No More Tomorrows

by Corby, Schapelle

  Just after the next witness sat down in the hot seat, I was taken by surprise when the judge asked me to stand up. I was overcome with a sense of stage fright, as all eyes turned to me, scrutinising me.

  The judge then asked Professor Wilson, ‘Is this the face of a criminal?’ I felt so uncomfortable, so awkward, like my arms and hands were too big for my body. They dangled awkwardly by my sides. Standing in front of all those people, all staring, while someone analysed my character, was awful. I thought, How could this person I just met for fifteen minutes this morning possibly know what kind of person I am? But this was all we had to resort to; we didn’t have anything else.

  ‘Your honour, I cannot look at her face alone. I can listen to her answer my questions, which I have done. I can look at her face and I can speak to people who know her well. Using all of that information, I can honestly say that she did not know there were drugs in her bag.’

  He told the court that I didn’t fit the profile of a drug mule and I should be allowed to go home. The whole court was clapping, and Lily and I were both crying. He also said I was neither a genius nor dumb, but of average intelligence. Mum, Merc and I all had a bit of a laugh about that.

  During the lunch break, I was told that John Ford, the Melbourne prisoner, would be allowed to enter Indonesia to give evidence in my case. My heart skipped a beat.

  After the break, I was on the stand. I answered all the questions as best as I could remember. That’s all I can do. I’m facing a possible firing squad. I’m scared shitless, out of my head, constant tears flowing. The best I can do is to tell the truth; that’s all. And try to stay in control of myself. I thought I was going to lose it when the judge asked me to stand and touch my boogie board. I couldn’t do it, couldn’t touch it, literally thought I was either going to faint or vomit. I told the judge, ‘No! I won’t touch it.’ He asked why. So I told him, ‘Because this thing is destroying my life. If I didn’t boogie-board, I would not be here today! Simple as that!’

  Diary entry, 24 March 2005

  But proving I didn’t do it wasn’t simple. When the judge asked me if I had any proof that I didn’t put the plastic bag inside my boogie-board bag, what could I say? What proof did I have? I wanted to say that, no, I don’t have any proof simply because no one had done their job properly. They touched the bags and contaminated evidence. They did not fingerprint the bags, did not weigh all the bags, did not DNA-test the marijuana, did not access security camera vision at the airport and did not investigate where I might sell the drugs.

  In Australia, the airports did not give us any security-camera vision either, despite there being hundreds of cameras at both airports. Though Qantas did admit to destroying some footage, they did not give us baggage X-rays or figures for individual baggage weight. So I’d been screwed at both ends, and now all I had was my word. There was so much I wanted to say but couldn’t.

  Instead, I said: ‘I have never been involved with drugs. I don’t like drugs. They are not my drugs. I wouldn’t even know where to get drugs from. I surrendered my luggage to go on a holiday. I surrendered it at the airport. I had nothing to do with it after that.’

  ‘So if you did not put the plastic bag inside your boogie-board bag and you are not the owner of the bag,’ the judge replied, ‘what is your alibi? Why and how is that plastic bag in your bag now?’

  ‘That’s what we are here to try to find out. I have many theories in my head. It has been six months now. I am still here. We need to find who put it there. There is nothing I can say to prove to you that I didn’t do it. But I did not do it. It is not mine. I wouldn’t threaten my life – I love my family, I love everybody. I would not jeopardise my life like this.’

  My family was suffering so deeply, and me expressing my love for them in a public courtroom was heartbreaking. I was biting my lip, trying to hold back my tears, but I couldn’t. I loved them all so much. I was trying my best, pouring out my heart, laying myself bare. I so desperately wanted the judges to believe me. I needed these judges to see I was innocent and make it right. I was fighting so hard – for my life.

