Later I saw the rest of the Black Cops, a motley crew of what I believed were mercenaries. One wore a pirate bandana emblazoned with a skull and crossbones, black combats and a T-shirt, and had a sword strapped on his back. He looked like a ninja. Another wore a baseball cap and black jeans. Another had six guns sticking out of holsters all over his body, strapped to his arms, legs and waist. One of them had the handle of a knife, gleaming white like ivory, in his ankle boot. They all had bullet belts around their waists and slung over their shoulders and carried heavy machine guns. They didn’t look afraid to use them. There were seven of them, each with his own individual look, so we called them the A-Team and the Magnificent Seven. They were mean-looking guys, and I was sure they had carte blanche to kill. No questions asked.
But I didn’t hear another shot fired in the jail. All the cell-block bosses knew that these boys meant business and had long ago put down their arms.
The next morning I stepped out into the passageway to go the canteen for breakfast. The passageway was spotless. There was only the smell of disinfectant.
In the days that followed, I heard the A-Team swooped into all the other wings and removed about 60 prisoners, going from cell block to cell block standing down the ‘army council’ of bosses, underbosses and luceros. They were all identified, bundled into prison vans and whisked off to other jails. A bullet in the head awaited many of them. They’d broken the code in the Venezuelan jail system: you don’t start trouble on visit days. The familia was sacred. The price for putting the inmates’ loved ones in danger was paid with your life.
Word was the National Guard in the watchtowers had been taking photos of the asesinos on the roof, but I didn’t know if the troops even fired a round. Their job was to make sure no one escaped. You could be shot to death inside for all they cared.
A few days later the visitors came back in as if nothing had happened. I couldn’t believe it. One of them brought in a newspaper, which ran a big story about the Los Teques riot. I got a hold of it and my eyes scanned across a headline of one of the reports: ‘Domingo de Sangre’, or Bloody Sunday. According to the story, six were killed and eighteen injured, including three visitors. One newspaper said two women were among the dead, meaning they were visitors too – somebody’s mother, wife or girlfriend. Ambulances brought the dead and injured to hospitals, it said. We heard most were ferried to the hospital in Los Teques town in private cars or any way they could. I’d say it was like the injured bought a lottery ticket on the way, by hoping a doctor would be on call when they got there. The slain inmates were in their early 20s to early 30s. We were sure a lot more lost their lives and were hurt that day. We later heard that three or four had died from their injuries in hospital, bringing the death toll to at least ten.
There were two reasons given for the riot that led to the bloodshed. One was that a cell-block jefe had invited a group of prostitutes for the fiesta. A bunch of lags got boisterous and tried to seduce them (presumably without paying) and other inmates came to ‘rescue’ the chicas hired for the night’s entertainment, sparking a row between the two groups of prisoners. Guns were used to settle it the next day.
In another – more believable – account, a prisoner had made ‘inappropriate’ comments about another inmate’s wife being dressed ‘provocatively’ in the disco, a tiff that later ignited the bloodshed. The word in Maxima was that the guy from Wing 1 who made the offending comments was a cell-block jefe. He had been invited to the husband’s cell block, in Wing 2, the next morning by the boss of that wing ‘for a chat’. As a peace gesture, he turned up unarmed and without his henchmen, a rarity for a boss, believing nothing would happen to him on a visit day. He was wrong. An asesino was waiting for him and shot him in the head to settle the row. The shooting show then kicked off when the compadres of the slain jefe came out guns blazing in retaliation.
The National Guard were also criticised in a comment piece in the press for not being up to the job of keeping the peace in jails. The writer was on the money there. The opinion article, by a prisoner-welfare group, also said Los Teques was built for 350 but housed 1,800. That meant there were about 400 more inmates than I thought there were.
For now, however, there was peace in the jail. It was great. The Magnificent Seven stood armed to the teeth in the passageways and escorted the cops in for every headcount. I knew no gun battles would break out with them around. The director and all her cohorts went missing, sidelined, for the weeks the Black Cops were in charge. For five weeks there wasn’t a prisoner with a gun in sight.
