No More Tomorrows

by Corby, Schapelle

  Robin told reporters the letter to the Indonesian president was ‘a plea from the heart’ that he would personally deliver to the president. He said: ‘I’ll see Schapelle today and she’ll give that to me. As I understand it, the letter is more about her affection for Indonesia. It talks about her family and her sister and the fact that she would do nothing to bring disrespect to Indonesia.’ To this day, I don’t know if the letter actually made it to the president or whether it was just given to the press. But I still fret that maybe it damaged my appeals.

  The next time I saw Ron, after the letters had found their way to the media, I asked him for copies so at least I’d learn what was in them. He looked me in the eye and said: ‘There’s no letter, Schapelle, it’s been blown out of proportion. There is no letter.’

  My faith in the dynamic duo really faltered on the day the prosecutors recommended to the judges that I should spend my life in jail. The day before, Ron had phoned me from Australia, saying, ‘Don’t worry, Schapelle, you’ll be coming home, we’ll get you out. Don’t worry, you’ll be coming home!’

  I was totally frustrated that ‘Team Corby’ was devoting so much more time, energy and effort to the court of public opinion than to the Bali Court of Law – the only court that actually mattered right now, the court where my life was on the line.

  13

  More Court Daze

  I FELT SO SMALL AND FRAGILE, UP AGAINST A SYSTEM THAT seemed determined to get me, to pull me further into this nightmare, so I could never ever escape, never go home. I’d seen how low the prosecutors would stoop to ensure a guilty verdict. If they’d lie and destroy evidence in court to make their case against me even tighter, what else would they do?

  It was all starting to play with my mind. I was breathing fear and paranoia. I often huddled up in my cell and shook, hiding from danger and choking on terror. I felt my enemies everywhere. I felt preyed on, watched – dark shadows, spies and cameras lurking everywhere. I felt everyone was out to get me. I felt every new prisoner was an undercover cop sent to spy on me.

  My biggest fear was that drugs would be planted in my cell. It would be simple: drugs were rife. That was the irony. I was in a place where drugs flowed more freely than water. People sold drugs in here like hawkers sold fake Gucci on Kuta Beach. It was part of life. I saw it from day one, when prisoners would slip casually into step with me, whispering, ‘Corby, you want smoke? Corby, you want drugs?’ ‘No, thanks.’ Everyone just assumed I used drugs, given my charges. But they quickly learnt I didn’t, and I quickly learnt that everything from heroin to crack was so widely available that even people from outside came inside to score.

  It spooked me. If drugs were found in my things, my life would be finished. It wouldn’t matter whether they were deviously planted to set me up or stashed by a girl protecting her own butt. Who would believe me? It wasn’t just crazy paranoia. Other girls feared it, too. When guards sprang cell searches on us, all the girls dived into their cells to check their things for drugs before the guards did. The searches were for anything ‘illegal’ such as drugs, CD players and phones. We’d buy it all back a few weeks later, but not the drugs. Anyone caught with drugs faced new charges. For me, it might mean a firing squad.

  I had to protect my life. I was always suspicious and watching my back. I spent hours sitting in my cell, searching everywhere from under my mattress to inside my toothbrush holder. It took nothing more than a girl from another cell lingering in mine to panic me into a full-scale search.

  I interrupted two girls from another cell who were in my cell smoking crack. I don’t care if they want to do that crap, if they have no respect for themselves or their families; I’m not going to stop them. But I’m not facing just one or two years like they are – I’m in the middle of my trial, facing death by firing squad. Please dig up a little respect and smoke in your own cell! If they get caught, the courts would hear about it, and I could kiss my life goodbye. I’m just watching my back so they don’t start hiding the goods in my belongings.

  Diary entry, 5 March 2005

  I was struggling to hold it together, stay sane, stay positive and hopeful. All the stress, fear and paranoia were breaking me down, making me sicker, weaker and more fragile. I got raging fevers, insanely itchy rashes, stomach cramps and head spins. In the mornings, I often struggled to lift my head off the pillow, and when I did, I spent most days in a light-headed, dizzy haze.

