Dragons & Butterflies: Sentenced to Die, Choosing to Live (84 page)

The last time I’d seen my sister was way back before the new millennium, but my family were planning to visit me in October 2005. Their primary reason for coming was personally to deliver my second application for a royal pardon, to put it directly into the hands of the King’s Principal Secretary at the Palace. Jai had already translated it into Royal Thai for me. Normally, after a pardon has been rejected, a prisoner must wait a minimum of two years before applying again. I had waited four years to submit a new application, my logic being that when the European Union countries had their citizens transferred back to prisons in their own countries, the Thai government would only accept a minimum of 14 years for that prisoner to be resentenced in his own country. This meant that, by the time my pardon would be considered, I would have served close to 14 years. It was all about timing. I was confident that the second time around I would be lucky.

My niece Keri and nephew Darren would also be coming. I had not seen them for 11 years. My mom was advised not to come because it would be too traumatic for her. Whenever there was a contact visit coming up, prisoners would prepare themselves physically and mentally. It was not so much for myself that I did this, but more for my family. I felt it was important for their peace of mind if they knew, and could see, that I was strong and healthy. If I suffered, and I certainly did, I suffered in silence. My pain was not theirs to bear. Their own anguish was already deeply manifested, and my complaining would only compound it. Even so, I knew it was going to be hard to conceal my emotions. I loved my nephew like my own son, and my niece had been a mere toddler when I was arrested. I had only got to know Keri through our correspondence.

Two contact visits of one and a half hours each hardly constituted a family reunion, but it was all we had and we would have to make the most of it. There would be a million questions I wanted to ask, and I had no doubt they shared the same curiosity. Time restrictions always frustrated me. One minute you were sitting there and the next it was time to say goodbye. The system was cruel – inhuman, actually. My family would have had to cross oceans to be with me, and it was miserable to think that we would see each other for such a limited time. An ex-Arcadian and good friend by the name of Peter Hough, who lived between Canada and Australia, had provided financial help to make their visit possible and I was enormously grateful for his generosity. There were some amazing people out there, many of whom didn’t even know me personally. They came from Australia, Canada, England, Israel and South Africa. Most of my old friends never bothered to send me so much as a letter. I think they had written me off for dead, believing that I would never make it out of prison alive. It is true what they say: ‘In times of trouble real friends are precious and far in between.’ I was attracting a whole new crowd of friends, wholesome and compassionate people who didn’t judge but only wanted to help and to make my life as bearable as possible. Some did this unconditionally, while others who might have had some sort of expectation would ultimately be disappointed. However, this never diminished my gratitude; instead it opened my heart to others.

For days before the expected arrival of Joan, Malcolm and the kids, I was extremely anxious. I couldn’t sleep a wink and my excitement was tangible. Our first meeting would be in the foreign visit room, with no physical contact but at least a chance to break the ice. I had prepared myself physically, but, when it comes to a man’s emotions, you are only as strong as the moment dictates. Nothing can prepare you for what may unfold.

The day arrived and I made my way to the visit room, my heart beating rapidly and my palms sweating. And there they all were. Darren was so tall! And Keri, who would be celebrating her 16th birthday in Bangkok that weekend, had blossomed into a beautiful girl. She was the spitting image of her mother when Joan was young. My lower lip began to quiver and my throat went dry. Pull yourself together, I kept telling myself. I was a hero to my family – I had survived more than ten years in prison. Tears were forming in my eyes; the floodgates were ready to burst. Breathe in, breathe out, I willed myself. Breathe in, breathe out. I had a role to play and the cameras were rolling. Take 1. Action.

I smiled so hard I thought my face would crack, but my joy was real. I could not believe how much the kids had grown, which made the years I’d spent in prison suddenly seem a lot longer than ten. I fought the tears back, and we joked and laughed, while all the time a thousand questions were racing through my mind. All of them were lost in the moment. Ten years was an awful lot of time to catch up. As we talked and got to know each other, those years simply fell away. I was so impressed with the kids. They were intelligent, well mannered and, above all, loving and caring towards me.

Our first contact visit was deeply rewarding. The second and final visit was strained, however. Jai joined us for this visit. Until coming to Bangkok, my sister had never met Jai, although they had emailed each other and spoken over the phone. By now Joan loved her like a sister, and for everything she meant to me, but, when they finally met, Jai was not the woman Joan had imagined her to be. I wasn’t sure whether it was something about Jai or whether it was just the cultural barrier, but, as much as she tried, Joan just couldn’t warm to her. Jai sat next to me and we held hands. We were seven years into a relationship that still hadn’t been consummated. Sadly, her hands were as cold as my heart was for her; I no longer felt anything for Jai except gratitude. We are told that everything happens for a reason, and she and I were not meant to be.

