Gang of One: One Man's Incredible Battle to Find His Missing (8 page)

My thoughts were interrupted again as Malone approached the cell. ‘Time for your strip search, Mildew,’ he said, with a smile that disturbed me.

I got up as he unlocked the cell and followed him over to a corner area, where a doctor in a white coat had just entered.

‘This is the Enron guy, Mildew,’ announced Malone proudly, as if he’d caught, tried and sentenced me himself.

‘
Habla español
?’ the doctor asked, ignoring Malone.

‘No,’ I lied, figuring it was safer initially if people didn’t know I could speak some Spanish.

He looked up at me quickly. He was young, maybe mid twenties, Hispanic, with a small Colombian flag on his lapel, which I took as a good sign. All the Colombians I had met in the US had been kind and considerate, but this man looked jaded, tired like the building itself. I could understand why.

‘Take your clothes off, then open your mouth wide.’

Malone de-cuffed me, then stood beside me, still grinning, and clearly not going anywhere. I stripped off quickly and stood upright, looking straight ahead and trying not to think of my last strip search with Marshal Dave.

The doctor ran quickly and professionally through his check. Mouth, hair, armpits, feet, soles of feet and then onto the mid-section. He had a quick rummage around my balls, with a delicacy that Marshal Dave could have done well to have learned, before he suddenly stopped, sat back, sighed and said quietly, ‘
Dios mio
. What is that?’ He was pointing right at my willie.

Both I and Malone looked down simultaneously to see what the drama was about, Malone peering way too close to my private parts with his operational eye.

‘Is that a foreskin?’ the doctor asked – somehow combining surprise and resignation.

‘What kind of a question is that?’ I thought. ‘Of course it’s a fucking foreskin! You’re the doctor! What’s wrong with a foreskin?’ I scrutinised myself closely in case I had some ‘foreskin issue’ I had hitherto not detected.

‘Aye, er, yes, it’s a foreskin, sir,’ I said. I noticed Malone was looking at it, perturbed and shaking his head. ‘Shit,’ I thought. ‘Now I’m going to be the Enron guy with a foreskin!’

‘Don’t call me sir,’ the doctor responded more kindly. ‘I’m a doctor, not an officer. Malone!’ he called – wafting his hand towards the guard as he turned back around in his chair to make some further notes.

‘Ah yes,’ began Malone tentatively. ‘Pull the foreskin back, Mildew.’ He jabbed his finger doubtfully towards it. Embarrassed and uncomfortable, I pulled it back while I looked straight forward. ‘Flip it round and to the side,’ Malone asked, a look of disquiet etched on his face. I flipped my foreskin about like a five-year-old who’s just discovered it can move, while Malone scrutinised it closely for hidden contraband. It seemed it was the only time both his eyes focused on the same thing, or maybe that was my imagination.

The doctor kept his back to me and said, ‘OK, that’s fine.’

At another command from the doctor, Malone, his intermediary, instructed me to bend over and spread my buttocks. I sighed.
Here we go again
. I bent over for what seem like an age. ‘Cough,’ said Malone, and I spluttered, trying not to let the situation get to me. I could tell he was close behind me and having a proper look as I tensed my buttocks involuntarily. Fortunately, his cheeks never touched mine.

‘Alright, Mildew, straighten up and put your clothes on,’ Malone said.

‘Can’t be fun that job,’ I thought.

‘I need to re-cuff you, Mildew, then I’m taking you to see the shrink.’

‘His name’s Mulgrew,’ the doctor said, spinning around from his desk.

‘What?’ replied Malone, surprised.

‘This man’s name is Mulgrew. Mulgrew,’ he said, tailing off and shaking his head. I caught his eye and mouthed ‘thank you’ as he turned back on me again and resumed his paperwork.

‘A’ight, a’ight. Mul-grew, let’s go see the psych.’

Malone grumbled as he led me down a long narrow corridor towards another room. It was strange, but after preparing myself for all manner of insults and humiliations during that first day inside, in the end my defences had been pierced by the smallest piece of compassion. I wanted to go back and hug that young Colombian doctor, I really did.

As Malone and I ambled down the long narrow corridor, I already sensed that everything would be on slow time in the Big Spring Correctional Facility. The corridor had brown painted walls and no pictures or signs, other than one announcing the presence of the psychiatrist’s office. The air-conditioning didn’t seem to work here, so it felt claustrophobic and hot. I couldn’t tell if it was just the influence of my mood and growing fear, but Big Spring had an oppressive, depressing atmosphere to it. The paintwork was peeling in many places and I noticed that most of the office furniture and equipment was old and in need of repair. It seemed a grim place to work – as if the staff were being punished as much as the inmates.

