The Killing of Faith: A Suspense Thriller You Won't Soon Forget. (The Killing of Faith Series Book 1)

by William Holms

  “SAWM-chee, you lawyer?” the judge asks.

  “Yes, he’s my lawyer,” I agree.

  The judge turns again to the prosecutor and asks how much time he will need to go to trial. The prosecutor tells the judge that the whole case is on video. They can try the case in ten days. I’m shocked that we can go to court so soon. It took almost a year to get to court in the United States and that was a little custody trial. Now I can get the death penalty ten days from now? It makes no sense.

  I turn to the interpreter and tell my lawyer, “I must make calls. I must get the video to prove they planted the drugs.”

  “How much time?” the judge asks my lawyer.

  “Six months,” the attorney answers.

  “Too much,” the judge says angrily.

  “Five months,” the attorney requests.

  “Two months,” the judge says as he bangs his gavel.

  The judge and my lawyer talk back and forth. The interpreter leans over to me and with a smile says, “Will contact U.S. Consulate for you.”

  When they’re through with my case, I’m led out of the courtroom. Suddenly, I realize that I still need my cell phone. I cannot believe I forgot this. I’ve got to call Christian before he returns to the United States. He can help me. He has the money to hire a real attorney.

  “I must get my phone numbers off my phone,” I tell my lawyer.

  My lawyer leaves and I sit in the chair for a long time. He comes back with a plastic baggie with everything I had when I was arrested. I can’t believe what I’m looking at. It has my passport, my cracked phone, my license, and my charger. “Do I get to keep my phone?” I ask as I remove it from the plastic bag?”

  “No. You look at phone but don’t keep,” the interpreter explains with another smile.

  When I pull out my phone, I can see the little gold necklace and cross Christian gave me hiding in the corner of the baggie. My phone powers up and displays every call, text message, and email that I made before I was arrested. I ask for a pen and paper to write down both Christian and Sharon’s cell number. I already know Ryan and Grace’s cell. I can’t think of any other numbers that will be any help to me. I hand my phone back to my attorney and reach back into the baggie to grab my necklace. I think he knows exactly what I’m doing. He pulls the baggie from my hands, returns my cell phone, and takes everything back into the courtroom.

  I may not be going home but at least now I have Christian’s number, and the lawyer says I can make a call when I go back. I may not be home yet but at least I’m one step closer.

  – CHAPTER 44 –

  After I leave the courtroom, they handcuff us all together. The officer leads us down the elevator and out the back door where a large bus is waiting. I climb on the bus and it’s completely full. I can’t find a seat anywhere but the guard points to the back and gives me a push. I find one open spot by a man who’s much younger than me and covered in tattoos. We’re all shackled together. As the bus drives out of the garage, I look through the barred windows at the sun shining on my face. Just a few days ago I spent the morning at the spa and the rest of my day painting this exact same sun while sitting on my terrace overlooking the ocean. What the hell happened?

  We drive about thirty minutes, rocking back and forth until I start to feel carsick again. After about fifteen minutes, I realize we’re not going back to that filthy, smelly jail where I spent the last three days. As unimaginable as it might seem, I’m actually relieved. I haven’t eaten or showered in three days. My dress is dirty, torn, and smells of sweat and body odor, and I smell of urine and feces. I’ve spent the last three days in a small cell that felt like a dungeon. Any place they take me has to be better than where I’ve been. At least I can take a shower.

  Just as I reach the point that I’m about to throw up all over myself, the bus pulls up to a large prison. There’s a white wall, maybe ten feet tall, with rows of razor wire across the top. About ten feet behind that wall is another brown wall that also has razor wire running across the top. Scattered along the walls are roofed buildings with guards walking back and forth holding military type rifles. I soon learn it’s the Bangkok Remand Prison and I’ll be held here until Christian gets me out.

  Handcuffed on the bus, I’m determined not to let this place break me. I must make the best of my time here. I’ll search for other women who speak English. We’ll read the Bible, pray, and support each other. I know Christianity is not the main religion in Thailand so I’ll spread the Word and show people the love and hope that comes from following Jesus. Our Bible study will welcome anyone and everyone regardless of his or her past or what they’re convicted of.

