No More Tomorrows (23 page)

Rewinding to around the time when Ron first rang Merc saying he wanted to help me, we felt hope and relief. We were scared, desperate for any help, when this millionaire sprang out of nowhere willing to find me the best defence and pay for it. I thanked my lucky stars. I thought he was heaven sent. When the press called him my ‘lifeline’, I thought he was, too.

So when he flew to Bali with his lawyer, Robin Tampoe, just a week before I started my defence in court, I was excited and hopeful. I’d occasionally spotted Ron in bars on the Gold Coast and had seen him in his Mad Ron TV advertisements brashly selling his mobile phones, but I was nervous about actually meeting him and his hot-shot lawyer. I relaxed as soon as I saw them, though, as Ron looked like I remembered and Robin reminded me of Barney Rubble, as he’s only about five foot tall.

They stayed for about ten or fifteen minutes that first visit and seemed like really nice guys. We talked about the case and about my concerns with my Indonesian lawyers, whom they promised to check out the next day. I light-heartedly told Ron that I’d tried to buy a mobile phone in one of his Gold Coast shops just a couple of months before coming to Bali but had been turned down because of a bad credit rating after failing to pay my home phone bill on time. He promised to give me free phones and calls for the next thirty years. I thought that was very nice.

Their visit lifted my spirits. They were so full of energy and determined to ensure I got the best defence possible, with Ron promising to pay whatever it took. But he made it clear on this first day that it wasn’t charity and I’d have to repay him whenever I could. I was fine with that, not for a second imagining that in just three months he’d be asking me for half-a-million dollars.

I’m so relieved and thankful for Ron’s determination, care, generosity, his honesty and his time. I’m overwhelmed by his care. My thanks go out to my saviour, Mr Ron Bakir.

Diary entry, 24 February 2005

Ron and Robin went to check out our Indonesian legal team, asking us for permission to sack them if they felt it necessary. They told us we could switch to their powerful legal contacts in Jakarta. We were desperate and grateful, so we gave them the power. Merc spent the day stressed out, fully expecting they’d fire them and that she’d get an abusive call from Vasu. Instead, she got a call from Ron, telling her how great Lily and Vasu were. She literally cried in relief that Vasu was not going to call and yell at her.

The four of them got along so well, in fact, that the next day they met for drinks at Ron and Robin’s villa. They enjoyed such a wild time together that Vasu slipped and broke his ribs while playing chasey around the pool. It was certainly rather odd that they seemed to hit it off so quickly, with Ron readily singing their praises to the media. But it would make sense later on.

The Indonesian legal team has done a wonderful job and we are ready to provide the best possible legal defence.

Ron Bakir, 12 March 2005

Ron visited me about three times on that first trip, and it was always good to see him. Everyone else thought so, too. He instantly made himself a very popular guest among all the jailbird hosts by sweeping in and flashing around his cash like a swashbuckling cowboy. Instead of paying the drink boys the usual 6,000 rupiah (about $1) for the drinks and straw mat, he’d flamboyantly peel off 50,000-rupiah notes from a large wad and fling them about. ‘Here you go, champion! Here you go, champion! You want one, too, champion?’ Perhaps it made him feel good, although most of the disbelieving but grateful recipients would be putting it straight into their arms.

His generosity wasn’t great for me, either. I’d say, ‘Ron, don’t, please don’t.’

‘That’s OK, Schapelle, he’ll look after you!’

‘Ron, who is he? He’s just another prisoner, and he’s a heroin addict.’

In Hotel K, where we were paying for every little privilege, even something as simple as being allowed to get to your visits on time, it wasn’t smart to flash cash around. If the guards thought I was rich, life got more expensive for me and all my other visitors – there were no fixed prices, not one price for all. But Ron didn’t listen. He did it every time.

I guess he liked to be liked. It was frustrating, but I certainly forgave him a bit of flamboyance because, after all, he was just a generous type of person who was here helping me out of the pure kindness of his heart, wasn’t he?

