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

by William Holms

  Today I walk into the courtroom in handcuffs. I sit in a chair beside all the other prisoners. I wasn’t able to clean up, dress up, or in any way look presentable for my trial. I haven’t washed my hair in weeks. I have on the same light blue shirt, dark blue skirt, and cheap flip-flops everyone is given in prison. It’s hard to look innocent when you look just like all the guilty criminals in the courthouse.

  I have a red, swollen staph infection on my left arm that turned into a boil. It burned like a match against my skin until it burst open last week. A stream of yellow puss and blood poured down my arm. The stench made everyone around us gag. For a few cigarettes, a guard gave me some gauze, and escorted me to the front of the wash line. I did my best to clean out the wound, but each time I touched it the pain was unbearable. I got no pain medicine or antibiotics whatsoever. Now a new boil has just appeared on my left leg. It’s just beginning to fester. I have to get these taken care of by a doctor as soon as I get home before the infection enters my bloodstream and kills me.

  Everyone is getting ready for the cases set today. Mine is only one of many. The place where visitors sit is full. I quickly scan the benches but I cannot find Ryan anywhere. Where is he? I start over at the front. I go person-by-person, row-by-row, until I’ve accounted for everyone. He’s definitely not here. I fight for breath as a terrifying thought fills my head—he’s abandoned me.

  I hear a voice and look to my left. Ryan is standing next to the interpreter talking to my lawyer. He’s dressed in his best suit, and he’s holding the same briefcase as always. I knew he wouldn’t let me down. I raise my eyes to the heavens and say, “Thank you, Jesus.”

  I watch the men talking, but they’re so far away that I can’t hear their conversation. Ryan’s taking the lead like a quarterback in charge of his football team. I lean closer, and search his face for a nod, a smile, a thumbs up, or some sign to alleviate my fears and assure me that everything is going to be okay. He’s too busy pointing from left to right, waving his hands in front of him, and nodding his head like I’ve seen him do so many times before his own trials. I relax a little in my chair knowing he’s got this covered.

  Suddenly, the look on Ryan’s face changes. He seems irritated or even angry with my lawyer. He’s shaking his head and talking with such urgency. I can only wonder what it’s all about. I want to yell across the room, “What Ryan, what’s wrong?”

  Ryan lifts his arm, and points to the judge. My lawyer shakes his head again and again. The more my lawyer shakes his head, the harder Ryan points to the judge until finally, he yells, “Just do it!” My lawyer raises both hands in disgust, walks to the front of the court, and addresses the judge.

  “Your Honor,” he says in Thai, “my client needs more time.”

  “More time?” the judge asks.

  “She has a witness in America who can’t make it today.”

  My mouth drops open as his words sink in. What? Couldn’t make it? No witness? It’s now clear what these men have been talking about, and I’m helpless to do anything. My lawyer continues, “The witness will prove—”

  The judge brings his gavel down again and again like a carpenter hammering a nail. A hush seizes the courtroom. “I reset two times,” the judge says angrily. “You have too much time already. No more time. Trial today.”

  I don’t know what to say. I fall into my chair! Ryan jumps to his feet and screams at the judge, “NO JUDGE, WE ONLY NEED A FEW WEEKS.”

  The entire courtroom goes silent. Everyone looks at Ryan in shock. Two guards rush in and grab both his arms. Ryan’s having no part of it. He breaks loose, and shouts, “YOU CAN’T DO THIS, YOU SON OF A BITCH. YOU CAN’T DO THIS.”

  They start pulling Ryan from the bench he’s sitting on. Suddenly the interpreter yells in clear English, loud enough for me and everyone else in the courtroom to hear, “Do not anger judge. It hurt case!”

  I yell from my seat, “Ryan stop! Please stop!”

  Hearing my plea, Ryan holds up his hands in defeat and surrender and says, “Okay … okay … let me go.” He quietly sits back down in his chair, puts his head in his hands, and shakes his head. You’d think he’s crying.