The interview with the psychiatrist only lasted about two minutes. She was a white, middle-aged woman, in a cramped office, with an old bleeping computer terminal and papers scattered everywhere; under-invested and tired, like everything else I’d seen. And yet the US managed to present itself to the outside world as cutting edge and dynamic, the greatest nation on earth.

My shrink didn’t look up, just kept her face down, writing furiously.

‘Take a seat,’ she barked. A shrink with anger issues, I noted. ‘Mulgrew, right?’ she asked, still without looking at me.

‘He’s the Enron guy,’ Malone put in, trying to fit his large frame into the small office. Now she looked up.

‘Malone, you know you’re not supposed to be in here. Wait out in the corridor!’ He shuffled off dejectedly. ‘Mulgrew, right?’ she asked again, this time looking right at me. She had layers of poorly applied make-up, enhancing, rather than disguising the terminal tiredness of her face. Imagine living in a town like Big Spring, I thought, then coming here every day to work. Didn’t she hope for something better?

‘Yes, ma’am,’ I responded, wondering whatever happened to her American dream. I switched into a perfunctory mode, anxious to get all the formalities done with, and get myself tucked up in a solitary cell, which I’d read was the usual process for your first few days. To be honest, I liked the sound of that – a bit of time alone to get used to things and prepare myself.

‘You ever felt like harming yourself, Mulgrew?’ she asked, head down, pen at the ready as she returned to her form. This was speed psychiatry.

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Ever felt suicidal?’

‘No.’

‘Ever wanted to commit self-harm?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Ever been sexually assaulted?’

‘Nope.’

‘Physically assaulted?’

‘Nope.’

She sighed, clearly bored by the questions or my answers, or both.

‘Have you ever attacked or sexually assaulted anyone?’ she continued.

‘Nope.’

‘When did you last cry?’

Celtic’s UEFA Cup Final defeat in Seville in 2003 sprang to mind . . .

‘Can’t remember.’

‘Do you cry often?’

Like a baby that day.

‘Nope.’

‘Do you feel like harming yourself now?’

If you keep asking me all these stupid questions . . .

‘Nope.’

‘Are you a member of any of these gangs?’ she asked, handing me an extensive laminated menu covering such luminaries as the Paises, Sorenos, Crips, Bloods, Aryan Brotherhood and a whole host of others I had encountered on the Internet, and was soon to meet more directly. Just reading about them had made me scared enough.

‘No, ma’am,’ I answered, as I handed the card back. Her eyes narrowed, as if I couldn’t be telling her the truth. She paused, before playing her trump card.

‘Have you ever been associated with or had an affiliation with any other gang or gang members?’

Now this was a tricky one. Technically, having been brought up in Pollok, Glasgow’s equivalent of Beirut, and more specifically within its epicentre, Dormanside Road, I was ‘affiliated’ with the 50 Krew. These were named, unglamorously, after the Number 50 bus terminus that sat at the bottom of our street, and their activities ran to glue-sniffing, boot polish inhalation, a wee bit of breaking and entering and the occasional GBH when they had drank too much – which was most days. They were altogether less sophisticated than the Latin Kings, West Texas Mafia and the like, and in any case, I’d spent the better part of fourteen years trying to avoid the 50 Krew, so I knew what my answer had to be.

‘Nope.’

‘OK, Mulgrew,’ she said, ripping a piece of paper clear of her notebook, ‘you’re cleared for general population. Give this to Malone, on your way out.’ Rather ominously, she added, ‘Good luck,’ as I closed the door behind me – for the first time sounding as if she meant it.

To be honest, I was less interested in this, than what she’d said about ‘general population’. I thought I was going to solitary. Still handcuffed, I proffered my slip of paper to Malone.

‘Wow, straight into general pop! Good luck with that,’ he smiled. Another one wishing me luck. I suddenly wished I could go back in to the psychiatrist’s office. Maybe I could start acting a little unhinged – or talk up my years of involvement with the deadly 50 Krew. Anything to get myself a few days’ solitary. Panic was really beginning to set in as Malone pulled me again by the arm, sensing my hesitation.

