The Killing of Faith: A Suspense Thriller You Won't Soon Forget. (The Killing of Faith Series Book 1)

by William Holms

  “Do you speak English?” I ask, but they don’t respond, so I repeat, “English, do either of you speak English?”

  One lady shakes her head and the other still says nothing.

  There are no windows, but everyone else is sleeping so I figure it must be nighttime. I try to position my blanket around me to protect my face from the large fly that won’t go away. I move my shoes closer to me and use them as a pillow. I eventually fall back asleep, but I still can’t sleep long.

  Each time they bring someone in, I wake up. Most of the new prisoners are men who are added to the already overcrowded cell across the hall, but a few more women are added to our cell as well. All night long, people come in yelling, arguing, singing, and snoring. The men are loud and rowdy. Most of the women seem as scared as I am. Everyone is given an identical blue blanket. I try to sleep, but it’s almost impossible because of the smell, the flies, and the men across the hall.

  I wake up when they bring in a girl who looks maybe thirteen or fourteen years old. She’s dressed more like an American than a Thai girl. She sits against the wall across from me crying just like I’ve been crying since I arrived. Seeing this little girl here breaks my heart. “English?” I ask, reaching out to her.

  She looks confused like she has no idea what I just said. Before I can repeat myself, she lowers her head and vomits all over the floor. She moves out of the vomit, lays her head down, and passes out with her hair partially in the chunks of smelly food that just exploded from her stomach. Sometime in the night, she also wets herself. Everyone can smell it, but no one can clean her or the vomit up because we have nothing to clean it up with.

  The next morning, we are all awoken by an officer bringing us food. It looks like the same food they gave us yesterday for dinner. Just like dinner, I don’t dare touch it. I’m afraid I’ll throw up if I try to eat it.

  Before the officer leaves, I raise my hand to get his attention. “Sir, can I please make a phone call?”

  Just like before, he ignores me, turns around, closes the door, and locks it behind him. This repeats over and over each time an officer comes into the cell or walks down the narrow hallway. No one seems to speak English and no one wants to help me at all.

  There are no clocks on the wall and everything I own was taken from me at the airport. There are no windows to tell the difference between morning and night. Only the plates of food left on the floor give me any idea of what time it is. After the last plate of the day is delivered, I lose all sense of time.

  I wake up in the middle of the night because I have to go to the bathroom so bad. I can’t hold it any longer. There are nine other women asleep in the cell. I walk over and take another look at the hole in the floor. More has spilled over since I looked yesterday. The stench is just as hard to take. If that’s not bad enough, there’s no toilet paper. I stand over the hole and start to lower my panties, but the smell is beyond anything I can take. I gag, but don’t throw up since I have nothing in my stomach. I return to my spot on the floor, determined to hold it in.

  After what feels like two or three hours, the pain is so strong that I just can’t hold it in any longer. Everyone in both cells is asleep so I walk back, put my feet on each side of the hole, lower my panties, and squat down. I’m standing in a puddle of urine and feces, and it’s not so easy to balance myself. I spread my legs and put my hand on the sticky wall. I’ve been holding it in for so long that I poop and then pee so hard. It mostly runs down the side of my leg. The toilet overflows more and the foul mess flows against my feet. I go back to my spot on the floor feeling so relieved from finally going. I have no choice, but to wipe myself off with my blanket.

  The next day is just like the day before. Each time food is delivered, I leave mine on the floor. Another woman has no problem with the food. She picks up my food and eats it down. The women in the cell gather together, talk, and laugh. I’m the only one who can’t communicate so they pretty much leave me alone. I spend all day sitting on the floor except for the times when I get up to stretch my legs. There’s nothing I can do except wait. I don’t really know what I’m waiting for. No one tells me anything.