  After the gate opens, the bus slowly drives forward and stops inside the prison. Then they close behind us. The bus door opens and an officer forces us out. I’m handcuffed to a large man in front of me and a boy behind me. I try the best I can, but I’m holding up the line. A guard follows beside me and pushes me forward whenever I don’t move fast enough. Once inside the prison, we make a single long line against the wall.

  In my hand, I’m holding the only thing of value I have left in the world—a piece of notebook paper with Sharon and Christian’s phone numbers. There’s a large white clock that reads 12:10 p.m. As soon as I’m able to use the phone, I’ll call Christian and let him know that I’m still in Bangkok and I need his help.

  We walk down a long hallway. Each inmate is led through a metal detector. It’s taking a surprisingly long time. Step by step, we inch forward until I’m close enough to see what’s holding things up. Three guards are waiting on the other side of the metal detector strip-searching each prisoner. Strip search! This never occurred to me. Two of the guards are men and one is a woman. One man after another goes through the metal detector and removes every stitch of clothes, stands up, bends over, and provides both me and the guards a clear view of every part of his body. I’m embarrassed for him.

  There are only two other women in our line. They’re both are in front of me. I’ve seen enough men go through but no women. The men don’t seem to care who sees them naked. Surely they show more respect to the women. There’s no way I’m going to strip naked in front of a bunch of guys.

  When the first woman reaches the front I watch closely to see how it works. As she walks through the detector, the male guards remain at the same place they were standing when the men walked through. With absolutely no hesitation, the woman takes off her shoes, pants, panties, shirt, and bra like she’s done this many times before. To my horror, she’s standing completely naked for the guards and every prisoner to see everything she has to offer. Then the real search begins. It continues until the guards are sure there’s nothing inside her nose, ears, under her breasts, or hiding in any crevice of her body. The brutality of it all shocks me.

  Step by step, I move closer to my appointment with these guards. The closer I get, the more I’m horrified. I just can’t go through with it. When I’m two people away, my stomach starts cramping so bad that I double over in pain. When I’m one away, I’m frozen against the wall. The man in front of me bends over and spreads his butt cheeks and walks on.

  Now it’s my turn. I stay against the wall unable to move. The guards yell at me to come forward but I’m paralyzed. I take the smallest step I’ve ever taken in my life. They scream and I take a few more tiny steps until I finally pass through the detector and I’m standing in front of them. They speak no English so they try to physically show me what to do. It’s not that I don’t know what to do—I’ve seen it many times. I know exactly what they expect of me but I’m frozen in fear and embarrassment. I just can’t do it. The female guard stands in front of me and shines her flashlight in my mouth, my nose, and my ears. With her rubber gloves, she combs her finger through my hair. That is the easy part. Now comes the part I dread like I’ve never dreaded anything before. She orders me to take off my dress. I stand with my hands at my sides refusing to move. All three guards scream at me so I put my hands over my ears to block them o
ut.

  “I can’t … I can’t do it,” I cry.

  The female guard takes two steps toward me and slams her club into my back so hard that I drop to the floor unable to breathe. It’s the worst blow I’ve ever experienced. Doubled over on my hands and knees, I can’t catch my breath.

  “Please don’t make me do this in front of these men,” I plead gasping for air. “Please bring me to a private room.”

