Mr Nice_ An Autobiography Part 1

Mr Nice.

by HOWARD MARKS.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the following for their a.s.sistance, support, and editing: Ann Blain, David G.o.dwin, Bee Grice, Judy Marks, Amber Marks, Francesca Marks, Geoffrey Mulligan, Mick Tyson, and Helen Wild

Introduction.

I was running out of pa.s.sports, ones I could use. In a few weeks I intended to visit San Francisco to pick up several hundred thousand dollars from someone keen to exploit his connections, both with me and with a bent US Customs Officer working in the imports section of San Francisco International Airport.

A few years earlier, I had been declared the most wanted man in Great Britain, a has.h.i.+sh smuggler with doc.u.mented links to the Italian Mafia, the Brotherhood of Eternal Love, the IRA, and the British Secret Service. A new ident.i.ty was vital. I'd already gone through about twenty different ident.i.ties, most of which had been backed up by a pa.s.sport, driving licence, or other indicators of doc.u.mented existence, but they'd all either been discovered by friends/enemies or compromised by featuring in some suspicious trail meandering through a recent scam.

We drove to Norwich. After a couple of awkward meetings with go-betweens, I was introduced to a gentle guy named Donald. I couldn't tell if he was a drinker, a stoner, or a straighter. His kitchen gave no clues. He looked normal, except that his eyes danced like those of a villain.

'We can talk privately out here,' he said and took me to a garden shed.

'I need a pa.s.sport, Don, one that'll stand up to all checks.'

'You can have mine. I won't be needing one. But there's one problem.'

'What's that?'

'I've just done twelve years of a life sentence for murder.'

Convicted murderers, although clearly people with a criminal record, would rarely be declared as unwelcome at a country's borders. They were regarded as mere menaces to individuals rather than threats to the fabric of society. The latter attribute tended to be restricted to dope dealers and terrorists.

'I'll give you a grand for it,' I said, 'and a few hundred quid from time to time when I need more back-up.'

I was thinking of a driving licence, medical card, local library card. Just a pa.s.sport with no supporting identification is suspicious. A members.h.i.+p card to the local billiards club, obtainable cheaply and without proof of ident.i.ty, is enough to give the required credibility.

'That's the best deal I've ever been offered for anything.'

'What's your last name, Don?' I asked. I'd been lumbered with some terrible ones in the past.

'Neece.'

'How do you spell it?'

'N-I-C-E, just like the place on the Riviera.' It was up to Don how he p.r.o.nounced his name. But I knew I would p.r.o.nounce it differently. I was about to become Mr Nice.

One.

BRITISH.

'Marks!' yelled the guard. 'What's your number?'

'41526-004,' I mumbled, still in a really deep sleep. My number was used more often than my name, and I knew it just as well.

'Get all your s.h.i.+t together,' he ordered. 'You're leaving.'

Slowly I woke up. 'Yeah, I'm leaving.' I was leaving El Reno.

El Reno, Oklahoma, houses the Federal Bureau of Prisons' transit facilities and is host to between one and two thousand federal prisoners, who are cajoled, bossed, and bullied by a few hundred guards. Every prisoner who is required to be moved from one US federal prison to another pa.s.ses through El Reno. Even if the prisoner is being transported from North Dakota to South Dakota, he still has to go via El Reno. I had been through there five times. Some had been through more than fifty times. Expensive illogicalities and inefficiencies do not worry the monsters of American bureaucracy, and the taxpayers are enthusiastic and eager to spend fortunes in the name of fighting crime. Prison places cost the US taxpayer more than university places. The American belief that prisons are the best way to combat crime has led to an incarceration rate that is at least five times that of almost any other industrialised nation. Overcrowding is endemic. Conditions are appalling, varying from windowless, sensory-deprived isolation to barren and futile brutality.

Mostly, prisoners are taken to El Reno in aeroplanes confiscated by the US Government from the Colombian cocaine cartels, who have made billions of dollars out of America's War on Drugs. There are at least two large airliners, each seating well over one hundred prisoners, and numerous smaller planes carrying up to thirty pa.s.sengers. Every day, between three and six hundred prisoners arrive and leave. Arrivals take place in the late afternoon and evening; departures take place in the early morning. Flying courtesy of the Federal Bureau of Prisons is a gruelling business. The only consolation was that this would be my last of over a dozen flights on this airline, known as Conair. I was going to be released in three weeks. My release date was the same as that of Mike Tyson. I had been continuously in prison for the last six and a half years for transporting beneficial herbs from one place to another, while he had done three years for rape.

