I slept well. In the morning, I felt calm, not vomiting and crying like usual before court, as I got ready to face the day. After showering with my bucket of cold water, I sat wrapped in a towel on my bed while one of the girls put my hair in a bunand I did my make-up, the other girls all sitting around watching. The air was filled with excitement. I dressed in my new outfit that Mum had bought me, and my new pink heels. I filled up the little knitted bag one of the girls had made as a farewell gift with lip gloss, hanky and anything worthy of stealing, put on my Hail Mary pendant necklace, said a prayer and was ready. The girls gave me hugs and wished me good luck. As I stepped outside, more girls came up to give me hugs and best wishes before the guards came to collect me.
I felt a little numb and light-headed but good as we walked through the prison grounds, all quiet apart from the occasional prisoner or guard yelling out ‘Good luck, Corby!’ and giving me a wave. I waved back, thinking how much this walk had terrified me seven months before. Now it was so familiar: I’d walked it hundreds of times, back and forth at least twice a day to visits. It was the only walking I did. But I felt sure I wouldn’t ever walk this way again as I was taken into the office to get fingerprinted and handcuffed. Even the guards were smiling and wishing me good luck. I was smiling, too. Hotel K seemed like a friendly environment for a change.
I was led back outside to the iron-fenced path to wait for the police car, relieved to find out it was picking me up inside the prison. This special door-to-door treatment was only used in extreme cases. It meant we’d avoid the maniacal media mob at the front door, speeding off before they could even shout ‘Schapelle, how do you feel?’
I stood waiting in my pretty pink heels, pink slacks, black blouse, hair up in a bun and make-up done, surrounded by six or so larger-than-life Indonesian military men all heavily armed with machine guns. Behind me, Amrozi and Samudra were staring out from separate tiny windows of the isolation tower. It gave me chills. All the guards were hovering, the occasional male prisoner walking past, pointing. Female guards were hassling me for my heels and slacks. ‘I want those when you come back. Gimme those,’ they screeched, pointing at my shoes.
I was quite calm but occasionally swept by a wave of anxiety. I’d breathe deeply and focus on my breath, realising I’d been forgetting to breathe. Then I’d say a little prayer: Lord, I know you’re with me. Lord, fill me with your holy spirit, set me free to be all you’ve created me to be. Amen. I was constantly using this little ritual to help pull me through my darkest moments.
We drove out through an obscure side gate usually reserved for rubbish trucks, but it was anything but a stealthy escape. The photographers and reporters clamouring at the front door saw us, turning sharply towards our screaming sirens. I had to laugh at the looks on their bewildered faces. They were dumbfounded. Their jaws dropped as it sank in they’d missed their shots. They’d been duped. For once, they didn’t have the jump on me. Almost in slow motion they started pointing at the car and running after it. But it was futile. They were too late. As we sped off, they were chasing clouds of dust. Even the guards and prosecutors had a bit of a laugh as we watched them vanish into the distance. It was the only light moment in a dark, dark day.
We hurtled through the traffic at top speed with sirens blaring and a trail of police jeeps escorting me, Schapelle Corby, to my most horrific day ever. I sat squeezed between the prosecutor and the men with machine guns. It was like a scene from The Godfather. They were all very busy talking on their mobile phones. I just sat quietly, praying, breathing and then praying some more. I was full of naive hope, but felt occasional twinges of doubt in my heart. When the prosecutor finished a call, I turned and asked, ‘Will I be going home today?’ He smiled but didn’t say a word. I had no idea how to take that.
There was a weird calm inside the car. But as soon as we arrived, everything spun into fast motion. Doors flew open, guards leapt out yelling and shouting as people charged towards the car. Within seconds, people were leaning, banging, pushing and crushing around it. I sat frozen in the back seat, the windows filling with cameras, lenses and faces. People were screaming, ‘Schapelle, Schapelle, Schapelle!’ Swarming dark figures were moving fast and frenzied. It was terrifying. How the hell had my life come to this? I was suddenly grabbed by the arms and pulled from the car. My feet didn’t touch the ground as two guards gripped me tightly at the elbows, lifting me, carrying me through the seething crowd. It was all happening very quickly.
