Breakout: A Heart-Pounding Lex Harper Thriller

by Stephen Leather

  Harper smiled. ‘Thanks for the warning,’ he said, ‘but alert is my default setting. You look after you and I’ll look after me.’

  CHAPTER 11

  Ricardo led the way across the main courtyard of San Pedro and as he did so, Harper noticed a couple of prisoners wearing red jackets with TAXI written on the back. ‘Taxi?’ he said. ‘What the hell is that about?’

  ‘They’re guys who carry messages for wealthier prisoners or search for people if visitors arrive unexpectedly. They charge one Bolviano - about twelve cents at the official rate - for each message they carry. So they don’t earn much but it’s enough to buy food.’

  He led them into a passage on the far side of the courtyard. ‘This is the callejón - the alley as you would say - the main gateway from the entrance to all the other sections of the prison.’ The broad passageway was lined with stalls selling fruit, vegetables, used clothes, newspapers and DVDs, and there was also a more permanent food shop and a café/restaurant.

  ‘You won’t find this in any British prisons,’ Harper said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  Ricardo smiled. ‘There are a lot of things here that you won’t find in any other prison, not just in Britain but anywhere else in the world. At night the doors at either end of the Callejón are closed and it becomes a place to sleep for those who don’t have a section - either from choice or because they’ve been expelled from their section by the other inmates, or most likely, simply because they don’t have enough money to buy or rent a space in a cell, or even pay the entrance fee to a section.’

  He led them into the first of the prison’s sections, radiating from the central courtyard like the spokes of a wheel, each one separated from its neighbour by one or more courtyards. Harper noticed at once that there were no bars on the windows of the cells and some did not even have a lock on the doors. ‘No locks? No bars?’ he said. ‘Not very secure is it?’

  Ricardo laughed. ‘Prisons here are nicknamed depósitos - and, just like a depósitobancaro - a bank deposit - or a depósitos agua - a water tank - the guards’ only interest is in making sure that nothing escapes from it. So San Pedro is run by the prisoners, not the guards. There are only about a dozen guards and they just control the entrance and virtually never come into the rest of the prison. Nor do the police, not even to investigate murders. The prisoners have their own security force called the Disciplina - no one serving less than a thirty year sentence is allowed to join them - and they keep discipline and punish offenders, usually by stabbing them.’

  ‘I can think of some right wing politicians in the UK who would wholeheartedly approve,’ Harper said with a grin. ‘So the guards don’t interact with the prisoners?’

  ‘There is one area the guards control, at least in part,’ Ricardo said. ‘La Muralla - The Wall - the punishment block. Prisoners who are sent there either by the Disciplina or by the guards, are very badly treated. I know the chief warden, Fernandez, because he was in charge when I was here, and though I was never in the punishment block myself, I heard the tales about it and saw the state of some of the people who had been in there. Fernandez is often down there himself, because he is a sadist who delights in torturing helpless prisoners. San Pedro is like a city within the city. It was built in the 1890s and only intended to house five hundred people but about three thousand live here now, including every sort of criminal from petty thieves to drug lords and corrupt politicians. There’s a hotel for official visitors, a hospital, workshops, factories and churches - the Catholic one has a beautiful statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe, known as La Morenita - the Brown Lady. There are markets, shops, bars, restaurants, pool halls, gyms, a football pitch, a swimming pool, and there are different barrios - districts - just like the city outside the walls. When you’re sentenced to do time in San Pedro, you have to pay an entrance fee to the prison based on your known or estimated wealth. So a petty crook might only pay fifty Bolivianos, whereas a corrupt politician or drug lord will have to pay thousands. You then have to buy a cell or a share of a cell in one of the sections. The prices vary, maybe as little as ten dollars to be one of five or six men sharing a single cell in the worst sections, but as much as two thousand dollars in the most affluent ones. You buy your cell from the President of the prison or from a real estate agent - no really,’ he said as he saw Harper’s sceptical expression. ‘You’re even given a legal document to show your ownership, witnessed by prison officials.’

