Mr Nice_ An Autobiography Part 14

I emptied out my pockets: a driving licence, a book containing up-to-date accounts of the Colombian scam, and a key to the falconry in Pytchley that gave me access to the several tons of dope there.

'This driving licence is in the name John Hayes. Is that your name?'

'Yes.'

'Is this your address?'

'No comment.'

'What do you do for a living, Mr Hayes?'

'I'm training to be a Customs Officer.'

He didn't even smile. A couple of other Customs Officers came up to our table.

'This has been found in Room 52, your room. It is clearly hashish. Is it yours?'

'No, of course not.'

'This hashish was in your jacket pocket. Are you suggesting we put it there?'

'I don't know, do I?'

'Does it belong to your girl-friend in your room?'

'No, it's mine. Could I see Judy and our daughter?'

'Of course. You must regard us as your friends. I'm Nick Baker, and this is my colleague Terry Byrne. We can go up to your room before we all go to our London office in New Fetter Lane.'

I hugged and kissed Judy and Amber. I knew they wouldn't mess with Judy, just question her a bit and let her go. I also knew, more certainly than I have ever known anything in my life, that no matter how much she was questioned she wouldn't tell them a thing.

'Be strong, love,' we both said.

At London the questioning continued.

'What do you do for a living, Mr Hayes?'

'My work is of a secret nature. Look, what's all this about?'

'Have you got a pa.s.sport?'

'No.'

'You've never been abroad at all?'

'No.'

'What do you do for a living?'

'I can't answer these questions. My work is secret.'

'What time did you arrive at Lavenham?'

'No comment.'

'Do you know Martin Langford?'

'No comment.'

'Do you know Stuart Prentiss?'

'No comment.'

'Do you know James Goldsack?'

This went on for ages. I asked after a while if I could merely raise my finger rather than having to say 'no comment' all the time. Baker wouldn't oblige.

'Mr Hayes, I am making a contemporaneous note of this interview. I won't see your finger being raised. Would you make an audible reply, please? Do you understand?'

'Bleep.'

'Is John Hayes your real name?'

'Bleep.'

'Would you object to giving us your fingerprints?'

'Bleep, bleep.'

'Is that because your real name is Howard Marks?'

A wave of relief came over me. I was me again for the first time in six and a half years.

'So, Howard, how have you been earning a living these last few years?'

'No comment.'

And so it went on through the night until Baker and Byrne took me to Snowhill Police Station. Judy came to see me the next morning and asked me to marry her. I said yes.

After thirty-six hours in the cells, I was hauled in front of Judge Miskin at the Old Bailey. Represented again by Bernard Simons, I was being remanded back into custody at Brixton Prison for the 1973 speaker scam. The next morning, the Guildhall magistrates also remanded me into custody for conspiring to import several tons of Colombian weed and having a bunch of false pa.s.sports. Also with me were Marty Langford and Bob Kenningale, who had both been arrested at Whitehead's falconry; James Goldsack and his worker, Nick Cole, both of whom had been arrested in London; Californian yachtsman Stuart Prentiss and his worker, Alan Grey; and Patrick Lane's a.s.sistant, Hedley Morgan. Patrick Lane somehow escaped the net and fled to the security of Ernie in California. Customs Officer Baker told the magistrates that the Customs had just busted us with more dope, 15 million worth, than the grand total of dope they'd ever busted up to that point. I felt proud, completely forgetting the consequences of being accused of such severe illegality. Newspaper headlines proclaimed that I had just been severely grilled by the British Secret Service, that I had joined the IRA, and that I had been protected by the Mafia.

Back at Brixton, these bulletins, coupled with radio news reports, had a.s.sured that I would be accorded a notorious criminal's welcome. I was separated from my co-defendants and put in a two-man, toilet-less, water-less cell in A Wing. My cellmate was a shifty young Jewish fraudster named Jonathan Kern. A Wing comprised a ground floor and three upper floors of cells and accommodated about 200 prisoners. There were some notable legends from London's gangland: Ronnie Knight, husband of actress Barbara Windsor; Duke and Dennis of the feared and respected Arif family, Turkish Cypriots who became London's most heavily investigated crime family since the Krays; Tommy Wisbey, the Great Train Robber; and Mickey Williams, a half-Irish and half-Jamaican Londoner whose behaviour even Her Majesty's Prison, Durham's infamous control units could not inhibit. One morning, Mickey was next to me and Jonathan Kern as we were 'slopping out' plastic buckets of our night's excrement.

'Watch him, H. He's a wrong 'un, a real wrong 'un. He'd gra.s.s up 'is own muvver.'