I was surrounded by at least twenty security guards, their sheer force moving us through the ferocious pack. I couldn’t breathe. I was numb, scared, disorientated. It was all a blur. I didn’t know where I was but could tell I was being taken on a different path from my usual one. There were people everywhere, so many people. It was crazy, madness. We came to a metal detector, like those they have at airports. We barely slowed. I was whisked through, swiftly, smoothly, my feet still not touching the ground, and then through many, many more people. I wasn’t thinking, my mind was blank, we were moving so fast. My heart was pounding, my pulse racing, my body shaking furiously as the guards kept pushing me through the crushing mob. Then, everything stopped.
I was suddenly standing alone in the courtroom doorway, the guards gone from my sides. It must have been noisy, because it was suddenly still, quiet – but only for a split second. I stood up straight, looking at the sea of faces. The room was full of standing people. I felt self-conscious. They were all looking at me with what I thought were puzzled half-smiles. I looked down to see my blouse was pulled to one side, revealing half of my white bra. I was so embarrassed. I quickly fitted it on properly and got myself tidy. I looked over to where my family usually sat, to make sure they were there. They were, all giving me looks of love, compassion and anticipation, all beckoning me to come inside. Mum blew me a kiss. The guards were motioning me to come in and sit down. I took a couple of deep breaths and stepped in through the door.
Everything’s going to be OK now, I told myself as I walked towards the hot seat, trying to ignore the cameras, which were going ballistic. I was pleased to see Merc had remembered to put a folded towel down on the chair. I took my seat and slowly looked around, not really taking anything in. The whole place, every inch, was covered with people, all the windows darkened by camera lenses. People were clamouring noisily outside every door, every window, there were people absolutely everywhere, with all eyes on me.
Merc later told me the photographers and cameramen had been so desperately keen to get positions that they’d hired Balinese locals to camp outside the windows for at least three days and nights before my verdict, to keep their places. Tents were erected, satellite dishes installed, stages built for the live coverage. So much money had been spent to televise my fate. One dishonest but savvy Balinese guy took advantage of the media’s cash-splashing with a devious little plan to fill up his own pockets. He spread the news to all the Western media that they had to buy passes to enter the court area that day. Before anyone caught on to his naughty little scam, he’d vanished into the Balinese sunset with his stash of dirty cash.
My heart was thumping against my chest as I waited for my case to start. Lily and Eka hadn’t arrived yet. The judges hadn’t entered. I felt scared and alone, sitting in the middle of the room. Then Erwin walked over to sit with me and hold my hand. He was awestruck. He had a look of pure excitement on his face. He turned towards the windows in amazement. ‘Schapelle, this is all over the world! This is world news! It’s live.’ His eyes were shining. ‘Never have I ever experienced anything like this. Look at this – look, Schapelle!’
I didn’t share his enthusiasm. It might have been incredible to have so much interest, so many reporters, cameras and people, but it was my life on the line. If this didn’t go well, the bright lights and cameras would switch off and I’d be going back to a living hell. I knew it was going live on two or three TV stations in Australia, but I didn’t think about it. I didn’t care. It meant nothing. The only thing on my mind w
as going home and what the three judges would be saying to me very shortly.
I turned to Erwin and asked, ‘Do you think I can go home today?’
He answered, ‘I do my best for you. I only ever do my best for you, Schapelle.’
I thought, So maybe I will be going home today.
Erwin went back to his seat. I wasn’t really feeling anything. I was numb. I just kept glancing around, saying silent prayers with my eyes open, looking into the cameras but not registering that I was gazing down the lenses of live coverage. I turned to look for Merc. I saw her instantly as only Merc, Mum and Dad were in sharp focus, the rest was a blur. Merc’s face was glowing. She looked so beautiful, sitting there radiating all of her love and all of her hopes for me. I felt so proud she was my sister. She leant towards me across the wooden barrier between us, whispering, ‘Schapelle, do you feel it? Do you feel it?’ There was a peaceful energy. ‘It’s going to be OK, Schapelle! It’s over. It’s going to be OK.’ I smiled and nodded to her. I hoped so.
