And what did she mean by that?
“I don’t know,” she said, growing emotional. No one had seen her weep in the courtroom. “There are forces at work on me. Sometimes I think I am a prisoner of them. Karma? Perhaps. All I know is that one cannot really control one’s life.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
When the Liverpool Connection reached the Indian border safely and prepared for the crossing into Pakistan, Checkers developed an acute case of cold feet. True to their word, the British drug dealers had obtained a passport for her somewhere along the line, but the substitution of Checkers’ photograph was sloppily done. She did not think it would fool anyone. And she could not risk a new arrest in India, as she was already out on bond for the charges of smuggling and hashish transport. She did not know the ropes in this corner of India, where most every man wore a turban and a beard and seemed eminently capable of swinging a figurative sword to slice off alien heads.
The youngsters parked the station wagon and walked to a clearing where the hash pipe went round and round. One of the young Englishman, who called himself Johnny Good Vibes, conceived a novel idea for Checkers’ passage into Pakistan.
Thus did three young Britons drive routinely and unquestioned across the border, their passports barely perused, their tailgate door unopened. Had the border guard been more perseverant, he might have poked about the bedrolls and knapsacks and discovered a rolled-up carpet. Inside the carpet—like Cleopatra being smuggled to Caesar—rested Checkers, enormously stoned, trying not to squeal with laughter.
Safely inside Pakistan, the adventurers drove to a town near Lahore where, as she had promised, Checkers arranged for the Liverpool Connection to meet the region’s major hashish merchant. A substantial buy was negotiated, enough to merit an anticipated $25,000 in profits, predicted Checkers. Her companions decided to make a U-turn and drive back into India, destination Goa, where a market of the young was waiting to buy their wares. Did Checkers want to go along? She shook her head. Goa was once her paradise, but now it was dangerous. Someone opened the door, she once said, and let the serpent in. Checkers wished her companions well, warned them to be cautious, and with a kiss they parted ways. A few months later, Johnny Good Vibes was murdered near Goa. His body and his head, which were separated from one another, were stuffed into a pile of rotting fish.
Checkers had money in her pocket now, $500 from the Britons as a finder’s fee, another $200 under the table from the Pakistani drug merchant. Now she would attend her business. She hailed a taxi and set forth to find the Pathan nomads who, in her fantasy, would rescue Marie-Andrée from the injustices of India and the punishment of unhappy love.
Rumors of the impending “commando raid” on the courthouse to free Charles reached fever pitch by late summer. Already more guards than spectators were in and around the court, and a team of plainclothesmen tried to blend among the rivers of humanity that flowed at storm tide in the dark corridors. Nonetheless, Indian authorities elected to puncture any escape balloon before it attempted takeoff.
It was as if war had been declared.
Another squad of guards, armed not only with rifles but with fixed bayonets, plus a squad of judo experts, appeared at the door of Judge Nath’s courtroom. Every person who entered was scrutinized. Heat was applied to Charles’ camp followers. Half-brother André was arrested on charges of “passport irregularity” and thrown into the police lockup for a long night. Though released the next day on bail, the younger man was severely shaken. He was not permitted to visit Charles except in the courtroom, and then their moments were brief, stolen during recess. After a few days of enduring the threatening stares of the guards, André skipped town, prudence dictating that he forfeit bond and return hastily to the City of Light.
Then two other men-in-waiting abandoned Charles, not even bothering to explain that they feared arrest. Tete vanished, reportedly moving to Bombay. If Charles felt like the captain of a sinking ship, he did not show it. Instead he cried out his anger and frustration in open court. “What kind of country would deny me the chance to visit with my own flesh and blood in private, without a guard listening in?” he demanded of Judge Nath. “My brother was arrested for nothing! I cannot speak with my family or my friends or even my lawyers in prison without a guard around. If I say anything in confidence, the guard is going to report it to the administrator who then tells the public prosecutor … I demand justice! I demand basic human rights!”
To dramatize his plight, Charles invited reporters to gaze upon his thin but heavily muscled legs, where bruises marked the force and pressure of his leg irons. The wounds were indeed ugly and obviously painful, but anyone familiar with Charles’ history of inflicting injuries on himself as prelude to escapes might have wondered if he had amplified their intensity.
On September 1, 1977, Charles filed a petition with the High Court seeking a delay in not only the Solomon murder trial, but the Ashoka Hotel jewel robbery and other crimes charged against him. The petition, carefully written and replete with scholarly legal terminology, asked that the High Court grant him permission for private conferences with lawyers and family members, that he be allowed a typewriter and a tape recorder to help in his defense, and that the “cruel” and “inhuman” leg irons be removed. “Did he ask for afternoon tea as well?” wondered Inspector Tuli, considerably annoyed that the murder trial was being drawn out by stunts. The P.P. was similarly put out, complaining to Judge Nath that “this delay is very irritating … I had planned to finish my arguments this week. The case could have been wrapped up by mid-September. Now it will be a miracle if it finishes in October.”
The Supreme Court of India voted to hear the petition of Charles Sobhraj. The decision thrilled the prisoner, repairing some of the ego damage suffered by the attrition in his ranks. “It’s the first time in the history of Indian law that a prisoner on trial had been able to get a personal hearing before the Supreme Court,” he told one reporter, reveling in the attention.
The Supreme Court of India, built during British rule, remains a gracious, dignified old woman with massive pillars ringing her girth like Victoria’s attendants. On the late morning of September 6, 1977, the corridors were thronged with lawyers and students, paying appreciation to Charles’ petition. “I heard it was quite brilliantly written,” said one advocate with an enormous silver mustache stained briefly red by his digestion of paan.
