Welcome to Hell (10 page)

He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me, but his translator was far from silent.

‘Rude, ungrateful bastard!’ he said. ‘He has done everything to help you. He went to Bangkok for the hearing and he’s here to help you today, and you insult him by talking directly to the judge!’

I lost my temper and I sacked him right there and then. His translator called me a few names but I didn’t care. That was the end of him.

I found a new lawyer, my third since this ordeal began. I hoped he would move to conclude the case as quickly as possible – if only so that he’d get paid quickly.

But my decision to appoint him only delayed my final trial date. It was back to the same old routine. I would be taken from prison to court every 12 weeks just to hang around and wait.

My Thai was still pretty basic at this stage. I was learning but I still had trouble. I only found out what was going on in court through the Thai boys who were on trial during the same sessions. They listened to all the other cases, and reported in detail what had been said. Without them, I wouldn’t have known how I was being screwed.

My trial finally came to court after three years. It was a very informal hearing, to say the least.

This time, the prosecution called witnesses.

The first was one of my colleagues, who’d come with me to help at the meeting at the construction yard. He testified that I had explained to him how this Mr O’Connor had stolen $460,000 from me using one of his con tricks. He told the court that he had agreed to help me catch O’Connor and arranged for two Thai policemen to be present at the meeting.

He agreed with my statement that O’Connor had attacked me the moment he realised he’d been caught. He said that O’Connor seemed to be too strong for me and the two police officers had to pull him off me. There had been no further trouble and towards the end of the meeting he’d left, so didn’t know what happened after that.

He also testified that he had known me for a couple of years, and described me as a nice guy who was liked by everybody at the office. He and everyone else were surprised to hear that I’d been arrested for murder.

My lawyer didn’t bother cross-examining him, because he’d said nothing damaging. In fact, I thought he’d helped the case for the defence more than the prosecution.

The second witness was one of the police officers present at the meeting where I’d caught O’Connor. He testified that he’d been asked to attend and arrest O’Connor when he appeared. This officer said he had seen O’Connor attack me and had dragged him off me.

He said that O’Connor had agreed to return the money he had stolen and he and the other police officer had left.

He said he could shed no light on what might have occurred after that, and he knew nothing about any murder. Again, this prosecutor’s witness could tell the court nothing and said nothing that could be or was damaging to me.

The third witness was supposed to be the doctor who’d examined Holdsworth’s body. However, he decided not to attend court, but a written report he supplied was entered as evidence by the prosecutor.

The document simply said that it was clear from the marks and bruises on Holdsworth’s body that he had been involved in a fight. The report stated that Holdsworth had been stabbed a number of times, and had a gash on his neck and his ear, possibly after having been bitten by a rat or a dog.

The report didn’t specifically state the cause of death; it just confirmed that Holdsworth was dead. The case was farcical in almost every way. The prosecution presented no forensic evidence linking me to the crime.

But they saved the best till last.

Towards the end, the prosecutor held up a piece of paper – which he claimed was the murder weapon.

It wasn’t a knife; it wasn’t even a photograph of a knife. It was a black-and-white photocopy of part of a knife, twisted and bent with no handle.

I thought I was seeing things. I looked around the court to see if the real knife was being examined by anyone or put on display, but I could see nothing.

The prosecutor continued to speak. He said the knife had been found by police, not in, on or near the body, but somewhere in the vicinity of the supposed murder scene.

There were no fingerprints.

I’d been shown this half-a-knife at the police station. It was twisted and bent and rusty, but the police had tried to hammer some of the dents out of it. I remember thinking that they hadn’t done a very good job, because the dents were still clear even in the photocopy.

The prosecutor told the judge that traces of blood had been found on the knife. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough to identify the blood group, but he said he was sure it was the victim’s blood.

I objected to my lawyer about this piece of paper being accepted as material evidence. I always believed that material evidence means exactly that – the genuine article, not a photograph, and certainly not a photocopy, must be presented in court.