My eyes were opened about three weeks after our first meeting, when Vasu returned from a trip to Australia with a contract signed by Ron stating that he (Ron Bakir) would get 50 per cent of any money I earnt from ‘all forms of marketing or media worldwide including but not limited to, television, radio, motion picture, written media, internet based media, merchandising and public or private addresses’ and that I ‘assign irrevocably to Bakir the exclusive rights to the story and all information relating to and surrounding the MATTER including details preceding and subsequent to the MATTER’.

My mind was spinning. I knew my story was getting big, but world rights? It was ridiculous. I was in jail, fighting for my life. In two months, I might be sentenced to death by firing squad. I didn’t care about media deals; all I cared about was going home.

Nevertheless, I tried to read the contract. But the words weren’t sinking in. I felt anxious. My pulse raced. It didn’t feel right, especially with Vasu standing over me, almost shouting in my face, ‘Sign, sign, sign!’ And he didn’t stop. ‘Come on, Schapelle, we do
everything
for you, Schapelle. Why can’t you just sign it, Schapelle?’

Lily was sitting, just watching as Vasu badgered me, occasionally saying, ‘Sign, Schapelle!’

I was exhausted. I felt sick and tired, and with Vasu still blaring in my ears, I signed the damn thing without even properly reading it through.

Ron had drawn up separate contracts for Merc, Wayan and Mum, and all my friends and the rest of my family were also bound by them – thanks to this sentence: ‘The rights further extend to include the family and friends of Corby thereby restraining such persons from breaching the rights assigned to Bakir.’

Merc was also treated to Vasu’s bullying and stand-over tactics to make her sign. It was odd he was pushing so hard for Ron, not that we thought too much about it at the time. He chose his moment about a week later, just outside the front of the jail. Ron was there, too. Merc was sitting in the back of Vasu’s car, comforting Lily, who was crying again. This time a relative had died, apparently, but it seemed that whenever Merc had to sign something or make a big decision, Lily started crying over a new drama.

In the midst of Lily’s hysterical sobbing, Vasu handed Merc the contract and told her to sign. She tried to read it, but with all the noise and stress of Lily crying and Vasu yelling ‘Sign, Mercedes’, nothing sank in. But, like me, she signed it anyway. Merc and I were trying our best, but neither of us had ever been in a situation like this before and weren’t adept at standing up for ourselves.

Merc asked Vasu for one of the two copies, but he refused, saying they had to be legalised. He’d given Merc a contract for Mum, however, so she was able to read it later. I let Merc deal with it because I had enough to cope with in here. I didn’t want to think about my world rights, I was too busy fighting for my basic human rights, like getting the septic tank emptied.

By this point, Ron and Robin had for some reason become dead certain that they’d get me home. According to them, the absolute worst-case scenario was one year, minus time served, under house arrest in a luxury Balinese villa. ‘Don’t worry, Schapelle, we’ll get you home.’ It was a line they kept selling me right up until the day I was sentenced to twenty years. They were very good salesmen, though in my situation, with the death penalty still on the table, I was also a pretty willing buyer. It was much nicer to believe them than to believe the bad stuff. I still felt scared but was clinging tightly to them and to their promises.

Ron flies back to the Gold Coast tonight. I don’t like it when Ron flies away, I feel so much more safe and protected when he’s in Bali, nearby. I know Ron has a lot to do and he’s only six hours away.

Diary entry, 30 March 2005

Merc, meanwhile, started to get people telling her to be careful of Ron – that he’d been bankrupt, that he didn’t have all the cash he endlessly talked of, and that his motives probably weren’t as pure as he made out. I was also receiving letters from Australians warning me that Ron Bakir might not be the white knight we all thought he was.

Merc was still angry at the way Vasu had muscled us into signing the contracts. Her gut was telling her it was all wrong and that it was time to stop trusting these self-titled ‘Team Corby’ characters. She’d watched as people tried taking ownership of my name and set up everything from businesses and websites to charities, and felt that I should at least own the rights to my own life story.

