Gang of One: One Man's Incredible Battle to Find His Missing (7 page)

My last call was to Jim Moonier, a great American friend who had travelled from Hawaii to be there the day I first arrived in Houston and had introduced me to two friends of his, Bob and Teresa Rose, who had helped me settle so much into a challenging new life in Houston. Jim had then dedicated a lot of his time to trying to help me track down Cara Katrina. He told me he had finally made contact with a private investigator who had experience of dealing with Tunisia and that he seemed confident that if she was there they could locate her, and make an assessment of what kind of life she was leading. They would look at whether she was going to school, her living arrangements and the family circumstances. When I had first arrived in Houston I had spoken to Cara just one time, when Laura had briefly put her on the phone about a week after I arrived. ‘Love you daddy’ were the last words I had ever heard her say. I’d quickly said ‘Love you too Cara’ but Laura had taken the phone back and although I knew it was a small thing I often wondered if she’d heard my words. I prayed she had, that they were the last words she’d heard from her father.

For years later I clung to the simple fact that she’d sounded happy. After that, the mobile number Laura had given me rang out, but was never answered and after a few more weeks I began to panic. Since Laura hadn’t contacted Calum either, I was sure they had gone. My initial phone calls from Houston to the British Police had got me nowhere, with the police refusing to take seriously my concerns that Cara had disappeared. I could hardly blame them; by the time I had explained my circumstances and extradition their cynicism was understandable. I was, after all, a bad guy – no one really buys in to the concept of ‘innocent until proven guilty’, and anyway, a few weeks or months without contact didn’t necessarily mean abduction.

Time, however, is always of the essence in a disappearance case – the trail goes cold very quickly. Eventually, frustrated by numerous phone calls where the police continued to refuse to give me a case number unless I reported the disappearance in person at a police station in the UK (slightly awkward given my circumstances), my step-mother Audrey and my half-sister Anoushka marched into a station in Sussex and refused to leave until I was given one. Without a case number, I couldn’t begin the court process of seeking the phone records and bank account details that I hoped may provide some clue on where she might have been taken to. Their perseverance ensured we had some leads which in time pointed to Paris, then possibly Ohio in the US (it shares the same 216 telephone code as Tunisia and Laura, as a US citizen, had always liked the mid-West), then eventually to Tunisia, Abdul’s birthplace.

My heart lurched when Jim said the investigator thought he might even be able to get a photograph of Cara. A photograph? Of Cara? How would she look now? Frankly, the idea frightened me. It would be a visual confirmation of how much time had passed since I’d last seen her. I couldn’t imagine my daughter looking any different, although I knew she must. Still, it was very encouraging.

Buoyed by this conversation, I walked back into the Rib Shack where Reid was looking incongruous in his suit amongst the dozens of assorted truckers, bikers and red-necks. I ate my ribs with renewed relish, suddenly hungry.

‘Wow, did Bush call and give you a reprieve?’ Reid asked, surprised at my new-found energy.

‘Not funny,’ I said. ‘No, Jim Moonier thinks he’s found a private investigator that might lead us to Cara. He thinks he might be able to find out how she is. Maybe even get some pictures of her . . .’ The words were catching in my throat; the thought of seeing a picture of my little girl again making me feel very emotional.

‘He’s some friend. You’re lucky to have someone like him.’

‘Yes, yes, I am,’ I said, meaning it. And I realised that even on this darkest of days I could find some positives. All my calls had gone better than I expected, and then the good news Jim had given me about the investigator had boosted me further. But the thought of being that close to a breakthrough in finding Cara also added to my frustration. As if sensing the dip in my mood, Reid spoke.

‘Look. You have to concentrate on one thing now – getting yourself home safely and as quickly as possible. When you get there, they will give you a Case Manager, and it’s your right to see them within the first month you arrive. You need to put that in writing as soon as you can and hold them to the one month. There are probably only about three Case Managers in Big Spring for 1,500 inmates, so you might only get ten minutes with yours. At that first meeting you MUST put a transfer request in immediately to get a return to the UK. If you don’t request it in writing, they won’t process it. You will only get one ten-minute meeting with your Case Manager each year, so you can’t afford to waste time discussing anything else with them – no matter what else may be happening to you inside.’

Ten minutes, once a year. I focused on it, like it was a chink of light.

