As the day of my operation drew near, I became incredibly nervous. The doctors were planning on using a new, experimental surgery, which had me absolutely terrified. They were going to thrust coils up through the artery in my groin, push them all the way into my brain and pack the aneurysm with them. It was quite a controversial method of stemming the bleeding and if they accidentally punctured the vein then it was 'bye bye Terry'.
Fortunately I was put to sleep whilst they did the surgery. Their first attempt didn't work, which added a week to my stay in hospital because they had to wait until my artery recovered before trying again. Attempt number two was a success. I couldn't leave straightaway because they still needed to keep me in until my brain had fully recovered, but I could get out of bed without fear of dying. This meant that I was finally free to move about the room after weeks of lying in the same position.
Up until this point I had been unable to get up and shave my legs so one of my first ventures out of bed was a trip to the bathroom to give them a going-over with a razor. Once I had got them looking nice and smooth again, I had a sudden urge to get some fresh air so I headed out onto the hospital balcony. This proved to be a big mistake. There was some building work going on nearby and the smell of the site reminded me of cocaine because a lot of dealers cut their drugs with brick dust. It brought my addiction back to the forefront of my mind and made me want to go out looking for a dealer.
Although the doctors never specifically told me that my haemorrhage was drug-related, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that coke was definitely a factor. My nose was itching for a bag but I knew full well that it would mess me up and decided there and then that I was never going to give in to it again. Shovelling that stuff up my nose was far too risky now. I would just have to be strong and learn to say no.
I have since found out that being under the influence of alcohol and cocaine at the same time is particularly bad for you. The chemicals contained in the drugs combine to form a third even more dangerous substance known as cocaethylene, which heightens both the positive and the negative effects. In hindsight it was probably all the times that I had snorted a line, then downed a shot of Malibu that brought on the haemorrhage. Stress could have also played a part but there is no point trying to pretend that drugs weren't at least partially to blame.
My alcohol intake was also going to have to come right down. I didn't have the willpower to cut it out altogether but promised myself that I would at least stop getting blotto. Ending up in hospital again wasn't an option. My poor mum had suffered enough the first time round without me knackering my brain again.
On the day of my discharge, I took a moment to reflect upon how close to death I had been and thanked God I had managed to pull through. I couldn't waste my second chance at life; I'd obviously been given it for a reason. It was time to take things easier and put the partying to one side. Some of the Silvas' relatives had agreed to let me stay at their place until I found my feet again, which was good because they lived in the sticks, where there was no cocaine. Their house was on a finca, an area in the middle of the countryside where people lived in shacks. I can't thank them enough for putting me up because it was the ideal place to unwind and detox.
The downside to living on a finca was that we had no roof, electricity or running water. The house looked like a barn and left us exposed to the weather. It was strange because most of our neighbours worked on the nearby farms, but the family I was staying with owned their own bar in the centre of Los Christianos. I guess they liked the simple life.
Grateful as I was that that my hosts had agreed to let me stay with them, I soon grew tired of their rather humble accommodation and started looking for a place of my own. The Bungamar had suited my purposes whilst I was in party mode but I didn't fancy going back there now that I was off the drink and drugs. If I had seen it in the sober light of day I probably wouldn't have touched it with a bargepole.
I eventually got word that a girl in one of the town centre complexes was looking for a housemate and decided to move in with her. This was to be a true test of my resolve. It was easy enough to remain clean-living whilst I was tucked away in the back of beyond but I wondered whether I would give in to temptation in a place with bars around the corner. I hoped my aneurysm had changed me for the better and given me more respect for my body. Maybe it was the wake-up call I needed. Only time would tell.
Chapter 7
MY DAY IN COURT
My new place was a huge improvement. It was in a pleasant location, I got on with my housemate and I even managed to find myself a job at one of the local bars. Things were really starting to look up. I had the occasional alcoholic tipple but no longer felt the urge to drink myself under the table. Perhaps I had finally got things under control. It was just a pity the threat of jail still hung over me. I felt as if my perfect life could come toppling down at any given moment.
The bar that I worked at was owned by a family from Leeds called the Fitzgeralds, who were old friends of mine. A lot of people would have hesitated to take on a girl with an outstanding court case but they didn't seem to have a problem with it, which shows how kind-hearted and non-judgemental they are. The only downside to working at their bar was the fact that I was constantly surrounded by drink.
Although I no longer consumed half as much alcohol as I used to, I still had boozy nights out every now and then. Oestrogen can cause blood clots if you've had an aneurysm so I had to stop taking the pill after my haemorrhage. This should have made me more cautious but when you're under the influence, you rarely stop to consider the consequences of your actions. Tenerife is all about drinking and cavorting with men and I did plenty of both. I tended to move on from one bloke to another fairly quickly and it was only when I took a pregnancy test and got a positive result that I realised just how foolish I had been. Alcohol had clouded my judgement and I had failed to take the necessary precautions.
