Don't Eat Me

by Colin Cotterill

  “Well, that’s nice,” said Phosy, his face through the bars. “I’ll have a hearing. Wouldn’t it have been easier just to have me shot?”

  “Easier, yes,” said the judge, “but not nearly as much fun. This way you die with a shameful reputation. Your name will be pig shit for eternity. Your daughter will grow up pretending she’s never heard of you. You and your cronies will be buried in unmarked graves beside the bodies of other traitors and despots. Oh, this is such bliss.”

  “Haeng, you do realize that once I get out of here, the first thing I’ll do is cut off your feet and shove them down your throat?”

  “Beautiful,” said Haeng. “One never has a tape recorder when one needs one. No, wait, perhaps I do.” He lifted his baggy shirt to show the Walkman attached to his belt. “The wonders of technology,” he said. “That and exhaustive paperwork, the two pillars of authority. Of course, you’ve never been a slave to paperwork, have you? Another failing. Another nail in your coffin.”

  “You think people won’t hear of your bogus court?”

  “I think everyone will hear of it.” The judge smiled. “I’ve certainly advertised it far and wide. We even put an announcement in the Pasason newsletter. Came out today. And it’s hardly bogus. Your case is scheduled to be read in the center courtroom starting tomorrow morning. The Minister of Justice will be conducting the tribunal.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “Brilliantly mad. And you’ll learn just how seriously you’ve underrated this mad man all these years.” He stood, attempted to re-fold the chair, gave up and left it crippled in front of the cell. He walked away.

  “Who’s representing me?” Phosy called after him.

  The judge stopped. “Given the dearth of qualified lawyers in this country, I thought you might prefer to represent yourself,” he said.

  “I have a right to representation. I want Civilai Songsawat to speak for me.”

  Haeng laughed. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said. “Didn’t I tell you? It would appear your friend Civilai has been sent away for reeducation. So too have Dr. Siri and Madam Daeng and most of your top aids and allies. I doubt whether the old folks will survive the harsh conditions in the north.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “How could you swing all this so fast?”

  The judge walked back to the cell with a spring in his step. “Methodical planning over a long period,” he said. “Nothing fast. Patience. A brilliant mind. Cold revenge in the heart. While you were busy underestimating me, I was equally busy plotting your downfall. Everyone you ever trusted has been arrested for subversive activities and relocated.”

  “Where’s my wife?”

  “She’s in the women’s prison on Don Nang Island. Horrible place. Dirt and disease everywhere.”

  “You have no right.”

  “I have every right. Her husband is on trial for acts of treason against the republic. Once we’ve convicted you, she’ll be up next as an accomplice. Then all your other accomplices and—”

  “Where’s my daughter?”

  “No need to worry about her.”

  “If she’s in any danger I swear I’ll kill you.”

  The judge lifted his shirt and grinned. “Still rolling here,” he said.

  The man’s sudden vein of confidence and poise was more worrying than his words.

  “This is all bull,” said Phosy. “There’s no way you can pull any of this off. You’re a moron and a loner. Something like this needs a team—an army.”

  “That’s true,” said the judge. “And I do have my army. I’ve been collecting my soldiers since the first day your Dr. Siri showed me disrespect. Since you all began to mock me and doubt my ability. I have been mopping up the dregs you discarded and turning them into a force against you. The men you dismissed from the force are working for a department I established. You never followed up. You can’t just discard men and show no interest in their careers. They hate you almost as much as I do.”

  “Was it these brave soldiers of yours who beat me when I was unconscious?” Phosy asked.

  “You were an uncooperative prisoner.”

  “I hope you got a few kicks in yourself because that was the last chance you’ll get.”

  “You’ll be feeling a few more blows before this is all over, I assure you.”

  “I think you overvalue your abilities,” said Phosy.

  “And I think you ignore your gullibility,” said Haeng. “You placed the final span in my cantilever bridge when you gave me back my letter to the American Embassy. That was the last piece of physical evidence you had against me. Now it’s your word against mine. And I have the law on my side.”