Kern heard him and walked away.

'Thanks, Mick.'

'It ain't nuffink, H. He ain't in your business, is he?'

'No, Mick. I didn't know him before.'

'Coz there is a few wrong 'uns in your business, H. You know what I mean? I thought he might have been one of 'em. And it's such a good business, H. But someone ought to shut a few mouths up. I heard your co-defendants talked a bit?'

'Yeah, they said more than they should, more than they wanted to, but they're not really criminals, Mick.'

'Then why are they doing crime, H? Tell me that. If they can't do the time, they shouldn't do the crime. That's simple. Am I wrong? I know I ain't. I know what I'm doing when I get out. No more jumping over bank counters with a gun. I'm doing drugs. But there'll be no gra.s.ses in my firm. No live ones, anyway. Let's keep in touch when we're on the out, H. I got loads of geezers who work in the airport and docks in London. Might be able to 'elp each other.'

This was typical of many conversations I and other dope dealers had with more traditional criminals in British prisons at the end of the 1970s and beginning of the 1980s. The money we had made in our profession tended to dwarf that made by robbers, fraudsters, and thieves. Prisons are excellent forums for the combining of criminal talents. If a dope smuggler is locked up twenty-four hours a day with a forger, a counterfeit air waybill or bill of lading will come up in the conversation. Accordingly, many heavy criminals had begun to deal dope, all kinds from anywhere. Some of the results were predictable. A lot more ruthlessness and violence was injected into dope-trading activity. Rip-offs and guns became more common. Inevitably, a Customs Officer was shot and killed while busting a container of Moroccan cannabis. The perpetrator was a London villain. Instead of seeing this tragedy as an obvious consequence of the folly of drug prohibition (high profits attracting criminal organisations), the authorities seized upon it as proof of a congenital a.s.sociation between drugs and violence. Marijuana smokers and dealers, despite being generally lawabiding and peace-loving, were in bed with ruthless a.s.sa.s.sins and should be treated as such. Give them long and stiff sentences.

I made several appearances in Guildhall Magistrates Court, mostly for administrative reasons and for futile bail applications. I would hardly be given another chance to abscond. Returning to prison from one of these court appearances, I looked into a prison interview room I was walking past and observed Jonathan Kern talking to Her Majesty's Customs Officer Baker. They didn't see me. Later on in our cell, Kern began asking questions about my case. I hadn't yet seen any of the evidence against me, but Kern's link to Baker could provide a valuable avenue of misinformation. I could give no end of false leads as to what my defence was. I wove a fantastic tale for Kern's ears and told him that the marijuana had been provided by Peruvian terrorists, who were now anch.o.r.ed off Ireland with a further sixty tons. Unfortunately, Kern was again seen talking to Baker, this time by a heavy East Ender, who gave Kern a thumping as soon as he had the chance. Kern was transferred to another prison. I was given another cell to occupy. This time I shared with a man called Jim Hobbs. He had been arrested for having s.e.xual relations with a man under the age of twenty-one, but he kept the nature of his offence fairly quiet. s.e.x offenders (nonces), like convicted policemen and gra.s.ses, get a rough time in British prisons. They are considered fair game for a bit of physical torture. It wasn't much use Hobbs's explaining that the under-age victim was actually eighteen. At best he was a poof, an iron. And he might be lying. Hit him anyway. Despite his strange leanings, I liked Hobbs and appreciated his disdain for authority and his generosity to prisoners without funds.

The prison authorities had no objection to my getting married and even went so far as to let me out, escorted by two prison guards, to a Welsh Congregational Chapel in South London to perform the deed. The wedding was most definitely shotgun: Judy was five months pregnant, and my daughters Myfanwy and Amber were the bridesmaids. Johnny Martin was best man. After the wedding, I begged the two guards to allow me to attend the reception. They would be very welcome guests, and I promised not to escape. In a chauffeur-driven Cadillac, Judy, a guard, and I were driven to the Basil Hotel. Champagne and congratulations flowed. Judy and I were allowed to spend some time alone in a hotel bedroom. The guards and I got drunk.

I got on with most of the guards at Brixton and encountered little or nothing in the way of sadism or cruelty. The coveted position of A Wing tea-boy was offered me, and I took it. There were lots of perks. I was allowed out of my cell for most of the day. The screws brought me little presents of harmless contraband: Danish blue cheese and dirty magazines. I was given social visits of a couple of hours rather than the few minutes allotted by prison rules. Remand prison regulations were less stringent than they are now. A prisoner was allowed a meal and some alcohol to be delivered to him from outside on a daily basis. It was easy to smuggle in dope with the food. I still had quite a lot of cash that the authorities hadn't confiscated. Almost all the wholesale dealers who had owed money for Colombian marijuana I had given them on credit paid up in full. Johnny Martin, who had been interviewed by HM Customs, but not arrested, looked after the cash stash.

