Twenty-first birthday parties are usually about handing the birthday boy the key to the door. I attended one today that was quite the opposite in just about every way.
|Scene of the ambush ... Tempted perhaps, but thankfully the former-customs department gang didn't kick the door in.|
Gerry, just out of hospital after a really serious heart operation, had opened the front door 21 years ago to some insistent bell-ringing.
A gang of customs men pushed past her, and past my young daughter and my girlfriend. I was arrested and taken to London for questioning and imprisonment.
|Somehow, they claimed, I catapulted a huge haul of drugs to the South Coast in spite of the vast distance. In the trial that followed, they said the goods were unloaded onto a submarine ... or a plane.|
And while they accepted that I was alone and that I was obliged to turn away more than a thousand miles from the South Coast, they insisted it was a smuggling voyage.
Somehow, they claimed, I catapulted a huge haul of drugs to the South Coast in spite of the vast distance.
In the trial that followed, they said the goods were unloaded onto a submarine, or a plane.
Determined for justice
The appalling experience was related in my recent book, Sailing to Purgatory. Attempts for justice since have got nowhere … so far. However, I remain determined for justice.
It's a subject that can't be dwelt much on, especially after quarter of a century of hopeless attempts for justice.
We observed the exact moment it had happened, just two minutes before noon, and then wisely changed the conversation to the magnificent garden where Gerry grows so many beautiful plants.
In fact, the house and garden look so close to perfection, it is hard to recall that it had been the scene of such extraordinary and devious – crooked - real-life drama.