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

by William Holms

  “I really want to thank you, Mr. Sassen. You’ve been a big help.”

  “I wish I could do more,” he says as he stands up and gathers his belongings.

  “Please believe me. I’m not a drug trafficker.”

  “I’ll come back when I know more,” he says.

  “Just talk to Christian. He’ll clear this all up.”

  “I will,” he repeats before turning around and walking out.

  A guard immediately takes my arm to make room for the next prisoner. I quickly pick up everything I was given. I have four pamphlets, two spiral notebooks, a pen, a pencil, and a Bible small enough to fit in my pocket if I had a pocket. I put everything in the plastic bag, and get up from the table. I leave through a door on the opposite side of the room, and walk back to the cages. When I turn the corner, my heart drops in my chest. Another metal detector is awaiting my arrival with a line of prisoners waiting to be strip-searched.

  When I walk a few steps closer I see a man on the other side of the metal detector who’s stripped naked and bending over. How does he do it so casually? Maybe Mr. Sassen is right—it might get easier one day, but right now I’m as terrified as I was the first time I went through. With each step, I feel weaker in my knees.

  “I can’t … I just can’t,” I whisper. I keep moving closer. Three more men fall in line behind me. When I’m only two people away, I hear Sassen’s warning, “You’ve got to be strong.”

  Before I go through the metal detector, the first guard grabs my plastic bag out of my hand. “No,” I plead as I reach out for the bag, “it was given to me by the U.S. Embassy.”

  The man pushes me back with his other hand, and directs me through the metal detector. God, please don’t let them take this from me, I pray.

  After I pass through the metal detector, I try to stand strong. If I resist, they’ll just crack me with their clubs again. In front of everyone, I take off each item of clothing, and this time, I manage to hold in all my tears. My large breasts I was once so proud of are now humiliating. I try to cover myself with my hands, but it’s pointless because again I’m ordered to spread my arms, and go through the same routine I went through when I came into this prison.

  Be strong, I remind myself again.

  I’m completely naked. Now it’s time to squat three times and spread my butt cheeks. When I’m done, I pick up my clothes from the floor and quickly put them back on. I turn to retrieve my possessions, which they’re examining. They look at every pamphlet, fan through each page of the notebooks, and briefly thumb through the Bible. When they’re satisfied, they put everything back in the plastic bag, including my Bible, and return it to me.

  “Thank you,” I say, recognizing they just did me a huge favor.

  When I return to my cage, I sit against the wall, and look at the pamphlets all written in English. One tells me all about the role of the United States Embassy, one explains the rules and regulations of the prison, one explains the courts and the judicial system, and one is all about adjusting to prison life. This is what it’s come to? Four stupid pamphlets!

  I lean my head back against the wall as my conversation with Mr. Sassen swirls through my head. This is the first time I’ve been told anything. I try to process everything he just said. At times his words seemed harsh, but I know he’s only trying to help me.

  I haven’t slept, really slept in days. I feel my eyelids get heavier and heavier. As I’m just about to fall asleep, my eyes fly open as a thought comes to my mind. I fell asleep at the airport! How did I not think of this before? I fell asleep at the airport and someone put the drugs in my bag!

  From the day I was arrested until now, I’ve been stuck here, totally terrified, confused, and doing my best just to survive. I just needed to think things through. Now I finally see what happened. The airport video cameras will set me free!

  Questions start running through my head. Does the airport have cameras that recorded me sitting in the chair? How long do they keep them? Can Mr. Sassen get the video? Will they destroy it?

  I want to run back and catch Mr. Sassen or call him on the phone. I need to tell him how the drugs got in my bag. Look at the video. All you have to do is look at the video! Call Christian and get me the hell out of here. I can’t stay a day longer. I want to go home. I have to see my babies.