‘One more to go, Mulgrew, then you’re out there with the general pop-u-lation,’ he said, enjoying the emphasis. I shuddered. I wasn’t ready for the general population. I tried to get a grip of myself, but my heart was racing. I’d only just arrived and already I felt cheated. I wasn’t ready for this. I was supposed to get time to get ready – get a single cell for a few days in a separate area – that’s what I had read about on the Internet!

Numbly, I stood for the last examination, which involved me stripping naked again as an officer detailed my tattoos. This was how they could tell gang affiliations and those details of an inmate’s general history that didn’t feature in his prison file; the tattoos were often personal story-boards of a life lived on the edge. After being introduced by Malone once more as ‘the Enron guy’, the bored officer, still seated, got to work.

‘Stand over there. Strip off. Point out your tats. All of them.’

I only had one tattoo, a Scottish thistle surrounded by Calum and Cara’s names on the top and by the Japanese kanji ‘
ki-gyu
’ on the bottom. I had lived for four years in Japan, in what now seemed like someone else’s life, so the kanji had some resonance for me. Plus it meant ‘freedom’ – somewhat ironic given my current circumstances. I pointed to my right arm, at which point the officer started to photograph it from several different angles and take some notes.

‘You an opium trader, Mulgrew?’ the tattoo expert asked after a few minutes of staring at it through a small glass scope.

‘No, he’s the Enron guy,’ interjected Malone, his enthusiasm for that remark undiminished by frequent use.

The other officer squinted at me. He was probably in his early thirties and seemed neater, tidier and better educated than the others. Unlike Malone, his uniform was pristine and ironed, he was clean-shaven and smart looking, and he wasn’t chewing gum or tobacco. ‘The Enron guy, huh?’ he mused. ‘What’s an Enron guy got an interest in opium for, then?’ He scooted back on his chair, for the first time looking at my face. ‘Was that your bag then, Mulgrew? Is that how you and Skilling got off?’ Skilling had been the CEO of Enron and, at that time, he was Public Enemy Number One. I had only ever met him once and had instantly liked him, although I can’t say we lit up an opium pipe together.

‘Is that what you did with the money, Mulgrew, all that money?’ Money sounded more like ‘muuh . . . ney’ – a loving, intimate pronunciation. He was looking at me, expecting an answer.

‘I don’t understand,’ I murmured, deferentially.

The officer raised his eyebrows and, scooting back across the floor, jabbed at my tattoo.

‘The poppy,’ he said.

I glanced from my green and purple tattoo to him and back again. ‘It’s a thistle, sir,’ I exclaimed a bit too enthusiastically. His eyes narrowed. ‘Because I’m from Scotland,’ I added hastily.

Without another word, he examined the tattoo again, in closer detail, like a diamond dealer with a suspect stone. Eventually he spoke, pulling back in his chair, clearly satisfied with his work. ‘Thistle . . . My . . . . Ass! I’m marking that mother down as a poppy, ’cos that’s what it is!’

With that he chuckled to himself, gathered his papers and his scope and disappeared. Then, before I could gather my thoughts, Malone handed me first one card, then some papers. ‘That’s your prison number – carry it around with you at all times and especially when you go for chow. And this here is the rules for Big Spring – it’ll tell you all you need to know about survivin’ in Big Spring. If you can!’ he added with relish that I didn’t enjoy.

For a moment I thought my legs would give way on me, but I mentally got a grip of myself, determined that Malone wouldn’t see my nervousness.

They weren’t seriously going to put me straight in with all these people, were they? The moment of truth had arrived and the thought simply terrified me. I wasn’t ready. I needed more time. We walked down the corridor towards a door I guessed would lead to the outside and into the prison yard. As we approached it, Malone stopped then turned to me and double-checked my handcuffs.

‘Now, Mulgrew?’ he asked, suddenly assuming a considerate tone – which alarmed me even more. ‘Probably best if you don’t mention that Enron thing whilst you’re in here.’ Malone seemed oblivious to the irony of this piece of advice. ‘Some people lost a lot of money in that thing,’ he went on, earnestly, ‘and they’ll be pissed once they heard that you got it.’

No longer surprised by what else this day would hold, I hesitated as he reached for the door. ‘“My tattoo’s a Scottish thistle.” That’s some cool shit you tried to pull there, Mulgrew. Cool shit!’ Before I could reply, he had opened it, pushing me gently out into the blinding heat and sunlight.

5

INTO THE LIGHT