Gang of One: One Man's Incredible Battle to Find His Missing (2 page)

Then the day of the extradition itself: media in helicopters, motorbikes and cars following us as we made our way to hand ourselves over to the Transport Police at Heathrow Airport. All that noise and chaos seemed to be happening around me, but not to me. By 7 a.m. I stood in a small waiting room with Giles and David – the other two members of the NatWest Three – and a plain-clothes policeman bemused by all the fuss. I was watching the live pictures on Sky News of our plane, sitting motionless on the tarmac, soon to be bound for America. I looked impassively at Giles, grim faced and stern, arms folded, listening to some ‘expert’ in the studio saying how if we lost we faced up to thirty-five years in prison, but most likely would only do about twenty. What a relief that was. David stood transfixed and smiling, correcting every factual error made, hanging on every word. Even now he was focused and working. I felt detached from them both, cut off from all of it. The commentator kept saying Enron. Over and over again it was Enron. We were heading to Texas because of Enron. We’d be going to trial because of Enron. We had defrauded Enron. Still that same basic mistake trotted out by supposed experts. We had sat through years of court sessions, of appeals, of judicial reviews, in which it was clearly NatWest I was supposed to have defrauded, not Enron. I had committed this act of fraud by breaching my employment contract, which was news to me and seemingly news to the newsmen – because still they went on about our role in the greatest corporate collapse in US history. By now it was a byword for greed and corruption – and that word was ‘Enron’.

I watched on, a live broadcast of the worst day of my life on national TV. ‘That’ll be something to tell the grandchildren,’ I thought, musing that they would be in university by the time I got the chance – if we lost. They replayed the tapes of me leaving my house over and over again, getting into the car with Julie, and my friends Vincent, Jane and Joe, heading towards Heathrow. It was about four o’clock in the morning and I had just briefly woken Calum to say goodbye. He’d said he wouldn’t sleep unless I promised to do that. Thankfully he was drowsy and didn’t start to cry again. He just held me tightly and I promised over and over again that I would see him soon, and that I would be back, even though I didn’t know if that was true. I’ve never hoped for something so much in my whole life and I felt such affection, such a powerful bond, as I cradled him in my arms. Had I ever felt such pain as when I had to let him go, stroking his head and kissing him gently for one last time?

The TV switched back to the helicopter view of the plane. They were focusing in on the food carts being loaded up and speculating on whether we’d be handcuffed on board and discussing how the US Marshals weren’t allowed to carry their guns with them. A brief thought of me escaping at 20,000 feet passed through my mind – replaced with the urge to scream at the TV, the anger, the frustration, the despair suddenly all welling up.

‘Has the whole FUCKING world gone mad?’ I shouted, much louder than I’d intended.

Giles looked at me and shook his head. ‘I know, mate, I know,’ he said, placing his hand on my shoulder.

David glanced sympathetically at me, then pulled up a chair and moved closer to the TV.

‘Right lads, time to go,’ the plain-clothes officer said. ‘We need to hand you over to the Yanks, I’m afraid.’

Two US Marshals were assigned to each of us. They didn’t introduce themselves or offer their names, as we were ‘handed over’ by the British Transport Police at the doorway to the plane. No fanfare, no speeches, just some paperwork and a few brief words, none of which I could hear.

As we boarded, the beefier of my two escorts took my elbow. ‘You have to turn right here. You won’t be used to that,’ he chuckled as we headed to the ‘cheap seats’ at the back of the plane. Apparently banker baiting was all the rage.

I was too depressed to make any reply. I sat at the bulkhead, the last seat on the plane, upright, impassive, and trying to be determined, while sandwiched between one middle-aged US Marshal and one young beefcake, chiselled type. In front of me was David, occupying a central seat with Giles in front of him, both trussed up between two marshals. David was talkative, confident and assured, and I took some comfort from that. The plane was full of journalists and some made open attempts to film us or to ask us questions, only to be brusquely moved away by the marshals. They wanted to know if we were handcuffed (we weren’t) and if we had any final comments to make. They made it sound like a one-way flight to the gallows.

