No More Tomorrows (29 page)

I didn’t know what was going on between Ron and Lily, but every time I saw her she’d say to me, ‘I think Ron likes you! I think Ron likes you!’ It was ridiculous. It was like primary school. I guess she thought I had the hots for him (which I so didn’t). I’d say, ‘Er noooo . . . he likes
you!
’ and she’d laugh and get all flustered. I couldn’t believe I was talking about this shit with my lawyer, who was supposed to be saving my life. I would go with the flow, but the flow was just absurd.

My trust in Ron had almost evaporated, too. I was disappointed in him. I no longer believed he knew what he was talking about. His promises of freedom had turned into twenty-seven years. When he called the next day I could barely speak to him. He still kept saying I was going to be acquitted.

It was also clear by now that his focus was to whip up publicity and for me to make money. He was always pushing me to write songs, to write a book, telling me I’d never have to work another day in my life. He’d make me rich. I also knew now that anything I said or wrote to him went straight to the media, despite often asking him to keep it private. I was embarrassed when I copied a poem for him and he gave it to the papers as if I’d written it. When he snapped me on his camera phone, it went in the papers. He kept saying I was suicidal. I kept telling him, ‘Ron, I’m not, I would never do that to my family. Never. Never!’

‘She is not coping, I am concerned she is going to become suicidal. She just wants to go home. I keep telling her we are going to take her home if it’s the last thing we do.’

Ron Bakir, quoted in the
Daily Telegraph
(Australia), 15 April 2005

My week continued to get worse after the day of the demand. A girl in my cell had been released and stole all my creams. It was comparatively a tiny, tiny issue but a kick in the teeth, a reminder of who I was living with. Then I was heaped with humiliation. I’d heard so many of the lies written about me, like I was a prostitute and I’d had an affair with Russell Crowe when I was a high-class escort in Japan, and now came the embarrassing, baseless, ridiculous rumour that I was pregnant. It was so humiliating, and unbelievable that this crap was printed in respectable newspapers. I learnt of the story when the prison boss and the doctor came to take me to the jail clinic.

What’s going on, have I had some bad test results from last week’s urine and blood tests from the hospital, and the Kerobokan doctor has to tell me the bad news? What kind of disease do I have? What else could possibly go wrong in my life? The doctor told me of big news: I’m pregnant.

Come on, give me a break. Two months pregnant, the papers say. This place is disgusting, and in my situation sex is the last thing to cross my mind. I’m not going to say it hasn’t crossed my mind, but it is certainly the last thing I would do here. Take someone into the toilet at church or maybe in the court holding-cell toilet? That’s just sick. I have morals. I do have respect for myself, and dignity. How could anyone believe I would do that in a place like this?

So I peed into an empty plastic cup after telling the doctor I would not pee in a plastic bag. And the doctor took photos with a digital camera of them doing the pregnancy test and the result – which of course was negative. We all had a laugh about the stupid rumours that get around, but I am quite embarrassed that someone could believe it.

Diary entry, 26 April 2005

We had one last defence day in court, and I had a final chance to speak.

Didn’t sleep much. Put a few points down on paper through the night after I finished praying. Tried to put the words together, but I’m not sure exactly how I should do this. I feel I don’t want to speak of the points that the prosecutors and I dispute over, as I’ve said it all before. I’m tired of the broken record going round and round and round. My lawyers will be pointing it all out in their closing statement, anyway. I feel I want to speak from my heart but nothing that I feel, nothing that I can put on paper, seems adequate. I’m only skimming the surface of how I’m feeling.

Each time I dig a little more I tear apart; I can’t handle the pain, and when my pain is so deep I can’t think. My head gets full of unbearable visions, my mind races, full of thoughts. They all swim around so fast I can’t grab hold of even one to concentrate on. What do I do? What can I possibly say?

But I pray for wisdom, strength, courage to get me through yet another day. One day at a time, that’s all I can ask.

Pray for the judges’ and prosecutors’ hearts to open and show compassion. This scares me, as I think nothing I can say can express my innocence.

Diary entry, 28 April 2005

The next day, forty-one of us went to court in the sardine bus. As usual, I let everyone off first so they wouldn’t all get caught up in the scrum. Then, as I did the hideous walk to the holding cell, reporters threw a new and humiliating line of questions at me.

‘Is it true, Schapelle? Are you pregnant? The papers say you’re pregnant, pregnant, pregnant . . .’

I focused on walking. I never answered their questions, as I wanted them out of my face as fast as possible. And I certainly wasn’t going to answer their sick questions today. I was so embarrassed. What did people think of me? I don’t take sex and pregnancy lightly. It would be nice to have sex, and to be pregnant would have been absolutely wonderful. But in a dump like this? No, thank you. I longed for human affection, but I could wait.

The holding cell was worse than usual. Everyone was smoking, making it difficult to breathe, and the air stung my eyes so badly that I had to sit with them squeezed shut.

It was soon time to go into the courtroom, which was full of placards that Merc, Wayan and his family had made and handed to supporters, saying ‘
Corby Tidak Bersalah
’ (Corby is not guilty) and ‘
Bebaskan Corby
’ (Free Corby). They’d also tied yellow ribbons every where. The anti-drugs group GRANAT were still there with their signs, as Merc had refused to do a deal with them to go away when they approached her for money. Until we paid, they assured her they’d keep turning up with their vicious signs.

The lawyers read for one and a half hours, and then it was my turn. I read out the statement that I had written the previous night.

