I spent the build-up to my court case moping around the house and feeling very sorry for myself. Stress was eating away at me and I could hardly even drag myself out of bed each morning. The thought of going back to Maghaberry scared the living daylights out of me. It had been bad enough spending four days there so God knows what eight years would be like.
My trial took place a few months after my release. I got the plane across to Northern Ireland and met my QC in the Crown Court waiting area. It was the first time I had seen him and he reminded me of a crazy old professor. His wig was ruffled, his cloak was tattered and he looked as if he belonged in a museum. Appearances can be deceptive though because he seemed to know his stuff. He told me that I had a good chance of getting a 'not guilty' but added that the prosecution was aware of my conviction in Tenerife, which meant I couldn't claim that I had previous good character to help convince the jury of my innocence.
'I thought that was all over,' I told him.
This was yet another source of worry. Even if I won the case in Northern Ireland, the smuggling charge clearly hadn't completely gone away. In ordinary circumstances, the resurgence of this case would have scared me half to death, but as it was, I only had enough energy left to worry about one thing at a time so I decided to put it to the back of my mind until my trial was over.
After a brief chat with the mad professor, I was escorted into the courtroom by two well-built security guards and placed inside a bulletproof glass box. This was presumably to prevent the UDA from doing a hit on me part way through the hearing. Three very stern, official-looking judges sat at the opposite end of the room and pierced me with deep analytical stares. The entire set-up seemed as if it was designed to scare the wits out of me before the case started.
Luckily I didn't have to say too much during the trial because my QC was on hand to fight my corner for me. He did a brilliant job of defending me, despite the police's various attempts to fit me up. The bomb had been recovered from a cupboard under the stairs that was so crowded with junk that anything could have been hidden there without me being aware of it. This wasn't the picture that the Old Bill painted though. They had taken photos of the interior at a funny angle to try and make out that the cupboard was brimming with space.
'So you believe that my client regularly checked the bag the weapons were kept in?' the professor grilled the arresting officer.
'I do,' the copper nodded.
'OK then, can you please explain how this is possible, given the fact that the bag was recovered from behind a picture and a disused fireplace, both of which were covered from head to toe in dust? This dust would have been displaced if the bag had been opened in the weeks leading up to its recovery. I put it to the court that my client was completely unaware of its contents until the day of her arrest. None of her fingerprints were found on the explosive device, the ammunition or the gun, which goes even further to support my theory. The real terrorist has already pleaded guilty, so why make poor Teresa pay for fact that she was trusting enough to give somebody a spare key to her house?'
His defence was good enough to secure a unanimous 'not guilty'. This should have been a cause for celebration but something didn't seem right. The arresting officer cracked a toothy smile whilst the verdict was read out, which made me wonder whether he was planning on pinning another crime on me. It was as if he knew something I didn't. I was relieved that I had got off but felt as if more trouble was definitely looming on the horizon.
I went straight back to Wingrave after the verdict was delivered and decided that I was going to stay there for the immediate future. Living in Northern Ireland had been interesting but I didn't fancy getting either stitched up for something else by the police or tarred and feathered by the UDA. I had seen the bitterness in the local people's faces when it came to matters of politics and knew they didn't mess about. It was probably for the best that I stayed as far away as I possibly could.
I had got used to living in Wingrave whilst awaiting trial so I no longer found it strange being back. If anything, I enjoyed being closer to my family. My mum had done a lot for me and I really appreciated it even if I sometimes had a funny way of showing it. If it wasn't for her, I would have languished in Maghaberry for weeks on end and the other inmates would have eventually seen through my cover story and started terrorising me.
Mickey had now become like a member of the family as well. He had moved into the house, and he and Mum were a couple. This was quite hard for me to adjust to but I was still happy that she had found someone. The only thing I didn't like about being home was the fact that it could be a little bit boring. I seemed to be lumbered with far too much spare time so I decided to apply for a job to keep me occupied.
I have always been a caring person so I went for an interview for a job as a care assistant, working with women with cerebral palsy. The interviewer seemed impressed with the answers that I gave him and promised me the job on the condition that I had no criminal record.
'You can start work straightaway but I'm afraid we'll have to strike you off if your CRB check comes back with anything we don't like on it,' he warned me.
I had no convictions in the UK so I assumed it would be clean. My second appeal in Tenerife had never been followed up so I wasn't even really a convicted criminal. The Spanish authorities only jailed people after their appeals had failed so by that logic there was nothing to indicate that I had done anything worthy of imprisonment.
Unfortunately CRB checks also list convictions that are pending, which meant that I was called into the boss's office after a couple of weeks at the job.
'Your record says you're part way through being prosecuted in Spain for drug smuggling,' he said as he confronted me. 'Now would you care to tell me what this is all about?'
I explained what had happened and the boss told me that I could carry on with my job, but that I should have let him know about my conviction earlier.