The plane seemed to taxi for an age and then sat motionless on the runway for another thirty or forty minutes. A last-minute reprieve, perhaps? Tony Blair saves the day? Foolishly, I let such tempting thoughts creep into my mind. Hope can be a dangerous thing, but it was soon extinguished. The rumble of the engines gathered pace and we began to edge forward and then to pick up speed. I was off. Gone. Finished. The bastards had done it. There was nothing except my own thoughts to mark that moment of betrayal, when my own country handed me over to another and we became a minor footnote in Tony Blair’s sycophantic love affair with the US. I felt an acute sense of loss and momentary helplessness, as if a key plank of my life had been stripped from under me and being British meant nothing. I wondered if it would ever mean anything to me again. I wondered if I’d ever come home.

Other than an uncomfortable trip to the bathroom, when the beefcake marshal wouldn’t let me close the door (what did he think I was going to do?), I sat perfectly upright for the full ten hours and said and did nothing. My mind was still full of my goodbyes. Had I handled it properly with Calum? Could my daughter Cara, at five years old, understand? How would my girlfriend, Julie, be able to cope with Calum now along with her own children, Jamie and Issi, and then Cara if and when she visited? What were they doing now? I hoped they would be kept away from the TV; I didn’t want them to see me taken from them like this. And the worst thought of all – when would I see them again?

The beefcake made a point of openly reading
The Smartest Guys in the Room
, a story about the collapse of Enron, replete with references to the ‘NatWest Three’. He overtly earmarked certain pages – I guessed they must have referred to us, as he kept taking surreptitious glances while he folded the pages over. I think he felt good about doing his duty for America, bringing these bad guys back to face justice. Thankfully, he wouldn’t be on our jury, although the book and the man’s attitude confirmed to me the uphill struggle we were going to face in the States. We were going for trial when the history had already been written, the books published and the movies made. I should have seen the signs long before I got on that plane. Enron, a word synonymous with greed, was etched into the minds of all Texans. But I held onto the thought that I’d be alright if I told the truth.

When the plane finally taxied to a stop in Houston, the stewardess announced that there were some ‘dignitaries’ on board and that everyone else must remain seated until they were deplaned. Almost immediately, armed marshals appeared to help escort us ‘dignitaries’ off the plane and the existing six marshals were reunited with their weaponry. Still seated, I watched the curious relationship between American law enforcement and their guns. They seemed to relax visibly as soon as they were ‘packing heat’. I noticed Beefcake pat his gun about four or five times and then subconsciously, I hope, he began stroking it. It occurred to me just how much he would enjoy using it.

I had no luggage, nothing, no change of clothes, not even a toothbrush. Our lawyer, Mark Spragg, had advised us that anything we brought to America would get ‘lost’, so I had entered a whole new level in travelling light. In some ways the lack of any possessions added to the surreal feel of the experience. Getting off the plane was awkward, because they wanted two officers in front of us, then one on each side, gently leading us by the elbow, and then two behind. In the confined space of the aircraft bulkhead, this became somewhat farcical, but eventually we stumbled the length of the plane, submerged in marshals. Strangely and movingly, the UK press corps sitting towards the front and the middle of the plane began to applaud. Some stood up. ‘Good luck, lads!’, ‘Bloody disgrace!’, ‘Stay strong!’ were among the shouts I heard. Hearing those distinct regional British accents – some Cockney, some Northern and Scottish – really affected me. Maybe I hadn’t lost my country after all. I mouthed ‘thank you’ as I caught the eye of a reporter I recognised from a few articles he had written – there seemed to be genuine sympathy in his eyes.

When we reached the front exit of the plane, things became even more chaotic. We were told to wait just outside the plane door as suddenly shouts and instructions seemed to emanate from every direction. Out of the morass of bodies came one marshal, small and rotund with a ruddy complexion. He was carrying our handcuffs – the confirmation that our freedom was over; that we were theirs now and that they controlled our lives. He shook loose the first set and with minimal fuss clipped them straight onto David’s wrists. I noticed he made no eye contact with David and didn’t speak to him, turning his wrist one way then another, checking them quickly and brusquely to see if they were tight enough. No one else seemed to notice. Quickly, he moved onto Giles, as the shouts and noise continued around us. That was just in the background though; all I could hear was the rustle of the chains and a cricking sound as the second set of cuffs was attached to Giles’s wrists. David still stood transfixed, head bowed, staring at his cuffs. His earlier confidence had evaporated; he now looked frightened and I worried he might start to crack.