  – CHAPTER 47 –

  Mr. Sassen doesn’t come back the next day (or the next.) I have no way reach him. I return to prison life and he’s right: the boredom is maddening. Every morning, every day, every evening, and every night is exactly the same. Tomorrow will be just like today. Next week will be just like this week. The cage is crammed with women until some leave for work after breakfast.

  I spend my day sitting in leg irons on a concrete floor with twenty-two other women either don't have a job or aren’t able to work because they’re too new, too sick, or too old. Everyone wants to work, yet there aren’t enough jobs. It gives us a chance to get out of this cage and do something productive. No, without a job everything just stops. There’s no clock to tell me what time it is so every day drags on forever. I’m slowly losing my mind.

  I still have no money to buy food so I have to eat whatever I’m given. Most meals include a giant pot full of rice that’s usually rotten, and another pot filled with tasteless water and onions, lemongrass, fish heads, chicken parts, or anything else the kitchen can find to dump in there. I’ve found just about everything in my bowl, including hair, fingernails, roaches, spiders, rat parts, rocks, and dirt. They scoop a little rice and water out with a large spoon. The rations are so small. The food is so tasteless that I’m already losing weight. Some female prisoners flirt or offer sex to the men in the kitchen so they’ll scoop from the bottom of the pot and find a bone, a bug, or something with a little meat on it. The prisoners who are lucky enough to have money sent to them eat a real meal and drink bottled water. Most of these prisoners eat together at their own table. I pray someone will send me money until I’m cleared and can go home.

  Day after day I try to push my way to the trough to bathe. Getting there before the water is gone is impossible. Women are always in front of me or fighting to get in front of me. Some women are escorted to the front by the guards. I have no idea why they get this special treatment.

  After five more days, I finally make it to the front of the trough while there’s a little water left in the bottom. I grab a plastic cup someone dropped on the ground, and scoop up some of the dirty, murky, brown water. I have to choose what parts of my body I need to wash most. I take off my shirt and wash my face, my neck, my arms, and my armpits. My bra is sweaty, dirty, and smelly. I’ll have to wait for another day to wash anything else. I don’t see any way I’ll ever be able to wash my hair. If I were here permanently, I’d just cut most of my hair or completely shave it off.

  When I came here, I couldn’t understand how people could sleep all through the day. Now it makes sense. The lights never go out. There’s not enough room on the floor at night for everyone to lie down. Prisoners crowd together on the same mat. Some prisoners sleep sitting or standing against a wall. The prisoners who don’t have a job often stay up all night and sleep during the day after the other prisoners leave for work. This is their nighttime. Now I’m one of those women who sleep during the day. I can lie with Mali, but I’m so scared, and depressed, and I have nothing to do but sleep. I once said I was in survival mode. I had no idea what surviving really feels like. I’m no longer surviving. I’m slowly dying.

  I think about the yoga Mr. Sassen suggested, but I don’t have the emotional energy to sit up, much less to exercise. Even if I did, there’s not enough space in here. The women who sleep all day take up most of the room. I’m afraid of most of them so I don’t dare ask someone to move so I can exercise. I just keep my head down and try not to bother anyone. I don’t plan on being here long enough to need to exercise anyway.

  Mali has become my one friend in this place. She’s about five feet tall and has an attractive figure.
I thought she was older than me. Most women in here look much older than they are. She looks like she may have been pretty once, but those days are long behind her now. She has scars on her face, her left eye droops, and she has a gap where a tooth no longer resides. She has the most beautiful golden eyes, and such a warm spirit that you can’t help but love her if you take the time to get to know her.

  I’ve told her everything about me, and how I came here, but I know very little about her because she never talks about herself. Our ability to communicate slowly improves. She tries to teach me Thai and I try to teach her English. It’s very slow. We use a lot of hand gestures and pointing to identify the words we’re talking about. I’ve learned she’s thirty-five years old. She came to Thailand from Cambodia to be with her husband. She’s generally quiet. She has an emptiness in her soul, but I don’t know why. This place is full of women with faces and bodies, yet their spirits are dark and empty. When I look in her eyes, I see the woman I’ll become if I don’t get out of this place soon.

