by Rusty Young
Admission to a section was rarely refused, provided there was a vacancy and provided you had enough money to pay the entrance fee and buy a room. However, in the better sections of the prison the process was a little more selective; you often had to be invited by one of the existing members. They mainly wanted to know that you were a person of good fame and character so that they could maintain the high safety and quality of the section. This might sound strange for a prison, but there were a lot of politicians and businessmen in San Pedro and many of them were well educated. Occasionally, the section delegate even asked for personal references, although this obviously made it hard for new inmates, especially foreigners, who didn’t know anyone. Luckily, Ricardo was prepared to recommend me.
Once you had decided on a section, the next step was to buy a cell. Ricardo explained that the market for prison cells operated just like any normal property market: prices went up and down according to supply and demand, and you had to pay commissions to agents and legal fees for the actual transaction. I could hardly believe it.
Each room had a legal owner who held the title to the property. The actual title was a document that contained details of the room: its number, location, a brief description, the name of previous owner and the price paid for it. The original copy of the title was held by the owner. A section property register was also kept, but it was best to hide the original well. Without it, you could have troubles proving ownership. It was also a good idea to keep a photocopy in the office or with someone else, just in case. The police officers had their big blue book, but that was only for sales.
The rooms that came on to the market were announced by a sign saying ‘En Venta’ – ‘For Sale’ – on, or above, the door. The best policy, according to Ricardo, was always to negotiate directly with the owner and ignore all the other people who wanted a slice of the action. The actual sale was conducted by the buyer and seller agreeing on a price and then signing a sale–purchase contract in front of the section delegate, who signed and stamped it with the section stamp in order to make everything official. Another trusted inmate was also needed to sign as a witness. Then, after the sale price had been paid and the contract signed, the buyer had to pay the title transfer fee, which was received by the section treasurer, who also stamped and signed the title deed. This transfer fee was officially set at twenty per cent of the sale price and was another way of earning money for the section’s administration fund. Finally, once that was done, the transfer was noted on the actual title and the title document was physically handed over to the new owner.
The owner then had the right to live in the room until he sold it, which usually occurred when he was leaving the prison. In the meantime, he could mortgage it if he needed to borrow money, in which case the lender would ask to hold the original title as security until the debt was fully paid. And just like in the outside world, there was no limit to how many properties you could own. So, if you had spare cash, you could buy another room and rent it out or start up a restaurant or a shop, or just keep it as an investment if you thought its value might go up.
‘A shop! What do you mean a shop?’ I interrupted.
‘Where do you think I buy all our food from inglés?’ he said, shaking his head at me like I was stupid.
‘So, you have to pay for everything?’
‘Everything,’ Ricardo confirmed.
The authorities did provide some food. But it was usually a watery soup, served out of a large bucket twice a day. It didn’t contain enough calories to last the day. Describing all this now makes it sound like a game of Monopoly. And for people who had money, it almost was – for those in the four- and five-star sections, it was like sitting on Park Lane and Mayfair. But in reality it wasn’t a game; this was real money, and real people’s lives were at stake.
A lot of unfairness resulted from this system, the saddest being those inmates who couldn’t afford a place to stay. Some of the rooms went for only a few hundred dollars. By Bolivian standards, this was a lot, especially for those who had become involved in crime because they were poor in the first place. Even with the help of their family, some inmates couldn’t get enough money together to pay rent, especially when the prison was full and prices were high. Those inmates often had to sleep outside in the cold or in a passageway or some corner, just as I had done on my first night. You could die if you slept outside.
Most people, though, managed to get by, even if they didn’t have money. The poor people in Bolivia are very caring and hospitable, and since the authorities hardly helped the inmates at all, they had to look after each other as best they could. The prisoners tried not to let anyone freeze to death. In Alamos, there was even a room that was owned by the section for people in difficult situations. The room was rented out very cheaply, or sometimes without any charge, in return for working for the section – scrubbing the bathrooms, cleaning the courtyard, taking out the rubbish and running errands. Nothing ever came for free in San Pedro, but if you were a decent person, you could usually persuade someone to help you by offering to work for them or promising to pay later. This was particularly the case when you were new, because people might think they could do you a favour and get some money out of you later.
There were inmates who did die out there, though, of starvation or exposure. Usually, they were the base addicts, who had lost all hope. They didn’t have anything at all and, according to Ricardo, whenever they got their hands on something, even a few coins, they preferred to buy drugs than to sleep in a warm bed or pay back a debt.
‘That’s why I don’t let anyone who smokes base in my room,’ he said. ‘It’s sad. But no matter how sorry you feel for them, they’ll steal everything you own.’
‘But they’re still people, aren’t they?’ I felt quietly disgusted that people could die of hunger in jail, even drug addicts, and no one would do a thing.
