The Cocaine Diaries: A Venezuelan Prison Nightmare

by Farrell, Jeff

  ‘Airport. Macuto. Los Teques. Never find,’ said Carlos in broken English. He was listing off all the searches I would have gone through at each stage from my arrest at the airport to arriving at Los Teques. I didn’t want to tell him Venezuelan security officials were dumb, but that was why it hadn’t been found.

  Fidel brought over a little set of electronic weighing scales. He carefully lifted up the sheet of paper the coke was piled up on. My fists were clenched. I still wasn’t sure what they would do to me. I eyed the revolver nearby on the bed.

  ‘It’s 88 grams,’ Mike said in disbelief. He spoke to Carlos. ‘Because they have this amount of cocaine you’re not getting a bullet today.’

  I was blessed. I stood there smiling. The bosses were happy with the haul: it was all that had saved me from being killed, my bleeding corpse dumped in the passageway. They knew they could mix it down with horse tranquilliser powder and turn it into three or four times the amount. It’d be enough to keep the wing going for a week and bring them in good money.

  Carlos spoke and Mike interpreted. ‘He wants to know if anyone else is involved in you selling coke. Was Eddy involved in this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was Silvio involved?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was Roberto involved?’

  ‘No.’ They knew who my friends were, and they were suspicious of Silvio because he was Italian and thought he was the middleman selling it to the Italians in the Special. The funny thing was that they never asked if Billy was part of the little coke-deal operation. Everyone could see he didn’t have much get-up and go.

  ‘No, nobody,’ I said, ‘nothing to do with any of them. I did it all myself.’

  Mike spoke to Carlos. He nodded and said ‘todo bien’ (‘all good’). They bought it.

  ‘Your punishment is that you’ll have to sleep in the toilet. Now get the fuck out of here.’

  I walked off quickly. I’d survived my first ‘light’ without a beating. That was it. Thank God. Mike then marched me out into the yard. On the way, he said, ‘You don’t know how close you were to a bullet. You are one lucky muthafucker.’

  That evening I was telling Silvio, Billy and the boys what happened in the cell. They all sat there on their bucket listening in, amazed. The biggest laugh was over the crackhead who got clocked by the Chief.

  A few days later Silvio found out who grassed me in the Special. It turned out Pedro the shopkeeper had too much coke with the ounce, just over twenty-eight grams, I sold him and not enough Italians among the ten or twelve of them to buy it all. To make his investment back he started selling to other inmates in the wing. A couple of lines made its way to the padrino. That was the near-fatal turn of events. Silvio filled me in that the padrino had pulled up Pedro, wanting to know where he’d got a load of charlie in a drought – which seemed to be rare in Los Teques. The jefes zealously guarded the sale of drugs; it was their bread and butter. But Pedro refused to give me up. They then called a light, hauled him into a cell and beat him senseless with bars and bats. Silvio said Pedro only gave me up after they threatened to shoot him. ‘El irlandés. Maxima,’ he screamed. They didn’t mess around in the Special.

  * * *

  I was called out for a meeting with the abogado, or lawyer, set up by Bruce. I asked Silvio to interpret and he followed me out to the passageway. We went into a small office where the prison cops usually had their dinner. The smell of stale smoke and sweat hung in the air. The abogado was a slight, polished old gent in his 70s with silver hair. After we exchanged a few niceties he got down to business.

  ‘Bruce spoke to you; you know why I’m here,’ he said through Silvio.

  ‘I know.’ I was keen to hear his pitch but sceptical – I didn’t trust anyone in this country, least of all an ageing lawyer sniffing for 20,000 dollars.

  ‘I ensure you are diagnosed with cancer and in weeks the prison lets you go and live with a family in Caracas, near a hospital. There you will be allowed stay with the family to be near your treatment.’

  ‘I’m interested, yes.’

  ‘You pay 10,000 dollars for the doctor and he says you have cancer, then for the judge. He gets his money, signs the paper and you are free. Then the other 10,000 dollars get you to Colombia, to the border. How do you like that?’

  ‘I like it a lot, but it’d take time to get that kind of money. Come back to me in a month when I’ve made some calls home.’ I was excited but still sceptical. Even if I went ahead with it, getting 20 grand wouldn’t be easy. I did have that mate at home, though, who ran a construction business that had done well in the boom years. I was sure he’d lend me the cash.