‘The papers covering your case and Cara’s abduction have all already been sent to the prison and they may even give you them today or tomorrow. It’s your legal right to receive them. They show the deal you did with the US Government to get you transferred home to England early, when you can properly search for Cara – but don’t assume that your Case Manager will have the slightest knowledge about it or care anything about the fact Cara Katrina is missing. You need to push them on that point.’ I smiled at Reid as he paused, grateful for all he was trying to do for me.

‘Time is against you, Gary,’ he continued, more solemnly than before. ‘It’s been two years already since you last saw her, and the longer it takes to get you home, the less likely it will be that you will find her again, or have any chance of getting her back into your life. That’s just the reality. Whatever you do in there, keep out of trouble and don’t get involved in other people’s disputes. With luck you could be transferred out of there in a year . . .’ He trailed off, not sounding too convinced it could be that quick. His little speech had helped me though, and I tried to focus on what the prize was – however far away. Even though I had the legal right to bring Cara back to the UK, I had to do what was right for her, and every day that she became more settled and comfortable in a foreign country increased the possibility that allowing her to remain there might be the best thing for her. It was always about her – about what was best for her. The problem was: how could I be sure she was happy there, that Tunisia was a better life option for her than England? Deep down I didn’t think it would be, but without knowing exactly where she was and what her life was like, I could not be sure. These thoughts swirled through my head as we decided to make our way down to the prison and drive around the perimeter. Even though we were just killing time, I was, understandably, still reluctant to go in early.

The facility was huge, wrapped in a twenty-foot barbed wire fence that stretched for miles around its perimeter. It sat on a slight hill and had panoramic views of the dustbowl of Texas on three sides. It was just after 1 p.m. now, the sun was at its most brutal, and all the resolve I’d built up in the Rib Shack quickly melted away. I hardly saw any inmates, but those I did see milling around immediately intimidated me.

We drove around a little longer, saying very little, until it approached 2 p.m. – my check-in time. We didn’t speak as we approached an inauspicious-looking front door. It could have been a tax department or the place you went to pay your parking fines, apart from the sturdy crew of Correctional Officers milling about. I stood with Reid for a moment outside to say our goodbyes. It felt awkward, and I was anxious to get started; to get on with it and to get home to Cara and Calum. I hugged Reid again, gave him the $50 I had in my pocket, thanked him for the twentieth time and stopped him from saying sorry for the thousandth. I walked away and got ready to go in the main door. Reid was still standing there about ten feet away, just watching me.

‘Dude!’ (It sounded more like ‘doood’ in a Scottish accent.) I turned to face him. ‘You need to bugger off back to Washington and let me get on with this.’ I looked to the floor, unable to take the intensity of his gaze. Finally looking back up, I moved towards him then quickly hugged him one more time. ‘Go!’ I said, pointing towards his car and the highway to freedom. He went to speak, but said nothing, just gave me an apologetic tap on my arm, picked up his bag, and turned and walked away.

I turned around to be confronted by a large, bulky officer, standing in the doorway, grinning with anticipation.

‘That sure was emotional now, wasn’t it?’ he twanged in a deep Southern drawl. ‘Why me an ol’ Butters here was nearly cryin’. Wasn’t we, Butters?’

‘Sure was, Malone,’ said the tall, spindly Butters, with a grin. Malone had a small moustache and a squint in one eye, which made it look like he was simultaneously watching me and Reid as he made his way through the car park. What I took for his good eye was looking me up and down.

‘Now who have we got here?’ he asked to no one in particular. I went to respond but hesitated as he pulled out his clipboard. ‘Let me see now – hmmm.’

God, it was hot. I desperately wanted to get in out of the sun, but the big guy was blocking my way. ‘Mulgrew. Mulgrew, sir. My name’s Mulgrew,’ I finally said, desperate to get inside.

‘What’s that you say!?’ he looked up. ‘Mildew, Mildew you said? There ain’t no Mildew . . .’ he tailed off as he went down his list. The heat was brutal – worse even than Houston. Had this been some sort of administrative joke – sending a man from Glasgow to the desert?

‘Mulgrew, Mullll-ggrew,’ I said more deliberately, but feeling that it just made my accent stronger than ever. I hadn’t imagined it would be so hard to get into prison.