  The judge calls my case. He then announces that I’m charged with production, exportation, and disposal of over 100 grams of a Category One drug. He tells the prosecutor to proceed. The prosecutor takes his place at one table. I sit with my lawyer at the other. The trial lasts less than thirty minutes.

  The woman officer who first approached me in the airport takes the witness chair. I haven’t seen her in many months. She looks nothing like the woman I remember. She now seems so pleasant and professional. She’s nothing like the woman who grabbed my phone, pushed me down the hall, and refused to even let me have a drink of water. She identifies herself, and they play the videos of me at the airport. This is the first time I’ve seen it. It has no sound, but it captures in incredibly clear quality everything from the time I walk into the airport until the drugs are found in my suitcase.

  The officer explains how they received a tip. She narrates everything happening, fast-forwarding the video from time to time. It starts with me walking into the airport and sitting in the orange chair with the man I now detest with every fiber of my being. Seeing him again makes it hard for me to stay silent. I want to scream. I want to spit on his face.

  It shows me walk to the security line where two security guards come up and talk to me. I pull away from the guards harder than I remember. It looks like I’m about to flee. They lead me through the terminal and down the hallways. I resist again and again like I have something to hide. The judge never takes his eyes off the screen. The video ends with them opening my suitcase, taking out all my clothes, and showing the drugs to the camera and everyone in the room. My lawyer asks a few questions, but nothing he asks changes what we just saw on the video. He doesn’t ask a single question about Christian, or Jose, or whatever the hell his name is. I look at him in disbelief, and shake my head.

  Next, they call a man to the stand who says the drugs were tested. They were positive for heroin—110 grams of heroin. My lawyer has no response. Finally, they bring my suitcase into the courtroom with the identification tags still attached and all my clothes still inside. My name is written large and clear in my own handwriting. The judge takes notes when they show him the tags. With that, the prosecutor announces he has no other evidence.

  The judge asks me if I have anything to say. I wasn’t expecting this, and I prepared nothing in advance. Ryan was right, the video of the guards opening my suitcase and finding the drugs is so clear and so close-up. It’s like they knew exactly where to sit my suitcase to video everything. There can be no doubt the drugs weren’t planted. It’ll only insult the judge to argue otherwise.

  I have to do something. I have no witnesses to defend me. I stand up and address the court with shaky knees, trying to steady myself with both my hands on the table. I know a little Thai, but not near enough to effectively tell my story so I go with English.

  “BREATHE IN … BREATHE OUT,” I tell myself.

  The interpreter translates everything I say. I can only hope he gets it right. I know my words will determine my fate.

  I look over at Ryan, and then back to the judge. “BREATHE IN … BREATHE OUT … BREATHE IN THE GOOD … BREATHE OUT THE BAD.”

  When I first try to talk, my stomach stirs and my face goes pale. Nothing comes out. I feel like I’m going to throw up right in front of the judge, the prosecutor, and a courtroom full of people. I take another deep breath and hold it until I feel strong enough to talk again.

  “Judge, I thank you for listening to my case. I first want you to know that I’m completely innocent. I was at the airport with a man I barely knew. He’s the one who put the drugs in my suitcase. Just look at the video. I was so shocked when I saw the drugs. I never knew they were there.”

  The whole time I’m speaking the judge never looks away. When I tell him to look at the video, he picks up his pen and writes somet
hing down.

  “Your Honor, the man I was with is a drug trafficker. He now has another girl doing the same thing.”

  Again, he writes on his pad.

  I look back at Ryan who gives me a smile and nods his head. I return my attention to the judge. I did it! I can see he’s waiting for my next words. Something tells me he understands. Maybe he’s heard this before, and he knows how an innocent person can be caught up in something without even knowing it. I started so shaky, but now the words are coming easy.

  “The man on the video does this to woman. He did this to me. You have to believe me, your Honor. I’m not a drug dealer. I don’t even do drugs. Look at me. Look at me. Do I look like a drug dealer? I’m a wife and a mommy. I have three beautiful babies who need me. They need their mommy. I just want to go home.”