Lily finally arrived. She’d been stuck in traffic, or something. It didn’t surprise me that of all the people to show up late, it was my lawyer. At least she did show up. Vasu wasn’t coming at all. My case coordinator was apparently on more pressing, more urgent, more important business in Singapore. Eka rushed in late, sitting down next to me, saying, ‘Sorry, sorry.’ She’d been stuck on the toilet from nerves. I could sympathise. She went to get miked up for the live TV broadcast of her translations. Then the judges came in, sat down and ordered the start of the most harrowing, most gruelling, most torturous two hours of my life.
At first, I kept calm by saying my silent prayers, but I started losing it when the second assistant judge took over, shouting all the evidence against me into the microphone like a man who yells over the speaker at a horse race. ‘Witnesses at the airport have agreed with each other over testimony and found drugs were imported into Indonesia . . . It’s clear that importation of a prohibited drug did occur.’
Tears were pouring down my face, blurring my vision, camera flashes firing every time I went to wipe them. I shut my eyes, withdrew into a little prayer and took some breaths, the judge’s loud, angry voice blasting across the room and filling my heart with terror. ‘It’s true that Schapelle Corby has imported marijuana through the customs area at Ngurah Rai Airport, Bali . . . The drug problem is a danger to humanity, therefore it’s a very serious offence. Four-point-two kilograms have been imported.’
I felt my world crumbling around me as he shouted out all my witnesses’ testimonies that they weren’t accepting. They weren’t accepting anything: the testimonies of Ally and Katrina were unacceptable because they were my friends; James’ because he was my brother. The Brisbane airport worker, the criminologist, the prisoner John Ford – none of their evidence would hold up in court. I shook my head, feeling disgust, thinking, Yeah, right! This is bullshit. This trial is a sick joke. I turned to glare at the prosecutors. I felt pure hate. I death-stared them for quite a while just thinking, You bastards, you lied to me.
The judge kept shouting away my life. I closed my eyes and mumbled a prayer: ‘He says no and gives you something better, He says no and gives you something better.’ My body was shaking furiously.
I was sinking fast as Eka translated: ‘None of these testimonies could be used to support the case of the defendant: therefore, the defendant cannot avoid the responsibility for the presence of the marijuana inside the boogie-board bag.’
I couldn’t deal with it. I just couldn’t deal with it, I was losing it, panicking, my mind screaming: This is it. I’m over. I’m finished. I’m getting a really big sentence. I’m losing my life. I’m not going home today. They’re not accepting anything. My hands began to cramp up and became extremely painful. I was trying to move my fingers, but I couldn’t. I was hot, my heart pounding out of my chest, my eyes and face drenched with tears. No, no, no, I’m not here, this can’t be happening.
Eka continued: ‘The defendant is responsible for the narcotics.’
My teeth were chattering, chin quivering, I was biting on my bottom lip. My leg got the shakes, my heel was tap, tap, tapping on the floor. I was gasping for breath.
Eka stopped me. ‘Schapelle, are you OK?’
‘Yeah, I’m OK, I’m OK.’
‘Slow down, breathe.’
At that point I realised what my body was doing. I turned to look at Eka. She said, ‘Calm.’ OK, OK, calm. I closed my eyes, asked the Lord to fill me with his holy spirit to endure anything that would happen, to give me strength. I calmed down, caught my breath, remembered my family and hoped they hadn’t seen me from the back, with my shoulders convulsing as I gasped for air. I didn’t want them to know I was crying. I had to be strong. If I could keep it together today in court no matter what, then so could they. Please be stronger, please keep yourself together. You can do this, Schapelle. Breathe, breathe, breathe.
The judge was still shouting.
I pulled myself together, turned to Mum, Merc and Dad and gave them a smile, telling them, ‘I’m OK, I’m OK.’ I knew my family would have seen a little of me losing control, and I didn’t want them to be feeling how I was feeling. I didn’t want them to start crying for me. I turned back around to the judges, closed my eyes and urgently, desperately kept repeating over and over in my mind: God answers prayers three ways. One: He says yes and gives you what you want. Two: He says no and gives you something better. Three: He says wait and gives you the best in His own time. I kept saying it, over and over, until it was time for the verdict.
Suddenly, it was time.
