Bangkok Hard Time (8 page)

The captain allowed me to keep the Thai money, my sport coat, a toothbrush, a small hotel-sized bar of soap, and he let me exchange my sunglasses for my clear lens glasses with its all-important case. Then I was placed into the lockup. It was dusk and I was getting sicker by the minute.

There were three large cells with a common area in the middle. Two cells were for men, the third was for women. The common area was being shared by both sexes. It was strange to be in a lockup with women. After food was delivered, white rice with a vegetable that looked like spinach, everyone was locked into their gender-appropriate cells to eat.

I scurried for the relative privacy of the walled-off toilet area and broke open my glasses case where I had secreted a small bag of heroin inside the plastic nose bridge. It was enough to keep me for a few days. One small snort and I was instantly well, hungry, and sorry that the women were locked away..

There were only five others with me in the large cell. The green with the white rice was parboiled watercress covered with a splash of soy sauce and a small blob of anchovy paste. It was nobody’s idea of a feast. It was what it was. I ate it.

My fellow detainees were interested in speaking with the
farang
in their midst. I was interested in eating and then nodding out so I pretended not to understand any of their conversational openers. When one of them tried to engage me with his limited English, I responded that I didn’t understand him.

I went to a corner of the cell, balled up my sport coat for a pillow and put my head down on it. Closing my eyes, I tried not to dwell on the double-pronged nature of my fate. I was obviously going to be locked up in Thailand for a long time, but I was not sick … yet. Meanwhile, the sound of a Thai girl crying in the adjoining cell tore at my heart.

The next morning, I was taken out of the lockup briefly to speak on the telephone. The captain was speaking in Thai to someone on the other end of the line about me going to the hospital. As he spoke, he used a lot of “yes, sirs” (
Kup pohm, kup pohm).
Then he handed me the phone. It was my Dad. Sandy had called him.

He asked how I was doing, sounding clearly pissed off. I said I was all right for an old junkie. He told me that there was very little that he could do for me. Agreeing, I told him that he should not waste his time coming over to Thailand.

He concurred, saying, “I’ll come visit after you are sentenced.” Then he added, “When you get to prison, don’t talk too much, smile and keep your hands to yourself … I love you.” And with that, the conversation ended.

Later that afternoon, I was taken out of the cell again to the telephone. This time the captain seemed slightly irritated and used no “yes, sirs” to whomever he was speaking. He handed over the receiver to me. There was a Thai lady on the other end who asked me, in English, to hold. The American voice of the US Embassy para-consul came on the line, introducing himself and saying that he would come see me in two days.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“Just a little dope-sick,” I lied.

“Well, hang in there,” was his cheery reply. And just like that, the conversation was over.

I then asked the captain if I could speak with him and maybe pay to send out for something to eat. He became quite cordial when I inquired about what he would like to eat. He then sent an underling scurrying off with one of my 500-baht notes, which I had offered him. I had not understood what the hastily ordered food was going to be. At that point, I did not really care.

The captain took me to his office. One wall was half-covered with photos of men whom I guessed to be his superiors. On the other wall was a bulletin board covered with a confusing thumb-tacked jumble of memos and such which fluttered in the air, stirred up by the slow-turning ceiling fan. The wall behind the captain’s desk and chair was, from waist high up, a large open window.

He had me sit in one of the folding chairs in front of his desk and remained standing, but before he could speak, he was called out of his office, closing the door behind him. I was semi-shocked, though not too shocked to stand up and stroll over by the open window where I planned to pretend to be enjoying a non-existent breeze if he suddenly walked back in.

From that second-floor window, it was a short drop to the grass-covered ground below. While I was contemplating the possibly of doing just that, my mind was flooded with the obvious questions. Where would I go and with less than 1500 baht? Oh, and my face in the paper? Oh, and maybe a twisted ankle? There might as well have been thick bars on the window.

When I turned to go back to my seat, I spied my briefcase and precious leather carry-on bag between two file cabinets on the far wall. Above the file cabinets was a picture of The King. I sat back down just as the captain returned.