'It was a long time in the past though, so hopefully you can put all that behind you now,' he added, as if to try and lessen the sting a bit.
I loved caring for people so I was made up not to get the sack but also gutted that the allegations were still hanging over me. This meant that Interpol could drag me off and shove me on a plane to Spain at any given moment, although I seriously doubted that anybody was still after me. If I was a wanted criminal then the coppers would have surely caught up with me by now. Leaving a convicted drug smuggler free to commit more crimes for so long didn't make any sense at all.
Even though there was only a tiny chance that I would ever be rearrested, I still wanted to be one hundred per cent certain that I was off the hook so I got in touch with Fair Trials International, a charity offering free advice and legal aid to anybody facing prison overseas. I needed to know where I stood and it seemed as if they were the perfect people to help me find the answers I was looking for. The lady that I spoke to told me that she would make enquiries as to whether or not my case was still ongoing and start the procedure for a royal pardon if it was. This put my mind at rest and made me think that there was finally an end to this nightmare in sight. The fact that she thought I stood a chance of getting a pardon hammered home how unfair my trial had been, because the King of Spain has only ever been known to pardon convicts in exceptional circumstances.
Now that I had a regular source of income and Fair Trials had helped to stop me from worrying so much about being packed off back to Spain, I decided to let my hair down a bit and go out clubbing at the weekends. Up until this point, I had been spending a lot of time indoors because I was paranoid about getting into more trouble. It was nice to be able to let off steam and mingle with other people on a Saturday night. After a few weeks, I eventually got talking to a local lad called Jack and hit it off with him. We had a laugh together and before I knew it, we were going out.
Jack was ten years younger than me but had the kind of cheeky personality that I like in men. We got on well with one another and things were going great until I got a
nother positive result on a pregnancy test. I should have been more careful but had been drinking. The fact that I had repeated the same mistake twice made me feel distraught. Although there was less chance of me going to prison than there had been the first time I got pregnant, the charges still hadn't fully disappeared so there was no way that I was going to have the baby. If I got sent down, Mum would be left looking after it and I had caused her enough trouble as it was.
Abortion number two was just as difficult as the first but I knew that it was the only sensible option. I travelled down to a clinic in London with Jack's sister and never once questioned my choice. My life was far too unpredictable for motherhood and I could barely look after myself, let alone a child.
Jack was supportive of my decision and promised to keep it between the two of us. It made me feel a little bit depressed but didn't do me any serious harm. Before I knew it, I was carrying on with my life as if nothing had happened. The only difference was that I was now a lot more wary about getting pregnant again.
I had to admire the way Jack handled the situation. Blokes have a tendency to run a mile when the little strip changes colour but he was really kind and caring. If our relationship was going to progress then I would have to get a place of my own though. I enjoyed living with Mum but felt as if it was time that I moved out.
As luck would have it, one of my friends from Aylesbury was looking for a housemate so I went to have a nosey at her place to see if it was somewhere that I could see myself living. Her house was in Watermead, which isn't a bad area, and it looked really nice so I told her that I would move in. I should have been excited about my new digs but as you have probably noticed by now, whenever I get my own place, disaster always strikes. I wondered how long it would be before my life plunged back into chaos. Hopefully I would at least get to settle into my new accommodation this time.
Life in Watermead was fairly uneventful to begin with. I enjoyed the feeling of independence that I got from being away from my family but as the months went by, I couldn't help but think that I was teetering on the edge of a precipice, just waiting to fall. Something told me that Gran Canaria was about to finally catch up with me. Trouble never seemed to go away for me. It just lay dormant until my existence seemed as if it was finally hassle free, before coming back with a vengeance.
Chapter 12
OUT OF THE FRYING PAN AND INTO THE FIRE
It was a Monday morning when I got the call.
'Terry, I think you'd better come home.'
Mum didn't even need to tell me what the matter was, because I knew straightaway from her tone that it was about Brazil. I felt nauseous and the blood rushed to my head. I had being given a brief respite from going mad with worry; now it was back to living on my nerves again.
'Why, what's up?' I asked.
I was hoping she was going to tell me that she just wanted me to come round for a chat or that she missed my company.
'Just come over here and we'll deal with it.'
I wanted to run away but knew I couldn't put my mum through any more stress than she was already going through. She sounded worried enough as it was without me pulling a disappearing act. I had been out all weekend so it took a while for everything to sink in. Waking up to a call like that is enough to send you loopy. Luckily I was thinking straight enough to ring Fair Trials. There was no point waiting for my mum to confirm what had happened because I already knew the score.
After briefing Fair Trials on the situation, I flung on a tracksuit over my pink Disney pyjamas and raced off to Mum's. The more I thought about the prospect of going to court again, the more anxious I felt. Was this all my life consisted of? It was one wrongful arrest after another. I seemed to spend more time in the dock than I did at home.