I looked on, wondering when this charade would come to an end. I actually felt confident that the judge would just order a retrial.

I tapped my lawyer on the shoulder and asked him to do something. He turned around and told me it wasn’t necessary for him to object. He said the judge would know himself that this wasn’t acceptable. If we objected, he said, it would look like we were trying to teach the judge points of law.

He was very anxious that I should keep calm and remain silent.

‘Calm down!’ he told me. ‘If you’re angry in front of the judge, he might think you’re aggressive. In a murder trial that’s not a good idea. If you’re not careful it might get you convicted!’

Against my better judgement, I promised to say nothing. I sincerely believed that I was finally about to be freed. I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardise that.

The final pieces of evidence the prosecutor placed before the judges were the photographs taken at the police reconstruction, which he claimed showed me re-enacting the murder and also showed my blood-stained clothing.

This was too much. I objected to this without waiting for my lawyer to intervene.

I stood up and proclaimed that the police had taken me to the scene and told me where to stand and what to do, under threat of torture. I wanted the judge to know what happened.

My lawyer looked shocked.

The judge turned in my direction and said, ‘But that is you in the photographs, isn’t it?’

I confirmed that it was, but before I could object further, the judge got up and left the courtroom. My lawyer sat there with an expressionless face.

When I asked him why he hadn’t objected, he said, ‘I told you not to make the judge angry!’

I didn’t get the opportunity to say anything else. The trial was adjourned yet again and I was returned to prison. As soon as the judge walked out the door, I knew I was fucked.

11

Chonburi Prison was designed to hold 3,500 but it actually held over 5,000, with new arrivals every day.

I often asked myself when they would stop sending men to the already cramped facility. Out of fear, the Thai prisoners never complained, because commandos regularly murdered inmates and raped them. This ensured compliance.

Foreigners were treated slightly better. When I was in Chonburi there were only around 50 foreign inmates, so they considered themselves to have 4,950 submissive inmates, and about 50 problem-causing foreigners.

The commandos never trusted us and were always on their guard when they were around us. They knew that we knew they engaged in all types of crime.

I knew that the prison’s director and the guards stole whatever they could. They stole much of what was intended for our basic provisions and divided it among themselves according to ranking. The prisoners were left to fend for themselves.

The place was a cesspit. We were locked up between 3.30 p.m. and 4 p.m. every day. There was no food allowed in the rooms, and no smoking. The only drink allowed was water. There were water bottles in the rooms, but they were filled from the toilet system. Foreigners wouldn’t go near this water, so we were forced us to buy fresh drinking water from the guards.

They co-operated with us in supplying water because it earned them money, but that was where the relationship ended. We were granted no extra privileges. We were all thoroughly searched before being allowed into the cell block.

We were permitted to keep no personal belongings in the rooms. If they caught you smuggling cigarettes, you were given a choice. You could either eat them or be taken out and given a vicious beating.

This was usually one punch or kick per cigarette but, depending on the guard on duty, they might also strip you and make you stand spread-eagled for everybody to have a good laugh at. If you were lucky, they’d give you your clothes back that night.

If not, you’d go to the room naked and wait to get your clothes back in the morning – and this would cause its own problems. The risk of sexual assault and rape was ever present.

Even though I had adapted to prison life to a certain extent, I always dreaded going up into the rooms at night. Nobody looked forward to spending the night in a room full of Thai drug dealers, rapists and perverts.

They were bad enough during the day, but at night they became close to unbearable.

The room where I was held had a small piece of bamboo and a stick. The prisoners used to bang out an all-clear signal every hour on the hour right through the night. The prisoners rotated each night, doing an hour’s ‘security’ and then waking the next man for his stint.

The guards were supposed to walk around and check throughout the prison, but instead they just sat in their chairs and rang a little bell. Every room sent the signal each hour and the guard went back to sleep. If a prisoner fell asleep and missed the signal, he was beaten in the morning. This routine made it almost impossible to sleep.