  He laughed all the way to the main door, leaving Phosy to chew things over. The last time he’d seen Haeng, the idiot judge was at his desk begging for forgiveness. Was it possible the little man really had the savvy to put together some sort of legal case against him? Against all of them? With no constitution, the state of the law had reverted to village wisdom. Everything had been left to the decisions of committees of elders. His fate clearly depended on who the judge had on his side and how much common sense prevailed during the trial.

  He sat on the floor and considered all he’d heard, and for the first time in years he was truly afraid. He’d seen communities swayed by liars. The world’s history was garnished with mass misunderstandings. Presidents had risen to power on the back of false propaganda. If Haeng was as smart as he now claimed to be, Phosy was in the sewage overflow pipe and on his way to the depths of the Mekhong current.

  After a nutritious breakfast of one baguette and a bottle of water, Phosy was led to the courtroom the next morning. His guards were men he’d kicked out of office and thrown into jail for graft. The handcuffs were too tight. The handling was unnecessarily rough. Neither man spoke. Phosy had expected a closed-door trial with just a committee and one or two witnesses, so he was taken aback by the number of people crammed into a courtroom the size of a tennis court. He recognized a lot of those in attendance: Party members, military personnel and ex-senior police officers, all of whom he’d worked alongside, been dissatisfied with and eventually fired. Perhaps it shouldn’t have occurred to him this late but Phosy realized just how many enemies he’d made during his tenure in Vientiane. Diplomacy hadn’t been his forte.

  The district administrator and his staff were there, writers for the two unpopular, unread newsletters and at least four Vietnamese advisors and their interpreters. At the rear of the room was a large professional-looking video camera whose operator was in military uniform, scowling. The committee sat in a line in the front row with their backs to the audience like judges at a rural beauty pageant. The head of the group was the Minister of Justice, a man with whom Phosy had clashed a number of times. Seated on either side of him were the vice minister, two generals, the governor of a distant province and the director of Mahosot Hospital. Phosy understood too well that the composition of committees only made sense if you knew of alliances. And the last man seated in the front row left him in no doubt. He was wearing the uniform of a senior police officer. His name was Oudomxai. Until three months earlier, when Phosy had found him guilty of mass corruption, he’d been the chief of police. He had no right to be out of jail. Even less right to be wearing his uniform and sitting on a tribunal—especially this tribunal.

  Phosy had decided that whatever the outcome of this ridiculous trial, he would maintain his dignity and cooperate. He’d be polite and answer accusations against him with only the truth. He knew there was no protocol for anything like this. There were no rules of engagement. He took his seat behind a table covered in what looked like billiard table baize. He looked around the room. There were people he knew, helped, had done favors for, lent money to. But on this somber first morning there was no eye contact, not one friendly face daring to look back at hi
m.

  Judge Haeng made his entrance dramatically through the other door. He was wearing a navy-blue suit that made him look like an old regime undertaker and accompanied by three assistants carrying large files and notebooks. They all sat together at a table opposite Phosy. As there was no stage, all anyone had to look at was a pale-blue wall hung with black-and-white photographs of the politburo members. Not one of those faces cracked a smile.

  As was the norm, the Minister of Justice gave an overly long speech about justice and corruption and the law. It ate a large chunk of the morning session. Everyone was relieved when he handed it over to his deputy.

  The Vice Minister of Justice, a sinewy khaki-colored man, stood and looked in Phosy’s direction. “Are you Phosy Vongvichai?” he said. “Until recently the chief of police?”

  “No,” said Phosy.

  So much for cooperation. The vice minister looked embarrassed. “Did you not understand the question?” he asked.

  “I understood the question, comrade,” said Phosy, “but until I am officially relieved of my position, I am still the chief of police.”

  Oudomxai, too big for his police uniform, turned to his left and raised his substantial eyebrows.

