Extradited (4 page)

W
e were silent the whole journey home; no one spoke. My angry thoughts drowned out the odd hiss of the train’s breaks and the rumbling sound of the Piccadilly line’s track. I was trying to make sense of what I’d just discovered, but couldn’t help repeating the word ‘bastards’ in my mind. Sotiris Siatis, Angelos Polizos and Dimitris Angeloudis, those were the police officers’ names.
Farmers with police badges
, I thought. I pictured stereotypical fat, hairy Greek men wearing police uniforms with their shirts unbuttoned, revealing full chests of hair and gold crucifixes – sitting at their desks with a cigarette in one hand, pen in the other, writing statements that didn’t come out of the mouths of the people who signed them. How could they not think about the life they were affecting? The
lives
they were affecting? Did they think they could get away with concocting these statements? Or did they believe that they beat the truth out of Chris and Charlie, so fabricating the evidence made everything easier? I don’t think so. I think they knew exactly what they were doing. They’re a police force in a small community that between the months of September and May is probably a ghost town. For the entire summer it’s transformed into a 24-hour party, taken over by British tourists, many of who binge drink and cause trouble. To the
Zante police, Jonathan Hiles was just another one of ‘them’, and so was I. The entire investigation was disgraceful.

Our solicitors contacted Georgina Clay – the travel rep from our holiday in Zante. I didn’t know her very well, but I remembered that she was a lovely girl who’d worked in our hotel the year that we were there. We wanted her to testify in the extradition appeal because she’d arranged for British consular staff to visit Chris and Charlie once they had been released from the police station in Zante.

To our surprise, she told us that the South Wales Police had contacted her in 2007 and that she had made a statement to them regarding the case. At the time we couldn’t understand why the South Wales Police had started an investigation and not finished it, but it turned out to be for the coroner. When we heard that statements had been made to the British police, we realised that the five friends of Jonathan Hiles must have made statements too. We needed to see these statements – if they existed. I had no doubt that they would be real accounts of what happened on the night their friend was attacked, unlike the word-for-word identical statements they’d signed in Greece.

We had two days to go. There were over 3,000 members on the Facebook page, over 4,000 signatures on our petition and we had the potential for over 100 protesters outside Westminster Magistrates’ Court. Most importantly, we had the statement from the Greek investigation, and it was clearly flawed. All that we needed was the South Wales Police file to compare it to. At the time, my case depended on it. For this reason, it was decided that we would ask for an adjournment.

John Jones had already written up his skeleton argument because our request for an adjournment could have been refused. No evidence would be considered in our appeal, so our plan was to expose the evidence in the media as absolute bullshit, to protest,
to fight the extradition based on the following four technicalities, and then to demand an investigation to clear my name.

The first argument was that the proceedings on behalf of the Greek authorities constituted an abuse of process – John cited several cases whereby judges felt they had the jurisdiction to consider comparable allegations.

The second argument was that the European Arrest Warrant was not valid due to a lack of summons on behalf of the Greek authorities. George Pyromallis had advised John Jones that in Greek law, the authorities must summon the accused before formal charges are made. This is something that the Greek authorities didn’t do. John Jones outlined the fact that the Greek authorities had my address from the beginning of the investigation. Thus, they were able to summon me to appear before a Greek judicial authority to present evidence of my defence at any time. John believed that the Greek authorities failing to do this beforehand and using the EAW as a summons was ‘a clear breach of Greek criminal procedure and a serious violation of a fundamental safeguard of the rights of the accused’. He also cited the case of Malcolm George Hay in which a British judge had disallowed his extradition to Greece on the basis that ‘he was not legally summoned’. In my case, the Greek authorities skipped the vital stage of a legal summons. For this reason, both George Pyromallis and John Jones believed the EAW to be invalid.

