48

MY INTERNATIONAL HUMAN
RIGHTS LAWYER

As the second date of my new trial approached, I apologised to Rusty for not having told him about the new charges and we made up.

‘If we’re in this together, Thomas,’ he said, ‘then I need you to be completely honest with me. OK? No secrets.’

I agreed, except for the part that we were in it together. He was there voluntarily, so he could go home whenever he wanted; I was the one who would do the time. Also, I didn’t let him know about my plan to bribe the judges. There was no need to tell him about that just yet, because I hadn’t raised enough money yet from my envelope scam. I could sense that Rusty was worried about me, but I knew better than to ask him for bribe money. Besides, I’d thought of another way he could help me, which didn’t involve money, and he agreed to it.

That evening, I gave him my briefcase – the one I’d had at the airport with all my fruit juice company documents. He emptied it out while I made us dinner. When I turned around, I saw that he was probing around the bottom for secret compartments.

‘Hey, man,’ I said, astonished that Rusty could suspect me after staying with me for so many weeks. ‘There are no drugs in there.’

But he was only joking. ‘Hey man, you never know,’ he said, copying the way I spoke. ‘This is Bolivia, man. You have to be careful.’

For my next court appearance, Rusty was waiting for me outside the court. He had purchased a cheap suit and tie and some shiny black shoes. With his hair tied back in a ponytail and my briefcase in hand, he almost looked like a proper lawyer. He sat on one side of me and Manuelo, my legal-aid lawyer, sat on the other. The Velascos sat on the other side of the courtroom with their lawyers and family. We all stood when the three judges came in. Immediately, Rusty stood up and introduced himself as an international human rights lawyer who had been sent from England to observe my trial. When the judges asked him for documentation, he said he would bring it next time. The judges were thrown by this, but they couldn’t say anything because the courts were supposed to be open to the public.

The hearing was quite short, but we learned a little more about the Velascos’ defence. They intended to rely on their own witness statements, as well as a statement from someone in the FELCN that they were acting under instructions to catch me in the act of dealing. It was a dirty trick the Velascos were playing on me, but I knew exactly what I was going to do in return. It wouldn’t be long before I got my revenge.

The guards were even more confused when Rusty and I returned to San Pedro together that afternoon, me in handcuffs and Rusty wearing his suit and tie. According to his permission slip, he was supposed to be my cousin helping me while I received my medical treatment, but now he had suddenly become my lawyer. One of the cheekier guards asked whether we were really cousins. By then, Rusty had worked out how to make the Bolivians laugh. Before answering, he looked at the guard very seriously.

‘Every single one of my cousins is a doctor or a lawyer, except for Thomas,’ he said, punching me in the arm as though he was extremely disappointed that I had turned out to be a drug trafficker. ‘He’s the black sheep of the family.’ The lieutenant laughed so much he had trouble opening the gate.

Being my human rights lawyer also gave Rusty an excuse to take his dictaphone, laptop and micro-cassettes in and out of the prison. For my subsequent court appearances, he always took these to court to make himself appear more professional. The judges were afraid of being recorded, so when Rusty failed to produce any proof that he was who he said he was, they banned him from using the dictaphone and computer. After that, he had to take handwritten notes.

As soon as we got through the gates, I went straight to Orlando’s shop. Orlando’s wife worked as a legal secretary during the day. In the evenings and on weekends she supplied secretarial services to the inmates of San Pedro as a way of bringing in extra income to support their family. She had also leased various pieces of office equipment, including a photocopier. I qualified for the discount photocopying rate, since I needed one hundred copies of a single page.

Through contacts in the prison administration, I had managed to locate someone who knew a worker in the filing section of the drug court. He had told me more details of the Velascos’ defence and I’d paid him fifty dollars for a copy of one specific page of it: the statement signed by both Jorge and Jose Luis Velasco testifying that they had been working in the prison as undercover agents with the FELCN drug police over a period of several months with the aim of providing information on drug dealing within the prison. The statement was entirely false. I knew it and they knew it, but the other prisoners didn’t.

Across the top of each copy I wrote the word ‘Buzos’ in thick red marker pen – our word for ‘informants’ – and then distributed them throughout every section of the prison. I stuck copies on walls, on noticeboards, under people’s doors, and I handed the remainder directly to inmates as I walked around. In San Pedro, there was only one class of prisoner more despised than rapists and child molesters: police informants. I wanted the Velascos dead. However, when they got word of what was happening, they fled to the main gates and bribed the guards to be transferred to La Muralla. Even then, it was doubtful that they would survive long.