  The cell across the hallway is full of men. They all look Thai or Asian. I can’t tell the difference. A small group comes to the front of the cell and tries to get my attention. They whistle, laugh, point, and reach through the bars as if they can touch me if they just try hard enough. The more I cry, the louder they laugh and yell. I can’t understand Thai, although I have a pretty good idea what they’re saying. I try to look away, hoping they’ll tire and go away. Instead, they start touching themselves and one guy looks like he’s masturbating.

  Sitting in my cell, a new reality comes over me. I’ve been asking again and again to call Christian, but I don’t even know his phone number. There was once a time when I knew all my family and friends’ phone numbers, but now almost every phone number I call is stored in my cell phone. The only numbers I’ve memorized are Ryan’s home phone, his cell phone that hasn’t changed since we were together, my parent’s home phone, and the phone number belonging to my oldest daughter. If they do allow me a phone call, I’ll have no way to call Christian. I don’t even have a pen or paper to write on. I lie back against the wall and cry. I’ve cried more in the last three days than I have at any time in my life, and I’ve done more than my fair share of crying in my life.

  “How did I get here?” I keep repeating again and again in my head. I slam the back of my head against the concrete wall and yell as loud as possible, “How did I get here?!” Everyone looks at me, and the men across the hall laugh hysterically.

  I put my head in my hands. The day at the airport plays over and over in my head. Why didn’t I just shut my mouth and let the woman check my bags? Why did I argue and yell at them? Why did I fight them in the hallway?

  In a country like Thailand, I should have known it would be so easy for them to plant drugs on me. When they took me out of the line, I thought I’d talk to a supervisor, be scolded and warned, and be released to go back to my gate. My biggest fear was missing my flight. Now I’ve spent three days in a Thai jail. Never in a thousand years could I have imagined just how far things would go.

  I know the airport security officers sent me to this filthy jail to teach me a lesson. I’m sure they know exactly where I am and they’re enjoying my terrifying ordeal. I’m sure they’ll keep me here until they’re satisfied that I’ve been punished enough. For all I know, prisoners in Thailand have no rights at all. I don’t know if I will have a day in court or if I’ll be left here forever. I wonder if anyone even knows I’m here. All I want now is to get in front of a judge, apologize for my behavior, pay whatever fine or bribe they want, and get out of this crazy country and never return.

  I’m sure Christian is worried sick. I ask again and again to call him, yet it gets me nowhere. I don’t know if it will be days, weeks, or months until I can make a call. Maybe I’ll never be able to make the phone call that can set me free.

  – CHAPTER 43 –

  Most people who leave are taken in the morning. Early the next morning, before breakfast is served, a small male officer opens the cell door and walks in. He bangs his club on the bars waking everyone up. He yells, “Kween, kween.” This is the same thing they yell each time they take someone out. I stay on the floor covering myself with my blanket that stinks as bad as the room. The officer nudges me with his club and again says, “Kween.”

  I cannot believe he’s finally calling for me. “Me?” I ask pointing at my chest. When he nods, I leave my blanket on the floor and stand up in the dress I’ve been wearing for three days. It’s wrinkled, dirty, and smells.

  When I reach the outside office, eight other prisoners are standing against the wall. Another officer handcuffs my wrists behind my back. We go out the same door we came in and the morning sun is blinding. There’s another truck with a cage waiting outside. We’re all handcuffed to the bench and he drives away. I cannot believe this day has finally com
e. They’re finally taking me back to the airport so I can get the hell out of Thailand.

  We drive for what seems like forever before we arrive at a white ten-story building. It’s definitely not the airport, but I don’t care. All I know is something, anything, is finally happening. A garage opens to let us in. After we exit the truck, we’re all handcuffed again. We walk forward with one officer in front of us and one officer behind us. We go into the building and down a long hall until we come to an elevator. All the walls, floors, and the elevator are surprisingly clean and well-kept. We ride the elevator up and when the door opens, we get out and walk down a hall that’s lined with other prisoners. We stop along the wall and wait for further orders. It’s obvious that this is a courthouse and I’m finally going to talk to a judge.

