No More Tomorrows

by Corby, Schapelle

  She finally did, but only after we had a lengthy argument.

  Lily also asked me if I’d do an interview with a TV reporter from Jakarta. Merc and I discussed it and decided ‘no’. It might not hurt my case, but it wouldn’t help it. So why bother? I was sick of being exploited. It would also probably cause me problems with the prison boss. But Lily still tried to persuade me.

  ‘No! Lily, you know I’ll get in trouble.’ She kept pushing. ‘No! Lily, please!’

  She came in with the reporter a few days later, regardless. My wishes didn’t count. She started again: ‘Schapelle . . . just a quick interview . . .’ ‘No.’ They both pushed. ‘No.’ I was relieved when they finally let it go.

  As we walked out of the prison office to sit outside in the visit area, this reporter walked right behind me. When we sat down, I peeled off my dark-blue prison-issue T-shirt as I usually did at visits. Then my instincts kicked in. I started to tremble. Panic ripped through me. It was happening again. He was holding a small leather clutch bag awkwardly near the ground. I looked closely. I saw it. My hands flew to cover up the small lens peephole in his bag. I screamed, ‘Noooo! Turn it off !’ as I waved my hands frantically in front of the bag. I could trust no one.

  The journalist calmly turned to give Lily a questioning look. She nodded. He put the bag down. He didn’t apologise. Lily just started pushing me once more. ‘Come on, Schapelle, I do everything for you!’ She even got Vasu on the phone to try to bully me into it.

  ‘Look at all we do for you, Schapelle!’

  I was fuming. I refused to be bullied. ‘No!’ He left without his interview.

  Lily and Vasu were furious. They came in a few days after the incident, telling me off for embarrassing Lily in front of a television journalist. Vasu blasted me for upsetting Lily. It was unbelievable. Who the hell were these people?

  Later, I saw the story on Indonesian television. It had an interview with Lily and shots of me walking, peeling off my blue T-shirt and then frantically waving my hands over the lens. My lawyer had conspired with him, despite the fact that I’d repeatedly said no, despite knowing how deeply traumatised I was by sneaky cameras, and despite the little detail of her being my lawyer, whom I was trusting with my life.

  The betrayals were non-stop. The invasion of me was at its worst. I’d developed a sixth sense for hidden cameras. I was very aware, always alert, always looking out. I saw them everywhere. It wasn’t paranoia – everyone was filling their pockets. I saw disposable cameras and camera phones constantly, as guards, prisoners and visitors weren’t exactly professional paparazzi, expert at hiding in bushes with longlenses. Usually, they were clumsy and obvious. Girls would blatantly point their camera phones at me. I’d test it by moving and the phone would always move with me. Or a group of male guards would stand with disposable cameras outside the church, all ready to snap me when I came outside. ‘No! You’re not allowed to use cameras in here. No!’ I usually screamed at them before running off in tears.

  But the media were hungry and always looking for willing amateurs. A male prisoner told me a journalist had offered him a wad of cash and a disposable camera to get photos of me throughout my day. He refused. He had a heart.

  The irony was that every time a sneaky photo of me was in the news, I’d cop the flak. I was regularly called to the boss’s office to get yelled at for a picture of me in the press. Twice I had to write apology letters, even though I’d tell him in tears, ‘It’s your guards taking the photos; it’s the people your guards let in here taking the photos. It’s not my fault!’

  One of the most devious and sinister ways of getting shots of me was with ‘the Bible camera’. Christians would visit the prison church with a box crafted to look like a Bible with a little camera inside. It was so hypocritical. But nothing surprised me. I was so super-sensitive to sneaky cameras that I’d instantly sniff them out. I’d see a Bible pointed at me with a little peephole. I’d move seats. The Bible would follow me. These people weren’t journalists posing as Christians; they were devious Christians keen to fill up their pockets with fast cash. I often ran out of the church, shaking and in tears.

  But in jail, the cameras weren’t always hidden. Sometimes they were smack-bang in my face. Kerobokan was cashing in and becoming Bali’s busiest film lot. Camera crews were endlessly setting up for yet another media stunt, like the beauty-school course and the yoga course. I went gleefully to the first day of both but turned around and walked straight out as soon as I saw cameras. Unsurprisingly, both courses were cancelled instantly.

