Welcome to Hell

by Colin Martin

  I was prepared to fight but wasn’t prepared to step into a ring only half-trained. They agreed and bought everything – gloves, head guards, kicking pads, punching pads and even jock straps.

  I then paid 5,000 baht to build a frame to hang a punch-bag on.

  With the proper equipment I began to excel as a fighter. My technique got better and my senses became more acute. I trained morning, noon and night.

  Muay Thai is usually taught in a boxing camp that is run by a family. Students warm up by running three to four miles a day, they spar in the afternoon and practise their techniques. They also get Thai massage to alleviate injuries and relax their muscles after a fight.

  In prison, we had no such luxuries. We trained all day. If we got hurt, we fought harder so as not to get hurt again.

  While I was just happy to train and fight, I learned that winning muay Thai fighting competitions was all about technique. To produce a good score, fighters were urged to show their technique and how it had a visible effect on their opponent. It was not the number or variety of muay Thai techniques used that judges looked for, but their effectiveness.

  Judges also looked to award the fight to the strongest fighter. I prepared for competition bearing this in mind. As far as I was concerned, I might as well have been training for the world title.

  But, as I expected, the inter-prison championship turned out to be nothing more than another scam for the prison.

  Although we had trained and were ready to face down any adversary they put in front of us, when it came to the competition, no one went out to a proper boxing stadium. Instead, they erected a makeshift ring at the front of the prison where fights took place.

  A few prisoners were brought from other prisons to come and fight but, as with everything else, the commandos refused to let us fight unless we paid them. They also charged the inmates to watch the few fights that were staged and stole every penny they raised in sponsorship.

  When I found out they were charging the inmates to watch the fight, I lost all interest. While I would turn a blind eye to being personally ripped off by the commandos, it didn’t feel right when I knew the guards were making money from the poorer inmates. I couldn’t stop them doing this, but there was no way I was going to facilitate them.

  17

  When I wasn’t fighting in the ring, I continued to fight my way through the courts. After my appeal had been rejected, I was offered the chance to pay $80,000 or 4,000,000 baht and win my case.

  It wasn’t said explicitly, but the money I was asked for would be used to bribe the legal fraternity and offset the legal fees.

  At the time, I couldn’t afford it, so I declined and hired yet another lawyer, whom I instructed to appeal my case to the Supreme Court. This was a risky decision; few murder appeals win on points of law.

  Nevertheless, this time I put together a solid appeal and hoped that the judges in the Supreme Court would at least review my case properly.

  The points I raised were more or less the same as those I had wanted to submit to the Court of Criminal Appeal. The difference this time was that my lawyer was reputable, efficient and honest. This made sure that the case didn’t take long to come to court.

  Just ten months later, on 31 July 2003, I was summonsed to the Supreme Court in Bangkok along with 20 others.

  I was told that it would be a very formal hearing. In preparation for what I believed would be a very formal court appearance, I asked if I could wear a suit, and was told that I could have worn one at every appearance if I wanted. No one had told me this, and it seemed no one had told anybody else either. The prison guard who escorted me said that it was the first time he’d seen an inmate wear a suit in 33 years.

  When I arrived at the court, there was only one judge, who sat at a bench reading a stack of papers. He called out a prisoner’s name and then read the verdict.

  I listened attentively to the other cases as they were called. I felt sure I’d be going home. Despite all my previous disappointments, I’d never felt so sure that I would soon be free.

  Case after case was dismissed; the judge seemed to rule in favour of each defendant. Even if he didn’t overturn a conviction, he’d reduce the sentence by half or a third.

  I listened in amazement. I had never seen anything like this in Thailand. This felt like the kind of court where at last I might get some justice. This was the first judge I’d encountered who seemed competent.

  I recall that I was the only foreigner there that day and my case was called last. When I heard my name mentioned, I was overcome by nerves.

  As I got to my feet, my legs went wobbly. I waited for the verdict.

  The judge began to read the judgement. He never looked at me directly but maintained his concentration on delivering the judgement.

  He said, ‘There is no real evidence and no real witnesses against the accused, and the prosecutor’s case is not very sound.’

  I thought I was hearing things. For the first time since my arrest, I actually believed that I was going to win.

  The judge continued, ‘However, the testimony of Mr O’Connor is very damning. Therefore, the court believes that the accused is guilty.

  ‘The court feels sorry for the accused knowing that he has lost his business, his home and a large amount of money at the hands of Mr O’Connor.

  ‘The accused is an educated man and has caused no trouble while he has been in prison. His claim of torture by police is not believed. The police would have no reason to torture him.’

  I stood there in silence. I looked at the judge, not really knowing how to react or what to do. I just stood there. I felt nothing. I was lost.

  ‘The court feels sorry for the accused’s family and considers the sentence imposed to be too high. The court now reduces that sentence to ten years.’