  ‘What if you don’t have any money?’ Harper said, looking at a group of ragged prisoners sitting, head in hands, at the edge of the yard.

  ‘You work to earn enough to pay for a share in a cell, or if you can’t afford a cell, you sleep on the ground, in the open or on the stone floor of a passage like this one. A lot of the people are addicts or alcoholics who are often beyond help or hope. Others - sometimes whole families - try to build little shelters under the stairs or hide a few belongings in the cells of their friends, or in the roof-spaces of the buildings, but other prisoners will steal them if they find them, so if all you’ve got is a blanket, you would never lose sight of it, even for an instant. So, there is no guaranteed accommodation here and there are no prison uniforms; if you arrive in rags or even naked, that’s how you’ll stay. If you don’t have money, you don’t always eat either, because apart from the rice ration the government is supposed to provide for all prisoners - and in my experience, you often didn’t get it anyway - nothing is provided free. In any case, you would only eat the rice if you had no other food, because it’s widely believed that the guards mix some kind of tranquilliser into it to keep the prisoners docile. On the few occasions I ate the rice I felt drowsy afterwards and no one knows what drug they’re using or what its long term effects might be, so we avoided it whenever we could. It’s also often contaminated - I’ve even seen rat droppings in it. The kitchen where it’s prepared is in the Palmar section and it’s used as a punishment block for those sex offenders who haven’t been killed, and for prisoners who have cheated other inmates on drug deals or gambling debts. They are forced to work in the kitchen and live there too, sleeping under the tables on which they prepare the food, and the man who runs it - a lifer - is notorious as the most brutal and sadistic prisoner in the entire jail.’

  ‘And no one in Government sees anything wrong with this?’ asked Harper.

  ‘It suits the government to turn a blind eye to everything that goes on here, because this way the prison is very cheap to run,’ said Ricardo. ‘The guards are very badly paid and the chief warden steals their wages anyway - so they rely on bribes and kick-backs to survive. You often even have to bribe guards just to be sure of being put on trial - when I was in here, there were men who had been on remand for eight years, even though the legal maximum is supposed to be two. So you have to pay to get a trial, you pay again to get a lawyer and then - if you can afford it - you pay even more to bribe the judge to let you go. If you can’t, you just stay here and rot. Once you’ve been convicted, there is no parole system, so you serve your full sentence whatever happens.’

  ‘So there’s not much interest in rehabilitation then?’ Harper said.

  Ricardo shook his head. ‘There’s none at all. And even if you’re innocent when you come in here, you’ll be guilty of plenty by the time you leave. So anyway, there are eight sections in the prison, each with their own courtyards, shops, bars and cafés, and it’s a democracy of sorts in here because each section elects someone to represent them on the Council of Delegates, who run the place. They set the tax all the prisoners have to pay to cover the cost of maintenance, roof repairs, repainting of the walls, and social events like the annual Día de los Prisioneros - Prisoners’ Day - on the 24th of September. It’s a day-long fiesta with bands, barbecues, drinks and, of course, coca, and all the cafés cook Sajta de Pollo.’

  ‘That’s the signature dish of La Paz,’ Lupa added, ‘a chicken stew with a mountain of chillies, pepper and cumin.’ She gave Harper a sly look. ‘It’s probably too hot and spicy
for a Brit like you.’

  Harper grinned. ‘Listen Lupa, I’ve been eating fiery hot Thai street food for years so a chicken stew with a few Bolivian chillies in it is not going to be a problem.’

  She smiled back. ‘Challenge accepted, Lex. It’s going to be our meal when we get out of here this evening, with a few Anticuchos - those pieces of beef heart on skewers - with a dipping sauce of tomatoes and Locotos - crazy hot peppers - as an appetiser.’

  ‘Bring it on!’ Harper said.