  I stood up, and the lawyer handed me a slip of paper with the details for his bank account in Caracas. ‘That’s where you send money.’

  ‘OK, we’ll be in touch.’

  * * *

  In the yard there was the usual bit of excitement after one of the cops dropped in la lista after dinner and posted it on the wall. One of the lags pulled it down. It was passed hurriedly from one inmate to the other, all huddled out in the yard, pawing at the sheet to see if their name was on it. It was the list of prisoners who had their court hearing coming up or, for the lucky ones, news they’d done their time and would be freed. I stood in the background pacing up and down in the yard for a bit of exercise. The lista didn’t bring me any excitement, I knew I was here for eight years and that was that. Court hearings were just red tape.

  ‘Paul, you’re in court in the morning,’ said Silvio, after hearing one of the lags reading the list call out el irlandés. I walked over and had a glance, and there it was all right – ‘Paul Keany’ in black and white in small typeface. Silvio filled me in on what to do. ‘Wear a shirt, trousers and shoes, and bring food and water. You’ll be there all day and you’ll get nothing to eat or drink.’

  Eddy, Roberto, Vito, everybody in fact, was telling me I’d get eight years. That was the minimum sentence for drug trafficking in Venezuela. If you pleaded innocent they’d go down hard on you; you’d be found guilty anyway and could get up to 20 years. I had no intention of saying I didn’t do it. I’d been caught and that was that. And Venezuela didn’t look like the kind of place I’d get justice in. So I’d plead guilty and do the time – which I hoped would be just two years – then scoot out on early parole.

  * * *

  After breakfast the next day I threw on my Ireland rugby shirt with the three shamrocks on the crest. It was long-sleeved and did the job as formal clothing, as far as I cared. I stood in the hallway with a couple of other lags. The garita called out ‘agua’ and a cop appeared at the door. About seven of us filed out and were called to a halt at the bottom of the stairs in the passageway. The cop held a list. ‘Nombre,’ (‘name’) he called out, looking at me. Silvio wasn’t there to interpret. ‘Inglés,’ I said, shrugging, thinking he asked me for my number and not my name. A few months in Venezuela and I still couldn’t answer my name.

  ‘Pa-uww-l, Pa-uww-l Keany,’ said the cop. In Spanish they always stretch out the vowels, such as the u.

  ‘Sí,’ I said, nodding.

  In the driveway outside I was strip-searched, handcuffed and marched onto the bus. I sat there and watched inmates from other wings being led out for the same drill. They were prisoners from wings 1 and 2, equally hated and feared by other cell blocks. They only spoke among themselves. That was one of their rules: they were not allowed to speak to other prisoners, particularly me. Their wings even had their own ten commandments – one was ‘thou shalt not speak to a gringo’. I doubted Moses carved that one into stone.

  * * *

  The courtroom was a bit like the set of Judge Judy. It was small, with a few tables and chairs and a modern-looking gallery, which was empty. I sat handcuffed next to four other inmates. Our lawyers sat on the other side of the court. I looked over, saw my interpreter and gave him a nod. He walked over.

  ‘Hello, how are you?’ he said.

  ‘Fine. This is all just a formalit
y, right?’

  ‘Yes, a formality.’ There wasn’t much to say. I didn’t really have any questions. It was a done deal; I’d get convicted and that was that.

  The judge stepped into the courtroom: a woman in her 60s. She spoke for a few minutes to my interpreter. He then walked over. ‘Eight years,’ he said, holding up my sentence sheet, pointing to the word ocho (eight) on it. My eyes scanned down further and I noticed the amount of cocaine was down over a kilo from the six kilos I’d been caught with in the airport. I knew I’d scooped up about 300 g from my haul after I was caught. The cops must have had the same idea. Cheeky buggers.

  The hearing was all over in about four minutes: four minutes to get eight years. To be honest, I was relieved. I’d prepared myself for that. Had it been 15 or 20 years I don’t know what I would have done.