'Getting my s.h.i.+t together' meant putting my dirty bedclothes in a pillow case. No personal possessions of any kind are allowed in El Reno. I got my s.h.i.+t together.

Along with about sixty or seventy others, I was herded into a holding cell to await processing. Our names, numbers, fingerprints, and photographs were carefully scrutinised to ensure we were who we said we were. Our medical records were perused to ensure that if anyone had AIDS, TB, or some other dreadfully contagious disease, the right s.p.a.ce on the form was filled in. One by one we were stripped naked and minutely examined during the ritual known as 'shakedown'. In full view of, and in sickeningly close proximity to, three Oklahoma rednecks, I ran my fingers through my hair, shook my head, tugged my ears to show the wax, opened my mouth, pulled out my Bureau of Prisons denture plate, stretched my arms above my head to show my armpits, pulled up my b.a.l.l.s, pulled back the foreskin of my d.i.c.k, turned round to display the soles of my feet, and finally bent down, pulling the cheeks of my b.u.m apart, so that the rednecks could treat my a.n.u.s as a telescope. A federal prisoner has to perform this series of indignities before and after each time he is visited by his family, friend, religious counsellor, or lawyer, and each time he enters or leaves any prison. I had performed it thousands of times. The three Peeping-Tom rednecks made the same jokes that prison guards never tire of making when shaking down: 'I recognise that hole. Didn't you come through here three years ago?'

During the course of this departure process, I checked among the other prisoners where they were expecting to be transported to. It was important to establish that I was not about to be sent somewhere in error a most common occurrence. Sometimes the error was deliberate part of a practice known as 'diesel therapy'. This punishment of keeping one on the move and out of contact was frequently administered to troublesome prisoners. The 'treatment' could last up to two years. I was meant to be going to Oakdale, Louisiana, where criminal aliens (the word 'alien' is preferred to the word 'foreigner') nearing the expiry of their sentences began the gleeful process of being removed from the US and sent back to civilisation. I began to panic when some of my shaken-down companions mentioned they were going to Pennsylvania; others thought they were going to Michigan. Security reasons always prevent prisoners from knowing where (and sometimes when) they are going. Eventually I met someone who was also expecting to go to Oakdale. He was a gentle, bright marijuana smuggler, longing to finish his ten-year sentence and get back to his loved and longed-for native country of New Zealand. He told me that he knew it was just an hour's flight from El Reno to Oakdale.

We caught a glimpse of the time 2 a.m. We were then outfitted with our travelling clothes: a sleeveless s.h.i.+rt with no pockets, a pair of trousers without pockets, socks, underwear, and a pair of very thin, beach-type shoes, which were made in China. Next came the part that everyone hates, even more than the shakedown: the adorning of heavy metal: handcuffs around the wrists, chains around the waist, chains from the chains around the waist to the handcuffs, shackles around the legs, and, if like me one is described as having a propensity for escape or violence, a 'black box'. This last lump of heavy metal is like a portable pillory without the hole for the head and renders the handcuffs completely rigid, preventing any independent hand movement. It is chained and padlocked to the chains around the waist. I have never attempted to escape from anywhere and have never physically harmed or threatened anyone. Nevertheless, according to information furnished to the US Federal Bureau of Prisons by Special Agent Craig Lovato of the US Drug Enforcement Administration, I'm an Oxford graduate and a British Secret Service operative, and, apparently, I can get out of places that Houdini couldn't even get into.

We were then placed in another holding cell. Two or three hours had pa.s.sed since our awakening; two or three more would have to pa.s.s before we would leave by bus for Oklahoma City Airport. We sat around talking to each other, comparing conditions in different prisons in much the same way as I once discussed the pros and cons of various first-cla.s.s hotels. Dog-ends that had been miraculously smuggled through the shakedown process were produced and fought over. At times like this I felt very glad I had given up smoking tobacco (after thirty-five years of fairly constant use). Prisoners clanked and jingled their chains as they shuffled to the solitary toilet bowl and performed the acrobatics necessary to unzip and undo.

Federal regulations require prisoners to be fed at least once every fourteen hours. Each prisoner was provided with a brown paper bag containing two hard-boiled eggs, a carton of 'Jungle Juice', an apple, and a Granola bar. People began to trade food items furiously.

The gates to the holding cell were opened, and we were led out into the sub-zero temperature in our sleeveless s.h.i.+rts and were counted and checked again against copies of photographs. We were then patted, as opposed to shaken, down and guided into a mercifully heated bus. A radio blared the two kinds of music with which Oklahoma rednecks are familiar: country and western.

