Stephen came back from Istanbul undaunted. He returned to Worcester, attended his lectures, wrote his essays, and passed long days alone walking the countryside, making pencil sketches of hills and rivers and writing paeans to the natural world around him. He continued to develop his vision for the Organisation. While other students competed for the attention and approval of tutors during seminars, Stephen remained almost silent, the same secret half smile Lisa Jackley remembered from their father’s funeral sometimes hovering on his lips.
While others talked, he allowed himself to imagine the stories they would tell of him in the future, of how a hero rose up from nowhere and fought back against the injustices of capitalism. His Robin Hood identity—the “RH” he left scrawled on his stolen banknotes, in his journals, on his bedroom walls, in letters to newspapers—was everything to Stephen. It had been for almost eight months, ever since he’d resolved to take this course of action at Dechen Chöling. Neither the Devon and Cornwall nor the West Mercia police forces were any closer to figuring out who the mysterious bank robber in the wig and sunglasses was; the Dutch authorities had not yet summoned Stephen back to Amsterdam; and, as the weeks passed, it was clear there would be no long-term consequences to the Istanbul airport incident. So like a record needle slipping back into the same scratched groove, Stephen sat at his computer and tried to determine the best way of getting the real gun he needed.
The answer was Vermont. The small New England state had, in 2008, some of the loosest gun laws in the United States. In fact, Stephen discovered that they were practically nonexistent. From the age of sixteen, you could buy scoped sniper rifles, sawed-off shotguns, armor-piercing bullets, assault weapons with no maximum magazine capacity—pretty much whatever you like. All you needed was a valid form of ID. There were no background checks and no waiting periods. It was a very, very easy place to buy a gun.
So Stephen spent £50 on a high-quality fake Vermont state driver’s license, which he sourced from the Internet and which showed his name as Stephen Mason. Continuing to search online, he saw that there was a large gun show scheduled to take place near the state capital of Montpelier on May 16. Here, anyone could show up and buy or sell weapons, new or secondhand. Stephen reasoned it would be even easier to buy a pistol at the gun show because there would be a) less scrutiny, and b) more options if the first vendor he approached wasn’t convinced by his ID. Then he paid for a British Airways flight from London to Boston.
A few months after giving me the bulk of his notepads, journals, and papers, Stephen mails me an envelope. He has found some photocopied diary entries from this trip to America and thought they might be interesting. The only thing he asked was that, once I’d read them, would I mind returning them to him? They were a record of his final days of freedom, he said. His last connection with the young man he had been.
The evening before his flight, Stephen sat in Trafalgar Square as the sun began to set over London. He nestled at the base of Nelson’s Column, beside one of the four elevated ornamental lions, overlooking the very fountains where Uncle Noel once caused a scene by paddling a canoe. From up here, he could see the Houses of Parliament and the start of the Mall leading down toward Buckingham Palace. He was happy. Everything was golden, and there was still warmth in the stone beneath him. As the shadow of the column lengthened, he pictured Earth orbiting the Sun, the vastness of space, the mystery of existence. London was heaving, but Stephen felt invisible. He watched as thousands of people flowed and swirled around him, moving in every direction, like strange particles, the true nature of which he knew he would never understand. With a penknife, he spent five minutes carving “RH” into the stone lion’s leg. On his journey to London, he’d written in his diary, and his mind had returned to a possibility he’d entertained since childhood: “On the train here, I reconsidered it….Perhaps I am from another planet.”
The diary entry continued.
Tomorrow—if the pigs don’t pounce—it’s the USA; the US of A, ‘land of opportunity’, centre of so much past changes, most powerful nation on the planet. To Vermont, Green Mountain State, to buy that one item I need and need badly.
He had by now attempted ten robberies. Half of these had ended in failure. He had failed in his effort to force his way into the Lloyds TSB in Exeter. He had failed to cut his way through the metal bars and slip into the Barclays bank in Worcester. He had accidentally ransacked the offices of a children’s charity, had his nerve desert him at the HSBC in Ledbury, and been hounded out of a Britannia credit union by an indignant manager. Even his successes had been failures, because he’d never made it to a safe or the vault or wherever he thought the jackpot would be found. But having a gun would change everything.
