The day of the hearing arrived and I sat before the three judges. Martha, the interpreter from the embassy, was also present to make my defence and so I could understand what was being said. The hearing commenced with the prosecution outlining the charges against me and relaying how I had been captured following a period of surveillance on arrival in the country. The Ecuadorian police officers from Interpol who were in charge of the case and had arrested me in the penthouse of the hotel were also present to give their witness statements and could be cross-examined by Eva and myself.
But I told her to forget it and just to get through the proceedings. We knew what the overall outcome was going to be, having already paid all the judges a handsome sum of money. I was pronounced guilty and told I would be notified of the sentence in due course. It was supposed to take no more than 72 hours but I knew it would actually be several weeks, if not months.
I was taken back to the prison on the bus to await the sentence. I was surprised that everything had happened so quickly. The whole thing had been concluded in less than eight months, in contrast to my two years on remand in the UK. I was kind of relieved to have got it out of the way, as when your future is in the hands of other people you’re in a mental stress position. At least I pretty much knew where I stood now. Provided the British police didn’t manage to cause more problems, we expected that I would receive a 12-year sentence as that is what Eva had negotiated. So it didn’t come as any big surprise or shock when it was confirmed that I was indeed serving 12 years – I just felt quite flat and exhausted.
It took several weeks before we finally received notification of the sentence. It wasn’t long before we heard from friends in England that the British police weren’t happy and were considering appealing the length of sentence. So I would now have to wait and see if they went ahead. This left me in limbo for a further two months, at which point they decided to leave it as it was. No doubt they had something else in mind, some other way to ensure I didn’t go free any time soon.
I now had the task of calling my family and friends to notify them of the outcome. I had done my best to prepare them, knowing the likely outcome. My father and stepmother were the first people I phoned. I explained that the plan was to reduce the 12 years, hopefully to six, after things died down. They were upset, but at least they now knew.
I then had to call my mother, which I had been dreading. She broke down in tears and it nearly killed me. I felt so ashamed and guilty for the grief and anguish I was causing her. She knew to some extent how dangerous it was over here and the thought of her little boy having to endure all that was a lot for her to deal with. I tried to console her but it was so hard to hear her voice and know how upset she was and not to be able to give her a hug.
I was adamant that I didn’t want my family to travel all this way to visit me here in these conditions. I tried to paint a much brighter picture for them than it was and excluded the horrific violence I had heard of and seen, and the terrible things I knew could happen in the prison. I remained ever-optimistic that I would be able to get out soon. I kept saying ‘within six months I will be out’, but the more I repeated it, the more I began to doubt my own words. It’s not the despair that kills you: it’s the hope.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MONOPOLY
OVER THE NEXT few months I settled into the daily routine of the prison. By this time I had become familiar with most of the other foreigners there, as we tended to stick together.
In prison it takes a while to work out who your friends are. As a rule, there are very few people who become genuine long-term friends. I always found that it’s best to treat everyone as you would want to be treated yourself. From there you can normally see after a short time who are the ones you want to become friends with.
I have heard people say that you don’t, or can’t, have friends in prison – and that even if you think you do, none of them will be your real friend. That is untrue. I have met some of my closest friends in prison. The thing is, you are living with a person 24 hours a day, seven days a week, possibly for years, in a very small space from which you can’t get away. There are no real breaks apart from a bit of time in the exercise yard, or classes if there are any. No asking for space or a bit of time apart. Because of this you get to learn every last thing about them. When they eat, sleep, go to the toilet, shower and masturbate (although you try to ignore that one! What makes them happy, sad or angry, and every single other mood you can think of). You hear their deepest secrets and get to know how they think. It is unavoidable that some of these people will become lifelong friends. You have to endure extreme hardship, violence and fear together – you witness and experience the most horrendous things. It’s a bit like the bond you get in the military. The other side of this, however, is that when you finally get released it takes a long time to readjust. It can be hard relating to people on the outside, who will always find it impossible to understand, especially if you have been through extreme events, because they haven’t experienced – and I really hope never will experience – anything like it.
I had recently made friends with an American guy called Andrew who had been in the prison for a couple of years already and lived on D wing. He used to spend his time with some Colombians who were associated with the Colombian terrorist guerrilla group the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia), known as FARC. They were from an area in the Amazon Basin called Putumayo, on the Colombian side of the river that forms the border with Ecuador in the north. Andrew said he wanted to introduce me to them as they were interested in trafficking some small amounts of cocaine to Europe and were looking for a reliable contact to receive it and pay them. Having me in the prison with them meant there was nowhere to run or hide. I couldn’t get away from them in the event something went wrong, as it often did. They were guaranteed to get paid for the coke or I would end up with a very serious problem. I was still wary of getting involved in any business as that was one of the main things everyone had warned me against doing while in the prison, as it could lead to trouble extremely quickly and even end in a slow, torturous death.
