Authors: Andrew Symeou
Extradited (23 page)
My chest is full of anxiety, I need to relax. I don’t want to be here any more, I want to go home. I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home. But guess what, I can’t, so I’m going to have to stop being a dick and just accept it.
I can’t believe it’s been 300 days tomorrow. I’m fed up of not being free. I’m fed up of it all. I’m fed up of Tupperware containers and plastic cutlery. I’m fed up of food coupons and squatting to shit at specific times. I’m fed up of living in a
cell with heroin-addicted thieves. I’m fed up of living out of a sports bag. I’m fed up of having no privacy. I’m fed up of dirty showers. I’m fed up of phone cards. I’m fed up of seeing my family through a dirty window for half an hour. I’m fed up with hearing Greek. I’m fed up of Greece. I’m fed up of being locked up. I’m fed up of eating shit prison food full of spit and bogeys. I’m fed up of sleeping on a one-inch-thick mattress. I’m fed up of being wrongly accused of killing someone. I’m fed up of not being happy. I’m fed up of having a headache. I’m fed up of having to write in this stupid fucking journal like a twelve-year-old girl. I’m fed up of reading. I’m fed up of stressing out. I’m fed up of being depressed. I’m fed up of having anxiety. I’m fed up of everything.
OK I think I’ve established that I’m fed up. I feel so frickin’ weak because I can never let my guard down; it’s exhausting. I’m tired; I want to be free again. I don’t deserve this shit.
I
t was ridiculous: my family was expected to pay for all of the defence witnesses to fly to Greece
and
for their accommodation. If a person in a similar situation to me couldn’t afford to do so, the trial would be completely one-sided. I spoke to Sophie on the phone – she told me that she’d decided to fund-raise for the trial. She organised an event in north London with singers and food, where many people turned up to support our cause. I’m lucky to have an older sister who would go to so much effort. I’d always looked up to her growing up – and I still did. She raised thousands of pounds. To be in a foreign prison with so much support back home was overwhelming.
Today I went outside and had a walk with American Tom. He always says things that make me feel like shit, like, ‘Wow, dude, aren’t you nervous? This is it, innocent or guilty!’
I always try to stop myself from justifying my case, but would end up saying something like, ‘I’ll prove my innocence, the evidence speaks for itself.’
Then he would say, ‘Yeh but … dude … come on! This is
Greece! What if something fucked up happens and they find you guilty?’
Why is this prick trying to stress me out? Is there a possibility that he’s right? Could I be found guilty for this crime I didn’t commit? It’s the question that brings on my anxiety, and he was just tapping at it and trying to fuck with my head – like poking a bear.
Last night I had a massive argument with Costas because he said that Zafeiris wanted to sleep on my bottom bunk and I sleep on the top. I asked him why, and he said that it was something to do with Zafeiris’s head being injured. I said, ‘No, he steals from me, why would I let him sleep on my bed?’ We got into a huge argument about it and he called me a murderer again. Zafeiris is being cold with me now but I don’t care because he’s a tosser. Today he said to me, ‘I’m going to kill you and cut you into small pieces.’ I said, ‘Cool, you can make souvlakia [kebabs].’ You just don’t know who these people are. I’m living with strangers who are criminals.
I’ve finished Jeremiah in the Bible, and after I’ve finished writing in here I’m going to start the next book. Going to try to have the Old Testament finished before Friday so that I can start the New Testament in Patras. It hasn’t made me feel religious in any way, it’s just interesting to read and learn.
I’m worrying about Patras now … but what will be will be. I just need to visualise what will happen, remember what Arnas said – it doesn’t matter how long it takes to happen, all that
matters is that it will. Visualise the future: I leave prison with no handcuffs and I hug everybody. We go back to the hotel, or wherever they are staying. We sit down and talk for ages. I have an amazing shower. We go to a restaurant and have a delicious meal. We have a few drinks and a great sleep that night on a real bed. Wow, this is making me happy and emotional. OK, skip a little while. I’m on the plane. I’m very excited. We land in London, I get off the plane and smell the fresh British air. We see all our family and friends at the airport waiting and we all hug. I see Riya there and I give her the biggest hug, I pick her up off the ground. This is really making me feel good because I know it’s going to happen. I just need to keep thinking about it. I’ve gone through the hardest parts, now it’s just about getting over the final hurdle. I’m so close. I am proud of myself for getting through this.
