The Cocaine Diaries: A Venezuelan Prison Nightmare (35 page)

* * *

‘It’s happening, it’s happening,’ said Billy, a grin stretched across his face like someone had cleaved his cheeks apart.

‘What’s happening?’ I said, standing beside him in the yard.

‘I’m going free. I just got the call from Viviana. The judge signed the papers.’

‘That’s amazing news, Billy.’ I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Brilliant.’ His release documents had been in the courts for weeks waiting for the judge to approve them. Every few days a court usher rang Viviana looking for a bribe to speed them along. Viviana told Billy about this but advised him not to pay. Nothing happened, and over the weeks he fell into a deep depression. But now he was going free. ‘Where do you go now?’ I asked.

‘Some halfway house for a few days before I can move in with Father Pat.’

He ran over to his bucket and handed out T-shirts and clothes he didn’t want to the lads. Most of the boyos stood there, Eddy, Dieter, Hanz and so on. Billy then slipped on the same small rucksack he’d arrived with in the wing. ‘Lads, I’m off.’ A big cheer went up. He cautiously headed to the wing door. A few luceros lashed out with the friendly goodbye kicks, but none connected. Billy bolted. I’d never seen him move so fast.

I was happy for him. We all were. Just like when Silvio was freed, Billy’s release showed the system worked. One day it would be our turn.

* * *

Today we had an art class with a twist. ‘OK, guys, listen up,’ said Guatemala. ‘In the first class we practised for the oral questions. Now we’re learning how to draw.’ Again, the class was full. There were about 30 of us. ‘When you finish all the oral questions the examiner will ask you to do a drawing. You’ll have to draw yourself, your mother and father, and where you live.’ He picked up a marker on a ledge on a blackboard behind him and started to draw a picture. ‘Now, here’s a house. Two windows. A little chimney with smoke. And here’s your mother and father standing outside. Just be simple.’ He drew two matchstick characters of a woman and a man in front of the house next to a tree.

We all broke out laughing. ‘You gotta be joking?’ shouted out Eddy. ‘We’ll be locked up again for being too stupid to live on the outside.’

‘Ah, laugh you may, but this is how it works. I heard it from prison workers who look at the finished exams before they are filed. They see what fails and what doesn’t. Now, back to the drawing. The mother,’ Guatemala said, pointing at the matchstick character on the board, ‘she has to have a skirt and shoes, and hands. And fingers. Always draw in fingers.’ The mother matchstick character was now more ridiculous. Guatemala drew giant fat fingers like she had bananas growing out of her wrists. It was like a Picasso gone wrong. ‘You must draw yourself in here, standing between your mother and father, here in the middle.’ He put his marker down. ‘Now it’s your turn. Get your pens and paper and start drawing. But don’t copy me. Just make sure it’s a simple house with your mother and father outside. Don’t forget the tree, and put yourself in front of the mother and father. That’s it. Get drawing.’

I doodled away in my copybook. On the cover there was a kid on a BMX bike cycling under a rainbow. It was fitting for the class. I scribbled a house and a few swirls of smoke at the chimney. It reminded me of being five years of age all over again and being in the Irish Catholic school in Oxford run by the nuns.

After about five minutes we all turned in our works of art. Guatemala went through them one by one. It was like a playschool class for adults. ‘Yes, good, good,’ he said, holding each one up in front of the class. ‘Yes, this one is perfect,’ he said of another, where the mother had curlers in her hair and was wearing an apron. ‘Yes, good, Paul, very good.’

‘Where’s my gold star?’

‘I want one as well,’ said Eddy.

Jokes aside, the main part of the exam was the oral part and it was in Spanish. I knew I hadn’t a hope in hell of getting through it. I had been putting in a fair bit of work in the past few months reading newspapers that came in on visit days, and there were a couple of verb books knocking around the wing. So I could read Spanish a bit, but I could hardly speak it at all. When the Venos spoke to me I barely understood. ‘
Qué?
’ I’d say, shrugging. ‘
Mama huevo,
’ was the usual reply I got. I was the gringo who barely had a word of Spanish. In the psychological exam it wasn’t like I could bring in Hanz or Vito to interpret, as if I was going in to see the boss to ask him permission to use the gym or something. You were only allowed to bring in a qualified interpreter. And the system wasn’t always organised enough to arrange one. I would need an act of God to pass. If I didn’t, it’d be another 18 months before I could try for parole again. I couldn’t let that happen.