  A tear falls down my cheek. I’m brief because I’m not the best public speaker, but I really believe I made up for it with my sincerity. When I’m finished, the judge looks at me and then looks at the prosecutor. I can see he’s thoughtfully contemplating my words. I really think he believes me. The video of me when my suitcase was opened will be my saving grace. It’s so clear that I’m innocent!

  “You have proof?” the judge asks.

  “Yes, your Honor. That’s why we need a little more time. The man I was with is now doing the same thing to another girl. He takes these women and plants drugs on them. She will explain everything, but she couldn’t come today. Can we please delay a few weeks to give her time to be here?”

  I pleaded my case the best I could. Now I sit back down. I feel more hopeful than I’ve been since I was first arrested. I’m no lawyer, but I did pretty good. The judge would never have asked about this other girl unless he wanted to hear from her before deciding the case.

  The prosecutor stands up and calls the woman officer back to the witness stand. Now she has a report in her hand. She gives a copy to my lawyer and the judge. It’s several pages long, and all written in Thai. The questioning is brief, and the officer refers to the report when she answers. The prosecutor looks at the same report in his own hand and asks, “When Ms. Brewick is stopped, did she tell you who she was with?”

  “Yes sir,” the officer answers.

  “Tell the judge who she said she was with.”

  My mind goes back to the day of my arrest. It was over four months ago, yet I know exactly where this is going. I turn to my lawyer and whisper, “What are they doing? Is this even legal?” When he doesn’t answer I shout, “Do something!”

  The judge bangs his hammer on the desk and yells, “Silence!” This is the first time he’s spoken English.

  The security officer turns to the second page of the report and testifies, “She said she was in Thailand with her husband. She picked up her phone and said ‘I need to call my husband. He can clear this up.’ She tried to call, but I took her phone from her.”

  The judge stares down from above and asks the witness, “Did anyone at the airport ask Ms. Brewick if she packed her own bags or if her bags were ever out of her control?”

  “Yes sir,” the officer says sitting back in the chair. “Every passenger asked those questions.”

  “And what she say?”

  “If she say her bag not in her control, bag would be examined.”

  I lay my head down on the table. Oh my God! I always answer that I packed my own bag and that it’s always been in my possession without even thinking about it. And I only called Christian “my husband” so they’d let me call him. It wasn’t a lie….well not really. I wanted him to be my husband. We were going to be married. Never did I imagine something so stupid would be used against me later. When the officer steps down, I stand up and say, “Judge, he’s not my husband! I only said he was bec––”

  “Silence, Ms. Brewick,” the judge screams. Again, he speaks English, and again he mispronounces my name.

  “Your honor, please,” I shout again as he bangs louder.

  When I stop talking and sit back down he says, “Ms. Brewick, please stand up.”

  Nothing I’ve ever known or ever done has prepared me for this moment. Everything’s gotten so twisted around. I can’t yell back, deny everything, or refuse to listen. I can’t storm out of the room. Pouting and crying, which got me out of so much trouble with my father, are useless. I have no choice, but to stand here in silence.

  I’m barely breathing. All I can do is hope he sees through all the lies and finds the truth. As I wait for the judge to make his decision, my heart is beating so hard I can feel my blood racing through my body. He leaves me standing for what seems like an eternity as he appears to be reading every word of the report he was given by the prosecutor. He flips through one page after another while I stand helplessly watching his every move, waiting for his decision. When he’s finally finished, he sets the report aside and looks directly at me – or through me. From this point forward he talks only in English.

  “Ms. Brewick, I see video with drugs in you bags. I see you on video.” He then takes off his glasses, and sets them down on all the papers in front of him. “I think you knew drugs were in suitcase before it was opened. You flee when officer search you bag. You gave false testimony to this court. That is serious crime in Thailand. I will show mercy and not charge you with another crime.”

  His English isn’t great, yet I’m able to make out the word mercy. Thank God. I need mercy. Mercy is the only thing left to set me free. Yes, please give me mercy!