Three burly Scotland Yard officers were waiting for me at the house, which made me feel like public enemy number one.
'Why are there three of you?' I asked them. 'I'm only little.'
'You don't look good on paper,' the officer-in-charge told me.
My criminal record might have made me out to be some kind of major drug smuggler but I was actually a frightened girl in her PJs. They were treating me like Pablo Escobar.
The coppers told me that I needed to go to court to see if I would be extradited. The officer in the court in Northern Ireland had been smiling because he knew that I was facing imprisonment in Spain. He had seen it on my record and wasn't fussed what country I ended up in jail in, just so long as I got locked up.
'You will probably have to put up a lot of cash to get bail,' the Old Bill advised me. 'It's best somebody follows you to court with their bankbook to prove they've got the funds. Otherwise you'll end up being remanded.'
So much for my 'release without further admission'. It was all very predictable. The Spanish authorities had effectively added five years onto my sentence by leaving me in uncertainty for so long. At least I would know it was all over if the courts ruled against sending me back. As the police bundled me into the back of an unmarked car, I resigned myself to my fate. There would be no more quietly getting on with my life; from this moment onwards I would never have a stress-free day. Every waking minute would be spent wondering what the future held.
The officers took me to my house to pick up my passport and we then drove to Bow Street Magistrates in London. They didn't seem to know anything about my case and picked my brains for the entire hour-and-a-half journey. Bow Street was a really horrible, uninviting place; an old, ugly, imposing building with a slightly daunting quality. The ambience of the court gave the impression that anybody who passed through the front entrance must be in serious trouble – and in my case it was very accurate.
The coppers led me into a dirty little holding cell beneath the court. This was where I was to remain until my hearing started. I was pacing the room, wondering if I was going to spend the next ten years somewhere very similar, when the door clanged open and the lady from Fair Trials International came in. She had a barrister in tow, which was a godsend. At least now I had somebody to fight my case for me. I didn't fancy the prospect of going into the courtroom on my own; I would be like a lamb to the slaughter.
There is an easy way of determining whether a barrister is any good or not; it's all in how battered their cloaks are. If it looks brand spanking new then it means that they are inexperienced and probably aren't that great. The fella that I was assigned to had a particularly moth-eaten rag draped over him so he was obviously a pro. Even with my ragged-cloaked lawyer on board, I was still extremely nervous when I entered the courtroom. The judge was older than the ones that had dealt with me in the past and looked very stern and intimidating.
'Are you Teresa Daniels of Wingrave, Buckinghamshire?'
'Yes,' I told him, praying that he wasn't going to tell me I was being shipped straight back to Spain.
'The court is still yet to determine whether you will be extradited. Since you have a record of absconding, I am going to have to set your bail at £10,000. Can you afford this amount?'
Mickey had taken the police's advice and followed me to court on the train. Had he stayed at home, I might have had to spend the night in the clink. He showed the judge his bankbook, which served as proof that he had ten grand available. He didn't have to hand the money over there and then; it was just so that the authorities knew the cash was there in case I did a runner.
'The conditions of your bail are as follows; you are to remain at your current place of abode, you will surrender your passport and remain in the UK and you will report to your local police station at regular intervals. Do you agree with these conditions?'
What choice did I really have? It was a case of either nodding my head and saying 'yes' or saying 'no' and being locked up, so I went for option number one.
'You are now free to leave the court.'
I was mentally exhausted. As Mickey and I made our way to the station, I felt relieved that I still had my freedom but at the same time overawed by the struggle that now lay before me. Th
e Spanish authorities seemed intent on ruining my life. It was just a matter of whether or not the English government would allow somebody who was clearly innocent to be imprisoned over there. I prayed the answer would be no but suspected it might be yes. With all of the things that had gone wrong over the last few years, I felt it would be a miracle if I avoided extradition.
I spent the whole journey back home talking to Mum on my mobile. She had been waiting with baited breath to hear the outcome of the hearing and seemed happy to hear my voice. I explained the situation and she told me we would fight my case together. She sounded so panic-stricken. The constant drama seemed to be really taking its toll on her. It can't be easy seeing your daughter being carted off by Interpol. I just hoped that it would all work out for the best and her stress would come to an end soon.
Mum picked us up from the station, spent a while consoling me and then dropped me off at my house. By this stage I was tired out so I ran upstairs, buried my face in my pillow and attempted to blot out the whole horrible scenario. Even if I did manage to avoid jail, I was never going to be able to relax again. The moment one crisis came to an end, another seemed to rear its ugly head. My brain was absolutely fried so I closed my eyes and willed myself to sleep in order to forget.
Passport To Hell: How I Survived Sadistic Prison Guards and Hardened Criminals in Spain's Toughest Prisons Page 14