But, even with all the inherent risks, I still decided in the end to become involved. I now knew how long I was likely to be here for, and I was slowly starting to accept it. Living costs were high, particularly once all the various bribes and ‘fees’ had been paid. I knew I would need to create some sort of income to support myself – to ensure my comfort, but also safety. And, of course, it was a case of boredom and wanting something to do. With all the connections I had I felt it would be fairly simple to organise something, make some cash and keep entertained.
It was also a case of making myself something of an asset. If people like these Colombians saw you as having the potential to help them to become extremely wealthy they would look after you. So it was a way of surviving, and, with a minimum of five more years to get through, that’s what I wanted to do more than nearly anything.
I had already invested in one planned escapade with my friend Hassan. That had not ended well. I’d lost over $1,500 and our friendship had been damaged as a result. I had given him the money with the plan being that a package would be sent to Britain containing an amount of cocaine to an address I had provided. My friends would then transfer the funds once they had received the package and were happy with its contents. Sounded simple, as it always does but hardly ever is. Everything was going smoothly; the package was prepared and sent. I was provided with a tracking number, which we started to monitor on the internet using a friend’s laptop.
At this point, things started to go a bit strange. The website was showing the package as having arrived but instead of being in England it was somewhere in Spain. I confronted Hassan and he made out he didn’t understand how this could be and claimed it must be an error – was I sure? – and so on. He said he would make some calls to get to the bottom of what had occurred. He returned later and told me that the people with whom he was working had supposedly
pulled a fast one and switched the delivery address without his knowledge.
Hassan told me there was nothing he could do about it. He did appear genuinely perplexed. I explained that this wasn’t my problem as they were his friends and contacts, therefore his responsibility. I had handed the money directly to him so it was down to him to repay me. If there had been a problem at my end, for example my friends not sending the money to pay for the merchandise, then obviously that would have been down to me to resolve. My friends, my responsibility.
I tried to make Hassan see my point of view by asking what he would do if the situation was reversed. He calmed down a little and we reached an agreement that he would pay back as much as he could and try to arrange something else with different contacts. I settled for this as the last thing I needed was trouble with a group of suspected terrorists from the Middle East. I might get blown up by a booby trap in my cell.
After that experience, the thought of now starting business with members of the terrorist group FARC was equally unappealing. I decided to go and meet the Colombians, though, because Andrew was a nice guy and I thought it was unlikely that he would wish to introduce anyone to me who planned to rob me as this would reflect badly on him.
Andrew was also very good pals with a British guy, Mark, on B wing, who had been there some five years. He was a tall, dark-haired northerner (from Manchester or Yorkshire, I never knew which) who had a gruff, stand-offish nature. He was ex-British military and liked to keep his own company. He didn’t have time for fools and took no nonsense. This also reassured me – if Andrew and the Colombians were close to Mark they couldn’t be all that bad. I knew I needed to be extremely careful if I decided to undertake any business with these guys.
Andrew took me over to D wing to meet the banda, or gang, four or five of whom all lived together in the same cell on the ground floor. The door to the cell was open and I could hear raucous laughter as we arrived at the entrance. The cell was full of people, about seven in total, some on the beds, others sitting and a few standing wherever there was space. Andrew and I made nine in a space the length of a bed and a half and in which, if I spread my arms out, I could touch the walls on either side. It was mid-morning and the remains of coffee and bread were on the table along with what looked like leftover fried eggs and rice.
One of the guys was standing up and in full flow, recounting a story of some high-octane adventure in Colombia involving motorbikes, guns, people getting shot or robbed, alcohol, women and cocaine. He was completely reliving the moment with arms and legs flailing all over the place, much to the amusement of his audience. The speaker finally came to an end. He was a short, skinny guy with a wiry physique, tanned indigenous skin and dark hair cut in a military style flat-top – a style popular among the Colombians, particularly the members of FARC as they are (or until recently were) in essence a military force. Many of them regard themselves as political prisoners, soldiers in a war, even if they have been caught with a couple of tons of pure cocaine – la Reina, as they call the best of the best in Colombia: the Queen!
We hadn’t yet been noticed, apart from by one of the men sitting on the bed. He smiled, his round face lit up with warmth, and welcomed Andrew and me. Andrew introduced him as Mario, the leader of the group and co-owner of the cell along with the storyteller, whose name was Jairo. I had started to realise that virtually everyone in the prison, if they were Latin American, had a nickname. And there were some very peculiar ones. People were named after animals they resembled; body parts that were out of proportion such as big nose or big head; you might get half-cow, tiger, wolf, bull, spider – you name it, someone was called it. Cartoon characters were popular as well, and all manner of birds or plants.