The baby's father seemed nice enough at first. He was short with cropped hair and had a very cute look to him. The problem was that he was also a cokehead and after a week of knocking about with him, I realised that the drugs had had a major effect upon his personality. One minute he would be laid-back and friendly, the next thing he would act like a nutter. Even if he would have made the number one daddy, I still don't think I would have kept the baby because I didn't know if I was going to get sent down or not and it would have been unfair on the child.
After a lot of soul-searching, I eventually came to the conclusion that there was no other option but to have an abortion. It was a difficult decision but I couldn't face leaving my little one wondering where its mother was whilst I was trapped behind bars. Having a baby was completely out of the question. Going to the clinic was a necessity rather than a choice.
Even though I knew that I was doing the right thing, the abortion still left me feeling like shit. Drink had contributed yet again to my misery. I found myself cursing the day that I first picked up a glass of Malibu and wished I had spat it out.
The next piece of bad news came in the form of a phone call from my mum. She told me that she had received a letter from the court saying that I was due for trial on the 24 March. This didn't give me much time to prepare. My boss at the bar had given me the details of the solicitor that he used, so I scheduled an appointment with him as soon as possible.
The solicitor was called Pedro and reminded me of a thinner version of Antonio. He absolutely reeked of corruption but I reasoned that this was probably nothing out of the ordinary where members of the legal profession were concerned. Something wasn't quite right about this guy though; he seemed even less trustworthy than your average legal professional. There was nothing about his physical appearance that made me feel this way. It was something intangible that I couldn't put my finger on.
'I'm not a criminal lawyer but your case is quite clear cut so I'll take it on,' he told me. 'I need three million pesetas up front before I can start though.'
This was the equivale
nt of fifteen grand in sterling and should have rung alarm bells but I'd never been in trouble with the law before so I had no way of telling whether or not it was the norm. I wasn't too happy about it but felt I didn't really have a choice. If that was the price of securing my freedom then I would just have to cough up – or should I say my long-suffering mother would, because the abortion had already set me back a fair bit and I was almost broke. Without my mum I wouldn't have been able to afford any legal representation whatsoever so I am eternally grateful to her.
Once the cash had been wired over, Pedro advised me to plead 'not guilty' and told me that it should be quite an easy case to win.
'They've got nothing on you,' he assured me. 'I can't believe they're even going ahead with this. You would have got off scot-free if you had left the country earlier. The court was going to hit you with a deportation order in place of a prison sentence but you were in hospital.'
This was just my bloody luck. Trust my aneurysm to strike at the time it did. It seemed as if everything that could possibly go wrong had done. At least now I could set about taking positive steps to clear my name. Pedro and I spent the next few weeks going through what little evidence the prosecution had of my supposed involvement in the crime. I was determined to prove to the world that I was no crook.
'They are trying to use an entry from your diary against you,' Pedro told me. 'They say you wrote that "the parcel has arrived" and said that you were dreaming about what you would do with the money.'
I did write both of these things but neither of them had anything to do with transporting drugs. The first sentence related to the money that Antonio's wife had sent over and the second was about my payout for the car crash. I had only spent a fraction of my compensation and couldn't wait to blow the rest on coke. If I had been smuggling large amounts of blow do they really think that I would have been stupid enough to write about it in a diary? I felt insulted that their case hinged around the assumption that I was a complete idiot.
'They will have a hard job securing a conviction using this,' Pedro carried on. 'It's circumstantial evidence at best and they have no other proof that you were anything other than a naïve innocent. We're going to win this one hands down.'
He was telling me exactly what I wanted to hear. In hindsight this was probably an attempt to make me feel better about the fact that I had spent fifteen grand on him. It's difficult to be critical of somebody who offers hope in a desperate situation. He probably could have told me anything with a vaguely positive slant to it and I would have believed it.
By the day of the hearing, I no longer felt nervous. Pedro had spent so long convincing me that I was going to get off that I was confident I had nothing to worry about. It was just a matter of turning up at the trial, stating my case and going home. Our flight to Gran Canaria left at six in the morning and I boarded it with a sense of eager anticipation. I was about to put the lid on this whole horrible episode.
All the way through the flight, Pedro went on about what an open-and-shut case it was. The more he talked, the more I trusted him. For somebody who wasn't even a criminal lawyer, he sure seemed to know his stuff. The prosecution wouldn't know what had hit them. We were going to wipe the floor with them.
As I approached the Provincial Criminal Court of Las Palmas, a small, dumpy Spanish woman came running up to Pedro and asked him what I was doing there. Pedro said something to her in Spanish and she stormed off into the building.