The icy roads made for a slow journey to the airport. There was a long wait at the runway before we were finally handed over by the prison guards to the United States Marshals. None of them looked like Wyatt Earp. They handle interstate transportation of federal property such as prisoners. Some of them are female, kind of. Soon I would see real air hostesses and then my wife.

After an hour in the air, we landed at a military airfield. Names were called, and some pa.s.sengers left. My name was omitted. I panicked until I realised the New Zealander was still on board, but he looked worried too. Some different prisoners boarded and told us we were at Memphis. We took off again, and in an hour really did land at Oakdale airport. A bus took us to the prison, where we were dechained, shaken down, fed, and otherwise processed. I was beginning to look forward to the various facilities that every federal prison tends to have: tennis courts, jogging track, and library.

Processing is an irritating and lengthy process, but most of us had been through it dozens of times. Each newly arrived prisoner has to be seen and checked by a PA (physician's a.s.sistant) and a screening counsellor. Each prisoner also has to be fed and given clothes that fit at least approximately. These seemingly straightforward activities take several hours to complete.

The screening counsellor's function is to decide whether or not the prisoner may be allowed to be accommodated in the general prison population. If not, the prisoner is locked up in the prison's 'hole', a very uncomfortable prison within a prison. There are a number of reasons why a prisoner would be separated from the others. Occasionally, the prisoner would himself request segregation: he might have been warned that someone at this new prison was out to get him to settle some old dope or gambling debt. He might be terrified of being raped, extorted, or discovered to be a snitch. Sometimes, particularly if release was imminent, the prisoner would wish to be isolated merely to diminish the chances of getting into any trouble inadvertently. One had to do one's best to decrease the frequency of random c.o.c.k-ups. Moreover, there is an obligation for prisoners to be gainfully employed, and one of the very few methods of avoiding work is to be locked up in the hole. Accommodation in the hole could always be requested: checking-in was easy, checking-out extremely difficult. More often than not, it's the screening counsellor who determines who goes where, and the most scanty of reasons are used to justify placement in the hole: a history of violence, escape, connections with gangs, and high profile would almost always ensure at least a limited spell inside. My file was littered with absurd allegations of escape attempts, but I did not expect problems from that quarter because of the short time I had left to serve. It was March 3rd, and my parole release date was March 25th. Not a sensible time to attempt to leg it, but American law enforcement is prohibited from making common-sense a.s.sumptions.

Despite valiant attempts, I hadn't p.i.s.sed for over twelve hours. The toilets in the holding cells are always crowded by smokers, and I've never yet been able to p.i.s.s covered in chains and sharing a pressurised airplane cabin with a redneck marshal whose job is to stare at my d.i.c.k to ensure it doesn't turn into a dangerously offensive weapon or dope stash. I was bursting. My name was the first called. I went into the screener's office and immediately noticed on his desk a piece of paper referring to me with the word ESCAPE highlighted in yellow.

'Oh no!' I thought. 'They can't be that insane.'

But I knew they could be.

They didn't use my so-called escape history against me, but I was put into the hole anyway. The screening counsellor informed me that as I had less than thirty days of my sentence left, it would be pointless for the prison to go through the time-consuming charade of admitting and orientating me. The screener didn't care who I was. It was policy.

'How am I going to see Immigration and get deported? How can I get my pa.s.sport? How can I get the airline ticket that will take me out of this horrible country if I can't telephone or write?'

'Don't worry,' said the screener. 'They'll come to you, tell you what's happening, and arrange for you to have all the calls and stamps you need.'

They lie so easily.

The New Zealander saw my solemn face as I returned to the holding cell.

'That's too bad. Nice to have met you, British. Take care of yourself.'

I was so angry. I went to the toilet, now really crowded with d.i.c.k-staring smokers.

'f.u.c.k them,' I thought, and I let loose a stream of vile-smelling dark green liquid.

That was the last time I had any problem p.i.s.sing. After a few hours, I was called out of the holding cell, handcuffed behind my back, and marched to the hole.

The Oakdale hole contained about forty cells. Everyone coming into the hole has to be showered under supervision in a cage; submit to mouth, a.n.u.s, and foreskin search; and be given a pair of underpants, socks, fairy slippers (Chinese made), and a sterilised, oversized jump-suit. Nothing else could be acquired without a struggle. I had long ago reached the point where degrading rituals ceased to matter. Had they taken away my dignity, or was my dignity too formidable to be dented or diminished?