  Severe stomach pains had me lying on my bed crunched up foetus-style. Later, in a visit, I suddenly became so hot that in an instant my body became completely wet and my hair damp, everything became hazy. Eddie came and got me, sat me down. My head’s been feeling dizzy for a while – but not as extreme as today. Also this morning both my legs broke out in a huge itchy rash. This afternoon carrying the water I had to keep stopping, putting the bucket down – no energy – my cellmates carried the water while I lay down. I can’t get sick. I cannot get sick. My legs are on fire. My stomach has become huge, like an Ethiopian’s.

  Diary entry, 9 March 2005

  I was having a pretty bad teary day, tried to hold back while Merc was here but let loose in the church. I’m just so down, so heavy this past week. I need this mood to lift, I need to be strong, I’m back in court on Thursday . . . need to get my concentration back.

  Diary entry, 14 March 2005

  As the weeks in court passed, I spent more time praying. It was all I could do to try to help myself from inside these white walls, as I was completely powerless to do anything else.

  I was also putting my faith in Ron, clinging to his promises, his endless assurances that he’d get me acquitted, or at worst six months in a luxury villa with a pool and staff. I lapped it up with tears rolling down my cheeks as I listened to him and Robin talk about my bright future. But each time they left, my heart refilled with fear as I was slammed back into my monkey cage. I so desperately wanted to believe them, but I also knew that court wasn’t going so great. All I had so far was my word and that of James, Ally and Katrina.

  I was still hoping the Australian Government was doing its own investigation, at least to find out how the bag of marijuana got through two major, apparently secure airports. Surely they would be investigating that? I prayed that their inquiry would uncover the truth, prove it wasn’t mine, prove the drugs weren’t in my bagat check-in, and maybe even find out who did this.

  I needed evidence, a witness, something more than just words. I needed it badly. I was begging God for it every day. Then out of the blue, something broke. Merc told me the news before court. A man in Australia had just come forward, telling of three men who put the drugs in my bag. I was in shock. Merc and I clasped hands through the bars, looking at each other with tears pouring down our cheeks. We didn’t need to say anything; we knew we were thinking the same. Could this be it? Would I go home now?

  Lily arrived a bit later to explain it to me through the bars of the cramped holding cell. This man was in jail in Melbourne and had overheard a conversation between jailed baggage handlers about a drug-smuggling mix-up. He had names. I couldn’t believe it. I held Lily’s hand as more tears washed down my cheeks. I just kept thinking, Oh, my God! Oh, my God!

  Everything was a hazy blur as photographers and reporters noisily clamoured at the bars, clicking cameras and yelling questions. ‘Schapelle, how do you feel?’

  ‘I can’t even talk. I feel numb!’

  ‘Are you happy, Schapelle?’

  ‘Of course I’m happy. But I don’t want to get my hopes up, just in case.’

  My head was spinning . . . what does this mean? Do I go home now? Inside the court my lawyer told the judges of the news and they adjourned the court until next Thursday, to get the evidence together. The prosecutor was not happy about the new evidence. I was thinking I’d never find out who had done this to me or maybe find out like twenty years from now, when someone’s confessing on their death bed. Although I’m so excited and relieved at the news, I’m not getting my mind set for release. I d
on’t want to be built up to be let down. Just go with the flow of the process, pray a lot, and see what happens.

  Diary entry, 17 March 2005

  My lawyers had a week to sort out the red tape to get this man to come and testify. It was a big week ahead, as I was also giving evidence, but I had no time to put my feet up and relax. The weeks between court appearances were as nightmarish as usual, but the unrelenting daily dramas were getting more draining as my fragile and paranoid state increased. Usually I walked from the bright lights of court straight into a sick new drama.

  This particular week, I walked into a suicide attempt. Everyone was hysterical. A lesbian girl, Wanda, had just drunk a concoction of poison after being beaten by her jealous girlfriend, who’d caught her smoking drugs with a new bisexual girl. She was in really bad shape. She looked sick, her head hanging uselessly to one side. But the guards refused to call a doctor. They locked up and left as usual. By morning, Wanda couldn’t move. She was dribbling and twitching. Finally she was carried out on a stretcher and taken to hospital. She lived. She walked back in that same afternoon and made up with her guilty girlfriend, who’d even sold her mobile phone to pay off Wanda’s overdue drugs bill.

