Another man finally walks into the room. He’s wearing black pants, a black shirt, black shoes, and a small black hat. He has a patch on his right arm that matches the flag on the wall. He has medals across his chest and an identification badge hanging from his neck. He looks more like a military officer than an airport security guard. I’m incredibly relieved to have someone here who doesn’t work for the airport. He says something in such broken English, that I can’t make out what he just said.
“What?” I ask.
He repeats his previous words, louder and more slowly. This time it sounds like he said, “You speak English?”
“Yes, English!” I blurt out after I make out what he just said. “I speak English.”
I finally have someone who I can tell what happened. “Thank God … this is a big mistake,” I begin. I point at the two officers in the room. “These officers came up and started screaming at me. I didn’t understand what they wanted me to do. Next thing they were yelling at me, embarrassed me, grabbed me, and dragged me out of the line.”
I suddenly realize that I’m speaking so fast. He can’t keep up with what I’m saying. Much more slowly, I explain, “I’m an American citizen. Please, I’m an American citizen. I need to call my husband. My husband speaks Thai and can help me.”
The officer points at my luggage sitting on the desk and asks, “You bags?”
Finally, this insanity will be over. I just need to cooperate with him, answer his questions, and rush back to my gate. “Yes, they’re mine,” I advise him. “I don't care if you to look through my things, but hurry. My plane is leaving soon, and I don’t want to miss it. I have small kids at home waiting for me. You know … little babies?”
The officer opens a drawer and puts on plastic gloves. He picks up my purse and dumps all my belongings on the desk. I don’t care. I just want to go home. Whatever he needs to do to clear all this up is fine with me.
“Go through everything,” I tell him.
He first picks up my passport from the desk and looks back and forth at my passport and me.
“Please hurry,” is what I’m thinking. What I say is, “Yes, that’s my passport.”
With everything from my purse still on the desk, he next opens my carry-on bag, turns it upside down, and dumps everything on the desk. My makeup, perfume, curling iron, and toiletries spill onto the desk and fall on the floor. I stare down at the mess he’s making. I’m scared that I might have brought something back from the resort that I shouldn’t have. The officer picks up and examines one item after another. He puts the end of the blow dryer up to his eyes and looks inside.
“There’s nothing in there,” I tell him.
He completely ignores me and continues with my bag. Next he pulls out my painting. He examines it and turns it around showing everyone what I painted. He runs his hands along the frame, shows it to the woman sitting at the desk, and says something to her in Thai. When he’s satisfied, he sets it on the floor leaving it leaning against the desk.
Next, he picks up my large suitcase and puts it on the desk. Everything he just dropped on the desk falls to the floor. I don’t know how I’ll be able to get everything back in my bags in time to catch my flight. Maybe they’ll delay the plane until I arrive. I lean forward and beg, “Will you please call the gate and tell them you’re holding me? Tell them I’ll be a little late?”
He ignores me, unzips the suitcase, and lays it open. On one side of the suitcase, all my clean clothes are neatly folded and all my dirty clothes are on the other side in complete disorder. Two gray straps separate them. He starts with my dirty clothes and again examines each one and tosses them on the floor. The mess is getting bigger and bigger. He lifts my red see-through nightie and shows it to the woman and to both men sitting next to me. The two officers smirk at each other and the guys chained to the chairs laugh out loud. He does the same thing to my panties. They are red with tiny red roses scattered across the front. He lifts them with his thumb and finger and shows them around. After everyone has a good laugh, he drops them on top of my other clothes on the floor. I’m not laughing. I’m so embarrassed. Under my breath, I mumble, “Go ahead, have your little fun.”
He next unclips the two gray straps and does the same thing with my clean clothes. He shows everyone my panties, my bras, and my bathing suit lying on top. He drops each on the floor with absolutely no regard for my privacy. When he lifts the blue and green sundress that I never got a chance to wear, I’m shocked to see a brown paper bag that’s been rolled into a ball and tucked into the corner of my suitcase.
What the fuck? My eyes are fixed on the bag. How the hell is there a bag in my suitcase? I didn’t pack any brown bag. “What the hell?!” I yell.
The officer opens the bag, and pulls out a large plastic Ziploc baggie filled with white powder. He grabs the baggie by the top two corners and holds it up to the light. Chaos breaks out in the room. The officer with the bag yells something in Thai and the woman sitting at the desk picks up the phone and makes one phone call after another. Two more men come into the room. They all pass the bag around. I can’t believe this is happening.
“That’s not mine,” I scream. The two men walk over, stand on each side of me, and each put a hand on my shoulders to hold me in place. With tears running down my cheeks, I scream, “That’s not mine! That’s not mine!”
The officer points at the suitcase and everything scattered on the floor and shouts, “You bag.”
“No,” I shriek. “That’s not mine!”
He takes the nametag on my suitcase in his hand and turns it to me. My name, address, and phone number are written on the tag in my own handwriting as plain as day. I shake my head and swear to anyone who’ll listen, “That’s my suitcase, but that’s not my baggie.”
