Free Gang of One: One Man's Incredible Battle to Find His Missing by Gary Mulgrew Page B

Rather ominously, she added, ‘Good luck,’ as I closed the door behind me – for the first time sounding as if she meant it.
    To be honest, I was less interested in this, than what she’d said about ‘general population’. I thought I was going to solitary. Still handcuffed, I proffered my slip of paper to Malone.
    ‘Wow, straight into general pop! Good luck with that,’ he smiled. Another one wishing me luck. I suddenly wished I could go back in to the psychiatrist’s office. Maybe I could start acting a little unhinged – or talk up my years of involvement with the deadly 50 Krew. Anything to get myself a few days’ solitary. Panic was really beginning to set in as Malone pulled me again by the arm, sensing my hesitation.
    ‘One more to go, Mulgrew, then you’re out there with the general pop-u-lation,’ he said, enjoying the emphasis. I shuddered. I wasn’t ready for the general population. I tried to get a grip of myself, but my heart was racing. I’d only just arrived and already I felt cheated. I wasn’t ready for this. I was supposed to get time to get ready – get a single cell for a few days in a separate area – that’s what I had read about on the Internet!
    Numbly, I stood for the last examination, which involved me stripping naked again as an officer detailed my tattoos. This was how they could tell gang affiliations and those details of an inmate’s general history that didn’t feature in his prison file; the tattoos were often personal story-boards of a life lived on the edge. After being introduced by Malone once more as ‘the Enron guy’, the bored officer, still seated, got to work.
    ‘Stand over there. Strip off. Point out your tats. All of them.’
    I only had one tattoo, a Scottish thistle surrounded by Calum and Cara’s names on the top and by the Japanese kanji ‘ ki-gyu ’ on the bottom. I had lived for four years in Japan, in what now seemed like someone else’s life, so the kanji had some resonance for me. Plus it meant ‘freedom’ – somewhat ironic given my current circumstances. I pointed to my right arm, at which point the officer started to photograph it from several different angles and take some notes.
    ‘You an opium trader, Mulgrew?’ the tattoo expert asked after a few minutes of staring at it through a small glass scope.
    ‘No, he’s the Enron guy,’ interjected Malone, his enthusiasm for that remark undiminished by frequent use.
    The other officer squinted at me. He was probably in his early thirties and seemed neater, tidier and better educated than the others. Unlike Malone, his uniform was pristine and ironed, he was clean-shaven and smart looking, and he wasn’t chewing gum or tobacco. ‘The Enron guy, huh?’ he mused. ‘What’s an Enron guy got an interest in opium for, then?’ He scooted back on his chair, for the first time looking at my face. ‘Was that your bag then, Mulgrew? Is that how you and Skilling got off?’ Skilling had been the CEO of Enron and, at that time, he was Public Enemy Number One. I had only ever met him once and had instantly liked him, although I can’t say we lit up an opium pipe together.
    ‘Is that what you did with the money, Mulgrew, all that money?’ Money sounded more like ‘muuh . . . ney’ – a loving, intimate pronunciation. He was looking at me, expecting an answer.
    ‘I don’t understand,’ I murmured, deferentially.
    The officer raised his eyebrows and, scooting back across the floor, jabbed at my tattoo.
    ‘The poppy,’ he said.
    I glanced from my green and purple tattoo to him and back again. ‘It’s a thistle, sir,’ I exclaimed a bit too enthusiastically. His eyes narrowed. ‘Because I’m from Scotland,’ I added hastily.
    Without another word, he examined the tattoo again, in closer detail, like a diamond dealer with a suspect stone. Eventually he spoke, pulling back in his chair, clearly satisfied with his work. ‘Thistle . . . My . . . . Ass! I’m marking that mother