  That night, a guy escaped. He’d just been sentenced to eleven years for murder and crawled out through a narrow drain near the women’s block, dumping his prison clothes on the side of the road where he exited. The next day, the place was full of talk that he’d been caught in the bushes just outside the jail. I doubted it, as I couldn’t see or hear anyone being beaten by the guards when I went out for my afternoon visit. It turned out he had successfully escaped. Lucky man!

  Then there was the familiar scene of Sonia going crazy. She was kicking, screaming and thrashing wildly as girls struggled to hold her back from attacking another girl, who’d refused to give her a cigarette. I didn’t want to get involved. I went to church. But I walked straight back into new hysteria later on.

  The concrete outside my cell was covered in blood. I’d just missed a nasty fight. Like a pack of angry dogs, eight male prisoners had charged into the women’s block, attacking a male prisoner there. They brutally beat him for five minutes before the guards pulled them off. He was a bloody unconscious mess and had to be taken to hospital. The other prisoners walked away without any trouble, the guards simply dismissing it as ‘a personal matter’. We all knew the guards often got prisoners to do their dirty work.

  I woke up the next day at 5 a.m. to Sonia screaming and crying hysterically. She was still screaming at 7.30 a.m. when our cells were unlocked, so I stopped to check on her on my way to collect water. There was a huge rock at her feet. She said she’d woken up with her cellmate, Kartini, who has AIDS, attacking her with the rock and threatening to kill her. The skin had been taken off her stomach and the side of her knee, where she’d been hit. Another girl from her cell had been hit, too, and looked shocked. The guards didn’t seem to care!

  But the one drama affecting me the most was the broken water pump. Water just trickled from the tap, and it was taking me half an hour to fill a bucket. Salma and I were both pleading with the guards to fix it, but nothing was being done. It didn’t seem to worry them that soon we’d have no water to flush the toilet, wash our clothes, our hair or ourselves.

  Sleep came in a trickle, too. Several times a night I woke up with stomach cramps, urgently running to the toilet with diarrhoea. Most nights I was also kept awake by girls fighting, screaming between cells, banging the cell bars and going hysterical. I usually ended up crying myself to sleep.

  Sonia, shut up! Just past 10.30 p.m. and Sonia has started to yell at girls in her cell and girls in another cell. Hey, but what’s new!

  Diary entry, 22 March 2005

  There were a few upbeat moments to lift my spirits, like receiving a gift from a girl in my cell. Her husband bought me three necklaces as a celebration present: one for each of the men who were going to be named by the jailed informant. Many foreign prisoners were also coming up to me in visits, wishing me luck for my case after hearing the news of the new evidence.

  I was getting a huge amount of support from people in letters, with more than a hundred a day flooding in from Australia, Indonesia and, unbelievably, as far away as France, Belgium, England, America and Canada. I was also spoilt with gifts of everything from biscuits, face creams, perfumes, clothes and CD players to bunches of beautiful flowers. I was even sent a most precious gift of a certificate making me the adoptive mother of an endangered orang-utan called Mindow, who lives in an Indonesian forest. I sat in my cell each afternoon reading all the letters, regardless of how ill or blue I felt. They usually made me smile, though I got the odd sick one, like the one that read: ‘You are a liar, a common whore, slut, tart and an actress who loves the camera.’ I tried not to let it upset me but, in my fragile state, it did. I lived in the hope that one day a letter might be my key to getting out of here, revealing the secrets of who did this.

  I also got daily visits from strangers, often up to twenty people a day. The guards freely let everyone through the front door, as ‘Schapelle tourism’ was becoming a very lucrative business for them. They hit people for the equivalent of $20 to visit instead of the usual ninety cents. For small groups, they were charging around $100 – all the cash just filling up their pockets. The prisoners working as hosts to hand out drinks and straw mats also boosted their prices from $1 to anything up to $20. I couldn’t believe how much people were paying.