The next day, Stephen almost missed his flight, making it on board with just two minutes to spare. Arriving in Boston, he cleared customs and traveled by bus to Dartmouth College in New Hampshire, before taking a taxi to the small, rural town of Barnet. Here, he had arranged to stay at the Blue Skies Guesthouse, a cozy timber building run by a welcoming Buddhist couple with interests in Tibetan art and gardening. About a fifteen-minute walk away there was a Shambhala Buddhist retreat, Karmê Chöling, a sister center to Dechen Chöling, replete with kyudo archery courses, vegetable gardens, and meditation classes. Sitting in his room, on a single bed covered with a bright patchwork quilt, he wrote about what he had seen so far.
What can I say about the USA? So huge—so spacious—so wealthy and Vermont is unbelievably forested, trees that go off over green hills to a woodland horizon. It’s beautiful. I watched a documentary about black bears on the plane, how friendly they can be, and wonder if I will also see them—here in America.
The next morning, Stephen’s whole plan depended on him renting a car and then driving to the scheduled gun show. He traveled to the nearby town of St. Johnsbury, where he used his fake ID to rent a car, a silver Dodge Charger. But he never made it to the gun show. When he woke, he looked out of his bedroom window, and the sun was shining so brightly over the thickly forested hills that he found himself caught in a long, happy reverie. He thought about the black bears he saw on the plane and how fascinating they were, curious and somehow sweet despite their teeth and claws. Suddenly, he felt a very strong urge to try to find some. It was a beautiful day. The gun show wasn’t vital anyway, he told himself. He had already established email contact with a private gun dealer in St. Johnsbury, to have as a backup option. He would pay him a visit later in the day.
“Today was sunny so I went on a black-bear spotting mission,” he wrote that evening.
Drove up the wide roads through St. Johnsbury, where I got some (delicious!) snack food and free maps from the tourist office. The people here are so friendly! Always smiling, greeting and wishing you a ‘nice day’. I drove to a lake with two granite mountains on each side. As I ascended the views were fantastic. Like out of a dream. I walked for about four hours—man I’m unfit!—before returning and heading to St. Johnsbury to ‘complete’ the main reason I’m here—to get a gun. And yet the scenery—the FREEDOM OF TRAVEL—alone is enough reason to be in this beautiful place.
After his hike he drove to the home of a private gun dealer named Steve. “He was overweight and he was in his forties,” says Stephen. “He had a mustache and a balding head. I remember that he had food stains on his clothes. He lived with his mother. This little old lady offering us tea while he was talking about guns.”
The chubby gun dealer glanced at Stephen’s fake ID but nothing more. Stephen explained that he was half-American, half-British. The dealer didn’t seem to care. As his mother fussed around them in her chintzy living room, he asked what he could do for Stephen, who explained that he wanted a Glock 26 automatic pistol. He had done his research and concluded that the compact, reliable Glock 26 was the weapon he needed. The dealer produced a heavy-looking revolver and said that, if Stephen wanted to leave with a gun today, he could buy this. Otherwise, he would have to source the Glock for Stephen, which would take a few days. Stephen’s mind was set on the Glock. He paid the dealer $500, who said that he would be in touch when the gun was ready for collection. Upon exchange of the weapon, the remaining balance of $75 would be paid. They shook hands, and Stephen left.
After Istanbul, Stephen was not going to try to smuggle the gun back to the UK in his luggage. Instead, he planned to parcel up the pistol and ammunition in a box, along with BB guns and children’s toys to serve as camouflage, and then ship it back home under a different name. He knew it was not guaranteed to work—the surest method would be to import a car and hide the gun parts about the vehicle—but it was worth trying. “I subsequently found out that this was a common method of receiving firearms in the UK,” he says. He reflected on all of this at the Blue Skies Guesthouse, on the evening of May 17, 2008.
So far I’ve done really well—got a car with a fake license, almost got a gun—hoping! Seen so much beauty. Freedom flies along with this ship of solitude.