  ‘Anyway,’ Ricardo said, ‘most men here can’t afford to eat Sajta de Pollo or Anticuchos, except maybe on Prisoners’ Day. The rest of the time they have to make do with rice and beans. They also have to do unpaid maintenance work on their section when it’s needed, like fixing the holes in the roof. The President of the Council of Delegates raises complaints about prison conditions with the Chief Warden and the Governor - not that it ever seemed to have much effect when I was here. And as well as the section delegates, national political candidates also often come here canvassing for votes.’

  ‘Prisoners can vote in elections here?’ Harper said.

  ‘Of course, do they not in your country? You often see candidates in here, invariably promising prison reform, lower penalties for drug offences or even abolition of the gringo drug laws. Since eighty per cent of the inmates are in here on drug charges, as you can imagine those pledges always go down well, though nothing ever seems to happen once the politicians have been elected. In theory prisoners are allocated to a section depending on what day of the week they arrive, but in fact it’s not so straightforward and they can buy their way into a different section … if they have the money. La Posta is for the rich and famous. The cells have fitted carpets, large screen TVs, balconies, en suite bathrooms and even hot tubs - if you have the money, you can buy absolutely anything here. But you not only need a lot of money to buy a cell in La Posta, you also have to be approved by the people already living there.’

  Harper laughed. ‘Sounds more like a private club than a prison.’

  ‘That’s not far from the truth. Colombia’s Vice President once did time in La Posta for cocaine trafficking and the former President of Bolivia’s biggest bank is still an inmate.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He defrauded thousands of investors and robbed many more of their pensions. Rich inmates like the banker and the cocaine kings own all the businesses here. They provide the money to set them up and take most of the profits in return. And as well as the bars, cafés, barbers and shops, there are small factories making toys, clothes and souvenirs for tourists, a forge that turns scrap metal into pots and pans, and a cocaine lab that not only supplies the junkies inside the prison but La Paz and beyond as well. Most people here take coca paste - it’s green coloured and the last stage of the process before it’s refined into pure cocaine. They smoke it using pipes made from the silver paper inside cigarette packets, or you can snort powder cocaine if you can afford it. You can buy any drug you want here, from marijuana to crack and methamphetamine and the prices are so cheap that San Pedro supplies the whole city as well as the prison. Dealing is so common, it’s just called negocios - business - and in fact, just like everybody tells you, cocaine from San Pedro really is the best you can buy. Try some if you want, everyone sells it.’

  ‘No thanks,’ Harper said, ‘I’ll take your word for it. Anyway, it doesn’t sound like La Posta would be the place to look for Scouse. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have the money and he certainly doesn’t have the social airs and graces. What about the other sections?’

  ‘We can try them all until we find him,’ said Ricardo. ‘Pinos and Alamos are the next most affluent. Like La Posta, they bar any visitors after dark - the time when most beatings and stabbings happen. The other sections are San Martin, Prefectura, Palmar, Guanay and Cancha. As you go down the scale, the cells become smaller and have more occupants - it’s not unusual to find six, seven or even eight men sharing a cell meant for one person. The last two sections, Guanay and Cancha, are definitely the worst. If you’ve no money and no protection, that’s where you’ll end up.’

  They passed through Pinos - named for the old pine tree that grew in a small courtyard. It was lavishly equipped with two bars, two restaurants, a small soccer pitch, a billiard room and a copy shop with a geriatric looking printer and photocopier. Next was the Alamos section but neither there nor in Pinos was there any sign of Scouse. Ricardo asked some of the men they saw if they knew anything about a gringo prisoner, but all shook their heads.

  The remaining five sections housed the poorer prisoners. They were connected by a warren of passages, tunnels, yards and stairways which made it hard to tell where one section ended and another began. There were lights at intervals along the passageways but most were smashed or the bulbs were missing, making each one dark and forbidding-looking. As they came out of a passage into the next courtyard, Harper stopped and stared in disbelief at a group of small children playing in the dirt at the centre of the yard. ‘There are children in here too?’

  ‘Sure, when a man is sent to San Pedro, his family often come and live with him,’ said Lupa. ‘They’re safer in here than out on the streets and if he was the only breadwinner, they may have no other option. They’re free to come and go; there are two nurseries inside the walls but children often go out to schools in the surrounding area in the morning and come back to the prison to sleep, while their mothers bring food and other goods in and often run the market stalls here. Some children are even born in here and live the whole of their childhood inside the prison.’

