But there was no explanation and, unsurprisingly, no further investigation. When the judge asked the customs officers if they’d slashed it, they said ‘No’, and added that no one else at customs had touched it either. The judge did not ask any further questions about it. It was just another thing the judges had no interest in chasing up.
My lawyer’s theory was that a customs officer had cut it after spotting it on the X-ray machine out the back. Mr Winata testified that he had seen something suspicious in the boogie-board bag when it went through the machine but did not put a blue chalk cross on it, as they routinely did when a suspicious bag went through, because he thought no one would pick it up. I suspect he thought no one would pick it up if it had a blue cross on it because he knew exactly what was inside it. He’d already seen and smelt it. This didn’t make me innocent, but it added to their rule-breaking bungling of my case.
The outer bag had not been fingerprinted because it was ‘contaminated’ by the very people now giving evidence against me. They broke the rules: they didn’t wear gloves. But now it seemed very likely that the inner bag had also been touched. Was that why the police and prosecutors had refused to fingerprint it, despite our continual pleas to do so? We had pleaded for months for it to be fingerprinted. The fact is they refused. Why?
Can’t help but break down when I see that plastic bag. It has destroyed my life.
Diary entry, 3 February 2005
When the judge called for the bag of marijuana to be put on his bench, it was not treated like evidence but like an old bale of hay. Bits of it were being pulled out and falling everywhere. When a bit fell on the floor, the judge just casually bent down, picked it up and put it back. The smell was so strong that the judge even put a tissue over his nose – proving that it was one hell of a smell for check-in staff or sniffer dogs to have missed if it had been in my bag and cut open when I had checked in.
But the most shocking thing was that everyone – the judges, the prosecutors and the customs officers – started touching the ‘uncontaminated’ inner bag. My blood went cold. How could this be happening? The judge was not only letting it happen but also taking part in ruining evidence. Right up until this point we had been pleading with the judge to have that inner bag fingerprinted. It would at least be something – proof my fingerprints were not on it. But right before our eyes, my last hopes of forensic evidence were dashed.
The most sinister moment came when Winata handled the inner bag. To my mind, there was no mistaking his clear intention to touch it. It was a deliberate action. He put his hand inside the outer bag, then tugged at the inner bag. It was such a bizarre and unnecessary thing to do. Mum has a videotape of that extraordinary moment. Why did he need to put his hand in and touch the inner bag? Was he concerned that the judge might finally agree to have it fingerprinted?
As all hands kept grasping at the marijuana, Merc yelled out to Lily and Erwin (another lawyer Lily had brought in to help her) to make them stop. Erwin replied that this would be good for my defence, as they were breaking more rules. But it turned out to be just another bit of lost evidence.
Today we were taken to the court in a smaller police van that seats four in the back. They decided to take a different route, which was a very bumpy and dangerous ride along a road/rocky track. The driver was on a power trip: almost had so many head-ons, and at one stage a motorbike crashed into the back of us as we came to a sudden stop.
Diary entry, 11 February 2005
My third day in court started with just the same craziness. The mad drive, the media scrum and then the insane lack of order in the courtroom. The laid back judge didn’t seem to give a damn about it.
As the first anti-drug squad officer sat down to give evidence, he casually placed his gun between his feet. There was no objection from the judge, but it was a little indelicate, given the penalty I was facing, and I urged Lily to tell him to put it somewhere else. He did. He simply picked it up and placed it on the edge of the prosecutors’ table, where it was well within the reach of all the people constantly walking in and out of the busy side door. Anyone could have snatched it and fired.
There were two officers helping to make the prosecution case against me by telling more lies. It seemed like they’d been told to strengthen it a bit. Not only did they confirm what the first two customs officers had said, but they claimed my reactions at the customs desk had been even more dramatic. This was despite the fact they’d been standing fifteen metres away from the desk. Both also claimed that I’d said the plastic bag of marijuana belonged to me. Neither spoke English.