  “Consider yourself relieved,” said the minister.

  “Much appreciated, sir,” said Phosy.

  The vice minister continued with a little less bluster. “You are at this tribunal facing the following charges,” he said, “the establishment of vigilante murder squads, the abuse of state funds, harassment, the destruction of property, dereliction of duty, colluding with known anti-government agents, and two counts of premeditated murder. How do you plead?”

  Phosy had gone deaf after “establishment of vigilante murder squads.” Any one of those charges, were they to be proven, would warrant execution. The odds were stacked against him. He stood.

  “Not guilty to any and all of them,” he said. “And as this is the first time I’ve heard the charges against me, I have had no time to put together an argument. So, I’d like to request a week to answer the accusations and solicit the assistance of an attorney.”

  “Any thoughts on that, Judge Haeng?” asked the minister. He was a lean man with scaly skin and a scar on his chin. Like all the ministers he’d been a warrior with the Pathet Lao and had a number of war wounds and little patience.

  Judge Haeng got to his feet and grabbed the lapel of his jacket.

  “Given the seriousness of the charges and the duplicity of Comrade Phosy’s connections in the outside world,” he said, “we would not recommend the temporary release of the accused to collect evidence. The ex-chief inspector did request the assistance of one Comrade Civilai Sonsawat, who is currently undergoing reeducation in the north and, together with his coconspirators, also faces forty-nine charges of sedition. The accused did not name an alternate. It is therefore our decision that we should proceed with this case in its agreed format as a presentation of the overwhelming evidence against Comrade Phosy and leave it to the wisdom of the court to assess its veracity.”

  “Well, that’s fair,” said Phosy. “Can I at least request the removal of one of the members of your tribunal committee?”

  “Absolutely not,” said the vice minister. “In your position, you hardly have the right to request anything.”

  Phosy remained standing. “I’m just curious as to how impartial Comrade Oudomxai can be given that he was convicted of corruption and thrown in jail largely as a result of evidence I gathered against him.”

  Judge Haeng was also on his feet. “Given that Comrade Phosy’s fitness and legal standing as a policeman are at the heart of this trial, any arrests credited to him must also be considered questionable,” he said. “Therefore, Comrade Oudomxai must be presumed innocent and his position as chief of police is still tenable.”

  Phosy laughed out loud.

  “I suggest you take this tribunal more seriously,” said the minister.

  “I suggest you . . .” Phosy remembered his manners just in time.

  “What was that?” said the vice minister.

  “I’m just saying that I should like to request copies of the transcript of the hearing each day,” said Phosy.

  The minister looked at Judge Haeng who shrugged. It was clear who was running the show.

  “That is permissible,” said the minister.

  Phosy looked around for a court stenographer and finally located a small woman impeccably dressed in a phasin skirt and vintage pink top. She seemed to be struggling to get ink out of her Bic pen.

  “Then, if everyone is satisfied, let us go ahead with the proceedings,” said the vice minister. “I call on Judge Haeng Somboun to begin his reading of the charges.”

  The judge walked from behind his table with a set of prompt cards in his hand. He stood between the committee and the politburo’d wall.

  “Respected gentlemen,” he said, “I appreciate you taking time out from your valuable work to be here with us. I must begin by telling you that one of my duties as head of the public prosecution department is to assess the suitability of those who enforce our laws at all levels. If there are complaints we take them very seriously. If those complaints persist over a period of time, we compile a file.”

  He walked to his table where one of the assistants handed him a thick folder.

  “My department has been maintaining a file on the misdemeanors of then Inspector Phosy since 1976. It is not our intention to enter all of the complaints into evidence here—merely to point out their existence and to cite one or two that are relevant to this hearing.”

  “Let’s see it,” said Phosy.

  “Comrade Phosy, you will have a chance to comment on charges at a later stage,” said the vice minister. “This isn’t your time to speak.”

  “Why not?” said Phosy. He stood. “Why not pass the notes around to the committee and show them what terrible things I’m accused of doing? Surely it can only help the judge’s case.”