  ‘But there must be all sorts of lowlifes here - murderers, rapists, paedophiles - how can prisoners keep their kids safe?’

  Ricardo shrugged. ‘In other jails sex offenders are kept in separate wings and protected by the authorities. There is no protection for them here, so paedophiles sent to San Pedro just don’t survive, because as soon as they arrive, they’re given justicia communitaria - community justice.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Ricardo grinned. ‘They’re stabbed or sometimes drowned in la piscina.’

  ‘La piscina? There’s a swimming pool?’

  ‘It’s called that but it’s really just a small plunge pool, and believe me, you really wouldn’t want to swim in it, though some of the children do. There are a few other sex criminals here. They’re not well-treated as it is, but they know that if they attacked one of the children or a prisoner’s wife or girlfriend, they’d be dead by nightfall.’

  A sign on the wall announced that they were now in the San Martin section. A statue of the saint stood in the centre of the yard, with carefully tended flowers growing from its plinth. Washing was strung on lines across the yard, and draped over the wooden balcony at first floor levels. The blue plaster on the courtyard walls looked newly painted and there were neat tables and chairs outside the bar and cantina in one corner. A few prisoners sat on benches against the walls or leafed through the second-hand clothing on a market stall run by an Aymara woman. Behind the statue of the saint was a circular opening a couple of metres across, filled with water. ‘Is that the pool you mentioned?’ Harper said.

  Ricardo nodded. ‘It’s also the well that provides the water for the prison.’

  A queue of men was waiting to use a payphone fixed to the wall and presided over by a heavy-set prisoner who was extracting a fee of a few Bolivianos from each user, in addition to the coins they had to put in the slot. ‘Presumably mobile phones are banned?’ Harper said.

  Ricardo laughed. ‘They are, but prisoners who can afford the bribes all have one - you can’t traffic cocaine if you don’t have a mobile phone.’

  There was again no sign of Scouse in the yard or in the cells opening off the passageways through the section, and they moved on, exploring two more sections without result. In each courtyard there was a café and one or more shops, and at least one room where prisoners were shooting pool or playing cards or chess. There were also a couple of weight room
s where massive guys were adding even more muscle, pumping iron with a variety of improvised weights.

  The cells surrounding the yards contained not only bedding and personal possessions but also an astonishing range of cottage industries: wood- and metal-workers, men making toys, kites, ceramics, figurines, paper flowers and tourist souvenirs including scale models of San Pedro, and artists painting sketches of prison life. There was a bakery, a shoeshine stand, a laundry and even a hardware store. As Harper peered into it, he burst out laughing. ‘They sell hacksaws? This must be the only prison in the world that sells prisoners the tools they need to escape!’

  In one cell three prisoners were hunched over new-looking Singer sewing machines making clothes. Ricardo smiled and waved to one of them. ‘He’s the boss of the workshop,’ he said. ‘He’s learned to be a tailor while he’s been in here and he makes fine suits for some of La Paz’s politicians and wealthy men.’

  ‘Arranging fittings must be tricky,’ Harper said with a grin.

  ‘Not at all. He makes the clothes in here, but for a bribe, the guards let him out on day release. He advertises for clients, rents a hotel room for the day to measure his new customers and do fittings for existing ones, and then comes back to San Pedro before curfew.’

  ‘I thought I was past being surprised by what goes on in here,’ Harper said, ‘but it turns out I was wrong.’

  In another cell, Harper glimpsed the primitive apparatus used to convert coca paste into cocaine, before the door was hastily slammed shut by one of the two burly prisoners guarding the cell. He fixed Harper, Ricardo and Lupa with a baleful stare as they walked past. The other one wolf-whistled and called out ‘Que bella! Cuánto cuesta, hermosa?’ to Lupa, but she whipped round and gave him a fierce glare and a torrent of Spanish insults that silenced him at once.