Gangsters' Wives (6 page)

The arrest, when it eventually came on the 25th July 1988, was horrific and unexpected. In the period leading up to it, everything seemed to have quietened down. There weren’t too many phone calls from Tom. Howard had actually said ‘That’s it, I’m not doing any more’. I thought finally his smuggling days were over. But suddenly the police were swarming over my Mallorcan house and the children were caught up in a horrific nightmare.

‘Mummy, this is the worst day of my life,’ Golly told me. She was only seven and didn’t understand what was happening.

I believed I would be released later that day. I thought it was a mistake and I’d be out. I was stunned when I arrived at the police station in Palma and was told that though I had committed no crime in Spain, I was to be held awaiting extradition to the US. I was being accused of involvement in a series of cannabis importations totalling 700 tons and dating back to 1970, when I was just fifteen. I was flabbergasted.

I didn’t think they could possibly convince a Spanish court to extradite me. I kept thinking they’d let me out. The lawyer was also convinced they’d release me. When I found out I was going to be moved from the prison in Palma where I was being held to Madrid, leaving my children behind in Mallorca in the care of my younger sister Masha and her boyfriend, I just couldn’t believe it.

It was awful. You can’t describe it. You feel so helpless. You’re the mother, you’re meant to be there looking after your kids and you’re not.

My lawyer in Mallorca had gathered witness statements to prove what kind of mother I was and why the children would suffer if I was separated from them for an extended time. I still have the handwritten letter from the headteacher at the children‘s school which avows: ‘My judgement of Mrs Marks is very clear: she is a most caring parent who has devoted her personal attentions and very considerable skills and intellect to the upbringing of her children, intellectually, morally and socially.’

And yet none of that seemed to carry any weight. There’s an expression ‘pain in my heart’. I never knew what it meant until I was arrested and sent to prison. Then I had it all the time – twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

I was taken to the notorious Yeserias prison in Madrid. Howard was in Madrid also, at the top security jail, Alcala-Meco. Apart from seeing each other at court hearings, we were allowed a three-minute phone call every Saturday.

Sometimes I’d lie on my bed in prison and feel really angry with Howard. I’d rant and rage at him in my head and think about the mess he’d got us into, and about what he’d done to my family. Not just me and the kids, but my brother Patrick and my other brother George, who was also wanted by the law because of his connection with Howard. But then I’d see Howard, or talk to him on the phone and I’d just feel terribly sorry for him. That’s a joke isn’t it? I’m lying in jail, my children are parentless and I’m feeling sorry for him.

The prison in Madrid was a shock. Before I got there I had heard stories of the violence and dreadful conditions. But nothing had prepared me for the reality. Yeserias was originally a plaster factory. During the Spanish civil war it became a military hospital. There were still shell holes in the walls.

It was then Madrid’s only women’s prison with an official capacity of 369. When I was there it held over 640 plus fifty children under the age of six. All but four of the three hundred foreigners in the prison were there for smuggling drugs. And drugs were rife in the prison. They were run and controlled by five or six Nigerian inmates. The Spanish were their customers. The Spanish junkies were like packs of wild dogs. Waiting to pounce, to get what they could to feed their heroin habits.

I slept on a thin mattress in a dormitory crawling with cockroaches. Life in there used to make me think of the Jewish ghettos I had seen in old war movies. It was nothing like any kind of prison I had ever seen.

The only thing that kept me going was the hope of getting bail and being allowed to go back to my children. But each time I allowed my lawyer to convince me it was going to happen, I was disappointed. At first I thought I’d be home for Amber’s eleventh birthday in October 1988. When that application was denied, I was sure I’d definitely be out by Christmas. After each refusal, I’d imagine the disappointment on their faces and feel as if I was drowning in blackness.

Seeing the kids in prison was both terrific and awful. I would look forward so much to seeing them, to holding them, smelling them and hearing their voices – yet I was always aware that in too short a time they would be torn from me again. Because of a shortage of money, they were only able to travel up to Madrid every three months. So those visits were extremely precious.