The third argument was that the extradition was incompatible with my human rights under Articles 3, 6 and 8. John stated that the mistreatment of Chris and Charlie suggested a risk of the same mistreatment on my return. He also cited the case of Matthew Cryer – a seventeen-year-old boy who was killed in Zante in 2008. Many witnesses had seen a nightclub security guard kick him down a flight of stairs and beat him to death, leaving him in the street in a pool of blood. The family of Matthew Cryer have
accused the Zante police of covering up the killing after refusing to open a murder inquiry. The police officers had stated that he had been drinking and choked on his own vomit, but a British pathologist had later reported that he had bruises on his body that were fatal. These police officers were from the same police station where Chris and Charlie were beaten and a case was manufactured to implicate me as a killer. John Jones argued that extraditing me based on evidence obtained by torture meant that I could not be guaranteed a fair trial, which was a breach of my human rights.

The final argument was probably our weakest. John felt that we should also argue my discharge on the grounds of ‘passage of time’. I was a suspect from 24 July 2007 and was arrested almost a year later, on 26 June 2008 (which wasn’t really a substantial amount of time, but why not?).

Due to the EAW we were forced to fight on these technicalities. Even though I could prove my innocence, a British court had no power to consider any of it. We were pleased with the skeleton argument, but were praying that the court would allow the adjournment. We needed to find out if the South Wales Police statements would strengthen our argument.

Later that day, my mum, sister and my auntie Teresa took me to buy a new suit. I remember picking one out and having to get a far bigger size because I’d been eating so much. As we were about to pay, the woman behind the till said, ‘Aren’t you lucky, they’re spoiling you today! What’s the occasion? A wedding? A prom?’ It was quite an awkward moment, and we looked at each other, not really knowing how to answer her question.

‘Not a wedding, unfortunately,’ my mum said. I remember
leaving the shop and a girl I knew from school happened to approach me. The first thing she said was, ‘You know, everything will be OK.’ I don’t think she realised how much I appreciated her saying that – and I hoped that she was right.

There was a nervous tension in my house the night before the hearing. I wasn’t nervous about appearing in court, as John Jones was confident that the hearing would be adjourned. What I was more nervous about was the protest and the fact that there was a chance it might be televised on BBC News. I received several text messages from school and university friends, all wishing me the best of luck – many of whom told me that they would be coming to the protest. Every time I read the texts, I felt my heart flutter. Of course I appreciated the support greatly, but I wished that it wasn’t happening in the first place.

I sat down on one of the sofas in the living room with a group of my best friends playing on my PlayStation. Tony patted me on the shoulder. ‘You feeling all right? You feeling ready, yeah?’

‘Course I’m ready, no problem,’ I lied.

We all ended up talking about funny memories from school and from when we were young. We’d all grown up together; some of us had even known each other from the age of four. In that moment I had a warm sense of contentment. The ‘adults’ sat on the stools that surround the kitchen island unit, having a chat. My sister and all of my cousins were watching
EastEnders
in the conservatory. I had my friends, my family, my girlfriend, my cousins, grandparents, aunties and uncles – I had everyone around who meant the most to me. With them I felt as though I could endure anything.

T
he day we had been waiting for had finally arrived. After hearing the dreaded date spoken about over and over again for the past twelve days, I couldn’t believe that the screen on my mobile phone said
‘Monday 7 July’.
I woke up naturally at 6 a.m. after a night of medicated, restless sleep. My eyes opened and I remembered what the day ahead would entail. After having a warm shower, brushing my teeth and giving myself a close shave, I walked downstairs into the kitchen where the rest of my family was eating breakfast. I couldn’t eat anything; I felt sick and on edge. My stomach was churning.

‘You need to eat something, Sim is picking us up in twenty minutes,’ said my dad. ‘Come on, twenty minutes, guys!’

I forced down a buttered slice of toast, trying hard not to bring up every mouthful. My mind was at a standstill. I just remember staring into space while chewing my toast, dreading the next sickening feeling I would get once I swallowed it.

For the majority of the journey to Horseferry Road I gazed out of the window of the cab and watched a grassy suburb change into a built-up, cosmopolitan city. I frequently sipped from a bottle of water in a failed attempt to calm the burning acid in my stomach.