  After about thirty minutes, they lead me into the courtroom. It’s as beautiful as any courtroom in the United States with a judge sitting above everyone. Unlike in America, this courtroom is easy-going. The lawyers are all dressed in suits, yet everyone is laughing and talking with each other. They seem very friendly. It’s so much lighter than any courtroom I’ve been in. Believe it or not, it puts me at ease. It doesn’t feel like they’re out to get me.

  I’d never go to court in the condition I’m in. I just woke up after lying all night on a cement floor under a blanket stained with my own urine. My hair is uncombed and dirty, my mascara is smeared all over my face from crying for three days, and my expensive dress is sticking to my body from two days of sweat and urine. Last night, I was standing in a puddle of feces. I stink so bad that I can’t even stand smelling myself.

  I pray that Christian found out that I’m in jail and he’s waiting in the courtroom to get me out. Maybe my parents or Sharon heard of my arrest and flew to Bangkok. I search the packed courtroom from one side to the other. I don’t recognize anyone.

  Everything seems to be moving very fast. One person after another is brought in front of the judge. When my name is called, the officer delivers me to the front. This judge has to know that I don’t belong here. I don’t look like a criminal. Surely, he’s aware that crooked cops will plant drugs on people. This is finally my chance to tell the judge that I was framed and my boyfriend can vouch that I had no drugs. I don’t even use drugs.

  The judge says something in Thai, so I can’t understand him. I don’t know what to do so I start talking in hopes that he can understand English. “Your Honor,” I start. “I’m an American. A woman at the airport came up and grabbed—”

  This is all I get out. The judge bangs his gavel and says something else I don’t understand. The police officer backs me away from the judge and forcefully takes me out of the courtroom. What the hell just happened? I had so much to say.

  “Wait, I didn’t get to talk to the judge,” I cry to the officer. “I need to make a phone call. Please let me talk to the judge,” I beg.

  The police officer returns me to the wall with the other prisoners. I cannot believe I waited three days and my hearing lasted less than thirty seconds. The officer leaves me and walks someone else into the courtroom. Any hope I have of being heard is gone. For the first time, I see a clock on the wall that brings the only sense of reality to my world. I watch people coming and going and I’m completely devastated. I want to grab someone and shout, “I must talk to the judge.” I want to scream down the hall, “DOES ANYONE SPEAK ENGLISH?” I thought I’d be going home. Instead, I’m going back to that dirty jail without saying anything. When will this nightmare end?

  Forty-five minutes later, the officer returns, unlocks my handcuffs, and brings me back into the courtroom. This time another man walks up and extends his hand to me. He’s wearing dress pants and a white button-down shirt.

  “Ms. Brewick, I Mr. Ku. I here to interpet you,” he lets me know.

  “You speak English?” I ask.

  “Corse” he says with a smile. “I hep you.”

  His English isn’t good but this is the first time I’ve heard English spoken since I left the airport. “Are you my lawyer?” I ask.

  “No layer, no layer,” he says, pointing at himself. “I interpet you.”

  “So you’re an interpreter?”

  “Yes, I interpet.”

  “Thank you; thank you so much. Tell the judge this is a big mistake. I don’t belong here. Tell him I yelled at the officer in the airport and they planted drugs in my bags. If I can make a call, I can straighten this out.”

  He raises his hand to stop me from talking further and says, “No, no, no.” I don’t know what I’m supposed to do or say.

  I hear a name being called, yet I don’t even recognize it’s mine until the officer pushes me back in front of the judge. Every time the judge talks, I only understand what he’s saying through the interpreter.

  “You Faith Brewick?” the interpreter looks at me and asks.

  The interpreter tells the judge everything I say. “Faith Brunick, your Honor, not Brewick.”

  “You American citizen?” the judge asks.

  Thank God! I know this pulls a lot of weight here. You can’t just lock up an American like we’re from some third world country. “Yes, your Honor, I’m an American.”