  ‘All rise,’ said the clerk.

  That was it; there was nothing more I could do. Everything had been in vain. I had taken my case to the highest court in Thailand and lost; there was nowhere left for me to go.

  I could have asked the Thai government to transfer me back home to Ireland after I’d served four years, but I had decided to stay and fight my case in the belief that eventually I could win.

  I wanted the Thai courts to acquit me, not just to release me. I wanted to clear my name.

  Looking back, it’s now obvious that I never really had a chance. Of all the lawyers I hired, not one tried to fight my case properly.

  What I eventually learned was that I should never have trusted any of them.

  As I stood alone in the courtroom that afternoon, lost in a language I could not speak, surrounded by customs I really didn’t understand, I felt a remarkable sense of calm.

  I said nothing to the judge as I left. I didn’t even acknowledge his presence.

  I believed, as my lawyer did, that the Supreme Court wanted to release me, but were afraid I’d sue for false imprisonment. If the Supreme Court had overturned my conviction, it would have been an official acknowledgement that the previous courts had made mistakes.

  I think the Supreme Court reduced my sentence because they simply couldn’t justify keeping me in prison for much longer.

  But the reduction was really just a token gesture. You may think that 13 years and four months is a long sentence in Thailand but this is not the case.

  Life imprisonment in Thailand is 100 years, and the average sentence imposed by a Thai court is usually 25 years. If the Supreme Court had really thought I was guilty, they’d have increased the sentence.

  So when they reduced my sentence from 13 years to ten, it didn’t mean that much to me. I’d already served half of the 13 years. I knew an amnesty was due in a year or so, and my sentence would probably be reduced by half.

  In that case, a three-year reduction wouldn’t actually change anyt
hing. If my name was included in the amnesty I’d be out in a year. The Supreme Court knew this as I did.

  I had fought the prosecution through three courts in a battle that took over six years to lose. As I stood there, I thought about the six-year journey through hell that I had travelled. I felt a huge wave of stress and frustration at the whole thing.

  I thought back over everything that had happened. Despite everything – the beatings, the torture and the squalor of prison life – the true hopelessness of my situation struck me. I thought of my children back in Ireland, my young son Brendan struggling to survive in Bangkok and my own brothers and sisters. I was only thankful that my own mother and father weren’t alive to suffer the anguish of seeing their son in a Thai jail.

  I believed the verdict of the Supreme Court was illegal, but I accepted it because I was powerless to do anything about it.

  It all made sense to me now. I didn’t feel despondent or heartbroken, but strangely relaxed.

  I returned to the hell hole that was Lard Yao that same evening, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. I suppose you could say nothing had.

  * * *

  With the passing of the New Year in 2004, I resigned myself to serving out the remainder of my sentence. I felt this was the best course of action. I had served over seven years in jail and I’d experienced more defeats, heartbreak and torture than most people ever experience in their whole life.

  I tried not to allow myself to sink into a real depression, and decided to concentrate my mind on anything but the Thai justice system.

  Despite my glum outlook on life, there was a general feeling of optimism in Lard Yao that January. We were told that the king of Thailand would grant an amnesty the following August in honour of the queen’s birthday, which celebrated her sixth life cycle. In Thailand, every 12 years is a life cycle, and Thai people mark it as a special occasion in their lives.

  Under these amnesties, prisoners are granted a reduction in their sentences up to 50 per cent, according to their prison rating. That is, unless they’re convicted of an offence that Thai people consider particularly despicable – like drug dealing, killing a parent or a monk, or an extremely vicious murder.

  If I was one of those given the privilege of a 50 per cent reduction, I calculated that I would be freed immediately.

  But I refused to allow myself even to think for a moment that I would be among the chosen few. Past experiences had taught me better.

  I also knew it was pot luck as to whether the king would actually grant an amnesty or not. There were no guarantees.

  After the initial rush of excitement the news of the amnesty generated, prison life returned to normal.

  Some of the inmates didn’t care much about the amnesty anyway. Many of them knew they would never be released because of the crimes they committed.

  The hundreds of inmates convicted for drug-related offences knew they hadn’t a hope. The king of Thailand was known to be totally against drug dealers and had never once granted a reduction to a convicted dealer.

  These prisoners knew they were going nowhere in a hurry and often became a threat to the rest of us for this very reason. They resented those who had a good chance at getting out, and would go out of their way to get others into trouble with the commandos. It is astonishing how people react to other people’s good fortunes.

  I watched as the drug dealers turned into a separate population within the prison population. They came to blame everyone else for the situation they found themselves in.

  They’d start fights with the better-behaved prisoners over nothing, and began to cause trouble left, right and centre. In this atmosphere, I had to watch my back and avoid trouble at all costs. If a drug dealer started giving me hassle, I walked the other way. If the commandos wanted to pick a fight, I just ignored them.

