Gang of One: One Man's Incredible Battle to Find His Missing (29 page)

‘Sit Mulgrew,’ she motioned. She knew my name, I thought. That was encouraging. ‘Your name is Gary Mulgrew,’ she intoned, reading from my file. ‘And you pleaded guilty to one count of wire fraud and were sentenced to thirty-seven months here in Big Spring, Texas.’

‘Yes, that’s right, but . . .’

She carried on, as if I wasn’t there. ‘Your sentence is due to finish on 11 May, 2011 at 10.30 a.m., although you could be released by 14 January of the same year if you have no infractions.’

Did she think I didn’t know all this? Was this ‘interview’ actually meant to remind people lost in the US prison system who they were and how they’d ended up there?

‘You were born in . . . Glass-gauw in 1962,’ she went on. I had a strong sense that my ten-minute window was disappearing.

‘Miss Matthews?’ I interjected, softly, but firmly.

She stopped in her tracks and looked right at me. ‘Yes?’ She looked alarmed.

‘I came to speak to you about a transfer back to England.’

‘Oh,’ she said quietly, looking around her desk as if she had mislaid something and then moving her hand protectively to the high neck of her old-fashioned blouse.

‘Normally you would request a transfer at our next meeting.’

‘But our next meeting isn’t until next year, Miss Matthews.’

‘Yes, that’s right; in precisely twelve months from now . . .’ she said firmly and with renewed confidence. ‘At 10 a.m.’

‘Wait!’ I said more brusquely than I intended. Miss Matthews instantly recoiled, and I imagined her hand under the desk searching for a panic button.

I felt like the prosecutors were stiffing me again, reneging on the deal to get me home. But I knew if I got angry that would be the end of this meeting.

‘If you look at my file,’ I said, pointing a bit too forcefully at the file on her desk, ‘you will see I have a deal, an arrangement with the DoJ to get transferred home. They promised.’

She had pushed herself as far back in her seat as she possibly could and was looking past me, probably for some help. Taking a large breath and using every atom of willpower I could summon, I eased slowly back from her desk and sat upright in my chair. I spoke very softly.

‘Miss Matthews,’ I began very carefully. ‘A key part of my agreement and my decision to plead guilty was that the Department of Justice agreed to expedite my transfer home to England where I can properly begin the search for my missing daughter.’

I kept my voice on an even keel and seemed gradually to be coaxing her back towards her desk and the open file.

‘Unusually, expediting my transfer was specifically written within the plea agreement you have in your file,’ I finished as I moved myself even further away from her desk, trying to appear as non-threatening as a 6ft 2 Glaswegian convict ever could.

Relaxing her grip on the neck of her blouse, Miss Matthews nervously edged forward and thumbed the file, before pulling out what I recognised was the plea agreement itself. She began to read through it. I stayed silent, my heart pounding as I waited for this most delicate of souls to reach the key passage of the agreement. I’d hoped the unusual nature of this deal might prick her interest, and it seemed to. Eventually she spoke. ‘No transfer can take place if you are launching an appeal.’ I stayed silent as she continued to read. ‘You have started your appeal . . .’ then a few seconds later, she added, ‘No, you’re . . . not having an appeal?’

‘No, ma’am,’ I replied gently. ‘I waived every and all rights to an appeal now or at any time in the future. That was the specific condition the DoJ insisted on before they agreed to expedite my transfer home. I will always be guilty, ma’am.’

‘And the judge allowed this?’ she asked, her interest now seemingly piqued.

‘Delighted to,’ I responded, unable to entirely hide my disdain.

Miss Matthews read on. After a while longer, and by now perilously close to the ten-minute mark, she started to re-stack the papers back neatly into the file. As I waited for her to speak she stood the file up and carefully straightened it before laying it back down neatly on the table.

‘The thing is, Mr Mulgrew,’ she began, much more confident now. ‘This agreement, while I accept it is real and it is in here as you say, it is also between you and the Department of Justice. I don’t see what it has to do with me and the Big Spring Correctional Facility.’ She tailed off, catching my stare.

I felt it all slipping away, my chance, my deal, my agreement, my hope. Panic started to rip through me, but I stopped it, pushed it back down and held my nerve. I leaned forward slowly and placed my hands on the file, near hers. I knew I was risking everything, but I needed her help and I needed it now.