  Chapter 12

  CHRISTMAS UNDER THE STARS

  CHRISTMAS WAS UPON US. THE WHOLE WING WAS WHIPPED INTO FESTIVE mode. Our special causa had been used to give Maxima a bit of ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High’. It was scrubbed up as usual, and for the festive touch a little Christmas tree covered in tinsel and flashing lights was put up in the hallway by the cells. Still, I doubted Santa Claus would pay a visit to Los Teques unless he came in holed up in a tank.

  What I was dreading was the visitas. The director had said all families and their partners visiting prisoners could stay for five nights over Christmas. It was another of her new policies to try to make the prison more humane and avoid another massacre like the one that had taken place the Easter before under the last director. The thinking was that giving armed, coked-up murderers and rapists more time with their families would turn them into model inmates. Guns down, all hugs and kisses.

  The five-day visit started a couple of days before Christmas. Myself and the other gringo PWVs, as I called us, as well as a few of the Venos, were stashed away behind the curtains for some 15 hours a day. We had to huddle in there sitting on our buckets from about 9 a.m. to 1 or 2 a.m., or whenever the party stopped in the wing. It was non-stop. The stereo was on full-whack with salsa music blaring out all day. The Veno lags partied away with their wives, girlfriends, children, mothers, aunts, the whole lot, dancing, singing and boozing. At night they would all sleep in the three cells, the prisoners taking turns in the few beds to get it on with their missus, and later squeezing the rest of their families onto any beds that were free.

  That left us to kip in the only place left – out in the yard under the stars. The music stopping showed they had finished their day’s festivities and was the green light for us to come out from behind the curtain and roll out our colchonetas on the ground. We had to scramble off our buckets to get a spot in the half of the yard that was covered with a canopy made out of an old stretched-out plastic sheet. If you didn’t get a place there, you were really under the stars. The weather was mostly mild and sunny during the day in Caracas, but at night it could get chilly. I found it hard to sleep, tossing and turning on the ground, wrapping my arms around myself to get warm.

  The whole visit thing was really getting me down. It was horrible mental torture: endless sitting on a bucket, groggy, with no proper sleep for days, listening to the lags partying away outside. At times I was worried I’d lose my cool, run out from behind the curtain, grab one of their guns and start blasting at them. Of course they’d shoot back, though, and that’d be it for me – game over. Also, it being Christmas, my mind was drifting off and thinking of my family back home. That was hard. Katie and Dano – I wondered what they’d be doing now. Would they hate me? Still love me? None of my family back home called me over Christmas, but that’s the way I wanted it. I had to put my head down in here and just focus on doing the time.

  On Christmas Day we sat as usual huddled up all day behind the curtain, with nothing to do other than chat with the boys, Silvio, Ricardo, Billy and others. Many of the lags were doing the usual – snorting coke. I still hadn’t touched it. This place was bad enough without the paranoia from coke driving me up the walls even more. Sitting there all day as PWVs, we weren’t allowed out to mix with the lags and their families, but from time to time a boss would stick his head in behind the curtain and look at us. I could snatch glances of what was going on out there. I saw a kid pedalling around on a little red tractor. Lights flashing on the small Christmas tree. A couple dancing salsa, swinging their hips and twirling. Later, I saw a troupe of Mexican-style mariachi musicians walk in, decked out in sombreros, tooting away on trumpets and strumming guitars. I thought they must be hard-up for playing a gig in a prison. I had to remind myself it was a jail and not some reality TV show I was in. Banged Up in Loonyville?

  What really got up the nose of us PWVs about the whole affair was that our special causa was paying for it: presents, decorations, food, bands. Yet we were getting nothing out of it. On Christmas Day itself we thought, great, at least we’ll get the decent dinner the jefe had promised us. That morning we ate the usual breakfast slop in the cantina and then went in behind the curtain. We were looking forward to the Christmas food, but at the usual dinner time of 4 p.m. nothing came. Five p.m., still nothing.

  ‘This is wrong, I tell you,’ said Silvio, raging, shaking his fist.

  ‘I know, I’m starving,’ I said. My blood was boiling. We were all pissed off. Our money paying for them to have a good time while we sat there miserable and hungry. We were getting merry on the rice wine I’d made, but we still wanted to eat.