  On Hotel K’s birthday, the Governor of Bali and all his men came through with a local TV crew. He made a beeline to my cell with his entourage. He shook my hand for the cameras, patted me on the back and said, ‘You go home!’

  ‘Soon?’ I asked.

  He smiled and walked off. He had his shots. It was all just another media stunt, with the footage broadcast on both Australian and Balinese TV that night. After he walked away, the others shook my hand, two women indiscreetly whispering to each other: ‘Oh, she’s small, young and pretty. On TV she looks big and old!’ What did they think I was . . . a Madam Tussaud’s waxwork dummy?

  No one could have cared less about my feelings. I felt that no one saw me as a person with a heart. I was just a monkey. Sometimes I’d be sitting in my cell reading a book when a group of Indonesian university students would turn up and walk into my cell, just gawping at me. The visitors’ hall was always swarming with Westerners trying to catch a glimpse of me or meet me. I started refusing to come out of my block to visits with strangers, as I was so sick of being stared at like a freak. I was also too exhausted to keep talking to twenty strangers a day. Local drivers would often bring in vanloads of tourists. It was bizarre. This was a notorious maximum-security prison, crammed with murderers, paedophiles and terrorists, yet Australian tourists would arrive in their beachwear with their babies and little kids. This was a jail, not a must-see tourist hot spot! But Hotel K had an open-door policy: anyone could come in to see its most popular wax dummy. The guards were raking in more money in a day than they were paid in a year. It was raining rupiah.

  I had to get out of this hellhole, but my hopes were further dashed when I realised I wouldn’t get any real help from the Australian Government. I was shattered when the Australian consul came to see me a week before the verdict, bringing a copy of the supposedly crucial letter about the airport crime. I’d been pinning my hopes on it. It was useless.

  Following a joint investigation, which has been conducted over the last six months, the Australian Federal Police and the NSW Police have dismantled a Sydney-based syndicate involved in the trafficking of drugs. Police are currently investigating a number of baggage handlers who work at Sydney International Airport about these drug trafficking activities. The Police believe these baggage handlers were on duty on 8 October 2004, when a shipment of drugs was brought into Sydney International Airport.

  Rod Smith, DFAT, 13 May 2005

  What could I do but sit and cry? The letter was nothing. I fought with myself not to rip it to shreds. Instead I folded it back up and placed it back inside Brent’s shirt pocket. It did not mention my name; it was not addressed to the judges, instead addressed to Lily, my lawyer, and it even spelt her name incorrectly. It was not written by John Howard but someone else. How would the judges even acknowledge or give it a twice-over when they’d had no idea who this person is who wrote it . . . what a waste of paper. John Howard . . . what a lame Joe Blow to have in charge of our country.

  Diary entry, 19 May 2005

  Everything was out of my control. The pressures were relentless. My world was spinning fast. I kept talking to God, kept praying endlessly. But even praying didn’t calm me; I just cried hysterically to God. Everyone wanted a piece of me: staring, stalking, staking me out and harassing me and harassing my family. Photographers were hanging outside my little sister’s school, waiting at James’s football games, waiting outside Mum and Dad’s houses. It was w
orst for Merc. She had reporters following her in the street and was too scared to go out for dinner in case she got criticised for enjoying herself while her sister rotted in prison.

  But Ron and Robin kept whipping up the media, telling me that the Australian opinion polls were now at 92 per cent in my favour. They were excited. The media were going ballistic. They were interviewed on morning shows, afternoon shows, on radio, newspapers, many times every day, giving the media a good thrashing. They were always coming up with ways to get more exposure, saying any publicity was good publicity.

  A week before my verdict, Ron rang Merc to ask her all about our brother Clinton, who was in jail in Queensland. It was no state secret. Merc had told Ron and Robin about him in their first meeting, when she was asked if there was anything they should know. Vasu and Lily had also known about him since day one, and a few journalists knew, but incredibly it hadn’t hit the press so far. But Ron was suddenly asking for details. ‘What’s his surname? Which prison is he in? When will he be released?’

  A couple of days later, Clinton’s story hit the press.