The next day, Sunday, May 18, Stephen made the short drive to Canada. He visited the Coaticook Gorge in Quebec, found a quiet river to bathe in, and marveled at the fact that everything was written in French. On the drive back to Barnet, he wondered whether it might be worth buying a stun gun. It could be a useful accessory. He decided in favor of it. Back at the Blue Skies Guesthouse, he hunched over his diary and reviewed his thoughts and actions.
The gun mission’s still green…haven’t got it yet. Tuesday will post it, with electronic toy, in Canada, separating out the ammo. The idea is to get an electronic toy, strap the gun to the toy or inside it, put a few bullets in the battery compartment, box it up, package it and label it ‘kids toys + paintballing’. It might even be worth getting some paintballing items. Also consider posting stun gun.
The writing then stopped. No more entries followed. The rest of the page—the rest of the book—is blank.
The following morning, Stephen rose early and drove to the Groton State Forest. There, he hiked to the top of Owl’s Head Mountain, a rocky peak rising high above the endless green below. It was an overcast day, but as he broke the tree line and reached the summit, a view revealed itself. Standing on rocks, catching his breath, Stephen looked out and saw nothing but woodland, lakes, and hills, stretching off into the horizon. The sky felt huge above him. As he breathed the cold, mossy air and surveyed the landscape below, an odd sensation overcame him. It was a feeling that this moment was significant in some way. And while the reason was not yet entirely clear, Stephen seemed to understand that it marked some kind of culmination. “It was very strange,” he says, frowning. “On the top of this peak I had this sense that I needed to remember this. That it was the end. Of course, I didn’t have any idea what was going to happen next.”
After eating a packed lunch, Stephen descended Owl’s Head Mountain. He drove to Montpelier, where he found a public library. He wanted to go online and check his upcoming university assignments. He also wanted to search for more gun stores. He had plenty of cash with him, and had decided there would be no harm in buying another pistol, just as a backup option. He found that in the nearby town of Waterbury, there was a large and reputable store called Parro’s Gun Shop and Police Supplies. He made a note of the address and left the library. By now, it was raining heavily. He started his rental car, flicked on the wipers, and headed north toward Waterbury.
The rain was now coming down in torrents, reverberating against the roof of his Dodge like a mad drumroll. He knew that the chubby private gun dealer had believed his story about being a dual national because he had wanted to make the sale. At a proper gun store, though, he told himself that he couldn’t show up speaking like someone from England. Even if they accepted his dual national story, they would most likely ask for additional documentary evidence that Stephen did not have. So as he cruised toward his destination, Stephen practiced speaking in an American accent.
“Got any Glocks?” he said to nobody, affecting a slow, steady, confident drawl.
“Got any Glocks?” he asked again.
Did that sound convincing? He gripped the steering wheel and tried to decide. It was hard to tell. He tried again.
“Gimme a Glock,” he said, but immediately shook his head. It sounded wrong. Also, he knew, that’s not how gun shops work anyway. He cleared his throat and tried again.
“Got any Glocks?”
That actually sounded pretty good. He smiled and kept repeating it as the rain came down.
“Got any Glocks?”
“Got any Glocks?”
“Got any Glocks?”
As he approached Waterbury, he spotted what he was looking for through the driving rain: a large, long single-story lodge with an American flag flying over the front door. Outside, a wooden sign said parro’s. He had come within a split second of driving past it. Instead, he hit the brakes then pulled into the lot, parking beside a pickup truck. He checked he had his wallet with him. And then he ducked into the store.
Inside, Parro’s was large and brightly lit. There were stag heads mounted on the walls. There were black bears, mouths open, teeth bared, glassy eyes staring ahead into nothing. Down the central aisle there were racks of shotguns and hunting rifles, while black assault weapons were mounted on a wall beside a long wooden front desk. There were boxes and boxes of ammunition and hundreds of pistols in a long, low row of glass display cases. The place had the reassuring and familiar smell of a good hardware store, of cardboard and metal and domestic chemicals. On a stand by the entrance was a gumball machine.