Ernie felt guilty for having allowed uncool American gangsters access to the British stores of Colombian weed. If he had controlled them, there would have been no bust. Ernie offered to pay all my defence costs, however high. He told Judy she would never have to worry for money. All his connections and wealth were at her disposal.

Judy had to take up Ernie's offer sooner than we thought. Her sister, Natasha, had been busted attempting, without our knowledge, to do a scam on her own. She and her boyfriend were caught off the Mexican coast with a small boatload of marijuana. They were languishing in filthy Mexican jails. Ernie got on the case and got her released. It did take a while, but during that time, Natasha and her boy-friend were imprisoned together in a luxury apartment with a balcony and all modern conveniences. While inside, Natasha conceived and gave birth to a baby boy. She called him Albi. Ernie definitely had excellent connections in Mexico.

On November 23rd, 1980, my adorable daughter Francesca was born. I had pet.i.tioned the Home Office to allow me to attend her birth, but they refused.

She was the only child of mine who was welcomed into this world in my absence. It made me angry not to be there, but her birth gave me the strength I needed to face the future. Tough times and a long period in prison seemed at hand. Then one of my heroes, John Lennon, was gunned down in New York, killed either by a lunatic or by the CIA. His death echoed his profound definition of life: 'that which happens when you are making other plans'. The tragedy saddened me but also increased my fighting spirit. Judy sent me a book on yoga, and I began a discipline to which I've always adhered when incarcerated: half an hour a day of yoga positions and ten minutes of meditation.

Gradually, Bernard Simons brought in the written depositions of evidence against me. There was quite a bit. A key found in my pocket on the day of my arrest opened a door at the falconry in Pytchley behind which lay a few tons of Colombian weed. Accounts of whom had been paid what throughout the entire deal were in my own handwriting. There were sightings of me meeting co-defendants in London and Scotland. A suitcase of money had been found under my bed. These were difficult to explain away, but explained away they had to be.

As any lawyer and any acquitted crook will endorse, guilt has nothing to do with whether one actually committed the offence in question. Guilt is a technical relationship between charge and evidence and must be established beyond doubt by the prosecution, who have to persuade a jury that the evidence is consistent with only the prosecution version of events and not any other. A great deal of the evidence against me was consistent with my having organised an importation of fifteen tons of dope. With what else was it consistent?

Dreams become of enormous importance in prison. McCann came to me one night in the middle of a nightmare.

'Use the Kid, you stupid Welsh c.u.n.t. I f.u.c.king used you.'

My barrister was Lord Hutchinson of Lullington, QC, a socialist with a record of defending spies and anti-establishment trouble-makers. Russian espionage agents George Blake and Va.s.sall had benefited from his advocacy, as had Penguin Books when they were prosecuted for publishing D. H. Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover Lady Chatterley's Lover. I explained to him my defence: In 1972, I had been recruited by MI6 to catch IRA arms dealer James McCann by sucking him into dope deals. I was doing very well until Her Majesty's Customs and Excise messed up the British Secret Service's plans by busting me in 1973. Bail was arranged. I skipped as arranged. The media, however, had somehow procured confidential information that I was an MI6 agent and this had blown my cover. Knowing no other life than that of a spy, I was instructed by MI6 to work for the Mexican Secret Service, who, strangely enough, were also interested in catching McCann due to their belief that he was aiding the Mexican terrorist group, the September 23rd League, in arms acquisition and fund-raising through dope deals. The Mexican Secret Service supplied me with a pa.s.sport in the name of Anthony Tunnicliffe and all manner of front doc.u.mentation. Against all odds, I managed to track down McCann in Vancouver, thereby continuing to do my bit for Queen and Country, as well as keep Mexico stable. I informed the Canadian authorities, but McCann wriggled out of their grasp. I found McCann again, this time in France. He again wriggled out of the authorities' grasp, but not before I had found out that he was now working with Colombian narcoterrorists in South America as well as with heroin drug lords from the Golden Triangle area of Laos, Thailand, and Burma. I was given a complicated brief, answerable to both British and Mexican governments. I had to infiltrate the Colombian drug hierarchy and find out where the bosses were banking their money and how it was getting into the accounts of known members of the September 23rd League. Also, I had to ensure that McCann was caught red-handed, preferably in Ireland or Europe. All my espionage activity was done under the guise of my being a hippie marijuana-only dealer and smuggler. In order to fulfil my dangerous brief, I involved myself with two separate dope deals: Colombian weed to Scotland and Thai weed to Ireland. The Irish deal was done first. When the dope landed in Ireland, I informed MI6 how to catch McCann red-handed. McCann again outwitted the authorities and got freed by a Dublin court. Meanwhile, infiltration of the Colombian drug hierarchy was proceeding very well. I had even got my brother-in-law, Patrick Lane, to bank all their money. Soon, I'd know the whole picture, and the Mexican Secret Service would make me their hero. Then, as in 1973, HM Customs stepped in and busted me. They probably had something against MI6. Who knows?