This captain was a tall, pleasant-looking fellow about my age with an overly loud voice. It was the kind of voice you use if you wanted someone who was trying to listen on the other side of the thin door to be able to hear you clearly. He had a barely hidden hint of distrust in his eye that could have passed for something of an affectation; I wasn’t sure.

Before he sat, I asked if I could have some of my eye medication, and he retrieved my bag. I tried to calmly dig out my eye drops after he handed over the bag. Finding it, I put a few drops in my red eye, followed by a sniff of my loaded nose spray. I set the bag on the chair next to me and tried to strike up a lame conversation about what he had ordered to eat. When he told me, I still did not comprehend because my junkie mind was coveting my bag with my fix sitting so temptingly close by.

When he stopped talking, I smiled and nodded, then asked him about the irritating call from the US Embassy.

“Never mind,” was his curt answer.

Then, from out of nowhere, he suggested, “Maybe you can have bail.” Bail? That possibility had not even occurred to me.

I recalled that the year before, one guy from the Group had bailed out of jail in Pattaya Beach, a small Gulf of Siam tourist town, after getting busted with a small amount of smack the cops found when they arrested him for slapping some Thai prostitute who had stolen his Rolex. I had helped facilitate transfer of the money for his release. It was my understanding, however, that anyone arrested at the airport with any amount of heroin was not getting bail. When I asked him about that, he argued that perhaps they had not moved quickly enough before my being formerly charged in court.

The food arrived in two plastic bags along with drinks in two plastic bags with straws rubber-banded through the twisted tops. I was handed my food and drink bag as the captain said, “Tomorrow you go to the hospital.” Then he offered an uninvited opinion saying, “Your father is a good man. You shame him.”

An underling was directed to escort me back to my cell. As we left, I attempted to casually scoop up my bag, but was beaten to it by the captain, who stood smiling while holding the object of my desire. Sometimes a Thai smile pissed me off. I smiled back and returned to my cell.

When I tasted my food, I found it to be good, but I still didn’t know what the hell it was. I sipped my drink and I knew what that was … Mehkong with Sprite and lemon on ice. It reminded me of sitting at the noodle shop around the corner from the Teen Club years ago. That night as I nodded off to sleep, I could hear the soft sibilant voices of the girls in the women’s cell across the way.

When I awoke, it was The Kings birthday: December 5, 1985. Two young, low-ranking police officers carried me to the hospital that morning. I had not taken any dope and was feeling a little sick by this time, but I could not go to the hospital stoned. As we arrived, there was a King’s birthday celebration going on in the parking lot. A band was playing Thai country music as the two cops led me handcuffed into the emergency entrance, past the edge of the crowd of revelers who mostly looked at me with disdain. I tried to smile and avoid eye contact.

Inside the triage section, a nurse did vitals while a doctor talked to the cops. Then, speaking to me in perfect English, he confirmed his diagnosis.

“You have heroin withdrawal,” he announced.

“Oh really?” I thought. “Clever observation.”

He continued with some counsel. “The only thing I can give you is an injection of a muscle relaxant to make you more comfortable for now. You are still going to be very sick for a few days,” he concluded. The nurse was already preparing to give me the injection.

I asked the doctor about methadone, and he said he would give me a prescription, but that he was sure they would not let me have it in jail. I would have to get it daily from a hospital across town. I took the prescription anyway.

On the way back to the jail, I suggested that we should stop and eat at an air-conditioned restaurant I spied next door to a pharmacy. The two cops escorting me thought that was a capital idea, since I was buying. I added it was also lucky that we had a pharmacy next door where I could fill my prescription. Once inside, I presented the script to the young girl, even though I knew that she did not have methadone and ordered a dozen Codipront (codeine pills) that required no prescription. She handed over my purchase, and I gulped half of them down before we walked back to the restaurant. The food there was most excellent, especially with beer.

The next morning brought a visitor, the para-consul from the American Embassy. He informed me that he was there to check on how I was being treated and to verify my relative well-being. I assured him that I was being treated well enough, but that I was a little dope-sick. He said that he would ask if I could be taken to the hospital. I told him it was already a done deal.