When we arrived I could see Teresa, Lef and my uncle George with their families standing outside a café. Sim parked the cab and I stepped out to greet them all.

‘It’s all gonna be fine, just relax and go with the flow,’ said Lef.

While we were in the café, Denzil Hiles walked in. This was the first time that I had come face to face with a member of the victim’s family. I recognised Jonathan’s father from a picture in an article that I’d read online. He walked in and we made eye contact for a brief moment before he casually turned around and walked out.
He thinks I might have killed his son
. The thought passed through my mind and I felt an emotion-fuelled headache about to start. I managed to compose myself – I had to be strong because the truth was on my side.

We walked towards the Magistrates’ Court and saw what looked like hundreds of people standing in the road opposite the courts. Many were holding the placards that had been made for the protest: ‘GAGGING BRITISH JUSTICE’; ‘BRITISH ACCUSED, BRITISH VICTIM, BRITISH WITNESSES, BRITISH JUSTICE’; ‘NO TO EU EXTRADITION’; and ‘JUSTICE FOR ANDREW AND JONATHAN’.

I have had doubts as to whether putting Jonathan’s name on the placard was the right decision, as it was on my insistence at the time. But the statement was true – if the extradition was to be prevented and a real investigation was to be conducted instead, then his family would have had a chance to get justice for their son. My extradition to Greece would have brought justice for no one at all.

The nerves began to increase when I saw how many people had turned up. I genuinely thought that we would have been lucky if only half the number had come to support us! I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw old friends from childhood, a huge group of university friends who had travelled miles and people I’d
not seen in years all there to support me. I began to feel myself burst with emotion – I can’t use any other words to describe the moment other than ‘surreal’ and ‘overwhelming’.

I saw Mr Hiles again walking to the court’s entrance. In the brief moment we made eye contact, I gave him a kind nod. I don’t really know why, but in that moment I felt I had to acknowledge the fact that he was living this too. As difficult as it had been for us, I knew that the situation was even more tragic and traumatic for him and his family. No matter what happened, they would never get their son back, and I sympathised greatly. There had been countless times since my arrest when I’d lain in bed for hours attempting to put myself in their position. I’d witnessed what losing Michael had done to
his
family, so being the person wrongly accused of taking Mr Hiles’s son from him devastated me. I had to do everything I could to prove my innocence, without having to suffer behind bars.

I looked up and saw that my best friends had arrived. They all wore suits and looked smart – I remember my friend Anthony had even decided to wear his glasses, which he never does.

In the hallway of the Magistrates’ Court, we were left in enormous suspense. I think my body language said it all, which was noticed by my lawyer John Jones. ‘Andrew, try not to worry, I’m sure it will be adjourned today,’ he said.

We were called into court three – the same courtroom that I’d seen eleven days previously. I walked past the public gallery on my right, where my family – Lef, Teresa, my gran, Auntie Mary, Uncle Theo – Riya and some friends were sitting down behind a sheet of glass. I was then escorted to the same defendants’ dock that I’d been in the morning after I was arrested, also behind a sheet of glass, like a criminal. I felt like I had to go through it on my own and wished that I could be sitting with my family.

I could see Mr Hiles on the other side of the court; his body
language was calm, he made no eye contact. I looked down in front of me where John Jones and my solicitor John Tipple were sitting confidently. We all stood as the judge walked in. It was the same old judge from before who had insinuated that I had fled Greece before my scheduled flight in July 2007.

After confirming my name, John Jones proceeded to explain our concerns. He informed the judge that we would be gaining access to the South Wales Police statements in the very near future, and believed that an adjournment would be in the interest of justice. John briefly raised the points of law of our argument and stated that there was a huge chance the South Wales Police statements would greatly strengthen our defence. The hearing was adjourned until 12 August. I was asked to stand and confirm that I understood the bail conditions the judge read to me.