Next minute the marshal came to me and clipped mine on. ‘Hey, how was London, England?’ he said – not to me, but to the older of the two marshals who had been escorting me. They kept talking as he turned my wrists around and checked the tightness of the cuffs, still not looking at or talking to me.

‘Fuck you,’ I thought, enjoying my height advantage over him. ‘Fuck the lot of you.’ But then I chastised myself. I couldn’t allow myself to get angry or emotional. ‘Cuffs not too tight, Mr Mulgrew? Sorry about all this hassle!’ – that was the kind of polite consideration I still expected. But I should have known I wasn’t going to get it; I had to get a grip on myself.

A huge officer grabbed David by his elbow and started jogging down a long walkway with him. He looked like a linebacker, at least 350lb, and dwarfed David, who was pretty small to start with. I noticed David swallow hard as he peered up at the officer so brusquely guiding him along, but then I could see him reasserting himself as he stood upright and jogged along at pace, his army training no doubt coming to the fore. We were all jogging now. Someone had my elbow, also pulling me into a jog and shouting, ‘Clear, clear!’ to anyone foolish enough to come close. I counted twenty-seven officers in total, all armed, some with FBI jackets, some with ‘ICE’ (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) jackets, some marked ‘US Marshals’ and some just in plain police uniforms. The officer at the front of this entourage was clearing a path through the stunned onlookers as we jogged on. I looked at my guide, a youngish marshal, blonde, blue-eyed and serious.

‘Why are we running?’ I asked, as he continued to lead me by the elbow. He looked shocked, as if no one had told him in the briefing that I might speak; that I was capable of speech. I thought he was about to respond but then he faced resolutely forward again, keeping pace with the gradually strewn-out entourage. Some of the overweight officers were already lagging and out of breath but everyone seemed caught up in the bizarre spectacle, jogging past the departure gates of Houston’s George Bush International Airport, on a balmy Wednesday afternoon in mid July, 2006.

I caught the eye of one elderly woman. She was standing back in surprise, clutching her bag in front of her, her husband’s arm stretched before her in a protective, tender gesture. What was she thinking? I thought I saw something in her eyes – fear maybe, or was it something else? Her husband was saying something to her; I turned my head and evenly kept her gaze while I was whisked past. What was he saying? I doubted it was, ‘Oh look! That’s those three guys who breached their employment contract with NatWest in London. That’ll teach them.’ He probably thought we were terrorists.

A number of turns later and we eventually came to a wing not open to the public, which was controlled by Immigration. Entering a large office, we were positioned in three seats placed against the far wall and sat in silence as the various parties recovered from their exertions. There was an air of real excitement in the room, as some of the officers bent over and tried to catch their breath. They were smiling, laughing and insulting each other about their relative fitness or lack thereof. My despair deepened with the realisation that on one of the worst days of my life, these guys were actually enjoying themselves.

‘Who are these guys again?’ someone asked, drawing attention back to us.

‘The three Brits that collapsed Enron.’

‘Wow, the Enron guys?’ one, sweaty, red-faced FBI agent asked, looking at us intently as he approached.

‘Yup,’ said another, fitter specimen, joining him. You would think we were behind a glass wall and couldn’t hear, like specimens in a zoo.

‘How much did they get?’ asked the red-faced agent, peering intently at us.

‘Millions, hundreds of millions I think. They’re, like, famous in Britain.’

‘Wow,’ the agent said, still staring. We didn’t speak or move and the conversation continued as if we weren’t there. ‘What happens to them now?’

‘We book them in, lock ’em up and then they have a bail hearing tomorrow,’ interjected a silver-haired marshal, who seemed to be emerging as the leader of this rabble. He held a plastic bag with our three passports in it – our sole possessions.

‘They can’t get bail, can they Dave?’ asked a hitherto silent man sitting behind a desk with a sea of paperwork in front of him. He wore glasses and peered over them as he spoke. He had a cardigan on and looked more like your favourite grandad than a police officer.