I ask for you to find me innocent, to send me home. Firstly, I would like to say to the prosecutors I cannot admit to a crime I did not commit. And to the judges, my life at the moment is in your hands, but I would prefer it if my life was in your heart. And I say to you again, that I have no knowledge of how the marijuana came to be inside my bag.

I believe that the evidence shows that:

• One: there is a problem in Australia with security at airports and baggage-handling procedures;
  

• Two: my only mistake was not putting a lock on my luggage;
  

• Three: I have never at any stage claimed ownership of the plastic bag and its contents;
  

• Four: had the police weighed all of my luggage for the total weight, it would have shown a difference from the total weight checked in at Brisbane airport;
  

• Five: the police had the opportunity to fingerprint both plastic bags to prove my innocence, but they chose not to;
  

• Six: I am an innocent victim of a tactless drug-smuggling network;
  

• Seven: I am not a person involved in drugs and I’m not a person who might become involved in a drug-smuggling operation; and
  

• Eight: I love Bali and would never want to create problems for any of its people.
  

I believe the seven months which I’ve already spent in prison is a severe enough punishment for not putting locks on my bags. My heart and my family are painfully burdened by all these accusations and rumours about me, and I don’t know how long I can survive here. And I swear, with God as my witness, that I did not know that the marijuana was in my bag. Please look to your God for guidance in your judgment of me, for God only speaks of justice. And, your honour, I ask for you to show compassion, to find me innocent, to send me home.
Saya tidak bersalah
[I am not guilty].

I walked to the bench and handed my statement to the chief judge. The court applauded. Lily and I were both in tears as we hugged.

I didn’t know how much impact it would have. One of the judges was picking his nose, another reading a book called
Life Sentence
. Beautiful Merc called out ‘See you, Schapelle’ as I was leaving. ‘Love you, Merc!’ I called back.

I don’t think I went too well. I couldn’t remember what I had to read out; I felt like my head was full of nothing but air, could not hold it together. Today only one prosecutor was there. The main man and the main woman were absent. The judge didn’t ask for my statement to be translated for them, even though it was addressed to them. I had to stand, give him the paper I’d just read, then he would give it to the prosecution to read. I feel like I’ve let everyone down.

Diary entry, 28 April 2005

15

A Test of Faith

Cried so much last night while everyone was sleeping. I cannot imagine living here after my court is finished. Actually can’t use ‘living’ as a word in this dump – more like breathing and walking like a zombie. But I also can’t envision the judge saying ‘Go home!’ What’s going to become of me? I swear, I will not stay here after the final verdict. If the judges don’t come to my favour, I’m not sure what I’ll do, but I swear my body will not stay one minute longer in this place. I will somehow escape. There are many meanings to the word ‘escape’. Got to stop thinking about the ifs. Must be patient – sabar. Pray, pray, pray.

Diary entry, 1 May 2005

I
HAD BECOME FANATICALLY RELIGIOUS, PRAYING CONSTANTLY
, reading the Bible zealously, even replacing grunt rock with tuneless Christian songs on my CD Walkman. I was clinging, clutching, desperately trying to give this hell some meaning, even creating crazy fantasies about why I was here. Maybe God wanted me to be an angel and needed me to find Him fast. This living hell was His way of clicking His fingers to get my attention. Well, He had it! So now He could set me free.

But my new faith didn’t keep me on an even keel. I could swing from calm religious understanding to raging fury at this cruel, senseless injustice in a split second. The world would seem dark, evil, scary, and I’d scream, yell and smash things, even once, shamefully, throttling a girl, before swinging back to Godly calm. It was a constant seesawing between religion and reality – and reality sucked.

I was scared, lonely and so utterly exhausted. I wasn’t coping. I was crying non-stop. I was terrified of being locked up like a monkey for twenty-seven years. As the verdict got closer, life got worse. My soul trembled. Everything upset me. Anguished thoughts flew through my mind.

Jail life was hell: the new dramas relentless. Before my next court day, a prisoner’s face was smashed up in front of me. He was squatting against the wall in the visiting hall, looking lost in his thoughts. I sat opposite. Then,
whack!
A guard walked up and without warning kicked him in the face with a steel-capped boot. He collapsed to the floor. His shaky hands flew up to his broken face, but the guard hit them away for another free kick. I tensed up, disgusted. I couldn’t breathe. I sat uselessly watching as the guard kept kicking his face until it was a mangled mess of smashed-up bone and blood. It was sick. I was strangely mesmerised, sickened, appalled, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I had no idea why this guy was being beaten, but after he was dragged past me to the isolation tower, I had chilling flashbacks of his gruesome, battered face for days.

Beatings were nothing new, but you never got used to them. At least once a week, I’d be walking along and see a guy go up to another guy and punch him viciously in the jaw. His whole face would collapse, covered in blood. Instinctively, I’d want to run and help, but someone would always grab my hand, urgently whispering, ‘Keep walking, keep walking.’ I’d turn to look, to make sure he was OK. But you had to keep your head down. You couldn’t help, or you’d get beaten, too. I felt absolute disgust that people could do this to each other. These incidents always left me traumatised, unable to stop thinking about them for days.

Apart from Sonia’s occasional thrashing from the guards, girls didn’t usually get beaten like that. Most of the violence in the women’s block was between the women, usually Wanda and her lesbian friends, who were always switching girlfriends and then beating each other senseless in a jealous rage. The only violence I’d suffered was when a guy angrily hurled bricks at me in my cell after I refused to sit on his knee. He was in for murder. I didn’t get hit, but it scared the hell out of me. Then, two weeks before my verdict, I was attacked by a lesbian who’d been flirting with me for months.