* * *

Viviana was in on one of her visits. I went up with Vito to see her in the office upstairs. Deputy Dawg was sitting in his chair snoring again, his shotgun resting on his belly. I was worried someone would drop a cup or something and he’d wake up and start blasting us out of fright.

Viviana stood up and kissed me on both cheeks. We all sat down. ‘Nice work with Billy, getting him out,’ I said, smiling. ‘Tell her I said that,’ I said to Vito.

‘She says thank you,’ he said, ‘and she is happy to be of service.’

‘Brilliant.’

‘She wants to talk about your parole,’ said Vito. ‘She says you’ve done the 18 months to qualify, and she’s looked at the work books you’ve been signing for writing your book. She says she can put you in for the exam now and it’ll come through in a couple of months.’

‘A couple of months? That soon?’

Vito went back to Viviana and spoke. ‘Yes, that soon, and if you pass it you’d be out about a month after.’ I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to jump up in joy. But I’d seen too many gringos, such as Billy, fall into a spiral of depression when they didn’t get out as quickly or as easily as they’d been told. But this was different. Viviana had come up with the goods for Billy, true to her word.

‘Unbelievable, means I could be out before Christmas.’ I sat there grinning.

‘Yes, she says it’s very possible.’

‘But the exam: I’ll never pass it.’

‘Viviana says she has faith in you.’

She might have believed in me, but I was still anxious. From then on it was at the front of my mind all the time. How was I going to pass? I knew some had paid a cop to pull it off, but that almost always came to nothing and inmates were still failed. But I knew Bruce had passed it and decided to hunt him down for a chat. On my next trip up to the roof I caught up with him. ‘Bruce, the psychological exam to get out on parole, I heard you passed it?’ I said while I was on my fast walk.

‘Yep, two weeks ago. Just waiting for the judge to sign my release papers.’

‘How’d you do it?’ I knew Bruce’s Spanish wasn’t great, like most gringos.

‘Simple. You hand the money over and it’s done.’

‘No way?’

‘Yes, five million bolos [about 1,000 euro] I paid. I could have spoken Chinese for all the examiner cared. Money in the bag for them.’

‘I’m gonna have to think about this. I don’t trust those cops.’

‘Just hand the money over and it’s done.’

‘I’ll have to think first about where to get it from.’ Bruce walked off and I continued alone on my laps. I passed a few of the luceros from the Maxima wing playing football. When I looked closer I couldn’t believe it – they were all there. All the bosses. Gómez, now the new jefe after Fidel had been released a few weeks before, his two underbosses and all the henchmen. There were supposed to be at least a few of them guarding the wing at all times. That’s what we were paying the causa for. Chancers.

Riley – how’s it going, me old pal,

Now a letter that starts off like this should be disregarded immediately, as you should know what’s coming next.

Yes, you guessed it, Riley, it’s a good old begging letter, but it’s for a good cause: the Paul Keany Getting Out of Prison Fund, set up by yours truly, of course, with donations being made from all over the world.

Right, let’s get down to the serious nitty gritty, as you know I’m due to sit an exam soon, but with my Spanish the way it is I don’t hold out too much hope. Now a few quid in the right direction could change all that.

All I was waiting for was the right person to pay off and the right time. So now I have the person and basically they want 10,000,000 bolos. Now I know it sounds a lot, but it is actually equal to USD 1,000, depending on the exchange rate on the black market here.

Now this isn’t 100 per cent yet, I just need to know if you can meet my demands, then if it comes up I’ll let you know straight away and send you an account number. It’s to an Irish priest, Father Pat, and thank God for him, that’s all I can say.

I know times are tough with the old recession, so if you can’t handle it then no problem – just let me know as soon as you can so I can put me begging hat back on. You know what they say, Riley – a friend in need is a pain in the arse. Well, it’s true.

The truth is I hate writing this letter, but it has to be done.

As I said at the beginning of this letter, it should be ripped up and disregarded, but thanks for reading.

Talk to you soon.

Paul

Riley came through with the cash quickly, as did my other mates. A deposit into Father Pat’s account. Fair play to them. Mates I owed my life to. Vito was telling me I wouldn’t need to pay anyone off to pass the Spanish exam, but I couldn’t take any chances. My freedom depended on it. Even if I didn’t use it for bribes, the cash would come in handy to keep me going in Caracas if I got out on parole.