Patrick, as he was under six, was actually allowed into the prison to spend the whole day with me. I was greatly distressed by his behaviour. He’d thump my face, scratch my eyes, pull my hair and bite me. I was riddled with guilt. My sister Masha, who was looking after them back in Mallorca, looked tired and complained of a burst eardrum. I can’t remember what reason she gave for how it happened.

Maybe I should have seen the warning signs, but I was completely blindsided when I received a telegram at the prison in February 1989. It was from our family doctor back in London. Golly had been taken to see him when she fell ill while visiting friends over half term.

Getting that telegram was horrendous. It came as such a shock. And I was helpless to do anything. Masha’s boyfriend had become a junkie and had been beating her up the whole time, although she wouldn’t admit it. The kids had witnessed everything and had also suffered terrible neglect.

My sister hadn’t wanted to get Patrick out of his cot while the boyfriend was still around so the poor little thing had just stayed there for hours on end in a darkened room screaming. His sisters weren’t allowed to go to him.

And yet no one had told us. I still don’t understand why no one did anything. Why hadn’t the school said anything?

I soon realised that people had noticed but weren’t quite sure what to do. My younger brother Marcus, who’d moved to Madrid to help me with my case, hadn’t wanted to say anything because he didn’t want to worry me. Apparently the family doctor in Mallorca had also been to the house and found the boyfriend unconscious, kicked him and said, ‘Shit, he’s still alive.’ So it wasn’t as if people didn’t know what was happening, but no one had wanted to tell me.

It was only the family doctor in London who’d seen Francesca and after an hour’s conversation with her, sent me that telegram.

Can you imagine how that makes you feel as a mother? I was full of anger and loathing against myself for not being there to protect my children.

Immediately, I got in touch with my older sister Natasha, who flew over from the States with her two little boys to take over the care of my children.

After that, I was even more angry with Howard. I can remember lying in my bed wishing I could hit him. But still whenever I saw him, I’d forget those feelings and feel sorry for him.

Getting the telegram in prison was one of my lowest points. The other was when another co-defendant’s lawyer came to see me and told me I was facing fifteen years mandatory. That was pretty awful. I felt as if my head was about to shatter into fragments. I thought: I’m not going to get back to my kids until they’re grown up.

After a year in prison in Spain I volunteered to be extradited to the States because it seemed the quickest way to get out. The translator at the Spanish court told me 90 per cent of the judges in the high court in Madrid didn’t think I was guilty and didn’t think I should be extradited. It was pure pressure from the Americans that kept me in prison. I volunteered to be extradited because otherwise the fight would have dragged on and on.

Also, I’d found out that my brother Patrick had received a three-year sentence, much lower than we’d feared. I thought: Well, if they’ve only given Patrick three years, I’ll only get three seconds, maximum.

I’d thought of going over before his case came to court but Patrick asked me not to because if they had me there, they could have put pressure on me to grass him up. I think the judge at Patrick’s trial realised Patrick hadn’t really been involved to the extent of Howard and Ernie Coombs (the main man in the US). Patrick had been out of that whole thing for years and it was only when Howard sent Moynihan over that he got involved again.

But even though I’d been told I had a good chance of being released, actually arriving in the US was very scary. My moods went up and down as I projected ahead, thinking of the best outcome – that I’d be let off – and then the worst – a long prison sentence in a US jail.

Howard followed me out to America, having lost his extradition fight, and worries about his fate also weighed heavily.

I had moments when I thought: I’m not getting out of here. At first I wanted to plead not guilty to the ludicrous charges that had been made against me but the prosecutor threatened that if I didn’t plead guilty, the charges would be filed under new laws. This meant that if I was found guilty of conspiracy, I’d face a mandatory sentence of fifteen years with no chance of parole.

