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

by William Holms

  I shake my head, and say, “Holding out? I’m not holding out at all! They strip-searched me. They touched me.” I lean closer to the glass and talk into the phone a little quieter so no one else can hear me. “Mr. Sassen, they practically raped me.”

  Talking about the humiliation of standing completely naked in front of a bunch of strange men and squatting down with my legs spread and my arms extended makes me feel violated all over again. My eyes are heavy with tears. My lips are trembling.

  “They … they stripped me down in front of all the other prisoners. They knew I didn’t have anything. They did it just so everyone could see me.”

  He puts his head down like he can sympathize with everything I’m saying and then says, “Body cavity searches are common in most prisons when an inmate leaves the facility. They want to make sure you’re not bringing in drugs or other prohibited items. The searches in this facility can be very intrusive, especially if you’re charged with a drug offense.”

  I cover my hands to hide my shame. “This is legal?” I ask.

  “It’s legal. They even have strip searches at prisons in the U.S.”

  “Can’t they take me to another room or something?”

  “I can ask, but it won’t do any good. I’ve asked before. I even filed a written complaint once. They’re not too sympathetic to drug offenders. They’re understaffed so they’re not going to leave the other prisoners just for one person—even if the prisoner is a woman.”

  “So, I’ve got to stand there naked in front of all the men?” I ask.

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, but eventually you’ll get used to it.”

  I can’t believe he just said this. Who the hell does he think he is? I look up at him again and yell, “Get used to it! I can’t get used to it! You’ve got to get me out of here!”

  “Ms. Brunick, I have no authority to get you out of here. I can’t intervene in the Thai legal system. You’re subject to all the local laws and regulations.”

  “What! But you have to get me out. I’m in a cage with so many women. I don’t even have a place to sleep. There are no beds. I have no privacy. I have to shit in a hole in the floor. People have to sleep sitting or standing up. I haven’t taken a shower in a week.”

  “I understand, Ms. Brunick. Thailand has the largest prison population in Asia. Human rights groups have made so many complaints about the prison conditions, including the overcrowding and poor food and water. They refuse to make any real reforms.”

  “But the food is literally rotten,” I say.

  “Ms. Brunick, you cannot survive in here eating the prison food. It has practically no nutritional value.”

  “How do I get better food?”

  “You can buy food from the prison shop or from other outside food shops. Some prisoners even have their family mail them dried food. I don’t recommend this because it often disappears.”

  “What are you saying? I have to pay for them to lock me up?”

  “They give you nothing other than the clothes you’re wearing and the food and water that you’ve tasted by now. If you want anything else … food, water, toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant, feminine products or anything else, you have to buy it yourself. The outside shops are connected to the guards. You have to pay an inflated price, but they can get you just about anything you want. I’ve ordered you a package with the things you’ll need to get started.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “The outside food you order is good. They can even bring you food from any of the local or fast-food restaurants. The portions are big. One delivery is usually enough for two meals if you ration it.”

  “Is that how women get the bottled water?” I ask.

  “Yes, the water quality here is so poor because they have too many prisoners. Depending on where you’re at in the prison, the water is either not properly filtered or not filtered at all. You really should buy bottled water.”

  “How do I buy these things?”

  “You can ask in the kitchen for a paper that lists all the choices and prices. They have a bigger menu than most restaurants. They’ll deduct the payment from your account.”

  I fold my arms in front of me, lay my head on the table, and say, “Mr. Sassen, this is insane. I believe in prison. I believe in punishment. I’ve always thought prison should be tougher, but I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Ms. Brunick, these conditions aren’t ideal at all. You won’t survive five months if you don’t take precautions.”

  “Five months,” I explode. “I won’t survive five days in here. I can’t fight. I can’t defend myself. If you’re not here to get me out, then why are you here?”

  “I’m here to check on your health and well-being. I’ll make sure you’re treated properly by the authorities. You can’t make or receive any calls. I’ll call your family and friends and let them know you’re here. I can relay any messages to them. If they want to send you money, I’ll explain the process to them. Would you like any reading materials?”

  “Reading material?” I repeat. “Yes, can I have a Bible?”

  “Most people I meet want a Bible so I brought one with me. I must warn you to keep it hidden. They screen everything you read, and some guards don’t like seeing inmates with Bibles.” He takes out a small red Bible from his briefcase and opens it to the middle so it’s small enough to fit through the slot in the window.

  “So, you’ll represent me in my case?” I ask.

  “I’m not a lawyer. I can give you a list of lawyers who are willing to represent you, but I can’t hire a lawyer for you or pay for your lawyer.”

  “Do I need to hire a lawyer?”

  “Since your case is subject to the death penalty, they are required by law to give you a lawyer and an interpreter. They appointed you a lawyer. Did you meet with him?”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t speak English. Do I need to hire a different lawyer?”

  “No lawyer you hire will speak good English. You’ll need the interpreter. You can hire a lawyer if you want, but the lawyer you have is one of the lawyers on my list.”

  “So he knows how to try a case? He’ll fight for me?”