  I was very grateful for so much public support, and I tried to see everyone. But at the same time it was draining, speaking to so many strangers every day, answering the same questions over and over again. I was tired and running out of energy. Most people I felt were genuine, but some came just to gawp at me, and they always made me feel like an animal at the zoo. Some would even whisper about me as though I couldn’t hear or wasn’t there. But generally the huge swell of public support was uplifting and the single positive thing that came from the media mania.

  I had a visit from some more guys from the Darwin Football Club. They’re coming to see me on Friday, too – might ask them to take their shirts off!!

  Diary entry, 22 March 2005

  That was my twisted week before I returned to the glare of lights, cameras and action in the chaotic courtroom.

  Court tomorrow. I’m scared, I’m tired. I’ve got to get out of here. I’m here, I’m alive, but I’m just surviving. I’m locked into this compound, our own little society, I can’t get out, I’m just here – and it draws all your strength, feels like the strength has to go somewhere. And it feels like it’s drawn out and just keeps building up the strength of those bloody cement walls and green cage bars. I can’t get out.

  Diary entry, 23 March 2005

  Could not sleep last night as the court hearings come closer to the end. I’m so frightened of the final outcome. All the girls in my cell woke at 12 midnight and all prayed for me, which made me cry even more – was really nice of them.

  Diary entry, 24 March 2005

  The morning before court, I made the unusual effort to wash my hair. Collecting the dirty cold water from the dribbling tap, then ladling it over my head in a stinky bathroom as girls with diarrhoea screamed to use it was not my idea of a good time. But I’d been to court week after week with the same greasy, untouched bun, and Merc was starting to get mad at me.

  So with clean hair and layers of obsessively applied make-up, I went out to meet Ron and criminologist Professor Paul Wilson, who was giving character evidence on me in court. We talked for about fifteen minutes before I was led off to be handcuffed. I was relieved to find I was going to court with just one other prisoner, as thirty-three of us had been squeezed into the sardine bus the week before. He was a university student who’d burnt a flag of the Indonesian president’s face, so the police were anticipating a lot of media for us both.

  The crazy mobbing at court each week now made me fear for my life. I was terrified. Anyone could come in close, a member of a drug g
ang or a crazy person, and stab me or shoot me. It would be easy to slip a knife in my side, unseen in the anarchy. They’d just mingle back into the crowd safely undetected, bringing this drugs case to an end.

  The media scrum was becoming more desperate, more grasping, more clawing – swooping and banging me around from the second I put a foot on the ground. Every single time I was pulled through the mob, I feared I would be killed. I was a sitting duck, an easy target. That day was the worst yet. They were all screaming, yelling, pushing and fighting to get their shots. I squealed in agony as someone stomped on my foot, and winced in pain as the handcuffs sliced my wrists.

  It was mayhem inside the court, too. It was packed full of reporters, cameramen and cameras, all eyes and lenses pointed at me. I was up last, but the judge told me to sit in the hot seat for the first few minutes, giving the photographers a chance to get their shots. They leapt around like crazed cats. It was unbelievable. It was humiliating and embarrassing. I was fighting for my life, yet I was made to sit there like a trained monkey at show time. I hated it. I tried to block it out, just kept looking ahead, praying and imagining God’s heart. Finally, I was told to sit with my lawyers. I walked across the court biting my lip, trying desperately not to cry.

  Baggage handler Scott Speed was first up, telling the judges that airport security in Brisbane was so slack it didn’t even have a baggage X-ray machine for checked-in bags. It shocked me, as I knew my lawyers had battled for weeks to get an answer on whether Brisbane airport had an X-ray of my bag. Why hadn’t they just said ‘No’ instantly?

  He also testified that airport staff had been sacked for failing drugs tests and for rummaging through passengers’ luggage, and that it was possible for someone to insert drugs into a bag after check-in. He said that in 95 per cent of cases a baggage handler would notice a boogie-board bag weighing more than the regulation three kilograms and would ask the passenger to open it.