Now … I can get through this last stage. I don’t fear prison any more. If anyone in Patras gives me grief I know how to deal with it. I don’t think anyone will. Be a man. You can do it. Just remember to think these phrases and keep repeating them:
I can do this.
I am a man.
I am innocent.
I am strong.
I don’t give a fuck.
On 31 May I was transferred to Patras Prison and it was one of the worst transfers that I’d experienced. It was early morning and I heard my name being called out over the speaker. I shivered.
This is it
, I thought. I packed all of my things and said goodbye to my junkie cellmates. ‘How will I know what happened to you?’ Zafeiris asked.
‘Just have a look on
Gougli!
’ I said.
He laughed. After everything that the three of them had put me through, they all stood up, shook my hand and kissed me on both cheeks – it was the Greek tradition when someone left prison.
The guards left me in a holding cell with about twelve other inmates for two hours before dumping me on the same transfer vehicle that I’d been transferred in almost a year earlier. Yet again, four prisoners were squeezed into a cage that was just about big enough to fit two people. It was scorching hot and the journey took over four hours. Every now and then I would poke my eye through the little hole so that I could see Greece. The world was still out there; I couldn’t give up hope that I’d be out there soon.
I don’t know where my mind was for those few hours. I just blanked out into a trance – I had to. At some points I found myself complaining in my mind, then I realised that it doesn’t help and only makes it more difficult to endure.
When we got to Patras we were mixed with some other prisoners and they dumped about twenty of us in another holding cell. Every half an hour they would take out two people at a time to be strip searched and have all their bags checked – it’s a very stressful process. Finally they called me to go through; I was the last one. I started unpacking my bag and all my clothes were thrown all over the floor. They were shouting ‘Pame pame – Hurry hurry’.
I remember a few weeks ago Zafeiris told me that Gamma wing in Patras Prison is the worst and to tell them to put me in Alpha because I’m Greek. I also remember what Yiannis Economou told me – the old man who I first saw in the police
van as soon as I landed in Athens a year ago – ‘they’re going to fuck you in Patras’.
I was drenched in sweat. It was 5 p.m. and I hadn’t eaten or drunk any water for the entire day. I stood butt naked in the hallway of Patras Prison with several staff members walking past. It was the most stressful thing that I’d experienced and I was overwhelmed with humiliation. The
ypallilos
was allocating prisoners to the different prison wings. ‘
Symeou – Gamma
,’ he said.
I grinded my teeth when I heard the words; I couldn’t bear to be put in the worst wing of the prison.
‘
Yiati Gamma? Eimai Ellinas!
– Why Gamma? I’m Greek!’ I cried.
‘
Ohi, den eisai Ellinas. Eisai Romanos
– No, you’re not Greek, you’re Romanian.’
I picked up a fresh pair of boxers from the floor and started to put them on. ‘In all seriousness, I’m actually not Romanian. I don’t have a clue where you got that from, but I’m a Greek Cypriot from the UK. Listen to my accent, have you ever heard a Romanian talk like this?’
He tutted. ‘
Romanos
.’
‘Please, can’t you just put me in
Alpha?
’
He made no eye contact and tutted again. ‘
Ohi, fiye
– No, leave.’
I was drenched with fear and sent to find Gamma on my own. I didn’t feel the need to protest any more; I knew that it would be a waste of the little energy I had left.
I was allocated to cell six on the top floor and I made my way up the stairs. Patras Prison was laid out in a completely different way from Korydallos. The main hallway was a square shape and eight large cells ran off a thin corridor that led to a courtyard. I was emotionally drained, but my heart pounded as I entered my cell. As soon as I walked in my new cellmates helped me with my bags and prepared my bed for me. The cell was a large square
with bunk beds in each corner and there was a separate room with a toilet and sink for some privacy. The windows were tall and wide, leaving the cell airy and cool. There were eight of us in there, and I noticed that one of them was an Albanian guy who used to serve the food in Korydallos.