She also sought advice from a couple of people, who told her 50 per cent for Ron was a joke. Of course we’d try to pay Ron back as soon as we could, and it clearly stated in the contract the split wouldn’t kick in until after he’d recouped all his expenses. Fair enough. But 50 per cent after that just seemed a bit much.

So, after stressing over it for a couple of weeks, Merc went to talk to Vasu. She knew it would be an angry showdown, with Vasu highly likely to lose his temper at her. He was always going off the deep end about something, and it took guts for my sister to confront him.

As soon as she told Vasu she was unhappy with the contracts, he disappeared for a few minutes – she quickly realised to phone Ron, who was back in Bali and who turned up twenty minutes later. Vasu seemed to have Ron’s interests at heart. Merc stood her ground and told them both she wanted me to own my rights and that 30 per cent for Ron was enough.

But together they worked her over. She was stressed and on the point of tears when Vasu printed out a new contract on the spot and yelled, ‘OK, Mercedes! It’s changed . . . now sign, sign!’, thumping the table for emphasis. He was seething. Merc was exhausted, worn down, she just wanted to get out of there and go home to her kids. So she signed. But with Ron and Vasu still standing over her, she again didn’t properly read it. They were good at this. I guess Ron had learnt his skills selling contracts for mobile phones. Vasu was simply a bully.

With her last bit of fight that afternoon, Merc insisted that she’d take my contract and give it to me herself. Reluctantly, Vasu agreed. It gave her the chance to read and absorb it quietly at home. She did, and was furious at herself for being duped again. My contract still stated that the financial split was 50 per cent. The only change was a tweak in the wording about the rights, which still left Ron with ‘exclusive rights’ to my story. So, in effect, nothing had been changed.

Merc wanted to scream. She wanted to get rid of these people. Weren’t they supposed to be helping us? Weren’t we supposed to trust them? It was as if we needed lawyers for our lawyers. But we had nowhere to turn, no one to trust. We’d already spent $80,000 on Lily and Vasu and couldn’t afford to change. Besides, would we get anyone better if we did change?

Merc didn’t even bother to bring the new contract in to me, and Mum never signed hers.

Right from the start, Ron and Vasu insisted that we publicly deny the existence of any contract. Merc and I both asked why, as surely it wasn’t a sin. They gave us some mumbo-jumbo bullshit answer, but we got the gist that Ron was worried about his image and wanted the public to think his motives were purely altruistic; he certainly didn’t want his image of being a white knight in shining armour tainted by a dirty little contract.

About a week before my verdict was due, news of a contract with Ron getting 50 per cent of anything I earnt hit the press – after Dad had a few drinks with a reporter. Both Ron and Vasurang Merc in a panic, telling her exactly what she had to say to journalists. ‘There’s no agreement with Ron Bakir; we never signed anything,’ she was quoted as saying in
The Australian
. The article went on:

Mr Bakir refused to talk about the arrangements his agents had discussed with the Corby family, but said there were no negotiations on the table.

The Australian
, 21 May 2005

Merc was really upset about having to lie about the contracts and again asked Ron why we couldn’t just tell the truth and admit to them. He told her: ‘Now is not the time, Mercedes. People will get the wrong idea.’

But the truth was, I was Ron’s investment. He talked non-stop about making money and always had plenty of business ideas for me. He and the other three also regularly spoke about suing Qantas.

Ron wanted me to become a singer and asked me to write some songs.

‘But, Ron, I’m not a songwriter. I’m not a singer, and I’m in jail!’

‘Just do it – try, try, try to write a song, Schapelle.’ He was always very persuasive, a good salesman, so I wrote some stuff down to give to him.

He handed it back, saying I needed to write a chorus. He also asked if I had any music to go with it.

‘Excuse me? What?’ I laughed and laughed and jokingly made some heavy-metal music sounds. But he didn’t think it was funny, he was deadly serious.

‘No, Schapelle. Something like Delta Goodrem’s music – you could be the next Delta Goodrem.’

‘Right, Ron. Right, OK, yeah. Well, I’ll try to think of some music to go with this, OK, and get back to you!’ It was ridiculous; where was he getting all his ideas from?