  The judge gathers up all the papers, straightens them, and puts them in his file. He closes the file and announces, “Ms. Brewick, I find you guilty of production, exportation, and disposal of over one hundred grams of heroin—a Category One drug. By law, I sentence you to death.”

  Death! My mind, my heart, my whole body freezes. I start to shake, and my brain goes blank. I stagger and almost fall from the shock.

  The judge continues, “Ms. Brewick, you should have pled guilty and avoid trial. Still, you have no criminal record so the court will show leniency to you. I commute death sentence and instead of death, I sentence you to fifty-five years in Thai prison.”

  “Fifty-five years!” I scream. “Your Honor, I won’t live fifty-five years!”

  The judge bangs his hammer and shouts, “Silence … silence.”

  My head starts spinning. Everything gets faint as all blood drains from my brain. My legs feel wobbly under me. I gasp for breath like a fish out of water. I reach out for anything to support me—a table, a chair, a railing, or another person in the room—but I find nothing to break my fall. The whole universe is in on it. The world has finally broken my mind and spirit. Now my body is the last thing to go. Everything goes dark. The sound of people talking fades away. I’m sent reeling backward and forward, blurry-eyed and paralyzed. I fall back and crash to the floor, hitting my head against my chair.

  Falling to the floor and hitting my head jolts me out of my sleep. Drenched in sweat, I sit up in my soft bed with my heart beating wildly in my chest. I look over and see Ryan sound asleep beside me. Relief sweeps over me when I realize it was all just a nightmare; a terrible, horrible, nightmare. There never was a Christian, I never went to Thailand, there’s no resort, no drugs, no trial, and no fifty-five-year prison sentence. It all seemed so real, but tomorrow I’ll be free to continue my life without any more lies, regrets, or bad decisions.

  Now I feel nothing but peace—a peace like I’ve never felt my entire life. All the hurt, pain, and fear are gone. I have everything I need to make me happy, and by God I won’t screw it up.

  I lay my head back down on my soft pillow. Just as I’m about to fall asleep, I feel a slap across my face. I look over at Ryan in shock. Why would he hit me? He starts to slap me a second time so I turn my head to protect myself. Wham….another slap!

  I open my eyes and feel myself suddenly drenched in sweat. I slowly regain consciousness and realize it isn’t sweat on my face and clothes. It’s cold water. Light begins to creep back in, and everything around me comes
into focus. I’m looking up at a man standing over me in a short-sleeve white shirt with an empty water glass. My head clears even more, and I can tell this man is Thai. God no! This isn’t a dream. I’m not in bed. No, I’m still in Thailand, lying on the floor looking up. My life is still over.

  The officer helps me back to my feet. I look at everyone standing around me. The interpreter is standing in front of me, the judge is on his throne, and Ryan is on the front row behind me watching everything unfold. I sit back in my chair and take a sip of water. The judge is looking right at me, so I take a deep breath and ask, “Your Honor, can I please say goodbye to someone in the courtroom?”

  The judge nods his head, points at all the visitors, and says, “Fifteen minutes.”

  I stumble over to Ryan with chains on both my ankles. I barely have enough strength to walk. We go to the far corner of the courtroom to talk in private. Drained of all life left in my body, I put both my hands on the railing between us to keep myself from fainting again. My face is covered in tears and I’m still shaking.

  For months I’ve only seen Ryan through a thick glass window. This is the last chance I have to speak to him face to face, and to thank him for all he’s done for me. No, from this day forward we’ll only be able to talk through a filthy, wired window. I want to hold him. I want to kiss him one last time. I want to feel his body against mine, but I know better. If I so much as reach for his hand, the guard will grab me and throw me back in my cage.

  It took all my courage to ask the judge for this chance, but now that I’m here I’m at a complete loss for words. Ryan’s holding on to the railing, with his head down like he’s trying to keep himself from fainting as well. What do I do now that my life is over? What do I say? I’m hoping he has a plan, an idea, or some scheme to get me out of here. I want his advise, except he seems as devastated and lost as I am. I actually feel like I should be comforting him. “I’m so sorry, Ryan,” is all I can think to say. “I don’t expect you to wait for me.”