Most of the prison officers in Louisiana are Black. A Black duty officer took down my particulars. Custodians of the hole have no interest in why someone has been placed there. There was absolutely no point trying to explain that I had committed no disciplinary infraction, that I was only in this punishment block because I was almost free. They'd heard it all before. Sometimes it was true, sometimes not. Instead, I did my usual trick of being excessively friendly and polite. This was the only way I could begin to get the essential books, stamps, paper, envelopes and pencil. The duty officer liked my accent and did an almost recognisable imitation of John Gielgud. I laid on my best Oxford inflection and called him 'Milord'. He loved it. Sure I could have some books to read.

He locked me for one hour in the library cell. I rummaged around and found Lord of the Flies Lord of the Flies, 1984 1984, a Ken Follett novel, the inevitable Bible, a Graham Greene novel, and a textbook on calculus. These would last a few days, much longer if my cellmate turned out to be a jabbering Yank or loony. I got some paper, pencils, and envelopes. Stamps and phone calls were issued only by counsellors and lieutenants.

I was taken to a fairly clean and mercifully unoccupied cell, which contained the usual fixtures and fittings: steel bed, frayed and stained mattress, continuously flas.h.i.+ng neon light, and a filthy, malfunctioning WC and washbasin. It had been an exhausting day. The time was almost 10 p.m. I read and slept.

'You're in the jailhouse now,' sang a tone-deaf Irish hack as he pa.s.sed coffee, cereal, and other quasi-edibles through three-inch slits in the cell doors.

I knew it had to be 6 a.m. Breakfast in bed. If it wasn't for time zones, well over a million American prison inmates would be consuming the same fare at the same time. It was cold.

Special Housing Units, euphemism for holes, were always deliberately maintained at discomforting temperatures in case one or more of the prisoners were there to be punished. One of the hole's inmates was a.s.signed the job of orderly. He came round and took the breakfast waste back through the slits. The orderly's other official duties included keeping the areas outside the cells clean and supplying prisoners with toilet requisites. Unofficial duties, 'hustles' that he could maybe make some money from, included distribution of contraband (non-generic coffee, stamps, and cigarettes) and liaising between buyers and sellers of the same.

'Got a stamp?' I asked as he retrieved an empty box of raisin bran.

'Maybe,' he said, 'but I'll need two back.'

This was the standard prison loansharking rate for almost everything.

'Give me two, and I'll give you five back.'

He looked as if he trusted me and nodded a.s.sent.

The cells were patrolled every couple of hours. When anyone other than the orderly pa.s.sed by, I banged the door and demanded to make a phone call, to contact my lawyer, to contact my family, and to contact the British Emba.s.sy. Chaplains (authorised to listen to prayers), psychiatrists (authorised to listen to everything else), and medical officers (authorised to distribute Tylenol) are required by law to make daily rounds of the hole. They cannot supply stamps or arrange phone calls, so one is kept insane, stressed, and in need of help from above. I would have to be patient. Now that there was no one to watch my b.u.mbling attempts to rescue my body from ugly deterioration, I could resume my yoga and callisthenics. And I had my books. Someone would come sometime and let me make a call. The orderly would bring some stamps. Relax. There wasn't long to go until I became free. What was Special Agent Craig Lovato of the Drug Enforcement Administration doing? Was I in the hole again because of him? Was he going to be able to stop my release? He had ruined so much, so very, very much.

Craig Lovato's ancestors were rich Spaniards. They emigrated to America from Spain about 250 years ago and were given 97,000 acres of what became New Mexico in a land grant from the Spanish throne. By the time Craig Lovato was born, his family had lost most of their fortune, and he had to work for a living. He missed both the Vietnam War and the Sixties movements which opposed it and joined the Las Vegas Sheriff's Department as a deputy. He learned about street life as a patrolman and 'goon squad' officer chasing undesirables out of town, about dope as a narcotics detective, and about life and death as a homicide detective. In 1979, he yearned for a new way of life and joined the DEA.

The DEA has offices in sixty-seven of the world's countries. It has more power than the KGB ever had. One of its offices is in the United States Emba.s.sy, Madrid. In August 1984, Craig Lovato went to work there. At the same time I was living in Palma peacefully carrying on my international drug-smuggling business. Lovato found out I was not only smuggling dope but actually enjoying it. G.o.d knows why, but this made him lose his marbles, and he has been hounding and persecuting me ever since.