  “It’s not like a court in the United States. There’s no jury. The lawyer doesn’t argue for you. He just helps get evidence to the judge. The judge makes all the decisions and it does no good to argue with him. They take drug offenses very seriously—especially with the amount of drugs you were carrying. No lawyer will fight like you see on television. If the lawyer gets argumentative, it’ll only anger the judge and hurt your case. If you’re found guilty and appeal, it’s often the same judge who decides your appeal.”

  “What?” I ask, trying to understand it all. “So I should just stay with my lawyer?”

  “It’s your decision. Like I said, I speak Thai and I’ll follow the progress of your case. I’ll try to help your lawyer communicate with you and understand your case.”

  I pick up the top pamphlet and flip through the pages. I put the pamphlet back on the table and explain, “Mr. Sassen, I don’t belong here. This is all a big misunderstanding. When I went through the airport this a security guard wanted to search my suitcase. It was a random search and I didn’t understand what she wanted. Next thing, she grabbed me—actually she assaulted me—so I got angry and pulled away.”

  I stop for a brief second because he looks like he doesn’t believe me. I can barely believe this story myself. “Mr. Sassen, they threw my phone down dragged me out of the line and through the airport. They were so angry at me that they planted the drugs in my suitcase.”

  “Ms. Brunick, this judge deals with drug traffickers all the time. Everyone—”

  “First, I’m not a drug trafficker. I would never try to smuggle drugs out of the country.”

  “Many people claim they don’t know about the drugs in their suitcase. It never plays well with the judge.”

  “But I can prove it. My boyfriend was with me the entire weekend. He dropped me off at the airpo
rt. Just talk to him. He can clear all this up.”

  “What’s his name?” he asks.

  “Christian … Christian Mareno. Please call him.”

  He takes a pen from his suit jacket and writes “Christian Mareno” on his notepad.

  “Ms. Brunick, sometimes a drug smuggler will plant drugs in your suitcase without you even knowing.”

  “Oh no, Christian’s not a drug smuggler. He’s a legitimate businessman putting together investors on a big project in Thailand.”

  “A big project?”

  “Yes, his client got a big contract to rebuild all the infrastructure around Bangkok. He found investors in China to fund the project. He’s meeting with his client in Bangkok this week. Call him. He knows everything. He can pay whatever it costs to get me out.”

  “Did you meet this Christian Mareno in Thailand?” he asks.

  “No, he’s my boyfriend from the United States. He does work all over the world.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “I don’t know, maybe four or five months.”

  “Four or five months?” he repeats, sounding concerned. He turns his head slightly like it doesn’t sound right.

  I don’t know who this guy is or why he’s questioning me. He should be questioning the security guards. “Yes, is there something wrong with that?”

  “What’s his address and phone number?” he asks.

  I knew I might lose the paper so I memorized his phone number. He writes the phone number on his pad, and again he asks for his address.

  “I don’t know his address. He lives in New York or somewhere. I never went to his house.”

  “You came all the way to Bangkok with someone and you don’t even know where he lives?” he asks.

  I stand up and consider walking right out of the room. “Why are you attacking me? I don’t appreciate your attitude. You should be looking at the police, but you only seem to care about me and my boyfriend.”

  “Ms. Brunick, please sit down. I’m not attacking you. I’m trying to help you.” He writes something down on his pad and continues. “What’s the name of his company?”

  He continues to focus on the wrong person. I want to give him as little information as possible. All I want him to do is call Christian. He’s the only person who can help me now. “I can’t remember the name right now,” I tell him.

  As soon as I get the words out, he drops his pen and puts his head down on the table. He shakes his head before looking back up. “Ms. Brunick, I can’t help you if you don’t help me. I’ve been doing this for a long time. I can tell when someone’s bullshitting me. You don’t even know the name of his business?”

  It does sound ridiculous. I point down at his pad and say, “Absolute Business Enterprise.”

  He writes it on his pad and says, “Ms. Brunick, many people claim they have no idea how the drugs got in their suitcase—”

  “Well, I don’t, and that’s the truth. I didn’t put the package there. The police put it there.”

  “Ms. Brunick, you must remain calm,” he advises.

  “Mr. Sassen, just call Christian. He has money. He can hire the best lawyer or bribe someone.”

  He immediately lifts his hand to stop me from talking. He looks around to make sure no one can hear us. Leaning closer to the glass he warns, “Ms. Brunick, you are not in America. They can hear everything we say through these phones. Please don’t ever suggest something like that again. Bribery, even attempted bribery, is a very serious crime here.”

  “Well, he can help me,” I correct.

  “I’ll call Mr. Mareno,” he says. “Who else would you like me to call?”

  “Please call my parents. Explain to them that it’s all a big misunderstanding and I’ll be out of here soon.”

  “Anyone else? I usually call three people.”

  “Call Sharon,” I say, and give him her number.

  “Can your parents send you money for food and water?”

  “I don’t know. They don’t have any money. My father had a stroke a few months ago.”

  He circles their name and phone number on his pad and says, “I’ll call them and see.”

  “Thank you.”