The chief judge told me to stand. My mind was spinning. This is it, this is the time; this man holds my life in his hands. Please let me go home. I only wanted to have a holiday. I don’t know how all this has happened. Please let me go home. I stood up. Eka didn’t stand with me. All of a sudden I felt very alone. I held Eka’s hand, tried to pull her up. She didn’t get up. I told her to stand up; she didn’t. She wasn’t allowed to. I felt like fainting, I was so alone. I couldn’t feel my legs and thought I was going to fall. I tipped off balance for a second, but caught myself. I had to stand up. Come on, Schapelle, you can do this. If He says no, then you wait and get something better in His time.
The judge told Eka to stop translating from this moment on. Eka looked very nervous.
I’d been learning to count to twenty-seven in Indonesian after the prosecutors asked for twenty-seven years a few weeks earlier. I wanted to be able to count just in case I was sentenced to jail time, so I’d know how long the moment the judge said it, without it having to be translated for me. After all, this was my life and I wanted to know everything that was happening to it. I’d also learnt that the Indonesian word for ‘years’ was tahun.
The judge spoke very fast. I didn’t understand a word. I felt like the only person there. Everyone else had vanished. It was only me. Then he slowed and I heard, ‘Tahun dua pulu tahun.’ I’d been sentenced. I’ve been sentenced to time. All of a sudden I’d forgotten how to count. Tahun, tahun . . . does that mean ‘months’? Dua pulu . . . two. Oh, I’ve been sentenced to two months. I’m going home! I was excited. I gave Eka a big smile. Sitting on her chair with a long face, she shook her head. ‘What?’ I said.
I heard someone clap at the back of the courtroom. That had to be good. I turned. It wasn’t. It was a slightly fat Indonesian man in a black shirt that read ‘GRANAT’ – the Indonesian anti-narcotics group.
I turned back. ‘Dua pulu. What is it, Eka?’ She wasn’t allowed to speak. ‘Two. Two years? I’ve got two years? Oh, no.’ My heart sank.
‘No,’ Eka said, shaking her head. ‘No.’ I was panicking. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t figure it out, dua pula, dua, pula, dua, pula. I got my fingers out, trying desperately to count. What was going on? How could this happen? I didn’t do this. I should be going home. ‘Ten years? No, not ten years.’ Then the noise started.
There was a huge uproar in the courthouse. I heard Mum and
Merc yelling out. I turned around to them. ‘Mum, it’s OK, settle down, it’s OK.’ I was still unaware of my fate, desperate to figure it out, filled with panicked confusion. Everyone else knew it.
Then Eka said, ‘Twenty. Twenty years.’
I froze. A tremor ripped through my soul. I was in shock, motionless, stunned, disbelieving. My heart stopped. Time stopped. The room went hazy. Nothing felt real. I wasn’t there. It didn’t make sense. I didn’t understand. I shook my head, trying to clear the haze. I started breathing hard, blowing in and out. It slowly began to sink in. Then it hit. A cry tore from my soul. ‘Nooooooo!’ I hit my forehead. My life was over. I was finished. The room spun fast. The judge and guards were telling me to sit down.
‘No!’ I screamed. ‘I will not sit down.’ Eka tried to comfort me. I shoved her hand away. I felt fury. I didn’t want comforting. This was so unfair. I didn’t do it. I looked at the chief judge with a desperate urge to collapse to my knees and beg him, beg him to let me go home. But I didn’t. I just stood helplessly, looking at him, feeling like a terrified child.
The noise of Mum and Merc yelling to the judges brought me back. ‘You took the word of a liar! You judges will never sleep.’
No, Mum, you can’t, it won’t help. It can’t make things worse but it won’t help. I cried out, ‘Try to calm down, Mum. It’s OK – stop. Stop it, Mum.’
She was hurting deeply now. I’m her little baby and we thought I’d be going home with them and all the pain and trauma of the past seven heartbreaking, trying months would be over. Oh, Mum. My heart broke, seeing the pain in their faces. Why has this happened? Why? Mum was still yelling. Stop, Mum, we can beat this, it’s not over, please. ‘I’m OK. Be calm, please, Mum.’
No More Tomorrows Page 22