A few days later, Jorge went to the authorities. He feared for his life and asked to retract his statement. He told them the truth – that he and his father weren’t really informants and that I had nothing to do with the two hundred grams of cocaine found in their room. For his own safety, he also told this to every prisoner he came in contact with. The Velascos began accusing each other of lying. I had done a good job on them; there was now a complete inconsistency between their statements, which put their whole defence in disarray. And with it, the case against me crumbled completely. There was no way the judges could convict me now.

I wanted to celebrate my revenge against the Velascos immediately. I was actually looking forward to going to court for my next appearance. By then, I had completed four-and-a-half years of my original six-year, eight-month sentence, but with the benefit of Extra Muro, that was enough. I still had my signed release form from earlier in the year and as soon as the judges acquitted me of the new charges, I would be allowed to leave San Pedro. For the first time since Ricardo had left, I felt truly happy. I was absolutely one hundred per cent certain that I would be free in a matter of weeks. I went and bought two packets of cocaine to celebrate and sent for Roberto.

Earlier that week, there had been a rumour that the guards were about to conduct a surprise raid. The inmates hid their merchandise immediately, but when the guards didn’t come on the night they had said, everyone began to relax again. I remained cautious, however, since they hadn’t done a requisa for quite some time.

Roberto and I continued doing coke every night, but I made certain that we only ever bought one small pack at a time from my dealer, Comandante. I told Roberto that the safest place to hide any contraband was outside your room. That way, if the police came with dogs, they couldn’t prove whose it was.

‘And don’t ever open the door without asking who it is first,’ I told him. ‘If the police knock, take as much time as you need to hide things. And spray deodorant in the air. If they get angry when you open the door, pretend that you’ve just woken up and you haven’t had a shower.’

‘OK, Thomas. I understand,’ Roberto said, sniffing another line. But he didn’t understand. Two nights later there was a requisa and he completely ignored what I had told him.

That evening Roberto knocked on my door as usual, but I was tired from the previous night’s partying and wasn’t in the mood to take coke again.

‘I’m sorry. Do you worry if I only sit here for a very small time?’ he asked. I just wanted to sleep but then I remembered how lonely I had been when I first arrived in San Pedro, so I let him in.

Roberto sat at my table sniffing lines and smoking ganja while I lay back in bed with the TV on, trying to stay awake in order to keep him company. Suddenly, word of a police search shot through the section. Doors opened and slammed shut as neighbours came out to warn each other. I heard feet scampering as inmates who were out visiting rushed back to their rooms to hide their contraband. Then the section lookout confirmed the rumour by sprinting through the corridors, knocking on all the doors and whispering, ‘¡Requisa! ¡Requisa!’

Roberto panicked. He quickly stubbed out the joint he was smoking and clumsily refolded his packets of cocaine and marijuana. When he stood up, he knocked over his chair and this made him panic even more. He looked frantically around the room for somewhere to hide the packets. However, he was in such a state of alarm that he completely forgot the advice I’d given him about spraying deodorant to disguise the smell and taking your time to find a good hiding spot.

‘OK, Thomas. I see you later, bueno?’ he said, depositing the two small packages in my open hand and racing for the door.

I was so sleepy that I hardly had time to realise what he had done before the police arrived at my room. They didn’t even have to knock: in his rush to get back to his room, Roberto opened the door for them. When he saw the Devil Major right there in front of him, he let out a small cry of surprise. The major, who had his fist in the air about to knock, looked at him, equally surprised.

‘Scusi,’ said Roberto, forgetting his Spanish. He slipped under the Devil Major’s arm, past the policemen and down the stairs. The major raised his eyebrows and watched him go. My fingers closed slowly around the packages. It was too late to do anything with them.

‘A very good evening to you, Señor McFadden,’ said the Devil Major, turning his attention back to me. The Devil Major always spoke very politely in front of his men, because he wanted them to think he was from the Bolivian upper class. He always wore a thick overcoat with stars on the shoulders to make himself look important. I already knew from what he did to Samir in La Grulla that he wasn’t someone you wanted to catch you doing something illegal. He preferred to punish people rather than accept bribes.

‘Good evening, major,’ I answered from my bed, trying to be as respectful as I could.

‘With your permission,’ he said, bowing to me and wiping his feet before stepping onto my carpet. ‘I take it that none of your wives are visiting you this evening?’ he enquired courteously.

‘No, major. I was just going to bed,’ I said, sitting up on my mattress and trying desperately to think of what to do with the drugs. Luckily, the Devil Major was too busy being sarcastic to notice the look of panic on my face.

‘Yes, so I noticed. Your little Italian friend was leaving in quite a hurry,’ he commented, looking up at the ceiling to where Roberto’s marijuana smoke hadn’t yet dispersed. I saw the Devil Major’s nose twitch at the smell. He didn’t say anything, but the first thing he did was to inspect the contents of the ashtray. Fortunately for me, Roberto always made his joints by hollowing out a cigarette because it was very difficult to find rolling papers in La Paz. The Devil Major was disappointed not to find any evidence in the ashtray, but he knew that something had been going on and was determined to keep searching.