‘Miss Matthews?’ I began gently. I paused and waited for her to look up at me and to speak.

‘Yes . . .?’ she responded hesitantly, but at least she was still with me.

‘My agreement is with the United States Government, with the United States of America; a wonderful and honest country. They chose to bring me here, and they can choose to send me back.’ She was nodding slightly now, and I took some comfort from this as I continued very clearly and precisely. ‘You are an employee of the United States Government, am I correct?’ She nodded her agreement. ‘So you are required to honour that agreement I made with your employer.’

I finished, looking at her intently and willing her to agree. She sat back for a moment or two, then looked from me to the file. After a moment or two she reached, hesitated then reached again to her bottom drawer, pulled out the transfer form and began writing on it.

‘You have to return this to me by next week, Mulgrew,’ she said as she stamped it; my ten minutes nearly over and a party beginning in my heart. I thanked her as she momentarily held the form back and gave me an ominous warning.

‘The transfer can take a year or two to come through, although as you point out, in your case Washington might expedite it. But if you have any disciplinary issues while you are in Big Spring or are involved in any rule breaches, even a minor infraction, your application is suspended until those breaches are resolved.’ She was matter-of-fact again, on familiar turf. ‘Simply put: stay out of trouble if you want to get home, Mulgrew.’ She looked straight at me. ‘Can you do your own time, Mulgrew?’

I almost danced back to the Range, elated at the thought that I had made even the tiniest of progress. However, only a few hours after that lift, as seemed to be the way, Angel came to see me to discuss the unresolved gang question. Miss Matthews’ wasn’t the only prison department that had been working on my file, and whereas release and transfer dates could get moved further and further away, the ‘who you running with?’ issue wasn’t going to go away.

‘Stay out of trouble if you want to get home, Mulgrew.’ That was what Miss Matthews had said. That was all Mulgrew wanted to do. And it seemed pretty unlikely that he could manage it if he was forced to join a prison gang. I tried explaining that to Angel – but to him it was like a soldier saying he couldn’t go to war because he had to dig over his vegetable patch. My needs were negligible compared to the smooth running of the system.

‘It’s been decided you have to run with someone. We’ve been through this already.’

‘Who says?’ I asked, emboldened by my visit with Miss Matthews.

‘I do,’ said Angel sternly. ‘And don’t start manning up to me, Scotland,’ he continued, ‘or the Kings will have to kick your ass.’ There was an edge to what he said, as there always was in any conversation here. This constant masculine posturing was draining.

‘I’m just shittin’ with you, Angel,’ I said, glad my prison-speak lessons from New York were kicking in. ‘So it’s really just up to you?’ I added, hopeful that might lead us to resolving things.

‘No, jackass!’ responded Angel, laughing at my naivety. ‘All the shot-callers discuss it.’

‘What – all you guys sit down together and discuss this shit?’ Discussion, reasoned argument, was weird enough to envisage. Even more was the thought of these tattooed psychos – Latin, Native, Black and Nazi – all politely sitting round a table to work things out. Did they break for coffee? Was one gang in charge of the sandwiches?

‘We’ve been discussing you,’ Angel confirmed. ‘Especially since that
Esquire
article came out.’

‘
Esquire
article?’ I echoed.

‘You haven’t seen it? You made the front cover,’ Angel said, with a grin. ‘A picture of you and your two buddies from the bank. It says you were responsible for that whole property crash, because you invented some kind of scheme called securitising or some shit like that, and you used it to fuck Enron, and you wiped, like, twenty percent off the value of everybody’s home. That was some shit, that scheme of yours,’ he added, almost admiringly, but also a little accusingly.

‘Could I . . . could I see that article?’

‘Oh sure, I think Juarez has it right now. He’s the shot-caller for the Aztecas,’ Angel replied affably. ‘He likes the picture of you on the front cover.’

I gulped, wondering what Juarez might be doing with the front cover, but I was even more anxious when Angel leaned across and carried on, more quietly, ‘But he didn’t like what the article said at all. Juarez has a lot of real estate down the Baja, around the San Diego area all the way up to the Bay.’

‘He has?’

‘Yes. Juarez was really pissed when he first saw it. Wanted to come straight down and see you, but some of the other guys convinced him it was probably bullshit.’

‘Who the hell reads
Esquire
in here, anyway?’ I asked numbly.