We were all shepherded up to the roof, wing by wing, for a few hours each night. The Magnificent Seven and their search team went about with metal detectors, sweeping the walls looking for guns, grenades and ammo. The bosses were wiped out of most of their weapons and were down to just a few knives and a couple of pistols and revolvers. But, like always, it’d only be a matter of time before they’d build up another arsenal.
I knew more than ever that I had to get out of this prison. I would not let these animals take my life, my bloody body lying on the floor in the passageway, covered with a sheet. Shipped back to my family in Ireland in a box. I would not die behind the walls of Los Teques. I had plans afoot to get out of here.
Chapter 23
PAROLE? SÍ, SEÑOR
IT FELT LIKE AN INTERROGATION. BUT I HAD TO ANSWER THE QUESTION. And properly. It meant I had a chance at getting parole after 18 months. Or serving the full eight years. No way. I’ll answer. I’ll tell the truth. That’s what you’re supposed to do. Isn’t it?
‘Why were you a drug mule?’ There it was again.
‘For the dinero, the money,’ I said. A roar of laughter broke out.
‘Aha. No. That is the wrong answer. Under no circumstances say you did it for the money.’ I was sitting in a classroom full of gringos. The man who asked me the question was a small tubby guy. He was our new Spanish teacher. He wasn’t interested in teaching verbs, though. He was giving us the low-down on how to pass the psychological exam and get parole.
‘Then what do we say?’ said Hanz, who was next to me. We were sitting in the classroom where Silvio used to teach us Spanish and escape routes to Colombia.
‘There are a number of things you can say,’ said Guatemala, the teacher, who, naturally, was from Guatemala. ‘You can say you were depressed. That you were going through a difficult time. But never say you did it for the money. Anyone who says that fails. Always.
‘Now, the second important question: what have you learned from your crime and time in jail?’ he asked us. He had lived in Canada and spoke perfect English.
‘Not to get caught the next time,’ said Dieter. We all laughed.
‘Aha, no. You will be sure to fail. That I can guarantee. You must say you have learned not to do drugs any more and have learned the errors of your ways. And talk about how much you love your family: how you miss them and are sorry you brought this trouble upon them, and that you made a stupid mistake.’
I was scribbling all the prepared answers into a notebook. The others were doing the same – I never noticed them being so attentive in any of Silvio’s Spanish classes.
‘But there is a caveat,’ continued Guatemala. ‘You have to be careful. When you get parole you will be released to work in Venezuela to finish your sentence. So you don’t want the examiner thinking that you’ll jump on the plane home the minute you get released. No no,’ he said, wagging his finger back and forth like a windscreen wiper. ‘You must say that you are looking forward to working in the community in Venezuela, to making a contribution to society here. So you’re letting the examiner know you want to set up a life in Caracas. That’s what they want to hear.’
He finished going through the standard first few questions we would be asked in the oral exam. ‘Como se llama?’ (‘What’s your name?’) ‘Cuál es su apellido?’ (‘What is your surname?’) ‘Tus padres estan vivos?’ (‘Are your parents alive?’) ‘Cuál es el nombre de tú papa?’ (‘What is y
our father’s name?’) ‘Como se llama tú mama?’ (‘What is your mother’s name?’) I could learn the first five off by heart in Spanish, but the order of the other ninety-odd questions was never the same, said Guatemala. Pity, I thought.
The director’s office was just downstairs. I wondered what she would think if she knew we were preparing for the psychological test to get out on parole. But I supposed that in a way it was a Spanish class.
‘Now,’ continued Guatemala, ‘the next day we will focus on the drawings.’
‘What do you mean drawings?’ I said. ‘It’s not an art exam.’ Eddy broke out laughing, stabbing his pen in the wooden desk in time with his giggles.
‘Yes, very good, Paul,’ said Guatemala. ‘You are right. But we are not drawing masterpieces of the Flemish tradition, just simple matchstick men of your families.’
‘Be easy for the Nigerians,’ I said, ‘with all the famines they have over there.’
‘Fuck you,’ laughed Abah, one of two Nigerians in Maxima.