A week had gone by since I arrived at San Pedro and I still had no money to buy a room. Since my insurance plan of selling the cocaine had failed, I tried to repay Ricardo in other ways: I cleaned and tidied his room every day; I did the cooking and washing up; and eventually, when I felt strong enough, I offered to go to the shop he had told me about to buy supplies for him. Having heard Ricardo talk about the dangerous inside sections where they smoked base, Pinos didn’t seem so dangerous, especially during the day.
‘Are you sure you’re ready?’ he asked sceptically.
‘Why not? I’m almost better now. And it will be a good way for me to learn how to speak Spanish. You can teach me the words and I’ll go down each time.’
Ricardo hesitated. ‘I suppose you have to start learning about the prison one day,’ he said, pulling some coins out of his pocket and handing them to me.
After explaining where the shop was, he opened the hatch for me and I climbed down the wooden ladder, repeating to myself the words he had taught me – mantequilla, pan, espaguetis and tomate.
‘I’ll leave the door open,’ said Ricardo. ‘Call out if you have any trouble.’
‘I’ll be fine. It’s easy. Listen! Buenas tardes. Mantequilla, pan, espaguetis y un tomate … por favor.’
Ricardo nodded. I’d even got the pronunciation right, but he still looked worried.
I never made it to the shop. I only got as far as the courtyard. Someone hissed ‘¡Gringo!’, and a heavy blow to the back of my head knocked me forward. Then another hard blow landed on my neck and a whole group of prisoners attacked me. They must have been hiding, as I hadn’t seen anyone. I can’t even say how many there were, because it all happened so quickly and I was dizzy from that first hit. As I turned to defend myself, a fist struck my face from the side and someone kneed me in the groin, which dropped me to the ground. After that, all I could do was cover my head for protection as they kicked me from all sides.
For the first minute I yelled, ‘¡No soy americano!’ each time they struck me. When one of them booted me in the head, I pretended to go limp and stopped making any noise. They thought I was u
nconscious and after a few more kicks, they went through my pockets and then fled. I stayed curled up like that for a while longer in case any of them had remained behind, then I made my way slowly back up to Ricardo’s room.
Ricardo didn’t look surprised when he saw the blood on my face and he didn’t need to ask what had happened.
‘Sit down there. I’ll get some ice,’ was his only comment.
I looked at him strangely. It was as if he had known beforehand but hadn’t warned me or come down to help. I continued to stare at him and he must have sensed what I was thinking because he wouldn’t look me in the eye. He suddenly threw his hands in the air and went down to the shops to get the dinner supplies himself, without even bothering to ask whether I still had the money he had given me.
When Ricardo returned, I was lying on my mattress. He still wouldn’t look at me. He cooked the meal that night and we ate it in complete silence, apart from the sound of our spoons scraping against the bottom of the bowls. I watched him shovelling the final spoonful of pasta into his mouth, then he suddenly stood up.
‘I’m an old man, Thomas,’ he muttered, stacking the dishes loudly. ‘I can’t protect you in here.’
I looked at him. He was right. He was skinny and his hair was greying, and he was old enough to be my father. I was on my own for this one.
The day after the attack, Sylvia came back to visit me, just as she had promised. When she saw me come into the interview room, her hand immediately went up to cover her mouth.
‘Thomas! What happened to your face?’
‘I fell over when I was running down the stairs,’ I answered. I didn’t want her to worry, but I could tell she didn’t believe me.
‘That looks terrible. Here. Show me.’ I moved closer to the bars and she ran her fingers over the skin next to the cuts. ‘Look what they’ve done to you. You should report this to someone. Does the embassy know?’
I knew Sylvia meant the best for me, but there was no way someone like her could understand how things worked in a prison. If I said anything, the Bolivian authorities would only laugh. And although the British Embassy could complain, it had no power inside the prison, where it counted.
‘No. It’s OK. I’m fine. Really, I’m OK.’
‘Are you sure?’ It felt so good to be mothered again. I wished I could have been on the other side of the interview bars so that I could tell her everything that had happened to me. I wanted to tell her about the attack and what the police were like, and I wanted her to get me out of there and take me home, but I couldn’t. I had to be strong.
‘Well, at least be careful that those cuts don’t get infected,’ she said. ‘It’s not very hygienic in this country. I’ll bring you some antiseptic cream this afternoon. Look. I brought you some more of Tim’s clothes … are you looking after yourself in there? Do you need anything else?’
There were many things I wanted to ask her for, but I felt ashamed. Sylvia was already doing a lot just by visiting me, and if I became a burden to her, she might stop coming to see me. Besides, provided Ricardo let me stay in his room a while longer, I could probably make it through.
‘I’m OK.’
‘Well. Here’s my phone number again. You ring me if you need help. Any time of the day or night. OK? Don’t be embarrassed.’
Ricardo pretended not to mind me staying on his floor, even after three weeks had passed. However, a few days later, he reminded me that I should try to get some money as soon as possible to pay him back what I owed him and then buy my own cell. I still had no cash at all, but I knew he was right; I couldn’t stay on his floor forever. I could sense that he wanted his privacy back, or maybe he was worried about being associated with me, since I was a target. I placed some reverse-charge phone calls back to England and did my best to try and get some money in order to get out of his way. I was owed a few favours back home, but it would probably take a while to get the cash together.