The weather in Louisiana comprises rain, light or heavy, and thunder, loud or very loud. Although quite early in the evening, it suddenly got very dark, and a torrential downpour began. Four hours later, the rain was still tamping down. I went to sleep. In a few hours, I was woken by thunderclaps and observed about three inches of water on the floor. Strange creatures were swimming in the water, but I was too sleepy to be scared. I went back to sleep and was vaguely aware of the rain ceasing.

In the distance I heard, 'You're in the jailhouse now.'

I looked at the floor. The water had disappeared, and in its place was a writhing ma.s.s of hideous Louisiana insects: multicoloured spiders, grotesque underwater c.o.c.kroaches, large worms, and giant beetles. All my carefully cultured Buddhist beliefs on the sanct.i.ty of all life quickly evaporated, and I set about systematically murdering the creatures of the night by whacking them with my Chinese fairy slippers before accepting my breakfast. The corpses filled two empty cartons of raisin bran. The air-conditioning was on full. It was very cold. I did more yoga, callisthenics, and reading, but I couldn't get my mind off the primitive life-forms. Did Tibetans really ensure they killed no insects when building their temples?

'Put your hands behind your back and through the slit,' ordered two hacks in unison from the other side of the cell door.

One of them was the Irish crooner. They slipped on the handcuffs. I retrieved my hands. It was now safe for the hacks to open the door.

'The Immigration want to see you.'

This sounded good.

'Can I wash, change, s.h.i.+t, shave, and shampoo?'

'No, they want you now.'

The crooner and his buddy led me out into the blinding sun, across several yards of squelching swamp, and into a building labelled INS. I sat down. The handcuffs were removed.

I heard a voice in the background say, 'Well, he was extradited, so is he going to be excluded, deported, repatriated, expelled, or permitted to depart voluntarily?'

Since at least 1982, I have been prohibited from entering the United States. I did not have a visa, and in order to gain entry when I was extradited in October 1989 I was paroled (a strange use of the word) by the United States Attorney General to satisfy the public's interest in prosecuting, convicting, sentencing, and incarcerating me. Paroling is not entering, and I was not to be considered as having entered the United States despite having been conspicuously present here for well over five years. Legally, I was to be treated as still just outside the border, and no decision regarding my deportability or excludability could be made until the reason for my being paroled into the United States no longer applied, i.e., until my release from incarceration. Given I was a felonious, criminal alien, I could not in any circ.u.mstances be allowed to walk the streets of the Land of the Free. Given I had not applied for entry, I could not be excluded. Given I had not entered in the way the law understood the meaning of the word, I could not be deported. Given I was soon to finish my sentence, I could not thereafter be held in prison.

I had read all the relevant law in the law library of United States Penitentiary, Terre Haute. As a consequence of the Sixth Amendment to the US Const.i.tution, freedom of access to the courts had to be available to all prisoners. This was achieved by putting law books and typewriters in every prison and allowing prisoners to litigate to their hearts' content. For years, articulating other prisoners' legal presentations to the US courts had been my 'hustle'. I had achieved a few successes and was quite a respected jailhouse lawyer, but I had no idea what on earth the Immigration authorities could or would do. I didn't know of anyone else in the same position. I was very scared of law enforcement bureaucrats. Anything could happen. I could become a Cuban illegal.

'Come in, Marks. Can you get a pa.s.sport and pay for your own ticket? If so, you can avoid all court proceedings and leave the United States as soon as you finish your sentence on March 25th.'

What a very nice man.

'Sign this, Marks.'

I had never signed anything so quickly. I read it later. I had waived all court proceedings provided I got my pa.s.sport and ticket within thirty days. I knew Bob Gordon of the Chicago British Consulate had already sent an emergency pa.s.sport, and there were plenty of family and friends prepared to pay for my ticket.

'Get yourself an open, one-way, full-fare ticket from Houston to London on Continental 4.'

'I'm in the hole and not allowed to make telephone calls,' I said, 'and I can't get any stamps.'

'Don't worry. I'll speak to the lieutenant of the hole. Your phone calls will save the United States Government several thousand dollars. He'll agree. Ask for him when you get back.'

Since when were these people into saving money?

'Will you please take some pa.s.sport photos?' I asked. Maybe the ones I'd sent Bob Gordon wouldn't be suitable. Spares would always be handy.

Armed with photographs and a signed waiver form and feeling happier than I had for a good few days, I was handcuffed and marched back to the hole. I was greeted by the lieutenant.