‘
Pineis?
– Do you drink/snort?’ the biggest guy asked me.
‘No.’
‘Good, because if you did I would make you leave this cell.’
‘I’m glad you’ve said that.’
‘Yeah, no one does drugs here. I’ve been here since you were … maybe ten years old. The junkies … all they do is steal and make life difficult.’
It was at that moment when I realised that Zafeiris’s view of Patras Prison’s Gamma wing was based purely on racism. Zafeiris himself was one of the junkies that my new cellmate was talking about. Zafeiris would have preferred to share a cell with a group of Greek junkies than respectful Albanians or Africans. I should have known better than to listen to him. My new cellmates were kind and offered to help me in any way that they could. Everyone in the cell was quiet and had respect for each other’s privacy and belongings. After fearing what Patras Prison would be like, it was an absolute sigh of relief. The majority of them were doing life sentences, some of them for drug crimes as minor as cannabis. I’d been suffering in prison for almost a year now, and hopefully this was the last hurdle.
It was the morning of 4 June, the day that I’d been waiting two years for. My legs were like jelly but I was excited to finally clear my name. My dad had brought me a suit to wear and I was dressed and ready to leave. It felt strange – it was the summer and
I’d been wearing T-shirts and shorts in the baking sun. I hadn’t worn a suit since my High Court appeal in London!
I walked down the stairs onto the ground floor and I stood in the hallway of a new prison wearing a full suit. It made me feel uncomfortable because I looked ridiculous and out of place. I had a glance at the time – it was getting late and they still hadn’t called my name. ‘
Eho dikastirio symera!
– I have court today!’ I said to the
ypallilos
at the front of the wing.
‘
Ohi, den eheis
– No, you don’t,’ he said.
There was a lawyers’ strike on that day. My lawyer George Pyromallis had managed to get dispensation from it, so the trial was still set to go ahead. The prison had made the assumption that my trial must have been adjourned because of it.
‘
Fere mou ta hartia sou yia na deite
– Go and get me your papers for me to see,’ he said.
I ran back up to cell six on the top floor as fast as I could. Sweat was dripping through my suit in the summer heat. One of my cellmates asked, ‘How did it go?’
‘I haven’t gone yet,’ I mumbled, nervously hunting for the papers in my blue Nike sports bag.
‘
Akoma!?
– Still!?’ At least an hour had passed and I hadn’t left yet. The document was in the bottom of my bag.
Phew
, I thought. I ran downstairs and showed it to the
ypallilos
. He started to argue with his colleagues in Greek and I couldn’t really follow the conversation. I understood key bits like ‘but he has court!’ and ‘but how is he going to get there!?’ They ended up taking me in a van that was packed with old men who were going to hospital from the prison. I had to stand because there were no seats. One of the old men looked me up and down. ‘
Tha pas sto nosokomeio?
– You’re going to hospital?’ His facial expression reflected his confusion.
I opened my mouth, about to answer him when another old
inmate butted in. ‘
Vevaia den einai, to paidi foraei ena kostoumi reh vlaka!
– Of course he’s not, the kid’s wearing a suit, you idiot!’
I was dropped off outside of the court, where a group of police officers were waiting for me. My heart began to race as they forced my wrists into handcuffs and escorted me into the building. I’d been guided through a back entrance and I was suddenly inside the courtroom. It had a distinctive smell of old wood and was laid out like a church. There were several rows of long, wooden seats facing a towering, wooden bench where three female judges sat below a large icon of Jesus Christ. I looked to my left as I walked in and could see my family; my dad offered me his ‘thumbs up’ gesture that he always did. My gran, who’d flown over from Cyprus, was there. I also saw my uncle Theo, my uncle George, my godfather Lef and my aunties Georgina and Teresa. In my peripheral vision I could see Chris and Charlie on the right side of the courtroom. The victim’s father was sitting just behind them. He’d travelled almost 2,000 miles overseas to watch the wrong man being tried for the murder of his son.