I introduced myself as plain old Pieter from England and we shook hands. Mario reminded me of a laughing Buddha with his round face, bald head and well-padded stomach. Morning was turning into midday and lunchtime was approaching. Colombians, particularly the criminal types, love marijuana almost as much as Jamaican Rastafarians do. It has become part of their culture as well. There are films about marijuana, songs, clothes, artwork – they really do love the stuff. I had noticed that they liked to smoke some before they ate, as it improved their appetites and general enjoyment of the food, which wasn’t always up to the highest gourmet standard. A couple of the guys suggested chipping in to buy a packet of weed, which was very cheap. For 50 cents or a dollar you could buy enough for two big joints, 3–5 grams. It was only locally grown or Colombian weed but that’s fairly potent. But Mario cut them short, saying that he had business to discuss with Andrew and me. He asked everyone to leave the cell apart from Jairo and two others. The volume of the music was reduced and the door was pushed to, with instructions given to someone to keep watch outside the door so that no one would interrupt our discussion.
We got down to business rapidly. Mario explained that they had a couple of kilos of pure cocaine here in Quito that belonged to them and they wanted to start by sending only small amounts initially in order to test the method and see if everything went smoothly. They had a few members of their family in Quito with an apartment where they would prepare the parcels containing the drugs. To begin with, he wanted to send letters or birthday cards with just 50–100 grams of cocaine in them. The letters were of such low weight that they wouldn’t arouse suspicion at either end. Customs were after at least a kilo just to get up off their chairs, otherwise they couldn’t be bothered with the paperwork; they knew full well there would be no one at the address and, even if there was, the letter would be addressed to a previous tenant who had disappeared. What could they do about that? Nothing. Therefore, it was of no interest as it in no way assisted their quotas for arrests or seizures and it tied up manpower writing up all the documentation.
I agreed with Mario’s way of thinking but cautioned him that technology in Europe was advancing very quickly, so for how long these letters would get through undetected I couldn’t say. I knew they were developing machines that could detect the smallest of trace particles on a package, which, if positive, would be automatically pulled to one side on the conveyor belt for closer inspection. I told him I had a friend on my wing who could get as many addresses with names and telephone numbers as he needed. I decided I would make sure I had the cash available to cover any material that reached England so that once it was received I could pay the Colombians immediately. I didn’t want them hassling me. It also meant there could be absolutely no problems such as I had had with Hassan.
Mario suggested we purchase a gun for our own protection. He proposed that I should buy the gun and in the event of any paros (riots) or other problems he and his group would collect me immediately and protect me. They would also watch my back at all other times and sort out any disagreements I had. For the sum of $400 I thought this was a bargain. Having backup in these places is everything. If people know you are armed and there are more than five of you, they stay well clear. He suggested I might think about loaning money out with interest and they would collect any debts for a percentage. I agreed and we started lending certain people, generally foreigners such as Spaniards and Dutch, $1,000 for a month with $500 interest. This worked out very well with hardly any need to enforce debt collections. People could see we were a strong group and decided it was better just to pay up.
Within a couple of weeks, the Columbians were dispatching a couple of letters or books a week with 50–100 grams of cocaine in each. Some arrived, others didn’t, but there were never any repercussions. Doors were never knocked down and no one had any problems. The material was so cheap it didn’t matter. A kilogram of cocaine in Ecuador is worth around $2,000. They were getting it for nearly half that as Mario’s family had a farm growing the actual coca plant from which they then produced their own product. I told them I would love to one day visit a plantation and jungle laboratory just for the hell of it. They said that was no problem; they would take me.
A few times Mario paid one of his visitors to bring in some co
caine for him. When he and his friends were celebrating a birthday or a special occasion such as Easter or Christmas, they would organise a large party on the wing. They would have a sound system with large speakers or at the very least a powerful hi-fi. Alcohol would be bought or smuggled into the prison, usually with the assistance of the guards, who we would pay around $20 a bottle for the service, sometimes more if the security at the entrance to the prison was particularly tough at that time. The cocaine was easier to bring in as a visitor, usually female, could easily hide a small amount (25–50 grams) in a body cavity. There were no scanners, X-rays or cavity-scanning hot seats to contend with. As a visitor, you would be patted down by a guard and then go through a metal detector and sometimes have to pass a sniffer dog. There were other ways of getting drugs into the prison: paying the guards or one of the office staff, or via the kitchen and food deliveries. This was a good way to get in the alcohol as it could be easily disguised as another liquid.
I suggested to Mario that seeing as we already had the cocaine in Quito and could organise people to bring it in, why not bring some in and I could sell it to the foreigners, who were without doubt the biggest consumers. Not only did they love the stuff, but they were the ones with the money with which to buy it.
Most of the dealers in the prison tended to cut the cocaine heavily with whatever they could find to mix into it. A few of us had been clubbing together and buying a quantity for ourselves anyway, so it was logical for me to source the product and supply it to those who wanted good cocaine and were willing to pay the price for it. I had the capital, the means and the backup, so that’s exactly what I started doing and it was extremely popular.
El Infierno Page 8