My family and I had agreed before our last visit that, when they departed, we would not shed tears but would rejoice in the joy of our reunion, knowing that it was only a matter of time before I would eventually be free. So once again we said our goodbyes.

On their last day in Thailand, they delivered my petition requesting a royal pardon to the Palace. Now all I could do was wait. I was at the mercy of the King.

Despite the high risk that went with them, mobile phones became big business in the prison, and this continued into 2006. The guards were still smuggling them in. When they caught one of us with a dog, they would simply resell it in another building. Prisoners were now communicating with each other by phone from one building to another, ordering drugs and mobiles. On a weekend, the Bad Boys would arrange to wait at a specific time at the wall dividing our building, with scouts placed at strategic positions just in case one of the guards decided to walk around. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a package would come flying over the wall.

The price of mobiles and drugs fluctuated from building to building. Because security was far more lax in Building 3, for example, drugs were more freely available there. Prisoners were beating the system from every angle.

In another attempt to curb the problem, the prison authorities installed closed-circuit television to monitor inmates and watch for illegal activities, and certain cells were targeted, ours being one of them. The first day the closed-circuit system was operational, we had a pretty good idea that our friend Veesarnou would be monitoring our cell. The incident with Flea, I’m sure, was still fresh in his mind. We were bound to be the target of his revenge. At lockdown, when we entered the cell, every member of our room lined up, our backs facing the closed-circuit camera. We pulled our shorts to our knees and bent over, flashing our brown eyes at the camera. It was really funny. Even so, that night most of us were extremely uncomfortable with the idea that our every move was being watched by the guards. Two days later, one of the guys climbed up on the security door and turned the camera towards the ceiling. I don’t know what we were thinking. As the room chief, the following morning I was summoned to the office and severely scolded by Veesarnou, who warned me that, if we so much as touched the camera again, he would send each and every one of us to another building.

Still, the guys in the room were not happy. Using the dog under these circumstances would be extremely dicey, so once again I drafted a petition complaining about the cameras being invasive. We all signed it, but, after giving it some thought, I decided not to hand it in. I believed it would only draw more attention to our room. So Big Brother won that round.

I developed a method of blocking myself out of the field of vision of the closed-circuit TV cameras. I would take a sarong, attach a string to it, and tie it to a nail in the wall. Then I tucked the sarong under my bed, which successfully cut me off from everybody’s vision up to my chest. Whenever I used the dog to make a call, I would lie on my left side with my back to the corridor, the dog resting under my ear and against my pillow. I would pretend to be sleeping. When I was texting I held a book with my left hand and with my right I typed away. I kept emphasising the risk and reminding the other guys who had dogs to be careful, as our room was always being watched.

The date of His Majesty the King’s 60th anniversary on the throne was 9 June 2006, and so another amnesty was in sight. Once again, however, the Thai government proposed to exclude drug cases. I was so tired of them using us as an excuse to strengthen their own political ambitions that, this time around, I decided I was going to throw all I could muster against them. One thing I had learnt about the Thais: the more you ask for, the better your chances are of getting something – maybe not all that you ask for, but something. So, besides reminding them not to discriminate against drug cases, I would now also call for the abolition of the death penalty, knowing full well that they would never do this, but hoping that, while I wouldn’t win on the death penalty, I might be luckier when it came to the inclusion of drug cases in the amnesty. History was repeating itself once more, even here in prison. I drew up the petition and had it distributed to every building – same scenario. The petition demanded three things: first, the abolition of the death penalty; second, a general reduction in sentences; and third, an end to the discrimination drug offenders faced from the Thai judiciary. The petition this time was for the attention of the Minister of Justice, General Chidchai Wanasathit.

In 2006 I met a new foreigner on death row. We first connected at the parcel area. He was in for murder, and although he claimed to be innocent, suspicious circumstances surrounded his story. He was accused of killing a Swiss businessman while having an affair with the man’s Thai wife. We struck up an immediate friendship and would often bump into each other either collecting parcels or at the registered mail section. In the course of one of our conversations, he told me that he owned property in northern Thailand, but ran the risk of losing it. He asked me whether I knew a good lawyer who could help him. I didn’t, but I offered to ask Jai to find him a lawyer. I didn’t particularly want to act as a go-between, so I suggested that Jai visit him herself and then he could deal with her directly. After all, what are friends for? Jai had helped out many of my friends. To cut a long story short, Jai organised a lawyer and sorted out his property problem. She started visiting this guy regularly. I knew about these visits and I was quick to hear an opportunity knocking. It might sound diabolical, but I saw in this new friendship a chance to pawn Jai off. Jai and my new friend seemed to hit it off pretty well in any case.