  The judge talks while the interpreter tries to keep up. The interpreter turns to me and says, “Judge say this is Court of First Instance. You face charge for production, exportation, and disposal of over 100 grams of heroin, a Category One drug. Understand?”

  I’m shaking so bad. “Your Honor,” I begin. “There is a mistake. I did not have drugs.”

  The judge bangs his gavel making it clear he wants me to stop. “Only answer question,” the interpreter warns.

  I’m afraid of upsetting the judge and ending my chance to talk. “Yes, your Honor, I understand.”

  “If found guilty, you get death penalty,” the interpreter continues.

  The second I hear “death penalty” my legs shake and I can’t inhale. I start crying and fall to the floor. They can’t be serious. There’s no way they’ll give an American the death penalty. “No … God no,” I scream as the officer raises me back to my feet.

  “You have lawyer?” the judge asks.

  “No, your Honor. I have nothing. I don’t know anyone.”

  The judge waves me away and I’m led back outside and handcuffed back to the same chair. I sit there for about fifteen minutes before the interpreter returns with another man at his side dressed in a blue suit, white shirt, and tie. He speaks no English so the interpreter tells him everything we say.

  “He name is SAWM-chee,” the interpreter begins. “He layer for you.”

  “I don’t have any money,” I tell him.

  The interpreter is always smiling. “You case deaf so you get layer for you,” the interpreter tells me.

  I make out that I’ve been appointed a lawyer since I can get the death penalty. I try to explain everything to him the best I can. “Thank you so much. I’m innocent. I was at the airport, and the security guard came right up and grabbed my arm. I didn’t understand what she wanted. When I complained about the way she was treating me, she took me in a room and they planted the drugs in my bag.”

  There! I finally got it out. The interpreter has to keep stopping me to give him time to interpret my words. I hope the lawyer believes me, and will tell the judge everything I say.

  “He tell you procedure,” the interpreter explains.

  The lawyer talks and again I hear everything he says from the interpreter. “You crime over hundred grams of Category One drug. If guilty you get death penalty.”

  The idea of the death penalty is still too hard for me to comprehend. “No, no, no … I’m not guilty. I didn’t do anything,” I plead.

  “You must pled guilty or not guilty,” he says.

  “I’m not guilty. I will plead not guilty,” I confirm. The lawyer raises his hand to stop me from talking.

  “If you pled guilty, the court reduces punishment in half. If trial, you get death.”

  “I can’t plead
guilty. I can’t go to prison,” I tell him, hoping he understands everything I’m trying to say. “I’m an American. I’ve been in jail for three days now. I haven’t been able to make any calls. I can call someone who can clear this all up. When can I make a phone call?”

  “You no make call now,” he says.

  “When? When do I make a call?” I ask.

  “No call here—at jail,” the attorney says.

  “How do I talk to the U.S. Embassy? Can’t they help me?”

  “U.S. Consulate,” he says. “We tell court and court tell consulate.”

  “Can I tell the court that the drugs were planted?” I ask. “If they get the video from the airport, they’ll see that the drugs were planted.”

  “No tell court. I get video for you,” the lawyer answers.

  After my questions are answered, we walk back into the courtroom. This time I stand in front of the judge with both my lawyer and the interpreter beside me. The only words I understand are those spoken by the interpreter.

  “Faith Brewick” the judge calls me.

  “Faith Brunick, your Honor,” I correct him again.

  “You American citizen?” the judge asks.

  “Yes, your Honor,” I answer.

  “This Court of First Instance. You face charges for production, exportation, and disposal of heroin over one hundred grams of Category One drug. Understand?”

  “Yes, your Honor,” I say.

  The judge turns to the other person, who I assume is the prosecutor. He asks the prosecutor something in Thai.

  “Heroin,” the prosecutor answers. “One hundred ten grams.”

  I want to tell the court again how I angered the officer and they planted the drugs but the judge never lets me. “If guilty you subject to death penalty,” he advises.

  “Yes, your Honor,” I acknowledge.