  No one has the least bit of sympathy for me. The men raise me to my feet and the woman screams at me to remove my dress. I cover my ears, and again the guard steps forward ready to slam her club into my back. I can’t take another blow. “No! Please don’t,” I cry. “I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  I’ve watched them strip search the other inmates almost thirty times so I know the routine. I slowly pull my dress over my head, shake it out, and hand it to the guard. I’m left in the bra and panties I packed only for Christian’s eyes. My bra clasps in the front so I remove it, shake it out, and hand it to the female guard. Both male guards give each other a quick look of satisfaction. I’m standing in nothing but my panties with my hands covering my large breasts the best I can. When the guard is finished inspecting my bra, she directs me to continue. I lift my breasts and she runs her hand under each one. Next, I slide my panties to the floor, pick them up, shake them out, and hand them to the guard. I’m now standing there completely naked. She shows me that she wants me to stand with my arms stretched out and my legs spread. The men are watching, but there’s nothing I can do. I’m ordered to squat three times, which I do as fast as I can just to get it over with. That’s not good enough for them. The woman yells and shows me (fully dressed) how she wants me to slowly squat down three times. After the third squat I’m supposed hold it for three seconds. This would be difficult for anyone except an athlete or gymnast and I’m no gymnast. I’m also shaking, which doesn’t help. Each squat gets harder and harder. She slowly counts to three in Thai and stops on the third squat. I’m sure they’re dragging it out for their amusement. When nothing falls out of me, I turn around with tears running down my cheeks. Next, I bend over until I can touch the floor. I reach back and spread my butt cheeks so she can shine her flashlight inside me. Any dignity I have left is long gone. I’ll never get it back. I’m sure that’s why they do it.

  This becomes my usual routine each time I leave the prison—even if I go to the visiting area. If a woman isn’t available, the men are happy to take her place.

  – CHAPTER 45 –

  Once I’m finished being completely humiliated, I move into another room where I’m handed a light blue shirt, a long dark blue skirt, and cheap flip-flops for my feet. I don’t know where they took my $125.00 black bra and panties. I never see them again. I’m given paper panties and a bra that’s too small for my breasts. It’s so filthy I fear there’s a fungus growing in it.

  Next, I’m taken to a room where they hammer heavy steel chains onto my ankles. Since I’m a new prisoner I must spend three months in these leg chains. I hear my chains every time I sit, stand, walk, or turn in my sleep like the ghost of Christmas past reminding me of everything I’ve ever done wrong in my life. Finally, I’m given a thin blanket that barely covers my body. It will never keep me warm in the winter.

  After I pick up my clothes and my blanket, I’m brought into a long, wide corridor with a bright red floor. When I get out of here, I’ll remember this red floor for the rest of my life. It’s like a horror movie floor, covered in blood. When the door opens, the whole place erupts in screams, cheers, and loud bangs on walls and bars. Until the day I leave, I’ll never be able to enjoy even a moment of quiet again.

  On both the right and the left side of the corridor, are the prison cells called dorms. I don’t know why they’re called dorms like we’re in college or something. They’re more like animal cages. The cages have yellow wires and dark gray walls with cracked, peeling paint. One cage is the size of a large master bedroom meant for two. It’s smaller than our bedroom at the resort.

  Driving from the courthouse, I thought about prison life. My expectations were low. I assumed I’d be sleeping on a bunk bed with a thin mattress where I’d have a little room to sit, lie down, and sleep. I figured I’d have very little privacy so I’d spend my days reading, writing, painting, and praying. Maybe I’d take some college classes and get a degree. I envisioned an outside yard with prisoners playing basketball, working out with free weights, and all the Americans gathered together to bond with one another. My biggest fear was taking group showers with cold water.

  The guard unlocks the cage door, and I get my first look inside my new home. The prison I pictured would be a first-class resort compared to this place. It’s beyond anything I could ever imagine. I stand at the door with my hand over my mouth. The room looks like a room in a psycho ward. It has absolutely no beds, no chairs, no lockers, no drawers, and no place to put my personal belongings … if I had any. There’s nothing except a stack of blankets and a squatting toilet (yes, the same squatting toilet) at the back without even a wall for privacy. There are four lights and two fans hanging from the ceiling. One of the fans are broken. There are little piles of books, papers, and other personal items dotting the floor because there’s nowhere else to put your things. About twenty women are sitting against the walls or sleeping on the concrete floors. How is this possible? Twenty women in one room! The floor has a layer of sweat, cough, dirty feet, and vomit that causes your feet to stick every time you take a step.