‘Please stand in the centre of the cell, inglés,’ said the lieutenant, who always stood beside the major, copying everything he did.

‘Yes, teniente.’ I threw the sheets back and bent down to get my slippers from under the bed, hoping I could flick the packets somewhere. However, the lieutenant was watching me too closely.

‘Don’t touch anything,’ he commanded. He wouldn’t even let me put on a jacket when I complained of how cold it was. I stood in the middle of the room in my pyjamas, holding the packets loosely in my hand so as not to look suspicious.

The police began their requisa. Normally, the high-ranking officers didn’t participate in the actual search, but the Devil Major was so sure he would find something this time that he joined in. I knew it wouldn’t be long before they would want to search me. When the major turned to look in my underwear drawer, I saw my opportunity. He had his back to me and the others were also busy going through my possessions. Because he was bent forward, the side pocket of his big coat was gaping slightly and I dropped the packets in just as he stood up and turned around.

The Devil Major hadn’t seen what I had done, but he must have sensed my movement. He narrowed his eyes and looked at me suspiciously. I pretended that I had been looking over his shoulder, but he and the lieutenant knew from my startled expression that I was covering something up. To divert their attention, I glanced down at the ground when the major wasn’t watching. I knew, however, that the lieutenant still had his eye on me.

‘Lift your feet, inglés,’ he commanded confidently, as soon as he saw me look down.

‘What for, teniente?’ I said, pretending to look worried that he had caught me out.

‘Do it now!’ barked the major. I lifted my right foot nervously and lowered it back to the floor, although slightly to the left of where it had previously been, so it was now touching my other foot. This made them more suspicious.

‘And the other one,’ he demanded. I lifted that foot also.

‘Move back one step,’ said the lieutenant, thinking I must have still been hiding something. I did as they ordered and once more they were confused and disappointed not to have found anything.

‘We’re finished here,’ declared the major, trying to recover his authority. He turned to the lieutenant. ‘Take this prisoner to the courtyard and search him with all the others.’

It was a very lucky escape and I was angry with Roberto, especially since I had told him exactly what he should do during a search. He came around the next night to apologise, bringing a bottle of rum as a peace offering. After a few glasses, I forgave him. He was still new and it was his very first requisa.

When I told him what I’d done with the drugs, Roberto couldn’t stop laughing.

‘No. I no believe, Thomas. No is the true,’ he declared, raising his voice and throwing his hands dramatically into the air. After a few more drinks and with no cocaine in his system, he had started acting like a proper Italian. ‘I think you invent this story, yes?’

‘I promise. On your mother’s grave.’

‘But my mother she is Católica.’ He sat forward suddenly and shook his finger at me, pretending to be offended. ‘You no talk about my mother like this way, please, Thomas.’

We did two more quick shots of rum and I also began to see the funny side. As we got more drunk, we began speculating on what might have happened after the Devil Major had left with packets of cocaine and marijuana in his pocket. Roberto was convinced that the sniffer dogs would have detected them and then the major would have had a lot of explaining to do in front of his men. I didn’t agree.

‘No way, man. There weren’t any dogs.’ But once Roberto got on to a subject, he couldn’t let it go.

‘Then perhaps his wife she will find the drugs when she is cleaning the jacket?’ he suggested, leaning back in his chair and going into another laughing fit. ‘He will have big problems in the home.’

‘Maybe,’ I said, trying to imagine what the Devil Major’s wife would look like.

‘Or maybe the wife she like the cocaína. Like my girlfriend in Italy she does. The cocaína is good for the sex, you know.’ Roberto stood up in order to demonstrate. ‘So this major he just put a little bit here on the end here,’ he said, touching the front of his pants, ‘and maybe some for her in the special place, and they will be very excited together. Making a lot of love. Very happy marriage. Lot of pleasure.’

‘No, man, that major is a homosexual.’ I was convinced that no woman would put up with the Devil Major.

‘No. I no believe, Thomas. You are joking with me again. That homosexual major was the one who stole your hair machine.’

‘It’s true. They’re all gay.’

‘No.’ Roberto put his hand to his mouth and gasped once more like a proper Italian. ‘Is no true, Thomas. I no believe. How the country can get bigger then if all the Bolivian man is homosexual?’

For the next few weeks, I was happy and we had a lot of parties, especially when Rusty wasn’t around. I told all my friends in prison that I would be leaving soon. With the Velascos retracting their statement and a ‘human rights lawyer’ observing the proceedings, I was totally convinced that my trial was over. It would have been, had it not been for the next surprise – the Velascos’ chief witness.