* * *

The Thai prison system was designed to brutalise the inmates in every way. I cannot over-state this. The authorities installed four one-metre fluorescent tube lights in the cells, which they left on all night. The commandos refused to turn any of them off, and most of us ended up wearing blindfolds to try to get some sleep.

In the beginning I often went for three or four days at a time without sleeping at all. At one stage, I bribed a guard to buy me some sleeping pills. He would only give me one at a time, since if I were to take my life it might be traced back to him, so I’d take the single pill and hope for the best.

But looking back, I now think that more than anything it was the sheer stress of being held in such conditions that made it difficult to sleep for more than a few hours a night.

The other prisoners were also overwhelmingly loud and obnoxious. They would parade around the cell in nothing.

And they would do anything for money. Most begged from everyone else, especially the foreigners, for the money to buy a bag of rice. Sometimes they would need money to gamble or rent a porn magazine.

The gambling and porn created a very violent atmosphere. Gambling led to fights, and in such a small and cramped room that affects everybody. But the porn was worse. I found the whole thing sickening.

Most of the long-term prisoners had lost all their self-respect. They would masturbate constantly in the toilet. There was only a one-metre wall surrounding the toilet, so it was impossible to avoid noticing.

One man masturbating out of a room of 40 might not be so bad, but it was never just one. If someone managed to smuggle a porn magazine into the cell, a queue would form, with maybe 15 or 20 prisoners waiting by the toilet for their turn.

Some didn’t even bother going into the toilet. They would just take their penises out and relieve themselves in the middle of the room. When they were finished, they’d either use their t-shirt or a blanket to wipe themselves off.

Others would openly masturbate each other; while others would have sex with other men they called their prison ‘wives’. A lot of these men were serving in excess of ten years, and had turned to homosexuality out of desperation.

So for everybody, the threat of gang rape was ever present. I saw men raped many times.

One Thai prisoner I shared a cell with was convicted for raping a child. He was put in my room, and had only been there a few days when we all found out why he was in prison. That night, the room leader gave him a sleeping place beside his own.

Later in the night, he raped him, and continued to rape him every night for a week. The man complained to a guard and was moved. God knows what would have happened if the guard hadn’t been sympathetic.

* * *

When I was first sent to prison, I was naive. I didn’t look as if I could defend myself or stand up for my rights. But my years inside made me remarkably strong. I eventually changed my image and the way I dealt with people. I shaved my head and got tattoos. After a few months in prison, it was clear to everybody that I would take no nonsense from anyone who gave me trouble.

This made sure that I wasn’t raped. I was never sexually assaulted because the other prisoners knew what the consequences of such an action would be. I had changed since I was sent there. I was no longer the slight, straight-laced businessman I once was. I had adapted, and was well able to look after myself.

I was strong, and never resorted to any sexual depravity in order to survive. I blanked it out of my mind as much as possible, but with half the prisoners in some form of fornication or other it wasn’t easy.

I’ve lived among men all my life, and I’ve worked offshore for months on end, but I’d never seen men act like that before I was in prison. There were times when I wanted to castrate the lot of them, and there were times when it took every ounce of restraint not to get up and kill the bastards.

I found it especially hard when foreigners behaved that way.

I remember one particularly revolting English prisoner called Simon. He had been sent to Chonburi for molesting a woman.

Simon went into a shopping centre and grabbed a sales assistant by the breasts. He got six months.

One night, before anyone had gone to sleep, Simon went to the toilet. He didn’t even turn his back, but just sat there and started masturbating. I shouted at him to get a grip of himself and not to behave like the others.

He turned to me grinning and said, ‘I can’t stop now!’

I’d had enough. I got up and beat the shit out of him.

Simon refused to come into the room the next night. When he explained to the guards why, they all thought it was hilarious. They transferred him to another room.

* * *

Not all of the Thai prisoners were pushovers. There were groups or gangs of Thai inmates who called themselves Samurai. But they had no code and no honour like the real Samurai. They were basically just gangs of thugs who picked on the weaker prisoners, or extorted money from them.