Realising they had the power to do that, I pleaded guilty of importing hashish into the US. Finally, in December 1989, after I’d been in the States six months, I was sentenced to time served. In other words, I could leave prison. But even then it wasn’t as simple as it seemed. I was released and then immediately re-arrested for being an illegal immigrant and sent to this really awful jail in downtown Miami where I stayed another week or two. I ought to have been ecstatic at the prospect of my imminent release, but my relief was tempered by my horrible surroundings, and by the fact that I’d had to say goodbye to Howard just before leaving the federal prison, not knowing when I’d see him again, if ever. At last, on Monday, 18 December 1989, with very mixed feelings, I boarded a flight from Miami International to Gatwick and then on to Palma in time to spend Christmas with my children.

It was strange getting back. The kids were so much older. Patrick didn’t know who I was. It was upsetting. I was euphoric at first but it only lasted two days, maybe not even that long, because I realised pretty quickly how screwed-up the kids were.

They’d had a great time with my oldest sister. She came over with her two little boys and they were always out doing things – going to the beach, sailing. So that was good. But even though they were with her nine months before I came home, they were still very disturbed by what had happened to them before. I tried to talk to them about it, and I’d find little notes and poems they’d written to me, giving some insight into the horror they’d lived through at the hands of my younger sister’s boyfriend.

Seeing your parents arrested like that and then being placed in the care of your aunt and her violent boyfriend definitely affected them. Patrick was three when I came back and still not speaking – a child psychologist diagnosed severe trauma. I think there’s still a lot of anger there in all of them, particularly the girls. And as I’m the mother I think it is subconsciously directed at me. Mothers are the ones who are meant to be there to nourish and nurture their children. And I wasn’t there.

Meanwhile Howard is up there on a pedestal and can do no wrong. While he was in jail he wrote to Amber and said he had done it all for them. How do you figure that one out, or is it that he was trying to convince himself?

Also, we faced horrendous money problems after my return from prison, absolutely horrendous. All my money had gone on keeping the children and paying lawyers’ fees and Howard certainly didn’t have any. He’s always blown money just as fast as he’s made it. The only reason we ever had a house was because I’d insist on it. Otherwise he’d have had us all living in five-star hotel rooms and buying up the latest electronic gadgets and toys. The money went on nothing really.

Financially it was a complete nightmare. The first thing I did was sell an apartment we had in Palma Nova. I practically gave it away to raise money to get my sister and her kids back to the States and her husband. I was left with just enough to keep the rest of us going for a year, living frugally. During that time I did up the top floor of the house and rented it out in the summer and just did all sorts of odd jobs. I sometimes look back and think how the fuck did I do it. I still managed to pay their school fees. Just.

All our clothes were donated by friends. I had this friend who used to fly out from England twice a year with M&S bags full of clothes. She was an angel. It was so nice to see the children in new clothes instead of their friends’ cast-offs.

I had all sorts of odd jobs. One summer I was working flat out all day. There was this film company and I used to do a lot of the ironing for them. Other friends ran a bar and I was the bouncer, which was a bit bizarre, and I also used to work on the boats. All the jobs I took I only accepted if it meant I could be there when the children came home from school.

And all the time I was worrying about Howard and about what kind of sentence he’d get. The case against him was stacking up.

After my brother Patrick got only three years, the prosecution immediately said they were going to appeal the sentence under the new laws – in which case Patrick would be facing 125 years or one of those stupidly meaningless American sentences. They threatened him with all sorts of things, which they would have carried out, which is when Patrick agreed to make a statement against Howard. He didn’t have any choice. He was either going to spend the rest of his life in jail and leave his children without a dad, or grass Howard up. And let’s face it, he wouldn’t even have been in there in the first place if it wasn’t for Howard sending Moynihan over despite knowing he was working for the DEA. At first I was a bit pissed off with Patrick for testifying against Howard, because Howard had manipulated me to be pissed off. But when you think about it really, he didn’t have any choice.