  Every day, I try to spend time alone reading my Bible and praying. I want to start at the very beginning and make my way to the end. I read a few paragraphs every day and pray about it. It started strong, but now I’m bogged down in names of people and places I’ve never heard of. There’s a lot of “thees” and “thous” and it doesn’t say a thing about Jesus. People just don’t talk like that anymore. I don’t understand what this has to do with believing in God. I usually read a little and then stop, feeling pretty frustrated because I don’t know what I just read. I pray as hard as I can. I know God hears me. He’ll make sure the truth comes out so I’m free soon. I pray daily that it won’t be long.

  – CHAPTER 48 –

  It’s been three weeks since I met with Mr. Sassen. No one tells me anything in here. He said he’d be back, although I have no idea when. I’m sure he’s busy, but this is ridiculous. For all I know, it’ll be months before I hear from him again.

  I’m losing my mind. Every day is another day for the video to be destroyed or taped over. I was so hopeful, but my hope is fading. I just know Mr. Sassen will say, “Sorry, the video is gone. You gotta plead guilty.” They’re all in on it. They all want me to plead guilty.

  I wake up, wait for the toilet, get counted, and wait in line for breakfast. A guard comes up to me and says, “Phu Ma You-in, Phu Ma You-in.”

  I know those words! I nod my head and repeat, “Phu Ma You-in?” Thank God, someone is here to see me. “Thank you,” I say as I follow him back to the visitation room. I still hold out hope. “Please let it be Christian. Please let it be Christian,” I repeat over and over until I get to the empty chair waiting for me.

  It’s not Christian. It’s Mr. Sassen again, waiting across from me on the other side of the glass. “Hello, Ms. Brunick,” he starts.

  “I fell asleep at the airport!” I yell into the phone before I even sit down.

  “What?” he asks motioning for me to speak directly into the phone.

  “Mr. Sassen, I fell asleep sitting at the airport. Someone planted the drugs in my bag,” I repeat slower and louder.

  “Hold on a second,” he says acting dismissive of my incredible revelation. “We’ve got a lot of things to discuss.”

  I settle down in my chair to hear the good news. “What is it?” I ask.

  “Well, I spoke with the prosecutor on your case. I also looked at your file. First, you said a security guard approached you in the security line for a random search?”

  “That’s right. She came up and started yelling to see my bags. She grabbed my arm and threw my phone on the ground.”

  He raises his hand so I stop talking. “Well first,” he continues, “it wasn’t a random search. You were arrested because the airport security received a tip that you were in possession of a large quantity of heroin.”

  “What?!” I ask, shaking my head in disbelief. “No, no, no. It can’t be. They’re lying. I, I was framed. It’s all on video. Someone put drugs in my suitcase…or I was set up by security. If you get the video, you’ll see someone planted the drugs in my bag, and they’ll dismiss all the charges.”

  “Ms. Brunick, fifteen minutes before you walked to the security line, the airport security received a call that you were leaving the airport with a large amount of heroin in your bag. They had your exact description, the time of your flight, and your flight number.”

  I can’t even comprehend what he just said. “That’s impossible. They’re lying to frame me. Are you listening? You have to get the security cameras from the airport. They’re going to destroy it. It’s the only way I can prove my innocence.”

  “They already have all the security videos from the time you came into the airport until they discovered the drugs in your suitcase. I’ve seen the videos. No one put anything in your suitcase.”

  This is impossible to believe. “What?” I continue. “They had to. You have to look again.”

  “I know your claims so I watched the video carefully…several times. It’s very clear. The police didn’t plant drugs in your suitcase. No one did.”

  “Yes, they did!” I shout. “I’d never try to smuggle drugs. I swear.”