  It was so painful, so hot and so hard to focus with all the microphones and cameras pointed at me. I tried hard to ignore them, but it was physically impossible. The microphones were so close I’d hit them with my hands whenever I spoke, and cameras went off like machine-gun fire whenever I moved a fraction. If I wiped away a tear or moved my leg, the cameras would fire. It was disruptive and embarrassing. So I was trying not to move, trying to sit as still as a statue so I didn’t set off another round of rapid-fire click-click-click-click. Didn’t they get it? My life was on the line – couldn’t they show a little respect?

  It was chaos. There were at least thirty people around the walls and fifteen more sprawled across the floor between me and the judges. They were squatting under the judges’ bench, lying on the floor, hanging through the windows and even standing behind the judges and filming between their heads. One guy held a long boom microphone right across the middle of the courtroom, losing control of it at one point and hitting the ceiling fan. The judge didn’t seem to mind any of it. His only rule was that cameras and mikes were held below my face so he could see it – or so all photographers could get a clear shot!

  During the long hot hours, I sometimes looked around in a daze, not really acknowledging or seeing anything but blurry shadows. Other times I’d look around and see it all in sharp focus, occasionally even noticing a person on the ground looking really concerned for me and trying to think if I’d seen his photo on top of a little story he’d written about me. But most of the time I was fighting to focus on what was being said, always straining to hear anything in the noisy courtroom.

  After all the questioning by the judges, my defence and the prosecutors, the judge took me by complete surprise, asking me, ‘This is your last chance to speak. Is there anything you would like to say?’

  I was not expecting it, I was so nervous, I didn’t know what to say other than the obvious ‘Please let me go home.’ Then words started to slowly come out.

  ‘I love my family. I wanted a holiday. I don’t like drugs, and I know there are big penalties in Indonesia and all over the world if you have drugs. I would never, never jeopardise my life in this situation, and my family’s health and everyone that loves me, to do something like this. I love Bali, I love Indonesia. I respect this country. I don’t know how this has happened or why this has happened to me.’

  Then he told me to address the prosecutor – and what a cold, nasty face he had. He tried to be so intimidating and it worked. I told him pretty much the same thing.

  ‘Please find it in your heart to get all the facts, all the evidence together, and use your own heart and your mind and the evidence that we don’t have, to find it in your heart to maybe bring justice to the right people. You have to use your own judgement. I did not do it; please use your own character judgement, please. Please use all your evidence and let me go home. It has been six months. Please!’

  Merc and Mum cried. Lily cried. And the woman prosecutor was crying. I then addressed the judges again, pleading with them to let me go home. The reporters, camera guys and pretty much all the people I could see in the courthouse looked emotional. Erwin then asked the judges if it were possible for bail. It was denied.

  There was a lot of talk and tears, and all of sudden I had this intense feeling that I was being declared innocent – that I was going home. And no one was telling me. Then the guard and prosecutors came and grabbed both arms and took me to the holding cell.

  Back in my cell at Hotel K, all the girls were waiting to hear about my day. They’d made nasi goreng as well.

  So relieved yesterday is over. Would definitely go down as one of the most intense days of my life so far. Never want to press ‘rewind’ to be there again.

  Diary entry, 25 March 2005

  Team Corby was ready to celebrate, with a seemingly successful day in court and the news that John Ford had received permission to
come to Bali and testify. They were sure they’d freed me now. I heard they spent the night after court throwing back shots and shouting ‘Free Schapelle!’ until early morning. The next night, they threw a party at Vasu’s beachfront home for the witnesses, the legal team, my family and a few journalists. Ron, Robin and Vasu stood poolside making passionate speeches, singing each other’s praises about how hard they’d worked and what a great job they’d done to set me free. Ron held up a glass, shouting, ‘Free Schapelle! Free Schapelle!’

  It was all very festive, with drinks flowing, food laid on, live music blaring and people dancing on the pool deck. Mum and Merc were trying to have a good time but felt very uncomfortable. I wasn’t free yet. Anything was still possible, and they couldn’t enjoy a party while I was still locked up in my filthy cage. They rarely even went out any more, as being at a party or restaurant upset them, making them think of me in my cage. Their hearts were sad. There would be nothing to celebrate until I was there, too. But they went to the party because they felt they should, and because they knew I wanted them to go and try to have some fun.