It was about two-thirty in the afternoon when Stephen entered Parro’s. There were one or two other customers browsing the aisles and a couple of staff members chatting by the front desk. Seeing the number of weapons on display, Stephen had to stop himself from gawking. He was awestruck by the sheer firepower spread out before him. One of the staff members was a middle-aged man with a gray mustache, horn-rimmed glasses, and a T-shirt tucked into his blue jeans and secured by a large belt. This was Henry Parro, the owner of the shop.
“Hey, how are you doing?” he asked, smiling cheerfully.
“Pretty good,” replied Stephen. He was trying to talk calmly and casually, but it was a struggle. The thrill of seeing so many guns had now been replaced by a sudden anxiety—a panicky, pulsing sensation of fear cut with anticipation, like a teenager in a liquor store. His voice seemed as though it was being dragged out from inside him, and it did not sound American at all. Parro asked if there was anything he could help him with, and Stephen, sounding more and more English by the second, responded quietly.
“I would like to look at a Glock 26 please.”
“Not from around here?” Parro asked brightly as they walked toward the pistol display cases. Stephen mumbled something inaudible. Parro unlocked one of the cases, took out a Glock 26, checked that it was empty, and then handed it to Stephen, who held it by the butt, staring at the functional black sleekness of it, enjoying its weight and the feel of the grip in his palm.
“He looked at it and said, ‘I’ll take it,’ ” remembers Parro, who talks with a warm but measured clarity. “And that was the first indicator that there could be something wrong. Most customers will ponder the purchase. They will try to negotiate the price or get some accessories thrown in. But within thirty seconds of him entering my building, he was saying ‘I’ll take it.’ ”
While Stephen’s Asperger’s often made it hard for him to read the emotions of others, even he could see the flash of suspicion that passed across Parro’s face. A voice in his head told him to just stop, to think up an excuse and leave. But he ignored it. He was so close. He already had the box in the trunk of his car. He could be robbing banks in Worcestershire and beyond with a real gun in a little over a week. Why turn back now? Having come so far? Are you Robin Hood? he asked himself. Or are you just a frightened, anxious nobody? Under the gun store’s bright lights and the unblinking, unseeing gaze of deer and black bears, a battle between fantasy and reality was playing out in Stephen’s head.
Stephen followed Parro to the front desk. Parro placed the Glock beside the till and asked an assistant to provide Stephen with the paperwork needed to complete the purchase. He then asked if Stephen could provide some ID. Stephen nodded quickly, handing over his fake license.
What Stephen did not know was that Henry Parro had served as a police officer for more than twenty-five years. In fact, on a part-time basis, he still did, working as a local patrolman. Parro examined the license and immediately saw something that made him want to frown, though he managed to keep his expression mild and neutral. All Vermont driver’s licenses included a signature from the state’s commissioner of motor vehicles. As it happened, the commissioner of motor vehicles was a personal friend of Parro’s. But the signature on Stephen’s ID was not his. Parro smiled at Stephen, thanked him, and told him to complete the form while he went into his office for a moment.
Minutes passed. Stephen had completed the form, filling it with false information about himself, and was almost beside himself with anxiety. He tried to hand the assistant the $500 they had agreed on for the Glock plus ammunition, but he just smiled and said they just needed to wait for his boss to sign off on everything. He knew he should leave. But he would not do so without his fake ID. So he took a breath and then walked toward the door to Parro’s office. He pushed it open and saw the gray-haired man with a receiver tucked under one ear and Stephen’s license in his other hand. Stephen looked at Parro, and Parro looked at Stephen. They both understood what was happening. Parro had already called the state police, asked them to run the details from Stephen’s ID through their system, and established that the license was fake. He had just finished a conversation with the local Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives to let them know someone had just tried to buy a gun using false information.
“I was speaking to the ATF when Mr. Jackley comes into the doorway of my office and says, ‘I need my license back,’ ” says Parro. Stephen says that the stolid figure before him responded by calmly explaining that he could not do that. At which point Stephen turned and bolted back out the door. “He ran very quickly and jumped into his car, backed across the parking lot at a rapid pace,” says Parro. Stephen managed to reverse into one of the trucks in the lot with a loud thunk-crack, but fought the urge to pump the accelerator and fishtail onto the quiet country road. Instead he did his best to leave the scene of the crime as casually as possible. He indicated a turn, then slowly pulled onto the road and drove away.