  At about 7 p.m. one of the lags walked in with ‘dinner’. It was some local Venezuelan dish, a large green plantain leaf with a filling inside, served on paper plates with a dollop of vegetables and a small piece of bread the size of a communion host. We looked at each other and back at the plates laden with portions suited for a kids’ party.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ I said.

  ‘Hallaca,’ said Silvio. ‘It’s a Venezuelan dish they eat at Christmas. This one’s vegetarian.’

  ‘You mean we pay a 100,000 causa and don’t even get a piece of meat.’

  ‘No, nothing. It is disgraceful I tell you,’ he said. The inmates and their visitors had obviously eaten the best themselves. The rage was flaming up inside me. I wanted to go out from behind the curtain and murder the bastards. Merry Christmas me bollocks. The words of the Pogues’s ‘Fairytale of New York’ also came to mind: surrounded by scumbags and maggots, I prayed God it would be my last in Los Teques.

  New Year’s Eve rolled around a few days later just as fast as Christmas had. After a couple of days of rest from the visitors they were back in for another five-day stay in Hotel Los Teques, and we were huddled up behind the curtain again. It was endless. All we could do all day was chat; other than that we watched DVDs on a little telly the boss brought in. Most were pirate movies dubbed in Spanish. Arnie in The Terminator: ‘I’ll be back,’ in Spanish with a Mexican accent. That drew a laugh from the gringos.

  On the night of 31 December, Fidel popped his acne-scarred face in behind the curtain. He was handing out goody bags to his loyal coke customers, like a department-store manager saying thanks for your loyal business throughout the year. They were plastic bags with smaller pieces of plastic wrapped up inside into one-gram lines. The usual band of snorters got one each, Billy included; he’d been back on the stuff only a couple of weeks after coming down from the Church. So much for getting clean.

  Billy started elbowing me. ‘Put your hand out, you’ll get a bag, go on.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘he won’t give me any – he knows I don’t take it.’

  ‘He will, go on.’ So I put out my hand for the fun, and lo and behold Fidel did drop me a lucky bag. He stepped out, and we ripped open our goodies and spent the next few hours snorting charlie, using coins to scoop it up to our noses. After a while I was buzzing, waffling away to beat the band, my tongue loosening. We all were. That was why the Venos called coke perico, or parrot, which endlessly twitter and chirp.

  We heard the lags and their families start counting. ‘Diez,
nueve . . .’ (‘Ten, nine . . .’)

  ‘Countdown,’ said Billy.

  ‘Ocho, siete . . .’ (‘Eight, seven . . .’)

  A bigger chorus of voices now. ‘Seis, cinco, cuatro . . .’ (‘Six, five, four . . .’)

  We got to our feet. The jefe pulled back the curtain and stood beside us, smiling. ‘Gringos, vamos,’ (‘Let’s go’) he said, pointing his gun in the air.

  ‘Tres, dos, uno.’ (‘Three, two, one.’)

  ‘Heyyyy,’ we all shouted along with the jefe, jumping up and down and hugging each other and shaking hands and laughing. The sky exploded into a cacophony of gunfire. The jefe let off his automatic weapon and shot into the air, drrr-drrr-drrrrrr, a flow of bullets pumping into the sky, cartridges spilling onto the ground. The whole prison was crackling with gunfire now. All the wing bosses were shooting off rounds. Carlos was getting into the action too, standing beside us, pulling the trigger of his Colt with a heavy boom boom. The sky was also erupting with fireworks, exploding into a kaleidoscope of pinks, purples, blues and reds.

  ‘Happy New Year,’ we shouted.

  ‘Feliz año,’ (‘Happy New Year’) shouted back the Venos.

  It was a rare moment I actually didn’t hate the Venezuelans. I was even laughing and dancing with them, the coke and booze putting me on good form. For a few minutes Los Teques was bearable. I actually forgot where I was – but only for a moment. I started jumping up and down, but I knew that I was ringing in the New Year thousands of miles from home, locked up in a circus of monkeys with guns. My life on the line every day.

  * * *

  On a Sunday shortly after the New Year the visitors were back in. More endless days behind the curtain and nights sleeping on the ground in the yard. It seemed like the whole prison revolved around them. That so many came in and so often could only mean that life for most in the barrios wasn’t much different from in the jail. Guns and drugs.