Mr Nice Howard Marks Epub Free Download
HOWARD MARKS
Mr Overnice
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Version i.0
Epub ISBN 9781407066301
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Published by Vintage 1998
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Copyright © Newtext Limited, 1996, 1997
Howard Marks has asserted his correct under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified equally the author of this piece of work
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Kickoff published in United kingdom past Martin Secker & Warburg in 1996
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ISBN 9780749395698
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Contents
Cover
Championship
Copyright
Dedication
About the Author
By the Same Writer
Acknowledgements
Introduction
Ane
British
Two
Master Marks
Three
Mr Marks
Four
Mr McCarthy
V
Mr Hughes
Six
Albi
Seven
Mr Squeamish
Eight
Howard Marks
Nine
Marks
Ten
Mr Dennis
Eleven
D. H. Marks
Twelve
Mr Tetley, Not
Thirteen
Dennis Hooward Marks
Fourteen
Señor Marco
Fifteen
Marco Polo
Sixteen
41526-004
Seventeen
Daddy
To my son, Patrick Marks
MR Squeamish
Howard Marks is an acclaimed travel and sports author, TV personality, and DJ. For the final ten years he has had a series of successful one man shows. He lives in Europe and continues to campaign for the legalisation of marijuana.
ALSO BY HOWARD MARKS
The Howard Marks Book of Dope Stories Señor Nice
Acknowledgements
I would like to give thanks the following for their assistance, support, and editing: Ann Blain, David Godwin, Bee Grice, Judy Marks, Bister Marks, Francesca Marks, Geoffrey Mulligan, Mick Tyson, and Helen Wild
Introduction
I was running out of passports, ones I could use. In a few weeks I intended to visit San Francisco to choice up several hundred thousand dollars from someone keen to exploit his connections, both with me and with a bent US Customs Officer working in the imports section of San Francisco International Airport.
A few years earlier, I had been declared the most wanted human being in Great Britain, a hashish smuggler with documented links to the Italian Mafia, the Brotherhood of Eternal Honey, the IRA, and the British Undercover Service. A new identity was vital. I'd already gone through about twenty different identities, most of which had been backed upwards past a passport, driving licence, or other indicators of documented existence, simply they'd all either been discovered past friends/enemies or compromised by featuring in some suspicious trail meandering through a contempo scam.
We collection to Norwich. After a couple of awkward meetings with go-betweens, I was introduced to a gentle guy named Donald. I couldn't tell if he was a drinker, a stoner, or a straighter. His kitchen gave no clues. He looked normal, except that his optics danced like those of a villain.
'Nosotros tin can talk privately out here,' he said and took me to a garden shed.
'I need a passport, Don, one that'll stand upwards to all checks.'
'You tin can have mine. I won't exist needing 1. Merely there's i trouble.'
'What's that?'
'I've merely done twelve years of a life judgement for murder.'
Bedevilled murderers, although clearly people with a criminal tape, would rarely be declared every bit unwelcome at a land'south borders. They were regarded as mere menaces to individuals rather than threats to the fabric of society. The latter attribute tended to be restricted to dope dealers and terrorists.
'I'll requite you a grand for information technology,' I said, 'and a few hundred quid from time to time when I need more back-up.'
I was thinking of a driving licence, medical menu, local library carte du jour. Just a passport with no supporting identification is suspicious. A membership carte du jour to the local billiards club, obtainable cheaply and without proof of identity, is enough to requite the required brownie.
'That's the best deal I've ever been offered for anything.'
'What's your terminal proper noun, Don?' I asked. I'd been lumbered with some terrible ones in the past.
'Neece.'
'How do you spell it?'
'N-I-C-East, just similar the place on the Riviera.' Information technology was upwards to Don how he pronounced his name. But I knew I would pronounce information technology differently. I was nearly to become Mr Squeamish.
One
BRITISH
'Marks!' yelled the baby-sit. 'What's your number?'
'41526-004,' I mumbled, still in a really deep sleep. My number was used more often than my name, and I knew it just as well.
'Go all your shit together,' he ordered. 'You're leaving.'
Slowly I woke upward. 'Yes, I'k leaving.' I was leaving El Reno.
El Reno, Oklahoma, houses the Federal Bureau of Prisons' transit facilities and is host to between one and two 1000 federal prisoners, who are cajoled, bossed, and bullied by a few hundred guards. Every prisoner who is required to be moved from 1 US federal prison to another passes through El Reno. Fifty-fifty if the prisoner is being transported from North Dakota to South Dakota, he nonetheless has to become via El Reno. I had been through at that place five times. Some had been through more than than 50 times. Expensive illogicalities and inefficiencies exercise not worry the monsters of American bureaucracy, and the taxpayers are enthusiastic and eager to spend fortunes in the name of fighting offense. Prison places cost the U.s. taxpayer more than university places. The American belief that prisons are the best way to combat crime has led to an incarceration rate that is at least five times that of nearly whatsoever other industrialised nation. Overcrowding is endemic. Conditions are appalling, varying from windowless, sensory-deprived isolation to barren and futile brutality.