Two more men come into the room. One has a small white box. He opens the box and takes out a test tube wrapped in plastic. He unwraps it and takes the cap off the top. He opens the Ziploc bag and scoops out some of the powder with a small spoon and puts it into the test tube. This entire scene seems surreal. It looks like something from a television cop show.
I look back and forth at each officer and beg, “You have to believe me. That’s not mine.”
He shakes the test tube back and forth. The white powder turns bright yellow. He shows it to everyone in the room and says, “Ponkhow. Ponkhow.” He shows the test tube to me, and in terrible English, says, “Heroin.”
I collapse in my chair and put my face in my lap. “Oh my God, no,” I sob. “That’s not mine.”
“You bag!” he repeats.
“NO,” I keep saying with my face buried in my hands.
“You bag!” he says again.
The officer takes a garbage bag and puts everything except the Ziploc baggie in it. The two men standing on each side of me grab hold of my arms and lift me to my feet. We walk through the door on our left and more officers are waiting behind a table. There’s one chair in the middle. The officers walk me around the table, sit me down in the chair, and put the Ziploc baggie in front of me. There are about fifty photos on the wall in front of me of people sitting at the same table where I’m now sitting. There must be nine or ten officers in the room. I assume they’re all here to interrogate me until I confess that the drugs are mine. I know that a confession, even if coerced, will end any chance for me to prove my innocence. I won’t confess to something I didn’t do, no matter how long I’m held or how much they torture me. I’ll say nothing and ask for a lawyer.
All the officers in the room gather behind me. I put my head on the table and cry. The woman lifts my chin. When I try to pull away, she forcefully pulls my face up making it clear that she wants me to hold my head up. By this time, my face is soaked in tears. A short, skinny man takes pictures of me surrounded by all these officers. They’re standing tall with their arms behind their backs like proud hunters standing over their prize.
I have no idea what will happen next. As everyone leaves the room, I stop the man who speak
s English and ask, “Sir, what happens now?”
“Deaf,” he tells me.
I put my head back on the table and keep crying, “Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God!”
I’m left all alone in this cold room for what seems like an hour. The craziness of it all races through my head. I suddenly come up with a plan—the only plan I have to get out of here. I’ll go to the bathroom and escape from a window. I’ll find somewhere to hide. When the coast is clear I’ll call Christian to come and get me. I don’t know if it will work. I might even get shot trying, but I don’t care. I have to do something. This is my one shot to get back to Austin, and I have to take it.
The next time someone walks past the open door, I yell, “Excuse me, can I please go to the bathroom?”
The man who speaks English comes into the room and I repeat, “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”
“Batroom?” he asks, sounding confused.
“Bathroom,” I repeat, waiting for a response. “You know toilet?”
“Yes, toilet!” he says.
We walk down the same hall where we came until we reach the ladies’ restroom. As soon as I open the door, I see there are no windows. The ceiling is full of tiles that are big enough for me to squeeze through. I can move one of the ceiling tiles and pull myself up. I’ll move along the ceiling until I’m back in the terminal. I’ll stay up there until they stop looking for me, and then I’ll make my escape.
I walk into the restroom, but he follows right behind me until we reach one of the stalls. When I go inside and try to close the door behind me, he grabs it and holds it open.
“I’m not going to pee with someone watching me,” I tell him.
I try to pull the door closed again, but he stands in the way without talking. He refuses to let go. I suddenly realize he has no gun and I’m not handcuffed. I can push him aside, and run down the same hall where we came. I take one last deep breath and prepare myself to go. Before I can bolt, however, I realize how ridiculous this is. We walked through several locked doors to get here. I have no passport, no money, and no idea where I am. I’ll surely be caught. This is one problem I can’t run away from.
With my escape plan out of my mind, I realize I have to go to the bathroom. I raise my dress and lower my panties, but I can’t pee with him standing right here watching me. It’s just too embarrassing. I put my hands over my face and sit on the toilet. I think he understands the problem and looks away. I’m eventually able to pee. When I’m done, he takes me back to the room, and sits me at the table all by myself again. I’m so exhausted that I put my head down and doze off.
I wake up when all the officers come back into the room. Two of them grab my arms and raise me to my feet. They put my hands behind my back and handcuff my wrists. I’ve never been handcuffed before. Five officers surround me like I’m a murderer, and escort me out the door. I’m hoping we leave through a private entrance, but no such luck. We walk down the same halls that lead back to the airport terminal. When we walk through the last door, a small crowd of people with cameras are gathered together. It’s obvious they were waiting for me to arrive. They snap so many pictures while I stand there like I’m some movie star or something. It’s like a freak show and I’m the freak. I’m sure my picture will run on every American news channel with the headline, “American woman from Austin arrested in Thailand smuggling heroin.” I’ll spend the rest of my life having to explain.
When everyone stops taking my picture, I’m taken right through the middle of the airport with my hands still handcuffed behind my back. I put my head down trying to hide my face like I’ve seen so many times on television, but it does me no good. Everyone stares, points, and moves out of our way as we walk by. I’ve never been so embarrassed. I came to this country to relax for a few days at a beautiful resort on a private beach. Now I’m leaving humiliated and in handcuffs for everyone in the world to see.