I was escorted out of the defendants’ dock and into the hallway of the courts where I was reunited with my friends and family. I sat down on one of the benches, not saying a word. Even though I knew that there were around 150 people outside supporting me, I was dreading walking out. I didn’t want to face the BBC News cameras. The protest gave us a great amount of publicity to help the campaign, but I started to feel like I was forced into it. Everything seemed to happen suddenly – decisions made, legal strategy determined, all while I was sat at the back of my garden smoking every day, cocooned in my own little world.

My friend Kyri handed me a cup of tea that he’d bought. ‘Nice and milky,’ I remember him saying.

Riya sat beside me, and I was comforted as her hand met mine.

‘When will this nightmare end?’ I asked her, as though she could possibly answer the question.

My mum and Mr Hiles approached each other on the stairwell of the court. In an emotional embrace, she gave him our family’s deepest sympathies and attempted to explain to him
our situation. My dad walked towards them and pressed Mr Hiles to look at the Greek investigation. Mr Hiles needed to see how deeply flawed it was! But he refused to look at it. All he wanted was for me to be extradited to Greece.

After a few minutes, I saw Mr Hiles through a glass vision panel in the door of the meeting room. He was screaming, shouting and pointing his finger at someone in a burst of anger. Seeing over 100 people with placards outside the court protesting, as well as an adjournment in our favour, probably wasn’t what he was expecting. Reading his son’s name on one of the placards must have been terribly difficult, but a real investigation was needed if they wanted the chance for justice.

I put off walking outside for a few more minutes. ‘Come on, Andrew, it’s time to leave,’ someone said to me. I stood up and my legs trembled like they weren’t even my own. Approaching the exit of the courts I took a deep breath. Lef grabbed my arm as we all walked outside; he’s a big guy and was like my bodyguard that day. The cold, fresh air hit my face and I heard someone say, ‘Here he is!’ I could see a camera pointing at me to my left and press photographers started to take photos, following me as we crossed the road. I walked towards the huge crowd of people and I received many hugs. As I looked around, I saw people crying and hugging each other. I noticed people who I never thought would have turned up to support us, which overwhelmed me to the point where I couldn’t hold back my emotions. I could see my mum hiding away at the back of the protest. The media attention had left her feeling far too much out of her comfort zone and she couldn’t cope with the exposure. I was a bit like her in that respect; I was grateful for the support but uncomfortable with standing in the spotlight.

My solicitor John Tipple also made a statement to the BBC and ended it with something I wasn’t expecting – screaming
‘JUSTICE FOR ANDREW!’ at the top of his voice continuously as the supporters responded. As much as I didn’t like the attention, it was made clear how serious and wrong the situation that I had been put in was.

After around half an hour of hugging and thanking everyone who came to support me, I got back into our friend Sim’s cab. ‘That was the craziest thing I’ve ever experienced,’ I said to Riya and my family as the cab drove away. I turned my head and looked out of the rear window, watching the horde of supporters become smaller as we drove down Horseferry Road. I looked at my mum, whose face was pale and exhausted. Sophie and Riya were still wiping away the tears that were running down their cheeks. ‘I think after today’s dramas, we deserve pizza!’ I said.

As we pulled up outside our house, I noticed my auntie Teresa and uncle Les had beaten us home. I walked up the driveway, comforted by the knowledge that it was over.
For now
, I thought.

We watched the BBC News piece at 6 p.m.; about thirty of us crowded around the television in my house. I thought the piece was well-rounded and successfully highlighted my plight. Mr Hiles made a statement, telling the press that he wouldn’t like to be in our family’s situation and expressed that it must be difficult. I appreciated him saying that greatly.

He also said, ‘I don’t know if Andrew killed my son … I expected to hate him, but all I saw was a frightened boy … If he did do it, then I want him to stand trial for it. If he’s found guilty, fine … and if he’s innocent, that’s OK.’

The fact that I would be held in a foreign prison pre-trial wasn’t a concern of his.