‘There’s a MULGREW here. Is that what you meant to say, boy? Is that your name?’ He looked up, but seemed to be addressing his question far out into the desert.

‘Yes, yes. That’s me.’

‘Don’t want you getting in if you’re not supposed to!’ he chortled as he scrutinised his list again, still blocking the door. ‘Now let’s see . . .’ I tried to cover my face from the sun with my hands. It was so bright. I’d never get used to this fucking sun.

‘Oh!’ Malone stopped suddenly and looked at me. ‘Oh my. Well lookie here!’ I tried to peer at his clipboard to see what all the excitement was suddenly about. ‘He’s the ENRON guy!!’ Malone exclaimed.

‘Fucking marvellous,’ I thought. ‘I’m going to prison and they still don’t know what for.’

‘Hey, Butters. Lookie here. We done got us the ENRON guy!!’ Malone exclaimed gleefully. The previously semi-slumbering Butters moved over with surprising speed and looked at me like I was an alien specimen. They both peered for a few moments as the sun continued its relentless frying of my lily-white skin. A fly buzzed past while they looked me up and down.

‘He don’t look like nuthin’,’ was Butters’ considered opinion after a moment or two. Butters didn’t look much like nuthin’ to me either: tall and gangling with protruding teeth and sparse clumps of light blonde hair around his chin, like he was growing a beard section by section. He reminded me of a cartoon drawing from the
Beano
, a comic I read when I was a boy.

‘Mildew, the Enron guy,’ Malone mused slowly, nodding his head. With them both blocking the doorway, there seemed little chance of me gaining access to their fine establishment, and the sun was unrelenting. I took a deep breath.

‘Can I come in? Please?’

Malone sprang into life. ‘Oh! Can I come in pu-leese! Did you hear that, Butters? Can I come in, pu-leese! I think we got some fuckin’ royalty!’ He pointed to a seat in the corner and went off to fetch some keys, muttering to himself.

I was glad to get inside and sit down; even just a few minutes’ exposure to the afternoon sun had drained me. There was air-conditioning of sorts inside and it provided some respite. I could see immediately that the reception area was as tired and dilapidated as the two people manning it, a realisation which added to my general sense of deepening despair.

Coming back over, Malone prompted me through the metal detector as a disinterested Butters emptied my pockets and checked my shoes. Suddenly very perfunctory, they started to ‘process’ me, speaking as if I was not there, save occasionally to tell me to sit, stand or to turn around. Eventually Malone clipped the cuffs on me. I heard that unique ‘crick’ sound, and remembered the last time I’d heard it – two years ago – at George Bush International Airport, when this nightmare began. And I still hadn’t woken up.

I was placed in a small holding cell where I sat in silence for about an hour. I was glad of the solitude, and even more grateful for the cold stone bench and being out of the direct sunlight. I lay out on the bench, and awkwardly put my handcuffed hands behind my head and stared at the ceiling. The cold stone felt good against my back. I cocked my head to watch Malone mechanic-ally filling in form after form, while Butters sat nearby, his arms resting on the table and cushioning his head as he slept soundly.

The stone bench was the only item of furniture other than an uncovered stainless steel toilet. I stared some more at the ceiling and thought about all the TV shows and movies I had watched over the years, where people were held in some holding tank like this until some smartypants lawyer rescued them.

Malone was soon on the phone to one of his buddies. ‘Guess who I got here?’ he asked excitedly. ‘Nope . . . Nope . . . Nope . . .’ Then a longer pause. ‘Nope again!’ Malone was clearly enjoying the suspense. ‘I’ll tell you. The Enron guy!’ Obviously pleased with the response, he looked over at me as he continued. ‘I’m looking right at him right now.’ This wasn’t strictly true, but I didn’t want to be pedantic. ‘He don’t look like nuthin’,’ he clarified, still smiling. ‘Millions,’ he then said, in answer to the next question. ‘Hundreds of millions, I think.’

‘I heard it was like thousands and millions, or billions or something like that,’ piped up Butters, awake again suddenly.

‘Processing him right now. Come on up, take a look-see!’ said a delighted Malone as he hung up the phone, seemingly anticipating a party. I sighed and stared up at the ceiling again and wondered about the number of desperate souls who must have occupied this cell. Did it matter if people didn’t understand why I was in here?