More lies, more lies! I’m so tired of listening to the same shit over and over.
Diary entry, 11 February 2005
Both officers demonstrated, with sweeping hand gestures, how I supposedly stopped Winata opening my bag. Police officer Gusti Astawa said: ‘The hand of Gusti Winata was stopped and pressed by Corby when he started to open the bag. She said, “No! No! I have something.”’
My heart was slamming against my chest. I couldn’t stop my tears. How could this be happening? This was such bullshit. These people were lying, just telling straight-out lies. But again, it was my word against theirs. There had to be something to prove I was telling the truth.
I put it to the judge: ‘Do they have a security camera to prove I opened it myself? Isn’t there a camera to say that . . . to help me save my life? If it’s the death sentence, don’t they have something to help me here?’
Erwin also asked if the existence of security camera vision could be investigated, saying that after all his client was on trial for her life.
The judge initially agreed that enquiries should be made but later said, ‘We’ll get it if we need to’! He obviously never felt the need. Why? Would it prove my story by showing that I had happily collected my bag and in one swift movement willingly flung it up on the customs desk and unzipped it? Yes! Yes, it would!
They give the death sentence to drug traffickers but it’s the customs officers’ and the police officers’ words against mine. Me, a mere traveller . . . the death sentence. These customs officers and police officers are obviously not given any training; they do not wear gloves, they do not take fingerprints, no interrogation questions, nothing. No tape recorders, surveillance cameras, nothing to back me up. My word against theirs. You’d think that if a country gives out the death sentence they’ll be equipped to give the accused a fair trial for their life!
Diary entry, 11 February 2005
When the judge asked Mr Astawa whether fingerprints were necessary in the Corby case, he said, ‘No.’ When he asked the second officer, Wayan Suwita, why no fingerprints had been taken, he answered, ‘In this case, the criminal perpetrator was caught red-handed by the customs officers at the airport. We knew it was marijuana, so it wasn’t necessary.’ The judge must have agreed, as hedenied our continued requests to have the inner bag fingerprinted, though by now it was contaminated anyway. He also turned down our requests to have the marijuana DNA tested to find out its origin.
I couldn’t understand how a judge would not want a full investigation when a life was at stake. Didn’t they want every bit of information possible before giving their verdict? Before deciding on someone’s life? And wasn’t I entitled to a fair trial to fight for my life? I could see as clearly as everyone else that the evidence against me was strong. It was in my bag. But didn’t I have the right to a proper investigation just in case I was telling the truth? This court could impose a death sentence. Surely taking finger prints or looking at CCTV footage wasn’t asking too much. Wouldn’t it have been standard procedure in any other court in the world?
It was all so Mickey Mouse, the whole process – from the bungled non-investigation by the police and the prosecutors to the judges’ lack of interest in the lack of investigation, to the disruptive chaos in the courtroom. It was an ironic twist that this casual, disruptive, laid back court, which appeared to be far less imposing than the usual sterile courtroom with its wigs, gowns
and mahogany benches, was far deadlier. Its sentences were the harshest in the world. I felt this every single second that I sat there. But it felt like no one else got it. It felt like there was no respect for the fact I was on trial for my life.
It had been a particularly gruelling and infuriating day, and I really didn’t want to go back to Kerobokan. I’d simply had enough, enough of this hell and enough of this bullshit justice system. I was tired of helplessly watching these people bang nails into my coffin with their lies, their destruction of evidence and their lack of investigation. I didn’t need any more proof of this unfair, unjust system, but I got it on the way home when a guy sitting next to me told me he’d just been sentenced to nine years for murder. With remissions, he’d be out in five!
I am so tired of this place; I didn’t want to get locked up behind that cement wall again with the only thing to pass time being walking down the muddy rocky path to collect my water. I needed to release some anger, so, silly me, I punched the inside door of the police van. The guard in front yelled to me, ‘You got a problem?’