  Six weeks before Ms Corby landed in Bali’s Ngurah Rai Airport with 4.1 kg of marijuana in her body board bag, her half-brother Clinton Rose was locked up in a Queensland jail. Rose will get out in about four months while Ms Corby will find out in six days whether a Bali court decides to accept the prosecution’s recommendation of a life sentence – or worse – or set her free as an unwitting drug mule.

  The Australian, 21 May 2005

  Ron was in a frenzy about the media, trying desperately to tie up last-minute deals and make some cash. He still wanted me to write songs, write a diary, do interviews. I felt like I owed him. I still naively believed that he was putting a lot of money towards my defence, even though I was hearing that actually he wasn’t. I could also feel the friction between Ron and my family building daily. Merc was edgy around him. But he kept telling me he was paying for everything and spending so much money. All he talked about was money.

  He was also trying to persuade me to write diary notes on the final four days leading up to the verdict. He’d already clinched a deal with New Idea. He pushed and pushed me: ‘Just try, Schapelle. Just do it.’ I couldn’t. I was too stressed. He started harassing Merc. ‘She’s not up to it, Ron!’ she’d tell him. He kept pushing right up until the day of the verdict.

  Ron was also pushing Merc about doing a book. He’d been pushing her for weeks to sign a deal, but Merc and Mum both felt it wasn’t the right time. Ron was furious.

  ‘You’re making a big mistake! You’ll be sorry! You’ll regret it!’ he yelled at them in a three-way phone call. He angrily told them how much work he’d put into getting a deal.

  Mum got upset and angry, too. It was the last thing on her mind, as all she wanted was her baby safely home. ‘No, Ron! No!’ The phone call abruptly ended.

  With Ron trying to stitch up deals all over town, Merc was receiving a lot of questions from journalists about whether she had a contract with him, but Ron kept telling her to lie. He didn’t want the truth known. She had to keep spinning the ‘Nothing’s signed, there is no contract’ line. She was stressed. She felt sick.

  She couldn’t see why the contracts had to be kept secret, but Ron was insistent and she didn’t have the energy to fight him. Despite Merc lying for him to protect his shining white-knight image, it was tarnished anyway. He was copping a lot of negative publicity. He’d been exposed as an ex-bankrupt who’d owed his creditors big bucks. He was in crisis control. Robin told Merc to write a press statement saying how great Ron was. He dictated it to her on the phone.

  Please never underestimate what Ron Bakir has done for Schapelle and our family. He has not stopped fighting for Schapelle and has been instrumental in bringing up the problems in Australia that directly relate to her case. He’s helped make Australia safer.

  Mercedes Corby press release, 18 May 2005

  Just two days before the verdict, Ron and Robin brought a radio-journalist friend in with them. It was not an interview, I was assured. ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Yes, he just wants to meet you.’ So I sat talking with Ron, Robin and their journalist friend for about twenty minutes. He then walked out of Kerobokan, rang his radio station and relayed our conversation on air, recounting how he’d just been in to see me.

  The day before I lost my life, panic was ripping through me, I was crying non-stop, I threw up constantly. My body hurt from stress and tension and my mind was spinning with thoughts . . . Will I go home? Will the judges see I didn’t do this? Will I lose my life and be stuck in this hellhole for ever?

  I don’t care how long I have to stay in this place, I will not grow old here. I will not have any birthdays; I will stay 27 until the day I’m released.

  Diary entry, 21 May 2005

  Ron and Robin were still telling me constantly, ‘Schapelle, you’re going home. You’ll be acquitted! You’re going home, Schapelle!’ They were so sure, so enthusiastic. But Merc would always just sit there looking totally drained and exasperated, telling me, ‘Schapelle, you might get three years or even five years.’ She was scared about how hard I’d crash if I did get time and hadn’t been prepared. She’d been fighting with Ron and Robin endlessly, asking them not to pump me up with false hopes. But they kept it up right until verdict day.

  Mr Tampoe said Ms Corby and the defence team were confident of her acquittal. ‘She’s certainly very optimistic about the result which will happen on Friday,’ he said.

  But her sister Mercedes told The Bulletin that she and their mother, Rosleigh, had prepared Schapelle for the worst as well.