  He taps his pen on his pad and says, “I see you pled not guilty to the charges. Ms. Brunick, the Thai system is designed to discourage trials. There are no juries and you can’t plea bargain. Your lawyer and the judge will try to convince you to change your plea. If you plead guilty, the judge can cut your sentence in half.”

  “Well, I’ll never plead guilty because I didn’t do anything wrong,” I insist.

  “You need to understand, if you plead not guilty and the judge finds you guilty, he’ll give you no leniency. With the number of drugs in your possession, you’ll automatically get the death penalty. The judge has the power to commute your sentence to life in prison or maybe even thirty or forty years. Because you’re an American, it’s very likely he’ll do that.”

  “Forty years,” I exclaim. “I won’t even live another forty years. I won’t survive a year in here. You have to get me out.”

  “Again, I wish I could, but I have no power to get you out. Your lawyer can ask for bail, but there’s no possibility it will be granted. The United States has a treaty with Thailand to send prisoners back to the U.S., but with the amount of heroin you were carrying, you don’t qualify. There’s also no early release and no time off for good behavior.”

  “The news just keeps getting better and better.” I start to cry so loudly the prisoners on each side look over at me. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m a mommy. I just want to go home to my babies.”

  “Ms. Brunick, you must try to be strong. This place will destroy you if you’re not strong. Many inmates survive the horrendous physical conditions, but have a mental or emotional breakdown. It’ll be months before you’ll be assigned a job. You first have to get your leg irons off. Without a job, the boredom is terrible. Every day, you’ll be locked in your cell from five in the evening until the next morning. The prison will provide you nothing. There are no phones, no Internet, and no connection with the outside world except for letters and any visitors who come to see you. The loneliness from being away from your family and everyone you know is horrible. At times, the feeling of hopelessness will destroy you if you let it.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement,” I say being sarcastic.

  “Ms. Brunick, I’m trying to prepare you so you can survive in here. It’s estimated that sixty to seventy percent of the inmates here have schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, major depression, or other mental health issues.”

  “So, what am I supposed to do?”

  “You must find something to occupy your time and your mind during these long hours. Have you ever tried yoga or meditation?”

  “I did yoga a couple of times many years ago,” I answer.

  “Don’t just lie down and die. Set aside specific times every day for yoga, meditation, and physical exercise. Find some way to stay busy. Read, write letters, keep a journal, draw, do anything to occupy your mind.”

  He opens his briefcase and pulls out a pen, a mechanical pencil, and two spiral notebooks. He slides them through the opening. “The prison has a library. There aren’t many books in English, but most prisoners here don’t understand English so you’ll have your choice. Reading will be the key to your survival.”

  For years, I bought pencils, pens, and spiral notebooks for my kids to take to school. Before school starts you can get ten notebooks for a dollar. So many times I’ve thrown away half-used notebooks or perfectly good pencils. Now, these simple items I’ve always taken for granted are the most valuable possessions I own? They are the key to my survival?

  “There are several Americans in your prison, but they’re in a different unit so you’ll never see them unless you get assigned to the same job. Try to make friends and learn the Thai language.”

  “I’ve made one friend who knows a little English,” I tell
him.

  “Good … Also make sure you stay on the guards’ good sides. They’re usually friendly, but they’re also firm. As long as you don’t violate the prison rules, they’ll leave you alone. If you violate the prison rules or refuse to comply with their orders, you’ll be punished.”

  “My back is already black and blue where they hit me with their sticks for no reason,” I say.

  “Punishment can be as mild as cleaning the toilets, and as severe as getting a beating by the prison guards. You can be put in solitary confinement for months. This can be worse than any physical beating. You’ll quickly learn the system and it’ll become very routine. Just keep your head down and go along.”

  “It’s not the guards I’m worried about. These women are crazy—they just don’t care. You have to push for a spot to sleep, a place to eat, and even dirty bathwater before it’s gone. I’ve been pushed, hit, and kicked.”

  “Keep your head down. Make a few friends and stick together,” he suggests.

  “I’ll try.”

  “One last thing, Ms. Brunick: you’re a beautiful woman and you’re an American. You must be careful not to be alone with a guard. Whatever you do, don’t have any physical contact with other prisoners no matter what they promise you. Word will get around and everyone will be out for you. It might help to play down your looks.”

  I’ve already thought about this. All my life, my looks have been my biggest asset—just about my only asset. My looks always helped me get ahead. Now my looks are a danger to me. How am I supposed to be less pretty?

  Mr. Sassen opens his briefcase and pulls out a very large plastic bag with my name written across the top. He slides it to me and says, “You should keep your belongings in this bag.”

  He returns his briefcase to the floor and clips it shut. “Ms. Brunick, visitation periods are limited to only twenty minutes. This is strictly enforced. They give me a little more time on the first visit because they know I’m trying to help you adjust to your new situation. They’re letting me know I need to wrap things up. You have a lot to think about and I’ve given you information to look over. I’ll call the numbers you gave me and talk with your lawyer. I’ll get back with you when I know more.”