My reply: ‘Yeah, I’ve got a problem – fuck you!’ He was really angry and kept yelling repeatedly, ‘You got a problem with me?’
My reply again was ‘Fuck you.’
The van stopped, he slammed open our cage door and was still yelling at me. I sat there for a bit to calm down, then I said sorry and got out, the other prisoners getting out after me. Once back inside the prison I told the guard, ‘I’m so sorry.’ He accepted it and patted me on the back and held my hand.
I need to invest in a boxing bag. Keep me out of trouble.
Diary entry, 11 February 2005
The stress of life in jail and the pressure of court were really affecting me. I was losing weight, throwing up often and wildly swinging from wall-smashing fury to deep black depression. Some days I simply couldn’t get out of bed. But I was still trying as hard as I could to be patient, to be positive, to be hopeful, for my family’s sake. They were all as stressed out as me.
I will be coming home. I am strong, I have faith, I have support, I have a lot of love in my heart. I am coming home.
Diary entry, 11 February 2005
I started to spend more time at church and more time with Eddie, the former Buddhist who’d been done for possession of a few tablets of Ecstasy. He was still able to turn my tears into a smile, and church somehow started helping lift the burden a little. I’d always heard that people turned to religion in a crisis, used it as a crutch, and I could see why, as it was really helping to give me a sense that this nightmare was happening for a reason: there was a purpose for it. That was easier to believe than thinking I was now living in hell for no reason other than just plain bad luck. And if there was a God who put me here, He could also get me out!
I feel that God has all this planned and He is in control of my fate/destiny/future. So I am not scared; I’m just really finding it hard to come to grips with the meaning of patience!
Diary entry, 17 February 2005
Ironically, my patience was often tested by Christians coming to the jail church and sneakily taking photos of me. I’d get a sixth sense that someone was taking a shot, turn, and see them frantically trying to stash the camera. Regularly, it was visiting Christians being very un-Christian when they were permitted in on Sundays. People coming to visits were also sneakily snapping pictures to sell and fill their pockets.
But it wasn’t always covert and sneaky; sometimes it was blatantly in my face. For instance, one afternoon just after lock-up, the guards escorted a huge bunch of photographers and reporters right into my cell. I’m sure the guards were well paid for their trouble.
At 5.30 p.m., the guards came in with twenty other people – reporters and photographers! All of them were saying, ‘Corby, Corby.’ They came in, took a few shots of my things, my section of the cell, how I live here – they also told me how to sit on my bed for some shots. How embarrassing! I didn’t resist. I did as they said. They hung around for fifteen minutes. I was so embarrassed at all these people shooting their cameras at me. The other girls in the cell were running around trying to hide, but there is nowhere so they covered their faces with anything they could find: towel, bucket, one even put on her Muslim veil! Reporters were asking them questions about me, for example: What’s it like to live with Corby? How do you all communicate with Corby? Does she speak Indonesian? The girls were yelling out, ‘Corby tidak tau!’ (I don’t know Corby!) How can I keep a straight face with all these crazies around me?
Diary entry, 16 February 2005
At court the media was intensifying, too, with more cameras in my face every week. It was making my court days more stressful, knowing everything I said or did would be filmed from the moment I stepped off the sardine bus. Some days I’d arrive at court already feeling shaky and upset from something horrific I’d seen at Kerobokan and would then have to face a media scrum firing questions.
This morning as I waited at Kerobokan to be taken to court there was a fight between two guys. One had a plank of wood and was bashing the other guy. The other guy was in bad shape. All his face was cut open and bleeding.
Diary entry, 17 February 2005
As soon as I climbed off the bus, still feeling a bit shaken from the fight, a pack of photographers and reporters tightly circled, pushing, shoving and shouting questions. I was starting to get badly bruised each week and my wrists were torn by the cuffs as I was dragged through the jostling scrum to the holding cell, where I would escape to the toilet. But today there was no escape.