Mostly, prisoners are taken to El Reno in aeroplanes confiscated by the US Government from the Colombian c
ocaine cartels, who have made billions of dollars out of America's War on Drugs. There are at least two large airliners, each seating well over i hundred prisoners, and numerous smaller planes carrying up to 30 passengers. Every day, between iii and six hundred prisoners make it and exit. Arrivals take place in the tardily afternoon and evening; departures take place in the early morning time. Flying courtesy of the Federal Bureau of Prisons is a gruelling business. The only consolation was that this would be my final of over a dozen flights on this airline, known as Conair. I was going to exist released in iii weeks. My release date was the aforementioned as that of Mike Tyson. I had been continuously in prison house for the concluding vi and a one-half years for transporting beneficial herbs from ane place to another, while he had done three years for rape.
'Getting my shit together' meant putting my dirty bedclothes in a pillow example. No personal possessions of whatsoever kind are allowed in El Reno. I got my shit together.
Along with well-nigh 60 or lxx others, I was herded into a belongings cell to wait processing. Our names, numbers, fingerprints, and photographs were advisedly scrutinised to ensure nosotros were who we said we were. Our medical records were perused to ensure that if anyone had AIDS, TB, or some other dreadfully contagious illness, the correct infinite on the form was filled in. One by one nosotros were stripped naked and minutely examined during the ritual known equally 'shakedown'. In total view of, and in sickeningly close proximity to, 3 Oklahoma rednecks, I ran my fingers through my hair, shook my head, tugged my ears to show the wax, opened my mouth, pulled out my Bureau of Prisons denture plate, stretched my artillery above my head to evidence my armpits, pulled up my balls, pulled back the foreskin of my dick, turned circular to display the soles of my anxiety, and finally bent down, pulling the cheeks of my bum autonomously, so that the rednecks could treat my anus as a telescope. A federal prisoner has to perform this series of indignities before and subsequently each fourth dimension he is visited past his family, friend, religious counsellor, or lawyer, and each time he enters or leaves any prison. I had performed information technology thousands of times. The iii Peeping-Tom rednecks made the same jokes that prison house guards never tire of making when shaking down: 'I recognise that pigsty. Didn't you come up through here iii years ago?'
During the grade of this divergence process, I checked among the other prisoners where they were expecting to be transported to. It was important to found that I was not about to be sent somewhere in fault – a virtually common occurrence. Sometimes the fault was deliberate – part of a practice known every bit 'diesel fuel therapy'. This punishment of keeping ane on the motility and out of contact was frequently administered to troublesome prisoners. The 'treatment' could terminal up to two years. I was meant to be going to Oakdale, Louisiana, where criminal aliens (the give-and-take 'alien' is preferred to the word 'foreigner') nearing the expiry of their sentences began the gleeful process of being removed from the Usa and sent back to civilisation. I began to panic when some of my shaken-down companions mentioned they were going to Pennsylvania; others idea they were going to Michigan. Security reasons ever prevent prisoners from knowing where (and sometimes when) they are going. Somewhen I met someone who was also expecting to become to Oakdale. He was a gentle, brilliant marijuana smuggler, longing to finish his ten-year sentence and get dorsum to his loved and longed-for native country of New Zealand. He told me that he knew it was simply an hour's flight from El Reno to Oakdale.
We defenseless a glimpse of the time – 2 a.1000. We were then outfitted with our travelling clothes: a sleeveless shirt with no pockets, a pair of trousers without pockets, socks, underwear, and a pair of very thin, beach-type shoes, which were fabricated in China. Adjacent came the office that everyone hates, even more than the shakedown: the adorning of heavy metal: handcuffs around the wrists, chains around the waist, bondage from the bondage effectually the waist to the handcuffs, shackles around the legs, and, if like me i is described equally having a propensity for escape or violence, a 'black box'. This final lump of heavy metal is like a portable pillory without the pigsty for the caput and renders the handcuffs completely rigid, preventing any independent hand movement. It is chained and padlocked to the chains around the waist. I have never attempted to escape from anywhere and have never physically harmed or threatened anyone. However, co-ordinate to data furnished to the US Federal Agency of Prisons by Special Agent Craig Lovato of the US Drug Enforcement Assistants, I'm an Oxford graduate and a British Secret Service operative, and, apparently, I can get out of places that Houdini couldn't fifty-fifty get into.