‘Hey – the articles are bullshit, but you get a lot of high-class looking women in it,’ Angel said, almost defensively. ‘No titties or pussy so the cops let it in.’ We both paused for a second to consider this.

Sex and death are, they say, the great themes in all literature, and it wasn’t many seconds before my thoughts whirled away from whatever might be inside the pages of
Esquire
to whatever might be awaiting me. So Juarez had been persuaded not to believe everything the article said. But would everyone else take such an enlightened view? Was I a fool for thinking I could just plod along, with my library job and my card games and my friendships, under the radar of the big players? Did I need protection? Stay out of trouble, Mulgrew.

‘Anyway.’ Angel sighed. ‘A couple of important people want to talk to you . . .’ He tailed off, scrutinising me closely. His words caught me by surprise. I began to speak but the words caught in my throat, as I did a terrible job of repressing my fear.

‘You mean . . . you mean the shot-callers?’ I almost whined, distressed by how quickly my bravado could vanish.

‘Let’s just say a couple of people want to see you and leave it at that, Scotland, alright?’ said Angel again, all confidence and menace. ‘Someone will come for you in a couple of days, OK?’ he said as he rose to leave. ‘And don’t discuss this with anyone else,’ he continued as he drew a surreptitious glance towards Chief’s empty bunk.

‘OK,’ I responded, another lifeline gone and a wave of fear engulfing me as I avoided his eyes. He just turned and sauntered away.

17

CALLING THE SHOTS

I
TRIED TO THINK OF A
strategy for the meeting about my gang affiliation but I could come up with nothing other than to address the big players as succinctly as I could and try not to look like an idiot. I would explain my dilemma and see if they could sort it out for me. It wasn’t a very sophisticated approach, but it was the best I could come up with.

The truth was, I was afraid of the shot-callers. I didn’t know all of them by sight; they were just a faceless body controlling the prison and my fate within it. Other than Finn and DumbDumb, I’d never come across a real-life criminal before I was indicted myself.

After I was indicted, however, it was a very different story. Once the affair became public, a stunning array of acquaintances came forward and revealed themselves to have skeletons in the cupboard, from making unsuccessful drug deals to living off immoral earnings. It just reminded me how arbitrary the whole process could be – some people got away with stuff, others didn’t.

Around this time I was very involved in building up a pub group in London through my consultancy company, Gambatte. Having had time to digest the indictment and talk to me about it, the other main partners, unfortunately named Crouch and Standing (Dan Crouch and brothers Giles and Gavin Standing) became great personal supporters, as well as friends and partners. They were the creative force behind our main bars, the Lock Tavern in Camden, and Brighton Rocks in Brighton. I dealt principally with the financial side of things and, mainly thanks to their innate sense of style and understanding of music, the business went from strength to strength.

One day, we had finished a meeting at our new venue, The Defectors Weld, in Shepherds Bush, when one of our lawyers, Ray, suggested we move on to a ‘more up-market’ place for another glass of wine or two. Gavin and Giles were busy and normally I would always make sure I picked up Calum from school in Brighton, but that night he was staying with my stepmother, Audrey.

I liked Ray a lot. He was a good old London boy, smart and always helpful and practical in dealing with the legal issues of the bars. He reminded me of Bob Hoskins – a little heavy set, with grey swept-back hair, overcoat sitting on his shoulders, and a cheeky grin. He was also another person I’d met after being indicted who didn’t seem to judge me on the media version of the case.

‘I know the perfect place for you, Mulgrew,’ he said mischievously. ‘Full of dodgy geezers – you’ll have a right laugh.’

I could do with a laugh, I thought, after the stress of the extradition hearings, the panic about being dragged off to prison in America, the dread of having to tell Calum. I was disciplined about not drinking too much, especially when I was in London, but I felt a few glasses of wine wouldn’t harm me.

In the taxi over towards Mayfair, Ray told me that we were going to a private club that was more akin to the types of places he liked and he wished our pub group would open in the future. From the two well-dressed, enormous doormen with earpieces and stony expressions at the front of this Mayfair townhouse, I could see immediately it was the type of place we would never open. Not our market, not our niche. The doormen looked Russian and the whole place reeked of grandeur and opulence. It was surprisingly busy for a Tuesday afternoon and I immediately felt scruffy in my faded jeans, white shirt and black jacket. I wished I’d shaved too.