Although the little cell was already crammed with twenty of us prisoners, it was suddenly full to the rafters when a guard let in the pack of reporters and photographers. I ran into the toilet, but they still got shots by holding their cameras up above the door. I couldn’t believe it when I looked up and saw all the cameras. A second guard, the one that I’d let my anger out on the week before, came to my rescue. He yelled at all the photographers to get out and was furious at the other guard for letting them in.
In the hot seat that day was the last prosecution witness, the senior customs officer, who answered questions about airport operations. Incredibly, when the prosecutor put the plastic bag on display again, much of the marijuana had vanished.
When the prosecutor opened the boogie-board bag to show the plastic bag, it almost seemed that the evidence was missing. The prosecutor had to dig around to find it . . . the evidence is becoming less and less each time we enter the court. Hopefully by the end of this, on my last trial day, there will be only a few crumbs left, then my lawyers can say, ‘Where did you get a figure of 4.2 kilograms from? The scales must have been out!’
Diary entry, 17 February 2005
While we were in court, there was a noisy commotion going on outside. People were holding handmade posters with my name written on them, and instinctively I thought they were supporters. But my translator, Eka, told me, ‘No, Schapelle, they’re here to support the death sentence . . . The signs say kill you!’ I felt sick. I swung around and saw a sign with blood dripping from an axe in the window behind me. It was chilling.
It was the first day the Indonesian anti-drug protest group GRANAT had turned up, and Mum was upset and furious. ‘You have already found my daughter guilty, and she is innocent!’ she screamed. ‘Why can’t you be saying try to find evidence? No one seems to be trying to find who put the bloody stuff in the bag. They don’t care!’
The protesters just laughed at my mum, provoking her to throw water on them, but they still refused to go away. As I was being walked back to the holding cell later on, I started panicking as they surrounded me, thinking one of them might have a gun. But once inside the cell, I was quickly distracted from my fear when four men started laying into a guy who’d just been sentenced to five years’ jail for being caught with a joint. I didn’t know why and didn’t ask why they were beating him, but it was pretty sad and pathetic.
The next day in court would be the start of my defence case, an
d I was scared. We still had nothing. I had no evidence from Australia, no evidence in Bali, and my lawyers were really starting to worry Merc and me. I was never briefed on what would happen in court, never given any idea of a strategy. Lily often cried in court, but rarely stood up to question the prosecution witnesses. Come on, Lily – help me. Stop crying, do your job! I often silently willed her. This was my life. We had to fight. I wanted her to leap up and counter their lies, challenge their bullshit. But she rarely did. Most of the time she just sat quietly watching and sending SMS messages on her phone. She was out of her depth. She’d brought Erwin Siregar in to help, but Lily was lead counsel.
Vasu sat on the public bench endlessly scribbling on scraps of paper and passing them to Lily. He’d told me before the first day in court that he couldn’t sit on the bench with Lily because he was Sri Lankan – nothing to do with the fact he was an engineer. At that point, I still believed he was a lawyer: most of the Australian papers were calling him a lawyer, and I guess he’d started believing it, too. Vasu was my case coordinator, but he’d never actually worked on any other legal case in court.
I needed help. We were due to start our defence case, and all we had were the testimonies of me and my travel mates. I desperately needed something to break, something to fall from the sky!
12
Ron and Robin – the Dynamic Duo
WHEN I FIRST HEARD I HAD A MILLIONAIRE ‘WHITE knight’ about to gallop into town and rescue me from a fate that could be death, I was at first baffled. Mad Ron? Isn’t he the phone guy? How can he help? Oh, I suppose he’s rich and has a big-shot lawyer to bring over, I thought. But why help me, why spend his time and money on me? What did he want in return? I joked to Merc that maybe he wanted me to model phones for him when I got back home . . . Yeah, I could do that!
No More Tomorrows Page 14