfanwy was meant to have stayed with me in Palma from tomorrow until her sixteenth birthday later in August. She’d seen so little of her father. Now she would see me less, maybe much less.
Then we were moved to another cell. Then another. I lost count. We weren’t allowed to make telephone calls or speak to other prisoners. We didn’t even get our legally mandated daily outdoor exercise period.
On Tuesday, August 2nd, we were hastily unlocked, handcuffed, and firmly marched to a waiting prison van that resembled a tank. Parked in front of the vehicle was a Policía Nacional saloon car, stuffed full with uniformed cops and guns. Another was parked behind, and at least four police motorbikes were noisily revving up. Two police helicopters hovered above. Roger looked pessimistic.
Inside the van Jacques Canavaggio and two of his gang were waiting. A crew of three armed police van drivers were checking their handcuffs.
‘We meet again, Marco Polo. I think we are travelling together to Madrid. One day we are drinking champagne; the next day we wear the handcuffs. It is the nature of our business. We will drink champagne again. That is sure.’
When the drivers were satisfied we were all safely handcuffed, the procession left Barcelona and began the nine-hour journey to Madrid. By noon, the five of us were feeling as if we were trapped in a sardine can on fire. We yelled and screamed for a break, some cool, fresh air, something to eat, and some cold water. The prison van and escorts pulled into a service station. The doors were opened, and we felt a welcome breeze. Roger looked everywhere. There was nowhere sensible for him to run.
‘Podemos comer? Tenemos hambre.’
We were hungry all right. The drivers bought us a selection of bocadillos.
‘God, I could murder a beer,’ said Roger.
‘We could ask,’ suggested Jacques Canavaggio.
We pleaded with the police to get us some cans of beer. To our surprise they relented and purchased a case. The eight of us, five top-profile prisoners and three armed police drivers, opened cans of beers and had an amiable conversation on a number of topics while a veritable commando force of hovering helicopter pilots and other armed escorts patiently waited. Things like that happen in Spain. They could never happen in England or America.
Somewhere near Madrid, we turned off the autopista. We drove on hilly roads through a few exquisite Spanish villages. Then the landscape suddenly changed. It was eerie, bare, and exposed. We saw a sign for Torrejón, a huge American airbase, before turning off on to a road leading to the ugliest prison I had ever seen, surrounded by gun towers, high-rise barbed wire, and elevated perimeter walkways. After stopping at innumerable check-points, we piled out of the van to have our handcuffs removed by a reception funcionario. He was very cordial.
‘Ah! El Marco Polo de las drogas. Bienvenido a Alcala-Meco. Conoces a Jorge Ochoa? Es mi amigo.’
‘I know Jorge Ochoa,’ said Roger, before I was given a chance to answer the funcionario. ‘The son of a bitch still owes me ten million dollars. He was in this prison? I thought they only kept terrorists here.’
Jorge Ochoa was the
son of Fabio Ochoa, a Colombian cattle-breeder, who began exporting cocaine to the United States during the mid-1970s. Jorge transformed his father’s family business into a multi-million-dollar cocaine corporation but did not come to the DEA’s attention until 1977, when sixty pounds of cocaine, allegedly his, were busted at Miami airport.
In November 1981, the Colombia guerrilla movement M-19 (Movimiento 19 de Abril) kidnapped Jorge’s sister Marta. In response, Jorge, his father, and others formed MAS (Muerte a Secuestradores), a vigilante organisation devoted to killing kidnappers. MAS were very successful and killed dozens of M-19 members. Marta Ochoa was released.
MAS had unintentionally brought together and united under a common purpose cocaine exporters who until then had competed with each other for chunks of the world markets. Jorge Ochoa, Carlos Lehder, and Pablo Escobar formed an alliance that became known as the Medellín Cartel. Shortly afterwards, Roger began working for Ochoa as a pilot. Roger felt he’d been badly cheated by Ochoa on their last deal.
During 1984, following the murder of Colombia’s pro-American Minister of Justice and under intense pressure from the United States Government, Colombian President Betancur tried to rid his country of cocaine exporters by threatening them with extradition to America. Jorge Ochoa and other Medellín Cartel leaders were given refuge in Panama by President Manuel Noriega. Together with Gilberto ‘The Chess Player’ Rodriguez, who was then the leader of the all-powerful Cali Cartel, Ochoa travelled from Panama to Madrid. On the basis of a US extradition request, Spanish authorities arrested both of them in November 1984.
Ochoa avoided extradition by persuading the relevant authorities in Colombia to charge him and seek his extradition from Spain. The US had charged him with importing cocaine. Colombia charged him with exporting the same cocaine. The charges were essentially identical. If two countries request a person’s extradition for similar offences and one of the countries is that person’s country of citizenship, that country’s request will be given preference. Spain had little choice but to deny the US’s extradition request and, in 1986, extradited Ochoa to Colombia, where he walked out of prison and remains free.