  But in the end, the night was a disaster. It wasn’t fun for anyone. As the party was in full swing, with Lily, Ron and Vasu all dancing wildly on the pool deck, Robin walked over to take the mike and sing a song. In an instant, he was nearly dead. He was flung off his feet and into the pool. The frayed microphone cord had dipped in a puddle and given him a big electric shock. He was being fried alive, jerking from shocks, unable to let go of the microphone that was sparking wildly in the water.

  Ron crouched down at the side of the pool, trying to grab his mate, but kept getting flung back whenever he touched him.

  Suddenly all the lights went out and the music stopped. Someone had turned off the electricity. Ron and Merc hauled Robin out of the pool and laid his lifeless body on the deck. It was dark and silent until terrified screams tore into the night. Robin looked dead.

  Ron started slapping him hard across the face, shouting, ‘Stay with us, mate, don’t leave us.’ He wasn’t breathing. Merc sprang into action, using her lifesaver training to turn him on his side, pull out his tongue to clear the airways and feel for a pulse. Ron began bouncing frantically hard up and down on his chest. Merc felt a faint pulse and started saying, ‘No, Ron! Ron, no. He’s got a pulse!’ – aware Ron could kill him by putting his heartbeat out.

  Ron was in complete panic. Merc started calmly explaining to him what she was doing. She put an ear to Robin’s mouth to listen for a breath. But in the next instant, they both reeled back sharply in fright as Robin’s eyes snapped wide open. Like a scene from The X-Files, his eyeballs were rolled right back in his head, giving him a deadly white-eyed stare. He was still unconscious, still in grave danger.

  People were screaming, the party atmosphere long gone. They decided to move him inside, to lay him on the couch away from the crowd. Ron kept yelling, ‘Stay with us, mate!’ as they carried him inside. Lily walked alongside, praying like a mad woman and crying hysterically. Merc pleaded with her to be quiet, to give him some space, aware it might send Robin into deeper shock when he woke up. But Lily refused to leave his side, crouching beside him on the couch, howling Muslim prayers and sobbing as they waited for him to wake up.

  He came to about twenty minutes later and within no time was walking around the party with a cigarette, saying, ‘Sorry about that!’ His eyes were glazed. An ambulance arrived a bit later and took him to hospital for a check-up. Everyone was saying Merc had saved his life.

  All Robin suffered was internal bruising and a very, very sore chest, probably as much from Ron’s clobbering as from the shock.

  I had a comparatively quiet weekend, just endlessly thinking about John Ford, who was flying in to give evidence that week. I knew I might be taking another white-knuckle ride on the roller-coaster, but I was starting to let myself get a little hopeful. Maybe Ron and Robin were right, maybe I really would go home soon.

  Yesterday Mr John Ford arrived and is now in Polda. I wonder if he’s in the same holding cell I was in. I’ll be going to court tomorrow, to listen for the first time to what happened. Tomorrow will be another that goes down with the most important of my life. I’m feeling very light-headed and numb.

  Diary entry, 28 March 2005

  I didn’t sleep the night before court, but I prayed almost non-stop. In the morning, I was on edge, clinging to hope, more fearful than ever as I anticipated what the day would bring. I knew if it went well today, it could spell my freedom.

  At court there were so many reporters – the most I’d ever seen. They were hounding me, I was completely surrounded, being pushed, shoved and pulled. My path was blocked, I couldn’t walk, I couldn’t see, my eyes were full of tears, and I certainly couldn’t think.

  I eventually got pushed into the holding cell. John Ford was already inside, sitting on the seat I usually used to hide from the reporters. I tried to thank him but couldn’t even get close as he had a Polda guard standing in front of him for protection.