  “Ms. Brunick, it’s very common for a drug smuggler to send someone through and tip off security to distract them from seeing a larger drug shipment. You’re first seen on video sitting with a gentleman near the entrance to the airpo—”

  “Christian,” I interrupt. “That’s my boyfriend I keep telling you about. He can clear this whole thing up.”

  “Christian Mareno?” he asks.

  “Yes, Christian Mareno, and he’s not a drug smuggler. He’s a legitimate businessman working on a project in Thailand. Did you reach him?”

  “Are you sure the phone number you gave me is correct?” he asks, looking at his pad.

  “Yes, I’m sure. I memorized his number.”

  “I called that number and it’s disconnected. Each time I call, a recording comes on saying the number is no longer in service.”

  “Maybe you wrote it down wrong,” I wonder, looking at his pad.

  He reads the number back to me. It’s exactly the number I memorized.

  “There has to be some mistake,” I say.

  “Ms. Brunick, I checked with the Bangkok development authorities. The there are no private contracts pending to build or replace the current infrastructure anywhere around Bangkok. Even if there were, they rarely use private contractors for public jobs. I can find no one by the name of Christian Mareno or any business doing consulting work in Thailand by the name of Absolute Business Enterprises or any similar name.”

  My heart sinks in my chest and my stomach turns into knots. I start breathing in and out so fast I feel like I’m going to faint. I’m at a loss. I don’t know what to think or say.

  I take one deep breath and say, “This can’t be true. Something must be wrong. I swear I’m not a drug smuggler. You have to believe me.”

  “Ms. Brunick, I actually do believe you. You look very surprised on the video when they lift the brown bag from your suitcase.”

  “I was shocked!”

  “You look shocked,” he admits as he takes his pen from his jacket. “Tell me, who packed your suitcase before you left?”

  “I did. Only I did, and I didn’t pack any brown bag.”

  “Did you give your suitcase to anyone after you packed it?”

  “No, I packed it and closed it myself.” He writes this on his pad.

  Suddenly, I remember it was Christian who carried our bags to the car. “Wait,” I say. “Christian carried all our bags to the car.”

  He scratches through my previous statement, and draws an arrow back to Christian’s name. He looks up and asks, “Was he alone with your bag? Did you go with him to the car?”

  “He offered to bring our bags to the car. He told me to enjoy my last day at the resort. I stayed in our room, but I know he wouldn’t do something like that. He’s just not that kind of person. Maybe he gave our bags to our
butler or someone else who put them in the car.”

  “Ms. Brunick, stopping drug trafficking is a top priority in Thailand.”

  “I’m not a drug trafficker!” I repeat firmly.

  He holds up one finger to stop me and says, “I understand what you’re saying. The police want to identify and stop all drug traffickers. They have a photo of the man you were with from the airport security video. They don’t recognize him as any known drug trafficker. He isn’t a match to anyone in the system. It’s possible he’s new, but your case doesn’t match the profile of a decoy. Usually, the decoy has a small quantity of drugs, but you were found with a large amount of heroin. It could have been a competing drug dealer, but that’s very rare.”

  “What are you saying?” I ask.

  “Usually drug traffickers find a young college student looking to make a quick buck, not a grown woman with children. It just doesn’t add up.”

  “I know he’s not a drug trafficker. There has to be an explanation.”

  “Ms. Brunick, there’s only so much I can do to help you. I’m authorized to follow your case, and make sure you’re treated fairly. I’ve already gone further than I’m supposed to by talking to the prosecutor and looking at the video.”

  “Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me.”

  “Ms. Brunick, you need to hire a good investigator. You have to track down this Christian Mareno, or whoever put the drugs in your bag. You have to prove you knew nothing about it. So many people claim they were set up. Without solid proof, the judge will never believe you. To the prosecutor, your case is simple. They have you on video with the drugs in your suitcase. They say you acted very suspiciously. You refused to let them check your bag. You also tried to flee several times. This proves you knew about the drugs.”