Viviana was in a couple of times a week. Vito was in constant touch with her and translated for other Italians who didn’t have any Spanish. So he kept me filled in if there was anything to report on my case.

‘Paul, you need to come upstairs,’ he said, smiling. ‘Viviana wants to talk to you. She has good news.’

‘What kind of news?’ I said.

‘It’s best she tells you.’

She was sitting in the office waiting for me.

‘
Hola,
’ I said.

‘Paul,’ she said, smiling. My eyes hovered over her parted red lips.

Vito spoke to her and turned to me. ‘You’re on the short list for the exam.’

‘What’s that mean exactly?’ Viviana was nodding at me and smiling.

‘In two to three weeks you do the exam,’ said Vito. ‘You’ll be called.’

‘What about my Spanish? Do I pay someone to pass?’

He turned to Viviana. ‘No, don’t pay.’

‘You sure?’

‘That’s what she says,’ he said, smiling – as happy for me going free as I was. I still didn’t know how I was going to pass the exam, though. Not without bribing someone. But I decided to trust Viviana’s judgement. She’d got Billy out, after all.

‘Lovely jubbly.’

Over time, prison life was becoming more bearable, knowing there was light at the end of the tunnel. But I was careful not to get too hopeful and bottled up my emotions as best as I could. I wasn’t setting myself up for a fall if things didn’t pan out.

* * *

The days blurred into one another. The exam was looming. I tried not to worry about it, but one day Vito walked up to me. He had just got a text message from Viviana. ‘Paul, she says you don’t exist.’

‘Don’t exist?’

‘In the courts, she went to start your papers; they say you don’t exist.’

‘That’s a good start,’ I said. Viviana had gone with the prisoner number the Los Teques officials had given her for me, but there was no record of the number in the courts. The same thing had happened to Billy, so I wasn’t feeling too panicky.

‘Don’t worry. Viviana, she fix everything,’ said Vito.

It showed me how important it was to get a lawyer on the case to get things moving. I couldn’t rely on the Venezuelan ‘mañana seguro’ policy, or I’d probably end up serving my full eight years.

In the evening, Guatemala came down and sat beside me on the bed. He had the psychological test sample papers with him. ‘OK, Paul, I know your exam is coming up soon. I can practise a few questions with you.’

‘I need it. How’d you think I’ll do?’

‘Doing it in Spanish?’ he said, his eyebrows raised.

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re screwed, man,’ he said, laughing.

‘Thanks.’ We went over the questions I could memorise. I knew I could ask for a translator, and I did that with Viviana. I remembered Silvio had told me in the past he knew of one English speaker who’d got an interpreter organised, so it could be done. But there was no guarantee the examining board would bother with the trouble of getting one.

‘
Como te llamas?
’ said Guatemala.

‘Paul Keany,’ I answered.

‘How was your childhood?’ That would take more than a few memorised phrases to answer.

‘
Bueno,
’ (‘Good’) I said. We both laughed. ‘I don’t have a chance,’ I said.

* * *

Viviana was true to her word. Almost three weeks to the day I’d met her, I got news of the exam. Vito walked up to my bed. ‘Paul, exam, this morning,’ he said, smiling.

‘Right,’ I said, letting out a deep sigh.

‘You do good, my friend, no worry,’ he said, clapping me on the shoulder.

* * *

I stood outside the office for the exam next to a barred gate that led to the driveway outside. A cop sat down on a wooden stool on guard. There were three of us waiting. Hours passed for my turn. It was like being in detention for school.

A while later a woman stepped out of the office and walked up to me and said, ‘You’re the one who speaks English and needs an interpreter?’

‘Yes,’ I said, my eyes sucking in the sight before me: she was blonde and blue-eyed with tanned skin. She looked more like a Swedish blonde bombshell than a Venezuelan.

‘I’m the interpreter. I’ve lived in England, so you’ve nothing to worry about.’

‘Good,’ I said, smiling. This was fantastic news.

A few minutes later Carlos walked by and spotted me standing by the office where the exams were always held. ‘
Tú, examen hoy?
’ (‘You, exam today?’) he said, his eyebrows raised so high his brow furrowed.