  All I could do was cry. In an hour or so, I was going to find out how this had happened to me, whose fate I’d been dealt and why. John Ford was my best chance yet to get my life back. The darkness living in my heart might finally lift. It was chillingly scary to be on the edge of this moment. I was shaking, sobbing, I had to try to calm myself down. I usually did that by singing ‘You Raise Me Up’ in my head, but today it wasn’t working. So I went into the gross toilet and sang aloud, very loud. It worked, although I did have to sing quite a lot that day.

  At around midday, we were all called into court – me first. I sat on the side with my lawyers and then watched as John Ford entered, looking very clean-cut, dressed in black slacks, white collar and a tie. This was the first time I could actually look at him.

  After so many months of endlessly twisting my brain to figure out how the drugs had got into my bag, it was incredible to sit there listening to Ford’s testimony. It really made sense, it added up. He told the court he’d heard a conversation between two prisoners about my bag being used to move drugs through domestic airports. These men were apparently even laughing at the misfortune of the guy who actually lost his marijuana and at the innocent person – me – who was now facing death by firing squad. Anger rippled through my body.

  What a day! Coming back to Kerobokan, getting handcuffed, the officer said sorry for having to do this to me. Was up all night praying for the protection of Mr Ford and his family.

  Diary entry, 29 March 2005

  What loomed next was the frightening court day where the prosecutors would make their demand to the judges. It was the end of my sixth month of living this hellish nightmare. It was six months since I’d slept in a proper bed, eaten at a table, used a Western-style toilet, had a running shower or washed my hair in clean warm water. I’d been in Bali for six months and still hadn’t seen a beach. I was wondering how much this hellhole had changed me and how easily I’d slip back into my life, back into the real world. I prayed that I’d soon find out.

  I’d got my stomach ache back at around 11 a.m. and by the time of my afternoon visit I was in great pain and also vomiting. We went and sat inside, near the office, where it was a little dark. The darkness made me even sicker, and I realised I haven’t been in darkness for over six months. I had to leave the room twice out of fear and it literally made me sick. I hate this place.

  Locked in our cage early, all girls are going crazy – waiting for a new prisoner to enter. She’s been kept at Polda and today is being moved to Kerobokan. She’s an informer, has many enemies here. She’s put five girls in here, including one that was only yesterday sentenced to five years. Also put around thirty males in here.

  Diary entry, 31 March 2005

  14

  Media Frenzy

  Another month starting. Please, judges, listen and do the right thing; do what is right. Please. I cannot take this place any more.

  Woke around 4 a.m. to girls yelling, reminding the new girl that she’ll
be bashed. Our cells were opened at 7.30 a.m., the girls attacked her, then the guards sent the girl to the TV room. Soon after, Sonia followed . . . the guards also followed . . . the girl jumped towards Sonia. The girl had scissors hidden down the front of her pants. Sonia and the girl were then taken to the office, but not before the girl started attacking a woman guard. We were all locked up in our cells again at 8.45 a.m.

  At the office, the new girl told the guards that some girls have mobiles, that we have gas camping stoves and that she’s going to get a knife and use it. So every cell was checked, everything of danger was taken, the stoves – we can’t cook any more, boil water for coffee, noodles: now we only have the rice that comes around in the cart. Thank God I have friends and family here to look after me. The guards took all the spoons, the handles off the buckets, the pots and pans, and of course all the phones and drugs. They also took any money they could find, except the money from my room – they didn’t pocket that. We were let out of our cage at 2 p.m. When will all this be over?

  Diary entry, 1 April 2005

  I WANTED TO WAKE UP FROM THIS NIGHTMARE. MY HEART was hurting. I was so tired, so scared, so alone. I had no one to turn to, no one to talk to. Everything I did, everything I said, was leaked to the press. Any way I turned, people were taking photos of me, selling stories about me. If I simply said ‘I didn’t sleep well last night’, it was printed. Prisoners, guards, doctors, lawyers, church people, all trying to fill their pockets, all trying to take a ride on Schapelle. I could trust no one but my family, and they were all hurting too much for me to burden them with any more. I had to rely on myself. It was lonely.