'That is your defence, Howard?' gasped an astonished Lord Hutchinson of Lullington, QC.

'Yes. Why? What's wrong?'

'It is, absolutely without doubt, the most ridiculous defence I have ever heard in my life.'

'You mean you don't believe it?'

'Belief is not a factor, Howard. I am obliged to be your voice in court, even if your defence is idiotic.'

'Almost all of it can be backed up with evidence, Lord Hutchinson. There's plenty of newspaper reports to show I was an MI6 agent tracking McCann.'

'And where might this Tunnicliffe pa.s.sport be now? The one given you by this South American Secret Service. Mexican, was it?'

'The Tunnicliffe pa.s.sport is British, Lord Hutchinson. I expect MI6 provided it to the Mexican Secret Service for my use. It's covered with Mexican entry and exit stamps, some of which prove I wasn't even in Scotland when the marijuana was imported. Any suggestion that I was actually on the beach supervising the importation and transport of the dope is ridiculous.'

'It's a pity, dear boy, that no one from the Mexican Secret Service is prepared to come to London to testify that you did work for them.'

'Lord Hutchinson, my immediate superior, Jorge del Rio, a member of the Mexican Government, is only too happy to come and testify on my behalf.'

'Hmm! Interesting. I am looking forward to working at the Old Bailey again.'

Most books were allowed into Brixton prison, but those on terrorism weren't. Solicitors could bring in photocopies of anything they wanted. Day after day, an embarra.s.sed Bernard Simons brought me books on South American and South East Asian revolutionary groups to, as he put it, 'refresh my memory'. The prison authorities had no objection to guide books being read by prisoners.

'What are you doing with all these travel guides to Mexico, Marks?'

'I'm going there on my holidays once I get acquitted, Governor. They can't keep an innocent man locked up for too long.'

'I'm glad to see you're keeping your sense of humour, Marks. Enjoy your reading.'

'Thanks, Governor.'

There was one really awkward bit. Despite my maintaining in my defence a position of never having met any of the Florida gangsters, HM Customs Officer Michael Stephenson was claiming that late one night he observed me leaving one of the gangsters' rooms at the Dorchester Hotel. This observation had to be neutralised. I had a friend who, for a short time, was a boy-friend of Rosie's. He was Welsh, went by the name of Leaf, and kept a pub, the Oranges and Lemons, at St Clement's, Oxford. Leaf came to visit me in Brixton prison.

'Leaf, do you remember I stayed with you once in Oxford, last year?'

'Aye, of course I do. I wasn't that drunk. I remember it well.'

'Can you remember the date?'

'h.e.l.l, no. I wasn't that sober, either.'

'It was a Friday night, right?'

'It might have been, Howard.'

'It was. Because after we all got up on Sat.u.r.day, we watched the rugby match. Now do you remember? Wales lost to Ireland.'

'That's right. Will I ever forget it? We lost by 21 to 7 at Lansdowne Road in b.l.o.o.d.y Dublin. Jeff Squire was captain. Mind you, we beat them this year at Cardiff Arms Park, but only by 9 points to 8.'

'Last year's match was on March 15th.'

'Could well have been. I can easily check it. I've got all the Welsh rugby matches on video.'

'I've already checked it, Leaf. Would you be prepared to testify on my behalf at the Old Bailey about where I was that night?'

'I'd b.l.o.o.d.y love to.'

The trial started on September 28th, 1981, the same day, many years previously, that marijuana had first been rendered illegal under British law. I was facing a maximum of 18 years in prison (14 for marijuana and 4 for false pa.s.sports). Patrick Lane wrote me a poem: Dear Brother: Five hundred days stand between us, and All the distance I have managed to create.

No word has pa.s.sed, no smile exchanged, no touch of hand, And yet, as Dawn intrudes, we still relate.

I cannot sleep whilst you, awake across the Globe, await The turn of Fortune's wheel, and take her dare, To chance your luck against the odds as they rotate And play for both of us and all the precious 'ours' we share.