We were and then placed in another belongings cell. 2 or three hours had passed since our enkindling; two or three more would have to pass earlier we would get out past bus for Oklahoma City Aerodrome. We sat around talking to each other, comparing conditions in dissimilar prisons in much the same mode every bit I one time discussed the pros and cons of diverse kickoff-grade hotels. Dog-ends that had been miraculously smuggled through the shakedown process were produced and fought over. At times like this I felt very glad I had given up smoking tobacco (after 30-five years of fairly constant apply). Prisoners clanked and jingled their chains as they shuffled to the lone toilet bowl and performed the acrobatics necessary to unzip and undo.
Federal regulations require prisoners to be fed at to the lowest degree one time every fourteen hours. Each prisoner was provided with a brown newspaper purse containing two difficult-boiled eggs, a carton of 'Jungle Juice', an apple, and a Granola bar. People began to trade food items furiously.
The gates to the holding jail cell were opened, and we were led out into the sub-zilch temperature in our sleeveless shirts and were counted and checked over again confronting copies of photographs. We were then patted, as opposed to shaken, down and guided into a mercifully heated jitney. A radio blared the two kinds of music with which Oklahoma rednecks are familiar: country and western.
The icy roads made for a slow journeying to the airport. There was a long wait at the runway before we were finally handed over by the prison guards to the United states of america Marshals. None of them looked like Wyatt Earp. They handle interstate transportation of federal property such as prisoners. Some of them are female, kind of. Presently I would see existent air hostesses – and so my wife.
Subsequently an hour in the air, we landed at a military airfield. Names were chosen, and some passengers left. My name was omitted. I panicked until I realised the New Zealander was all the same on board, merely he looked worried also. Some unlike prisoners boarded and told us we were at Memphis. Nosotros took off again, and in an hour really did land at Oakdale aerodrome. A jitney took united states to the prison, where we were dechained, shaken down, fed, and otherwise processed. I was showtime to look frontwards to the various facilities that every federal prison tends to have: tennis courts, jogging track, and library.
Processing is an irritating and lengthy process, but most of united states of america had been through it dozens of times. Each newly arrived prisoner has to exist seen and checked past a PA (md's assistant) and a screening counsellor. Each prisoner also has to be fed and given clothes that fit at to the lowest degree approximately. These seemingly straightforward activities take several hours to consummate.
The screening counsellor's function is to make up one's mind whether or not the prisoner may be allowed to be accommodated in the general prison population. If not, the prisoner is locked upwards in the prison'due south 'pigsty', a very uncomfortable prison house within a prison. There are a number of reasons why a prisoner would exist separated from the others. Occasionally, the prisoner would himself asking segregation: he might accept been warned that someone at this new prison was out to get him to settle some old dope or gambling debt. He might be terrified of being raped, extorted, or discovered to be a snitch. Sometimes, particularly if release was imminent, the prisoner would wish to be isolated merely to diminish the chances of getting into any trouble inadvertently. One had to exercise one's all-time to decrease the frequency of random erect-ups. Moreover, there is an obligation for prisoners to be gainfully employed, and ane of the very few methods of fugitive work is to be locked up in the pigsty. Accommodation in the hole could always exist requested: checking-in was easy, checking-out extremely difficult. More often than not, it'south the scre
ening counsellor who determines who goes where, and the most scanty of reasons are used to justify placement in the hole: a history of violence, escape, connections with gangs, and high profile would almost e'er ensure at to the lowest degree a limited spell within. My file was littered with cool allegations of escape attempts, just I did not await problems from that quarter because of the short time I had left to serve. It was March 3rd, and my parole release date was March 25th. Non a sensible fourth dimension to attempt to leg information technology, but American police force enforcement is prohibited from making mutual-sense assumptions.
Despite valiant attempts, I hadn't pissed for over twelve hours. The toilets in the holding cells are e'er crowded past smokers, and I've never all the same been able to piss covered in chains and sharing a pressurised aeroplane cabin with a redneck align whose chore is to stare at my dick to ensure it doesn't turn into a dangerously offensive weapon or dope stash. I was bursting. My name was the first called. I went into the screener's function and immediately noticed on his desk a piece of paper referring to me with the word ESCAPE highlighted in yellow.
'Oh no!' I thought. 'They can't be that insane.'
Just I knew they could be.
They didn't use my so-called escape history against me, but I was put into the hole anyway. The screening counsellor informed me that as I had less than thirty days of my judgement left, it would be pointless for the prison house to get through the time-consuming deception of admitting and orientating me. The screener didn't care who I was. It was policy.
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