  Gold Coast Bulletin, 24 May 2005

  I’d heard that the chief judge had never found anyone ‘not guilty’ in the 500 or so drug cases he’d heard, but I was clinging to hope. Somehow I started to convince myself that I’d be OK, I’d go home, the judge might not find me not guilty but he’d sentence me to time already served and I’d go home with my mum. There was no other way it could go. God wouldn’t let this happen to me, not to an innocent person. I couldn’t stay locked in hell for something I didn’t do. I’d finally wake from this nightmare. Innocent people did not get locked up.

  I must stay focused this week. All the defence is over; nothing more humanly possible can be done. I pray for the miracle of the heavenly kingdom to take power and lead the way of what He wants to happen. My heart is open to Him. I trust in Him to make my faith stronger. I need a stronger, deeper faith to come into me leading up to the 27th. I feel my faith becoming stronger, and each hour I’m praying a lot, I’m not questioning the word of the Bible as much as I had been. I’m accepting and truly believing without the doubt and criticism that I used to have.

  Diary entry, 22 May 2005

  16

  The Verdict

  AS I SAT ON MY MATTRESS IN MY LITTLE CAGE, I STARTED to picture life beyond these white walls of hell. For the first time, I could see my house on the coast, streets, shops, restaurants, friends, sunsets and stars. It was all in sharp focus. I could see myself having a beer on the beach or lying on the couch watching TV or shopping with my friends. I hadn’t been able to recall anything of home for seven months, but in the days before the verdict, familiar little scenes kept popping into my head. I didn’t shut them down. I let myself enjoy them, thinking maybe it was a good sign. Maybe my dark days were almost over. Or was I just torturing myself? Whenever I came back from fantasising, reality was as perverse as ever.

  The flies are back, as unbearable as before. This time another animal problem: worms, nice big, juicy worms, everywhere – in the toilet, crawling on the floor, up where we sleep – well, six of us sleep up on the ledge while another two, Aje and Putu, are on the floor. Putu hates sleeping next to Aje, as Aje is a lesbian and tries to touch her while she’s sleeping. Aje also masturbates a lot in her sleep. We throw cups of water on her! Anyway, Putu has an abnormal fear of worms. Worm phobia! She’s quite a big girl – we’ve nicknamed her ‘Giant’.

  Yesterday
she became so tired of listening to Sonia’s voice, which is mostly high-pitched yelling all day, then loud singing until the early hours of the morning, that she calmly walked over to Sonia, held her up by the neck, told her to shut up, walked back into the cell, sat down and continued eating her breakfast. But the irony is she then spent most of today huddled up in the corner of the cell crying, scared of the worms. We other girls have to keep sweeping and disinfecting the floors every couple of hours.

  Putu can’t shower tonight; the toilet floor is covered in the worms. We’re not sure where they’re all coming from. I know the septic tank is full. Our cell stinks and takes so much water to flush, and there are often presents left too. So gross! Look on the bright side; this is Saturday 21 May and it could possibly be my last weekend in this zoo!

  Diary entry, 21 May 2005

  The night before my verdict, I really believed it would be my last locked up in this vile, worm-infested cage. It felt like the end of a bad school camp as I sat talking to the girls in my cell. We were all getting excited and upbeat about me going home, reflecting on some of the crazy things we’d seen and done together, things that weren’t funny at the time but that we could look back on and speak of with a smile. We talked about the time each girl checked into Hotel K and was sent to share a cell with ‘Schapelle Corby’. Wetalked about some fights I’d had, and they all told me they could see some good changes in my personality. Maybe that was why God had put me here. All these girls had helped me to grow and to become more patient.

  Then I got ready to go home. I put all the things I wanted to keep in a little pile, like my Bible, some clothes, my diary, photos and a knitted doll I’d been sent. I told the girls everything else was theirs to share, which made them even keener for me to go home. Then I prayed. I prayed for the judges, the prosecutors, my lawyers and my family. I prayed to be freed. I also prayed that, if it wasn’t God’s will that I walked free tomorrow, He would give my family and me the strength to endure the pain and frustration and to remain calm under pressure, to remain calm, dignified and strong in the chaos around us, and for the strength to keep going on with an open heart, not holding hatred or bitterness.