'What was that about?' I asked him, wondering what the lady's problem was.
'That was your co-defendant's solicitor,' he told me. 'She seems surprised that you've turned up.'
I think that everybody had been expecting me to do a runner. This was clearly the done thing for Brits on the island but I was determined to clear my name.
The court proceedings in Spain are very different to England. You don't swear in or take any kind of oath; you just walk in and sit down. The judges looked like random people who had strolled in off the street. There wasn't a wig or robe in sight and one of them was chewing a sweet whilst waiting for the case to start. I almost didn't recognise Antonio when he first entered the court. He had dropped from 19 stone to 9 stone and looked pale and unhealthy. I later found out that he had got hooked on heroin whilst on remand. I guess smack must be a lot worse than crack because he never had any problem keeping his weight on when he was smoking rocks.
'Are you all right?' he asked me as he shuffled past to his seat.
What made this pathetic junkie think that I would want to talk to him after everything that he had put me through?
'No I'm not all right,' I told him. 'I'm not all right at all.'
Shortly after Antonio had sat down, the judges started jabbering away in Spanish. Once they had finished, the prosecution took the floor to ask me some questions.
'In the diary that you wrote during your trip to Brazil, you made references to receiving a sum of money. What was this money for and why were you receiving it?'
'It was compensation for an accident I had back home,' I told them. 'I'd just been paid it before my holiday and I was excited about spending it.'
'Can you prove that this was what the sum was for?'
'Yes I can. My mum can send the papers across.'
This brief conversation was to be the only time I spoke throughout the course of the trial. The judge thanked me for my answers then motioned for Pedro to stand up. He made some brief comparisons to a couple of past cases that were similar to mine and then sat down again. For all his bluster in the run up to the hearing, he didn't seem to have a lot to say. I wasn't sure if this was a good thing or a bad one. Maybe he didn't have to talk a lot because it was already so blindingly obvious that I was innocent.
Now it was Antonio's turn for a grilling. The prosecution interrogated him for a good twenty minutes and he gave lengthy monologues in answer to each question. Every now and again he waggled his finger in my direction, which made me feel a little bit on edge. Was he putting the blame on me or was he telling the court that I knew nothing? I had no way of knowing either way. He also got up out of his seat at one stage and handed the court usher a Filofax. This seemed to create a lot of commotion and had everybody murmuring.
The amount of time Antonio was questioned for made me wonder if I had been brought in as a witness rather than a defendant. The prosecution were obviously a damn sight more interested in him than they were in me. Maybe the police had only arrested me to make sure that I would turn up at court. Surely they would have picked my brains a lot more than they did if they thought that we were partners in crime.
'Is there anything else that you would like to add?' the head judge asked me after Antonio had finally shut up.
'Just that I thought I was going to Brazil purely for a one-week holiday,' I told her.
What else could I really say? The only bits of the hearing that I understood were the questions they had directed towards me in English. Everything else was complete gobbledegook.
'El juicio ha terminado.'
I guessed this meant that we could now leave the courtroom, judging by the fact that everybody was getting up out of their chairs. They don't announce the verdict straightaway in Spain, which meant that I was condemned to another period of uncertainty whilst I waited for it to be sent on to me in the post. It was as if they wanted to prolong my torment for as long as possible.
'How do you think it went?' I asked Pedro on the way out of the building.
I needed reassuring and he was the perfect person to do it.
'Really well,' he smiled. 'I think you're definitely going to be found not guilty. I'll explain the details on the plane back home.'
As we made our way towards the airport, I replayed the court case in my head and couldn't help thinking there was something Pedro wasn't telling me. What was all the pointing and gesturing during Antonio's speech and why had the judges looked at me as if I was a big-time criminal? I had a feeling that the trial had gone a damn sight worse than he was letting
on.
During the flight, Pedro summarised what each person had said.
'This is quite some case you've got here,' he told me. 'Your co-accused told the judges that two policemen and a judge had paid him to pick up the drugs on behalf of the mafia. He handed over a file containing the names and addresses of everybody who was involved and argued that he was just a link in the chain. He also said that he had been threatened into smuggling the cocaine.'
This was beyond belief. I had been given so much grief in Tenerife because Antonio's friends thought that I was a grass and now here he was informing on the Spanish mafia.
'I hope he didn't try and stick me in it,' I told Pedro.
'No, he kept saying how innocent you were,' Pedro assured me. 'He said that if you didn't agree to go to Brazil, he would have taken anyone. You were just somebody to make the trip across look more natural.'
Passport To Hell: How I Survived Sadistic Prison Guards and Hardened Criminals in Spain's Toughest Prisons Page 8