A few days later, Mr Harris from the British Embassy, who had visited me in the FELCN cells, came to the prison. When I saw him, getting my own room was the main thing on my mind. I hoped that he already knew about the property system, because I didn’t know how I could possibly explain it otherwise. I was called by two of the guards and escorted to a special room in the administration office that was far cleaner than the public interview room. Mr Harris had brought me a small package of supplies: some antibiotics, a toothbrush and toothpaste, soap and some fresh fruit.
The interview was quite short, but in that time he asked me many questions. Again, he didn’t comment on the crime I’d been charged with or ask whether I was innocent or guilty, and he changed the subject when I asked whether the embassy could help get me out. Unfortunately, I could tell from the questions he asked that he didn’t have a clue about the corruption in the prison. He told me that the embassy’s role was to ensure that I was treated fairly under the Bolivian justice system. He talked about getting lawyers for my case and asked me once more whether I had been tortured or mistreated. I said I hadn’t. My cuts had almost healed by then, so he wasn’t suspicious.
Finally, he asked me whether I needed anything more. I had a mental list of the things I needed – but there was one thing I needed more than anything.
‘Money. I need money.’
‘I’m afraid there is no provision for that in our funding, Mr McFadden. We can contact any family members or friends in England and help facilitate the transfer of any moneys they may wish to send.’
‘But that could take weeks. I really need money now.’
‘Our function at the embassy is to do all we can to protect your rights, but unfortunately there is no money we can give you,’ he dutifully informed me.
I explained to Mr Harris that I needed money urgently in order to purchase a cell and to buy blankets, food and clothes because the FELCN had kept mine and only given me a receipt. I didn’t explain about el Ingreso and the section entrance and transfer fees, because I thought that might complicate things too much.
‘I beg your pardon, Mr McFadden. I do not think I quite understand you,’ he said.
I explained again, this time giving him details about my first night and how I had been asked to pay a prison entry fee, and then five thousand dollars for a cell. I also explained, as best I could, that I had to pay a section entrance fee and a transfer fee for the title to a cell. At first, Mr Harris’s eyes seemed to get wider and wider, but then he folded his arms, leaned back in his chair and looked at me over the top of his glasses.
‘But that is preposterous, Mr McFadden! You do not mean to tell me that prisoners must pay to be incarcerated by the state and, furthermore, that they are obliged to purchase their own housing within the penitentiary facility?’
I went over the system a third time with him, explaining about the book that lists all the available properties and their registered owners. I knew it would be hard to believe so I thought that the more detail I gave, the more convincing I would be. Unfortunately, the exact opposite occurred: the further I got into the description, the more ridiculous it sounded, especially when I started talking about getting witnesses’ signatures for transfers of cell titles and about how the restaurant owners could earn real estate commissions.
‘I will look into this and see what I can do,’ said Mr Harris in his business-like fashion. However, I could tell by his expression that he did not believe me. He wanted to call me a liar, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked at his watch.
‘I will come again next week when I know more about your case. We have also contacted a charity organisation in England called Prisoners Abroad. They should contact you in the near future. Legally, I cannot make representations on their behalf, but it is possible that they may be able to assist you financially. My sincerest apologies, Mr McFadden. I must leave you now.’ He stood and turned to leave.
‘Don’t go! Please.’ I grabbed his sleeve. There was no chance of convincing him that I was telling the truth, but I was desperate. It was my final chance.
‘Look. I’m getting some money, I promise. Can you lend me something?’ I begged him. ‘I’ll pay you back. I’m not lying. I promise.’
Mr Harris paused and I thought he was going to call me a liar to my face. Instead he reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet.
‘This is all I have on me,’ he said, handing me some notes. It was sixty bolivianos and it came from his own pocket.
‘Thank you so much. I will pay you back,’ I said, slipping the cash into my sock because one of the guards had seen him give me the money. ‘Thank you. You are very kind. Thank you.’
‘That’s fine, Mr McFadden. It is my pleasure. The embassy will be in contact. In the meantime, you have my card. Please take care of yourself.’
On my way back from the interview room, I was attacked again. Once more, it was an ambush. However, it was more serious this time.
As I rounded the corner into Pinos, I checked for anyone suspicious before climbing the stairway. When I got three-quarters of the way up, four prisoners appeared at the top. It was the same group of prisoners that had attacked me before. I spun around immediately and ran back the way I had come, leaping down three steps at a time, but another group appeared at the base of the stairwell. I was trapped between them.
There were only three men at the bottom of the steps and I was coming from above them. With the momentum I already had, I decided to keep running and try to get past them. I charged down the stairs at full speed, intending to push them out of the way until I saw something metallic. I stopped suddenly. One of the men had a knife.