‘That’s enough,’ said Guatemala, finally irritated. ‘That’ll be all today. Now, if you walk past the director’s office later, please try to speak Spanish. Say hola, at least.’
* * *
The prison was back to ‘normal’. The A-Team had done their job by clearing out the bosses and luceros in the other wings who were behind kicking off the prison shoot-out. They’d also cleared out the Maxima bosses of their heavy-duty weapons; they were just down to a few handguns and knives. But it wouldn’t be long before they, and all the other cell-block bosses, would rearm. An insight from Silvio came to mind: ‘There will be kidnappings, hunger strikes, then a riot. Things get better, then they will go back to the same.’ One big vicious circle.
* * *
‘It’s happening, it’s happening,’ said Billy, a grin stretched across his face like someone had cleaved his cheeks apart.
‘What’s happening?’ I said, standing beside him in the yard.
‘I’m going free. I just got the call from Viviana. The judge signed the papers.’
‘That’s amazing news, Billy.’ I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Brilliant.’ His release documents had been in the courts for weeks waiting for the judge to approve them. Every few days a court usher rang Viviana looking for a bribe to speed them along. Viviana told Billy about this but advised him not to pay. Nothing happened, and over the weeks he fell into a deep depression. But now he was going free. ‘Where do you go now?’ I asked.
‘Some halfway house for a few days before I can move in with Father Pat.’
He ran over to his bucket and handed out T-shirts and clothes he didn’t want to the lads. Most of the boyos stood there, Eddy, Dieter, Hanz and so on. Billy then slipped on the same small rucksack he’d arrived with in the wing. ‘Lads, I’m off.’ A big cheer went up. He cautiously headed to the wing door. A few luceros lashed out with the friendly goodbye kicks, but none connected. Billy bolted. I’d never seen him move so fast.
I was happy for him. We all were. Just like when Silvio was freed, Billy’s release showed the system worked. One day it would be our turn.
* * *
Today we had an art class with a twist. ‘OK, guys, listen up,’ said Guatemala. ‘In the first class we practised for the oral questions. Now we’re learning how to draw.’ Again, the class was full. There were about 30 of us. ‘When you finish all the oral questions the examiner will ask you to do a drawing. You’ll have to draw yourself, your mother and father, and where you live.’ He picked up a marker on a ledge on a blackboard behind him and started to draw a picture. ‘Now, here’s a house. Two windows. A little chimney with smoke. And here’s your mother and father standing outside. Just be simple.’ He drew two matchstick characters of a woman and a man in front of the house next to a tree.
We all broke out laughing. ‘You gotta be joking?’ shouted out Eddy. ‘We’ll be locked up again for being too stupid to live on the outside.’
‘Ah, laugh you may, but this is how it works. I heard it from prison workers who look at the finished exams before they are filed. They see what fails and what doesn’t. Now, back to the drawing. The mother,’ Guatemala said, pointing at the matchstick character on the board, ‘she has to have a skirt and shoes, and hands. And fingers. Always draw in fingers.’ The mother matchstick character was now more ridiculous. Guatemala drew giant fat fingers like she had bananas growing out of her wrists. It was like a Picasso gone wrong. ‘You must draw yourself in here, standing between your mother and father, here in the middle.’ He put his marker down. ‘Now it’s your turn. Get your pens and paper and start drawing. But don’t copy me. Just make sure it’s a simple house with your mother and father outside. Don’t forget the tree, and put yourself in front of the mother and father. That’s it. Get drawing.’
I doodled away in my copybook. On the cover there was a kid on a BMX bike cycling under a rainbow. It was fitting for the class. I scribbled a house and a few swirls of smoke at the chimney. It reminded me of being five years of age all over again and being in the Irish Catholic school in Oxford run by the nuns.
After about five minutes we all turned in our works of art. Guatemala went through them one by one. It was like a playschool class for adults. ‘Yes, good, good,’ he said, holding each one up in front of the class. ‘Yes, this one is perfect,’ he said of another, where the mother had curlers in her hair and was wearing an apron. ‘Yes, good, Paul, very good.’