  I immediately look for an American, Canadian, Britain, or anyone else who can speak even a little bit of English. I step inside and give everyone a friendly nod to say “hello.” There must be twenty-five people in this little room and not one person even acknowledges my existence. They all look Thai. The prisoners awaiting trial are supposed to be separated from those who’ve already been convicted, but the prison is so crowded that it just doesn’t happen that way. I’m in prison with the hardest of criminals, including murderers.

  I can’t understand how anyone can spend all day asleep on a cement floor. I find a spot on the back wall, put down my blanket, and sit on the floor, holding my knees against my chest. I’m stunned. I thought the airport security guards were trying to teach me a lesson. Soon I’d be released to go home in shame. Sitting on the floor it hits me—they’re trying to kill me just like they killed that poor college student who took something from his hotel.

  All I want is to be left alone long enough to gather my thoughts. I want to keep my head down and stay out of trouble. I sit there for about thirty minutes until the door opens and another twelve women walk in.

  One of the women comes up to me and yells, “Yay phuing lew” (which I now know means “move bitch”) and shoos me away.

  I cannot believe a room this size can hold thirty-five women. There’s barely enough room for anyone to walk around. A little later, they open the door and twenty more women come in. Then another fifteen join us. I now count over sixty women inside a room that could barely hold twenty. After four more women come in, a bell rings and everyone walks out of the cage. When the last woman walks out, I fall in line. We walk single-file down the hallway into a giant cafeteria that’s bigger than any restaurant or high school cafeteria I’ve ever seen. The room is filled with rows and rows of tables all crammed close together.

  I haven’t eaten since I left the resort four days ago. I’m now so hungry I’ll even eat the dog food I turned down before if I have to. I get in the back of the line and move slowly forward until I reach the kitchen and take a tray. It’s not the dog food like before. I’m given one small bowl of watery soup with a small amount of rice, some lemongrass, and some fish bones. You’d never know it’s rice by looking at it: it’s one big clump that looks like a small, filthy sock soaked in dirty water. If there’s anything of sustenance in my bowl, I can’t find it. It looks terrible, but I have to get something in my stomach. I take my tray and wander up and down the tables, looking for any place to sit do
wn. The giant room is packed with people as far as I can see.

  As soon as I see a woman stand up, I hurry over to take her spot. There’s barely any room for me to squeeze between the tables. My chains get caught again and again as I push through the mass of women. This angers the women on each side of me. One pushes me into the woman across from her who pushes me back the other way. The water mess in my bowl spills all over me, another woman sitting at the table, and the floor, which causes them to push me even more. I fall to the floor and lose my spoon. By the time I get back to my feet, another woman is taking my stool. I have to go through the same routine all over again until I finally reach an empty space.

  When I first try to eat the rice in my bowl I can’t even bring my hand to my mouth because everyone’s squished shoulder to shoulder. There isn’t enough room to move my elbows. I back up a little in my stool, and turn slightly to the left so I can raise my hand to my mouth. I grab the entire clump and bite off a piece of the mush and stuff it in my mouth. It’s hard and mushy at the same time, and tastes horrible. There’s no seasoning. When I try to swallow, it’s like trying to swallow a piece of playdough. I gag as the stuff clumps together and sticks to my teeth. When I try to spit it back into my bowl the girls around me laugh hysterically. I don’t even get my first bite down when a bell rings. Everyone stands and starts moving out of the cafeteria. I don’t know what to do except stuff more of the dirty sock in my mouth, and try to keep it down. This time when I try to swallow, I throw up in my mouth. I quickly cover my mouth with my hands to keep from making a mess on the floor. I swallow again and try harder to keep it down. A man is walking toward me, banging on each table as he gets closer and closer. I choke down one more clump before putting my tray and bowl in a bin. Before I make it to the door, I throw the rice back up and catch the watery mess in my hands. I stuff it all back in my mouth, like a dog licking up its own vomit, and swallow it a third time. Two bites of rotten, dirty rice are all I’ve had to eat in three days.