  “Phosy, if you don’t wish to be restrained I suggest you sit down and control your outbursts,” said the minister.

  Phosy, recognizing the hopelessness of the situation, retained his seat and folded his arms. The judge continued:

  “As I said, my point is not to list all the accusations we received—and there are many—but to bring your attention to one particular chain of events. Its relevance will become clear as the trial continues. In June of this year, Comrade Phosy paid a deposit on a small house at Nong Tewada. There, he set up a prostitute by the name of Vatsana as his second wife.”

  Phosy’s eyes rolled inside his head like slot machine tiles.

  “He made regular visits to Miss Vatsana,” Haeng continued, “and, amongst other things, they partook of various stimulants and drugs. It was as a result of his introduction of hallucinogens that Miss Vatsana became an addict.”

  “You have evidence of this?” asked one of the generals.

  “I have the lease agreement signed by then Inspector Phosy,” said Haeng. “I have photographs of them together. I have signed statements from witnesses who saw the inspector make his regular nighttime visits to the house on his police-issue motor scooter. I also have transcripts from neighbors describing the abusive relationship. Evidently, Comrade Phosy threatened the girl with violence many times and told her that if she informed anyone of their relationship, especially his wife, who was out of the country at the time, that he would kill her. All this is in the file labeled B.”

  Phosy was mystified. He’d never been the philandering type. He could barely hang on to one wife, let alone two. But the judge’s report left him with too many questions. None of it made sense. The judge had obviously gone to a great deal of trouble to fabricate this lie but what was the point of it? Most of the married men Phosy knew had affairs. A number of the wealthier ones kept women. He was sure everyone on the committee was, at that moment, blus
hing with memories of their own philandering. But, given the wreckage of the other charges he faced, setting up a house for a mistress barely made a dent. So . . . ? This had to be a prelude to something far more serious. He bit his tongue and waited for the crash.

  “On the night of August ninteenth,” Haeng continued, “Comrade Phosy took his whore to a drug party at a shed behind Wattay Airport. His old friend, Maysuk, the director of the airport, had keys to all the buildings on airport grounds. He also had a minor wife of his own, Miss Soukjanda. He’d given her a job as his secretary. He often invited Phosy there to drink, take drugs and, when they were suitably intoxicated, to exchange partners.”

  Phosy was astounded how much more fun his secret life was compared to his mundane, more public one. But he’d stopped seeing the funny side of it. He looked at the faces of the onlookers. They were buying the whole sack of shit.

  “Supporting evidence?” said one of the generals.

  Haeng was given a wad of papers by his assistant.

  “I have here a signed statement from Miss Soukjanda dated August twelfth, made in front of a witness, describing the usual goings on at the airport,” said Haeng. “This statement was collected a week prior to the events of the nineteenth as part of our ongoing investigation of Comrade Phosy. At the time, we had no way of knowing what was about to unfold at the party. Miss Soukjanda cannot be called here as a witness as she subsequently fled as a result of the tragic events of the nineteenth. My people are searching for her.”

  Phosy’s heart dropped to his stomach like a turd into a toilet bowl. At last, he knew where Haeng was leading.

  “On the evening of the nineteenth—the night of the party,” the judge continued, “Miss Vatsana became hysterical as a result of drugs. She was threatening to expose her relationship with Comrade Phosy. As the mood of the party had fallen into decline, Director Maysuk drove his lover back to her apartment. When he returned to the shed, Comrade Phosy was standing over the naked body of Miss Vatsana who was bruised and bloody. Comrade Phosy told Director Maysuk that she had overdosed and fallen to the ground. They could feel no pulse. They began in a panic to think of a way to dispose of the body. Phosy knew that if she were to be identified, the trail would eventually lead to him. He knew that there were two competent forensic pathologists in the country, one of whom was his wife. He was aware that merely dumping the body would not hide Miss Vatsana’s identity.