‘Where’s my gold star?’
‘I want one as well,’ said Eddy.
Jokes aside, the main part of the exam was the oral part and it was in Spanish. I knew I hadn’t a hope in hell of getting through it. I had been putting in a fair bit of work in the past few months reading newspapers that came in on visit days, and there were a couple of verb books knocking around the wing. So I could read Spanish a bit, but I could hardly speak it at all. When the Venos spoke to me I barely understood. ‘Qué?’ I’d say, shrugging. ‘Mama huevo,’ was the usual reply I got. I was the gringo who barely had a word of Spanish. In the psychological exam it wasn’t like I could bring in Hanz or Vito to interpret, as if I was going in to see the boss to ask him permission to use the gym or something. You were only allowed to bring in a qualified interpreter. And the system wasn’t always organised enough to arrange one. I would need an act of God to pass. If I didn’t, it’d be another 18 months before I could try for parole again. I couldn’t let that happen.
* * *
Viviana was in on one of her visits. I went up with Vito to see her in the office upstairs. Deputy Dawg was sitting in his chair snoring again, his shotgun resting on his belly. I was worried someone would drop a cup or something and he’d wake up and start blasting us out of fright.
Viviana stood up and kissed me on both cheeks. We all sat down. ‘Nice work with Billy, getting him out,’ I said, smiling. ‘Tell her I said that,’ I said to Vito.
‘She says thank you,’ he said, ‘and she is happy to be of service.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘She wants to talk about your parole,’ said Vito. ‘She says you’ve done the 18 months to qualify, and she’s looked at the work books you’ve been signing for writing your book. She says she can put you in for the exam now and it’ll come through in a couple of months.’
‘A couple of months? That soon?’
Vito went back to Viviana and spoke. ‘Yes, that soon, and if you pass it you’d be out about a month after.’ I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to jump up in joy. But I’d seen too many gringos, such as Billy, fall into a spiral of depression when they didn’t get out as quickly or as easily as they’d been told. But this was different. Viviana had come up with the goods for Billy, true to her word.
‘Unbelievable, means I could be out before Christmas.’ I sat there grinning.
‘Yes, she says it’s very possible.’
‘But the exam: I’ll never pass it.’
‘Viviana says she has faith in you.’
She might have beli
eved in me, but I was still anxious. From then on it was at the front of my mind all the time. How was I going to pass? I knew some had paid a cop to pull it off, but that almost always came to nothing and inmates were still failed. But I knew Bruce had passed it and decided to hunt him down for a chat. On my next trip up to the roof I caught up with him. ‘Bruce, the psychological exam to get out on parole, I heard you passed it?’ I said while I was on my fast walk.
‘Yep, two weeks ago. Just waiting for the judge to sign my release papers.’
‘How’d you do it?’ I knew Bruce’s Spanish wasn’t great, like most gringos.
‘Simple. You hand the money over and it’s done.’
‘No way?’
‘Yes, five million bolos [about 1,000 euro] I paid. I could have spoken Chinese for all the examiner cared. Money in the bag for them.’
‘I’m gonna have to think about this. I don’t trust those cops.’
‘Just hand the money over and it’s done.’
‘I’ll have to think first about where to get it from.’ Bruce walked off and I continued alone on my laps. I passed a few of the luceros from the Maxima wing playing football. When I looked closer I couldn’t believe it – they were all there. All the bosses. Gómez, now the new jefe after Fidel had been released a few weeks before, his two underbosses and all the henchmen. There were supposed to be at least a few of them guarding the wing at all times. That’s what we were paying the causa for. Chancers.
Chapter 24
CAP IN HAND
Riley – how’s it going, me old pal,
Now a letter that starts off like this should be disregarded immediately, as you should know what’s coming next.
Yes, you guessed it, Riley, it’s a good old begging letter, but it’s for a good cause: the Paul Keany Getting Out of Prison Fund, set up by yours truly, of course, with donations being made from all over the world.
The Cocaine Diaries: A Venezuelan Prison Nightmare Page 27