Mr Nice. Говард Маркс

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СКАЧАТЬ and Excise, Scotland Yard, and all the other law enforcement agencies that had struggled so hard to get me locked up for the rest of my life? The Warden’s Executive Assistant pushed a piece of paper under the door.

      ‘Sign this. It states you refuse to be interviewed.’

      I signed. I had to keep a low profile, but I felt bad about it. On the whole, journalists had written sympathetically about my incarceration in America. Their sympathy, however, might galvanise the authorities into preventing my release. I couldn’t risk it. I slid the paper back under the door. Footsteps receded.

      Two sets of footsteps returned.

      ‘Put your hands behind your back and through the slit.’

      Handcuffed and chained, I was dumped in a holding cell for six hours, taken to a van, and driven by two hacks sporting automatic rifles to another prison a hundred yards away. There I was dumped in another holding cell for a further four hours, but this time I shared it with eight other dumpees: an Egyptian, a Ghanaian, four Mexicans, and two Hondurans. The Ghanaian and the Hondurans were ecstatic. Never again would they have to endure the brutality of the United States Justice system. The Egyptian and the Mexicans were subdued, as each had been deported from the United States at least once before and had re-entered illegally. It was a way of life. Cross the border, get an illegal job, get busted, spend a few weeks, months or years getting fit and fed while incarcerated at the American taxpayer’s expense, get deported, and start the cycle all over again. I’d forgotten. Most people don’t want to leave America.

      ‘What’s it like here?’ I asked my fellow criminal aliens.

      ‘Just like any other federal joint,’ replied one of the Mexicans.

      ‘I thought this was run by Immigration,’ I protested.

      ‘No, it’s run by the Bureau of Prisons. You’re lucky if you see an Immigration Officer. It’s just another joint, man.’

      Handcuffs were removed, dozens of forms filled in, photographs and fingerprints taken, medical examination given, body and orifices searched, prison clothes issued, and cell assigned. My roommate was a Pakistani, fighting deportation by seeking political asylum. There were almost a thousand inmates of all nationalities: Nigerians, Jamaicans, Nepalese, Pakistanis, Chinese, Indians, Sri Lankans, Vietnamese, Filipinos, Laotians, Spaniards, Italians, Israelis, Palestinians, Egyptians, Canadians, Central and South Americans. Most were convicted dope offenders and spent all their free time discussing future dope deals. ‘We’re not bringing any more stuff to this country’ was often voiced. ‘Europe and Canada are where it’s at. They don’t give you much time if you’re busted. They’re not all snitches like Americans.’

      Many deals were hatched. Many, I’m sure, will come to fruition.

      The Mexican was also right about the difficulty in seeing an Immigration Officer. I tried relentlessly. We were able to phone, so I called the British Consul.

      ‘Yes, Howard, your passport has been sent. Your parents, who send you all their love, paid for your open ticket, and that’s also been sent.’

      I finally found an Immigration Liaison Officer.

      ‘Yes, we’ve received your passport and ticket, but they’ve been mislaid. Don’t worry. We’re all on the case. We’ll find them.’

      Apparently everyone’s ticket and passport got mislaid at some stage. We just had to wait patiently. There was nothing we could do.

      A Walkman was permitted. I bought one and spent every day walking twenty miles around the jogging track listening to the oldies’ station. During my years inside, my daughter Francesca, now fourteen, had regularly written to me of her fondness for my record collection. Little Richard, Elvis Presley, Waylon Jennings, and Jimi Hendrix were among her favourites. Soon we could listen to them together, and she could educate me on the new music I’d missed. I became sun-tanned, nostalgic, and bored. Three days before my supposed release date of March 25th, I was pacing the track listening to a New Orleans disc jockey raving about the latest and greatest British band, the Super Furry Animals. They were from the Welsh valleys. I was listening to them calling me home when the prison loudspeaker crackled.

      ‘Marks, 41526–004, report to the Immigration Office.’

      ‘We’ve got your passport and your ticket,’ said the Immigration Officer. ‘Everything’s ready for you to leave. We can’t tell you precisely when, of course, in case you initiate plans to prevent it. But it’ll be soon.’

      My release date came and went, and a week or so passed by. ‘Lovato’s doing it,’ I thought. ‘He’s persuading his buddies in the DEA to stop me leaving.’

      On Thursday, April 7th, Komo, a Thai who’d been fighting deportation for seven years and who’d not been outside of a prison for seventeen years, came running towards me.

      ‘British, British, you’re on the list. Leaving tonight. About 1 a.m. Please leave me Walkman.’

      Komo’s prison job was cleaning and tidying the offices of the administrative staff, so he had access to confidential information. He also had about twenty Walkmans, which he would attempt to sell to new arrivals. Every long-term prisoner has to have a solid hustle. But it was such good news that I immediately handed over my Walkman.

      ‘Good luck, Komo. Maybe see you in Bangkok one day.’

      ‘Me never go Bangkok, British. They kill me there. Me American. Stay here.’

      ‘They’ll kill you here, too, Komo,’ I said, ‘but much slower and more painfully.’

      ‘Slow is okay, British, and very slow is very good.’

      I couldn’t risk telephoning anyone with the news. It might not be true, and besides, the phones were tapped. If the authorities discovered that I was leaving, they just might change my travel plans.

      There were eight others leaving that night: an Americanised Nigerian of British nationality and seven South Americans.

      ‘Is this all your property, Marks?’

      I had approximately one hundred dollars, a pair of shorts, nail-clippers, comb, toothbrush, alarm clock, papers confirming my ‘release’ date of two weeks ago, a credit card I could use in prison vending-machines, and five books, including one written about me. Hunting Marco Polo.

      ‘Yes, that’s it.’

      I put the money in my pocket. It felt strange. First time for over six years. How often was I going to be thinking that. First time for over six years. Money, sex, wine, a joint of marijuana, a bath, an Indian curry. All around the corner.

      My other belongings were put into a cardboard box. I was given a pair of blue jeans with legs about a foot too long and an extremely tight white tee-shirt. This was called being ‘dressed out’, a gift from the United States Government for those re-entering the free world.

      We were handcuffed, but not chained, and squeezed into a small van. Then we picked up two other guys from another prison exit. One seemed Hispanic, the other seemed northern European. Everyone was silent, excited by his own thoughts. The van’s engine made a terrible racket as it headed towards Houston and the dawn, just beginning to break. By nine o’clock, it was like sitting on a rock in a sardine СКАЧАТЬ