Eventually, we arrive at a door that automatically opens as we approach. A truck with a rusty cage over the top is backed up to the door. There are two benches on each side, and three other men inside. They handcuff my wrists to the bench and I wait.
The officer who speaks English is gone. There’s no one who I can understand, and no one who can understand me. I sit in the back of the truck for over an hour with the hot sun shining through the top. I can feel beads of sweat run down the sides of my dress. The door finally flies open and they lock down another man beside me. The officer locks the door and starts the truck.
We drive for a long time, rocking back and forth and from side to side. The handcuffs dig into my wrists every time I bounce around. My back hits against the side of the truck each time we take a turn. I’m sitting in my dress and high heels, my face stained with tears, and four strangers are looking at me. I lay my head back on the cage and close my eyes. This has to be a horrible nightmare. I want to wake up back in Austin. I shake my head. This isn’t happening.
As I sit with my eyes closed, I realize for the first time what’s happened. Why didn’t I see it before? It’s like a light has just been switched on and now it’s all so clear. I was set up. I feared the officers would beat me up or rape me, but instead, they did something much more horrible. They planted drugs in my suitcase!
They can’t get away with this. Christian can clear all this up. He was with me the whole weekend. He can testify that the drugs were not in my suitcase when we left. He’s working on a big project for the city so he has to know people. In a country like Thailand, that’s what you need more than anything—to know people. He can even bribe the officers to let me go. I close my eyes again, knowing that they can’t get away with this. The truth will come out and I’ll be going home. All I have to do is call Christian as soon as we get to the police station.
PART THREE
__________________
ENLIGHTENMENT
All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.
—Galileo Galilei
Peek ye not through the keyhole, lest ye be vexed.
—Stephen King
– CHAPTER 42 –
When the truck finally comes to a stop, it backs up in front of a police station. I’m so relieved when the steel handcuffs are removed from my stinging wrists. The entire ride, I was banged around so much that my stomach is churning. The guard pulls me out of my seat and my stomach lets go. I vomit all over him, me, and another prisoner. The guard throws me back and tries to wipe off the brown, foul-smelling mess.
The moment we step inside the police station, I can tell this is bad. The air is hot and sticky and the place smells so foul. We stand with our backs against a wall, waiting our turn in front of a camera. One by one, we step up and are given a sign to hold in front of us. The sign has our name, sex, nationality, passport, and other identifying information handwritten on it. After the woman takes my picture, I ask when I’ll be able to make a call. She either doesn’t understand what I’m asking or doesn’t care.
An officer opens a door that leads to the jail. As soon as I walk in, the smell is overwhelming. It stops me in my tracks. To my left and right are jail cells that are dark, dreary, and look like they’ve never been cleaned. The thought of being locked in here with these men terrifies me. I see no one in here to protect me from being beaten or raped. They open a cell door and lock the men in a room to the left. They put me in a different cell right across the hall. Thank God for small favors!
My cell doesn’t have a bed or even a bench to sit on. The floor is all cement with dirt, mud, urine, and vomit stains. There’s nothing in the room, except a dirty toilet along the back wall. Well, it’s not really a toilet at all—at least not the kind in America. It’s just a small, narrow ceramic hole in the floor. To go to the bathroom, you stand over it, put your feet on each side, spread your legs, and squat down. I can tell the toilet isn’t working because it’s overflowing with a foul mixture of urine, lumps of feces, and used tampons and sanitary pads. This is surely what I smel
led when they opened the door. I once rescued a dog from a shelter that was cleaner than this place.
The guard slams the door and turns the lock ending any hope I have of making a quick phone call. I search the floor for a spot of dry concrete far enough away from the toilet so I don’t throw up. I find a place along one of the walls, sit down, and lean back against the wall. I’ve never been in jail before. I’ve never even visited a jail. I’m on the floor in my beautiful black dress and there’s nothing I can do but cry.
So I cry.
My tears provide plenty of entertainment for the guys across the hall, but otherwise accomplish nothing. I stop crying when I hear the door unlock and open again. I stand and try to talk to the officer, but he has nothing to say. He walks in with a plate and a small, thin blue blanket. He drops the plate and blanket at my feet.
“Can I please make a call?” I ask him several times before he can turn around.
Each time I ask, he points at me and then at the plate on the floor. He mimics eating like I’m so stupid, I don’t know how to eat. I take my hand and make it look like I’m talking on the phone and again ask, “Can I make a call?” He turns around and walks right out the door.
The plate on the floor looks and smells more like cat or dog food than human food. I grab the blanket and lay it over my legs and waist. It’s so small and thin that it does almost nothing to cover me so I fold it into a pillow. I look at this Godforsaken place and think about the beautiful resort I just left with the giant bed, walk-in shower, and food prepared by a professional chef. I lie down on the floor and, again, I cry until I fall asleep.
I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep on the floor. I wake up because flies are walking all over my face and every place my skin is exposed. These are the biggest flies I’ve ever seen and the first flies I’ve ever felt that actually bite. I look around and see two other women in my cell staring at me.
The Killing of Faith: A Suspense Thriller You Won't Soon Forget. (The Killing of Faith Series Book 1) Page 21