Parro told the ATF agent on the line that the suspect had just made a break for it. “I told them, ‘He’s running!’ And then I grabbed my portable radio and my gun and I ran out after him.” He jumped into his truck and accelerated, radioing the local state police barracks as he did so, describing Stephen and his car. Within sixty seconds, an alert had been passed to all state troopers on the roads within a twenty-mile radius. Parro couldn’t see Stephen’s car, but he knew he had fled east, along Route 2. He scanned every car he approached to see if it was a silver Dodge Charger, his gun at his side, the rain driving down in torrents.
It was a Sunday afternoon at MDC Brooklyn, and Stephen was watching Monsoon preach to a large group of prisoners. The unofficial iglesia services he led were not just popular with inmates of all races, but with many of the prison guards, too. They attended, standing at a remove from the men they were supervising but still nodding their heads in affirmation while Monsoon spoke with white-hot conviction, murmuring their “amens” and squeezing their eyes tight in prayer and contemplation.
Stephen was in awe of Monsoon. Not just because of his oratory and conviction, but the way he was able to bring inmates out of themselves during the services, to make even the toughest, most nihilistic men in this federal prison stand up and tell strangers about their hopes and fears and regrets. Monsoon had been a drug dealer and a gang leader, he told the assembled inmates. He had been motivated by greed and by anger. He had grown up in a world that was hard and mean, so he decided that he needed to be hard and mean, too. He had never thought or cared about the consequences of his actions so long as they led to him getting what he wanted. More money. More respect. One day he learned that his sister’s husband had been unfaithful to her. So he killed him.
Stephen watched entranced as the shaven-headed, tattooed man in front of him described undergoing a religious conversion in jail, about how one night he was so consumed with hatred and anger that he just collapsed in his cell. Writhing on the floor, Monsoon finally cried out for forgiveness from God. And in a moment, he knew that forgiveness had been granted. Grace had been bestowed. A second chance provided. At Monsoon’s encouragement, other inmates stood up and talked about the crimes they had committed and how deeply they regretted them—not because they got caught and ended up in jail, but because they could see that what they had done was wrong. These confessions sometimes took place in smaller groups, after the main service. Which was how later, Stephen came to be sitting quietly with a group of inmates who, at Monsoon’s gentle encouragement, were describing the worst thing they ever did. Some talked of stabbings and shootings. Others of gangland cruelty and betrayal. Eventually, it was Stephen’s turn to speak. All eyes turned to him. He cleared his throat and spoke quietly.
“I burgled the Worcester offices of the National Society of the Prevention of Cruelty to Children,” he said. This only drew blank looks from the men listening, so he added that he also robbed quite a few banks. Now the inmates around the table nodded slowly. “I thought I was Robin Hood,” he continued. One of the men sighed in sympathy and said he knew that feeling, telling yourself that you’re some kind of outlaw. But Stephen just shook his head. No, he said. He genuinely thought he was Robin Hood.
Monsoon asked if he’d hurt anyone. Stephen thought of Raymond Beer, and how close he had come to seriously wounding somebody who had just been going about their job. He thought of the screaming, trembling bank and betting shop employees he had threatened with guns and knives, and how he had allowed himself to believe that their momentary fear would pass once he had gone. But after months in jail, he was beginning to understand that this was not how trauma worked at all. He thought of his mother, on her own at Manstone Avenue, and how during the few brief telephone conversations they’d had since he’d been jailed, she had simply not understood where he was or why. He thought of the ice cream they had shared at the Riviera Hotel in Sidmouth and wanted to cry. Stephen looked at Monsoon and nodded. Yes, he said. I hurt people.
Later, after the inmates had drifted away from iglesia, Monsoon approached Stephen and sat beside him. He asked if it was true what he had said about robbing banks. Stephen nodded. Monsoon couldn’t help smiling, but saw that Stephen was troubled, so he asked how he’d ended up getting captured. Was there a shootout? Hostages? Betrayal? Stephen sighed.
“No,” he said. “I just got caught.”