They might not have been real Samurai, but they were dangerous. If you pissed them off, they’d attack. I was particularly cautious around them.

They thought nothing of stabbing rivals with a sharpened toothbrush or spoon, or splitting someone’s head open with a plate or even a lump of concrete.

They fought incessantly, and even killed each other over as little as a few cents or anything that they felt caused them to lose face with their friends.

My life was worth more to me than a few cents, so I tried to have as little to do with the Samurai as possible.

Apart from these, most of the fighting that went on was over gambling debts or borrowed money, and some of it was over drugs. But then again, it could be over anything.

I survived by continuing to remind myself that I was the only person I could trust.

I had a few friends in the prison, but by and large I tried not to get too close to anyone. It didn’t matter who they were. They were all fucking criminals, and I soon learnt that my fellow prisoners would cheat me in any way they could.

There is one case that springs to mind. Before my arrest, while I was living in Pattaya, an English guy who lived across the road with his boyfriend got to know my wife Nanglung. I’d met him once or twice and he seemed like a nice guy. One day he asked Nanglung if he could borrow 5,000 baht until his own money came from England.

My wife asked me if that would be okay.

‘If he’s really stuck for the money, lend it to him,’ I said. So he borrowed the 5,000 baht.

A few weeks passed and, the next thing I knew, he was gone. He’d moved house without saying a word. I felt stupid for trusting him, but that’s life.

I’d been in Chonburi Prison for two years when Andrew, or André as he liked to be called, turned up.

He’d been arrested for molesting a young boy, though he claimed he was innocent. Obviously, he was surprised to see me. He knew I’d been arrested, but thought I’d gone to Bangkwang prison in Bangkok.

He apologised about the money.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Now I’ll clear everything.’

He explained that he was just waiting for his embassy to transfer money for him.

I had to help him out with most things in the prison because he didn’t know anything or anybody. I got him organised and into a good room, and I got him some credit in the prison shop.

He said that now he knew where I was and the conditions in here, he’d return my 5,000 baht as soon as he got out. He’d also send me food parcels, medicine, books and magazines. Whatever I wanted, I’d get.

A few days later he was gone again, out on bail. I never received a penny of the 5,000 baht, and no food parcels or any of the other things he had promised. In fact, I didn’t even get a letter.

What I did get from him was his credit bill in the prison shop – which I had to pay whether I liked it or not. This was typical of the kind of thing that went on.

There is a saying that revenge is a dish best served cold. I met André four years later in another prison. He’d been arrested again for molesting little boys.

I would have kicked his teeth down his throat, but he’d just suffered a stroke and I didn’t have the heart to hit him. Amazingly, he asked me for help again.

‘Can you help me get moved into your building?’ he asked me.

‘Not a chance. I don’t want you near me,’ I said with a shrug.

‘Well, maybe you could help me out with some cigarettes and coffee.’

‘Fuck off,’ I said bluntly, and left the room.

He could fend for himself. It wasn’t really revenge; it was poetic justice.

There was no loyalty among any of those criminals. I remember this American guy I used to meet regularly for a few beers and a game of pool. He landed in Chonburi one day. He, like André, told me that he hadn’t known where I was being held – or he ‘would definitely have visited me’. He said he had been arrested for fighting over his laundry, but was getting out on bail soon.

He was shocked at the state of the place.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘How do you survive in this shit?’

He only had the clothes he’d been arrested in and they were filthy, so until they could be washed I gave him some of my own. I bought him a shower bowl, soap, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and a bag of coffee, milk powder and sugar.

He promised to help me in whatever way he could once he got his bail.

A couple of days later his bail came through, and he was gone. Not only did he get out, but the tight bastard took everything with him – my clothes, the shower bowl, a bar of soap, even a half a bag of coffee and sugar. He left nothing. But like André, I’m sure that we will meet again some day.