  I had no other choice.

  I’d come too far now to risk ruining my chance of getting out. Looking back, I think it is really surprising what the human body can endure if it has to. At the time, I recall feeling as mentally and physically strong as the day I was first arrested. Yet I was under terrible pressure and stress.

  I had bad days when the frustration really got to me but I would say to myself, ‘Tomorrow is a whole new day. Who knows what it will bring?’

  One thing was for sure: things could only get better.

  * * *

  That August was a long time coming. The days passed slowly. The only thing that made life worth living was the boxing. Life inside the prison changed as everybody in Lard Yao waited anxiously for news of the amnesty.

  In fact, we talked about nothing else. At that point in my life I took stock. I listed the three most harrowing things that happened to me. The first was my arrest and torture, the second was the TB, and the third was living with the constant threat that the commandos might murder or maim me like they had so many of my fellow inmates.

  These stark realities were always on my mind, but I couldn’t help becoming like the others. I day-dreamed about the amnesty and sweet freedom.

  Everyone was the same. We became obsessed with the amnesty. They even started a lottery on which inmates would be freed and whose sentences would be reduced.

  As the time drew nearer, the prisoners found it difficult to sleep with the excitement, including myself.

  Our day of reckoning finally came on August 12 when Prime Minister Thaksin and the Minister for Justice visited Lard Yao to announce the amnesty formally. This was a major event for the inmates.

  Television crews and journalists poured into the prison complex to film the first batch of prisoners being released.

  That day, we were all locked up but allowed to watch an old television to hear the news. It was nerve-racking stuff for everyone.

  I imagine it was the same in every prison across Thailand, where over 300,000 prisoners waited to see what the amnesty would hold for them.

  No one said a word as the Prime Minister spoke, though no one was interested in anything he was saying. Eventually, at around 12.30 p.m., Thaksin formally announced the amnesty.

  Without hesitation, he delivered the terms, saying, ‘All normal-type cases will have their sentences reduced by half.’

  The whole prison erupted in screams and applause. Everybody shouted and cheered with delight.

  We were going home. The tears rolled down my cheeks and I wept openly. The nightmare was over.

  I knew I’d have to wait up to 60 days for the prison authorities to process the paperwork, but that didn’t matter. I was going home. I dreamed about seeing my children, holding their hands as we walked and talked. I wondered what they would look like and how they would react to me finally being home.

  It wasn’t until two days after the announcement that the official documents were posted on the prison notice board.

  My heart sank as I read the small print. I learned that the actual amnesty held nothing for me.

  The document read, ‘Reduction in sentence of one half for all cases of theft, fraud, robbery, murder etc, EXCEPT fraud concerning or via a bank, EXCEPT all cases concerning the loss of life, EXCEPT all cases where it is the second offence committed by the prisoner. For those cases mentioned as exempt from the one-half reduction, they will be entitled to receive a maximum reduction of a third in their sentences, depending on their prison rating.’

  My case had involved the loss of life, so I was not entitled to remission. My king’s amnesty therefore depended on the ratings afforded to me by the commandos.

  This was disastrous. Ratings were only given after a case was finalised. Because I had fought my case and made two appeals, I had only received two prison ratings, and the last one was only good to very good, not the excellent that would qualify me for the one-third reduction. I was only entitled to a reduction of a quarter. That was two and a half years off my ten-year senten
ce.

  My reduced sentence was seven and a half years, which meant I had six months left to serve. I wouldn’t be going home after all.

  I felt completely gutted, but I had been knocked back like this before, so I didn’t get visibly upset. The commandos, blueshirts and drug dealers were gloating over our disappointment, and I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing how upset I was.

  I looked on the bright side. I would be out in another six months no matter what, but for some men it would be years more before they’d be free.

  * * *

  My official release date after the amnesty was set at 18 January 2005. After I cursed at the thoughts of spending another Christmas and New Year in that miserable hell hole I got on with life once more. Only this time, the end was in sight.

  As the time got closer, I couldn’t believe I was actually going to be free. I hadn’t been able to sleep for weeks. I was an emotional wreck.

  I actually became afraid to go home. I started asking myself questions like what would I do once I landed? Where was I going to live? I didn’t have a house or a flat, and I couldn’t sleep on someone’s couch for the rest of my life.

  I didn’t want people coming up to me in bars and asking me what it was really like in a Thai prison. I didn’t want people to buy me drinks so they could gossip with their cronies. I didn’t want people pointing at me in the street.

  My fears got worse as I thought about it. What would I live on? How would I buy food? How would I buy clothes? I didn’t have anything of my own; I didn’t even own a pair of shoes. In prison, I was only allowed to wear flip-flops.

  I asked myself questions about literally everything. How would I find a job? What about a girlfriend or a wife? Who would want to get involved with an unemployed ex-murderer?