He gave me a small compilation of papers that briefly explained what I might be able to expect now that I was in the Thai prison system. It was almost like a collection of FAQs. I mentioned that the captain said that I might be able to get bail for about US$8,000 in case my dad was interested, but that I could not get my hands on quite that much cash from jail.

Two days later, the Embassy delivered 250,000 baht, which my family in Arkansas had sent for my bail. The captain later carried me to my court hearing, without handcuffs. He also brought along my briefcase and my leather bag stuffed with my money. During the ride, I used my eye drops and, of course, my heroin-loaded nose spray. Stopping en route to buy some new clothes for me, we arrived at Sanam Luang Courthouse with me feeling renewed and fresh in my new threads.

Once inside the courthouse, the captain accepted the 200,000 baht he said would be required. He left me sitting alone in the huge waiting hall with my briefcase and leather bag holding the balance of my money. He had said he was going to speak with a friend in the court about arranging my bail.

For a while, I sat there befuddled, then decided that I needed another snort of nose spray that did not help in any way to unbefuddle me. This was all too strange. No one was watching me other than the few dozen curious Thais who were waiting there in the hall for their own particular court business. About that time, my friend and legitimate business associate Damrong unexpectedly showed up. I told him what the situation was. He was the one who had consigned the snakeskin shipment. I asked him to take my briefcase and hold the balance of my bail money, but kept my dollars and a couple thousand baht.

He was as surprised as I was to find me sitting unattended. When I asked if Sandy had called him to pick up his snakeskins, he said “Yes, but forget about that. What is happening here?”

I answered, “Don’t know. Maybe you better go now. I will see you later.” He reluctantly agreed and left, but not before warning me not to do something stupid.

“You cannot trust all Thai police,” Damrong advised. “I don’t think you can have bail.”

Moments later, I stood up with my leather bag in hand and sauntered over to the exit leading to the street. Thanon Atsadang, a beautiful road running parallel with one of the relatively few remaining free-flowing canals in Bangkok, lay enticingly near, below me just down the few courthouse steps.

A number of taxis and unmarked cars for hire were awaiting fares at curbside, close to where the captain had parked. One of the drivers approached, almost like he had been waiting for me, and asked in clear English where I would like to go. That settled it for me. I turned and walked back inside and sat down. I was suddenly faced with a major quandary.

The quandary: Was this a setup intended for me to disappear before the court appearance, allowing the captain to retain the bail money? Perhaps someone was waiting close by to retrieve me quickly, thus saving face for the captain. Even if I got away successfully, without a ready passport and ticket to leave immediately, I would again be stuck in Thailand with my face in the Thai newspapers. I could not try to hide with anyone I knew.

Or, perhaps I was actually going to get bail (allowing time to find a usable passport), and that is why the captain had felt confident enough to leave me sitting alone in the hall. That was all I could hope for. Much like the quandary I experienced at the window in the captain’s office, this felt like the whole of the Thai people were holding me there.

Half an hour later, the captain reappeared. I clearly gathered by his rolling eyes, exasperated expression and silence that it had indeed been a setup. He then led me to a small courtroom, where I was charged with possession of 230 grams of heroin and intent to leave the Kingdom. The judge said bail was not an option.

As the bailiff escorted me from the courtroom to the courthouse lockup, I told the captain to hold onto my bail money because the Embassy would be coming to pick it up for me. He did, and they did.

For years thereafter, I would agonize over my possibly missed opportunity to escape what was then in store for me. Decades later, after reading his book
Escape: The true story of the only Westerner ever to escape from the Bangkok Hilton,
I would learn from David McMillan that my decision to stay had indeed been correct. McMillan, a kindred spirit and fellow Bangkok Hilton inmate, is to date the only
farang
to have escaped from Klong Prem Central Prison. His observation, that escaping from the prison was the easy part but avoiding being caught again was the hard part, rang true. Because he had a passport and a ticket for a flight waiting for him to pick up on the way to the airport after his escape, his very dangerous attempt proved successful. In fact, David had departed the Kingdom before he was even missed.