On this important day, Charles was attended not only by his regular guards, but by one weapons expert who carried a bazooka, and another who had a container of hand grenades. There were also lawyers, reporters, beggars, embassy personnel, and legal wives, all jostling for a peek at the notorious prisoner. Marie-Andrée had no business before the court, but she was permitted to attend. And when she entered the chamber, a shock awaited. Next to Charles, hanging on his every word, her face carefully painted and her limbs draped in fine silk, sat Suzy, an exquisite Oriental doll appropriate for the emperor of the hour.
Reporters badgered Charles for the young woman’s name, but he refused, insisting she was “just a pen pal.” He was more interested in speaking of his petition. And he was annoyed that the leg irons had been removed by prison authorities prior to the hearing. As he drew quick sketches of the fetters and distributed them to reporters, he recited a dramatic scenario:
“They tried to take them off me yesterday … But I wouldn’t let them. I told the guards I would fight anyone who touched those leg irons. I wanted the Supreme Court justices to see for themselves … Then, this morning, when I was walking toward the police bus, several hefty guards grabbed me and threw me to the ground … Then three others rushed out with hammers and smashed the leg irons.”
“Did you put up a resistance?” asked a young reporter.
“Of course,” answered Charles. “But what could I do against all those men? Look at my legs …” Charles lifted his trousers to reveal white gauze bandages stained red on his ankles, and similar red marks midway between his ankle and knee.
“No,” replied Charles. “I bandaged myself. I don’t trust the prison doctor. He works for the police. It took at least a dozen hard hammer blows to break the irons, so you can imagine how much pain it caused … I have been so harassed by Indian police that I am pessimistic about justice …” Suzy nodded in vigorous support and nuzzled as close to Charles as the guards would allow. Nearby, Marie-Andrée sat in familiar humiliation.
High-domed, cooled by fresh breezes, the spacious chamber of the Supreme Court of India was a marked contrast to the squalid and unpleasant room in Tis Hazari Courts where the Solomon murder trial was taking place. Here was the majesty of the law, with sleekly gowned lawyers gliding respectfully on carpeted floors, fine wooden walls gleaming with polish and care. Here the ceiling fans turned noiselessly, as if fearful of disturbing the judges of history whose oil portraits stared sternly over all who came here.
Appearing for the prosecution was no less a person than the Attorney General of India, Mr. S. V. Gupte, a distinguished lawyer with a sharp aquiline face and a posture that bespoke a lifetime of personal discipline. It was soon clear that he did not know a great deal about the case at hand, but he obviously well understood that his government desired Charles Sobhraj to remain under the tightest security. He would argue for the continuance of leg irons and chains.
No one doubted that Charles would have preferred to be his own lawyer, to star in the unusual drama that he had written. Unable to win permission, he engaged a new advocate, a lawyer named Ghattate. He was of substantial reputation and argued persuasively on behalf of his client. “My lords,” pleaded Ghattate before the three justices, “my client cannot even answer the call of nature when he is wearing these inhuman fetters on his legs. They are welded in place. He cannot sleep properly. He is in continuing pain and discomfort. He cannot consult his lawyers without a jail official listening to everything and taking notes.”
The Attorney General rose, bowed respectfully, and began counter-argument. “My lords, this chap has escaped several times from jails in the past … He has also evaded arrest successfully … This man is very clever. The court must realize his resourcefulness.” From a lengthy document, the Attorney General read a list of the known number of Charles’ arrests, the prisons from which he had escaped, and the pending charges of murder brought against him in India, Nepal, Thailand, and Pakistan.
The Chief Justice, his face troubled, agreed that these were “serious charges … very serious charges indeed.”
“This man is responsible for many murders,” continued the Attorney General. It was not only necessary, but vital that the prisoner be hobbled by steel.
Ghattate, the new lawyer, introduced a sketch and diagrams of leg fetters. He handed them to the justices.
“Who drew these things?” inquired the Chief Justice.
“We did, my lord,” answered the lawyer. He delivered a graphic account of how severely his client’s legs were damaged when the guards “smashed” the fetters to remove them this very morning.
In his chair, Charles raised his trousers, hoping that the judges would look at his legs.
The Attorney General rebutted with skepticism, “We feel that he inflicted these injuries on himself.”
The Chief Justice looked incredulous. “How could a man do this to himself?”
“My lord,” came the answer, “this man is capable of anything … The Interpol reports shows that he escaped not from one, but from several prisons. He has committed a number of murders. We cannot chase him around Asia if he gets loose. That is why these fetters are necessary.”
Charles’ lawyer disagreed with passion. “But these bars and fetters are welded onto him! This is a very cruel form of punishment.”
The Chief Justice leaned forward and addressed the Attorney General. “What can his free legs do?”
“He can attack members of the jail staff and escape,” warned the Attorney General.
The Chief Justice gazed out at the throng assembled before him. “Where is this man, anyway?” he asked. With elaborate difficulty Charles rose and bowed, lacking only a spotlight and a clash of cymbals to mark his ascent to this supreme moment, wretched as it was. Born in torment, reared without identity, he now commanded the eyes of India’s greatest men. History would record him!
Staring for a long while, perhaps wondering how this ragged and insignificant-looking little man could have filled the pages of such an incredible dossier, the Chief Justice gestured for Charles to sit down. Then, after huddling briefly with his associates, the jurist presented two choices: “Will you ask your client whether he would prefer solitary confinement to fetters?” Charles was stunned. This was like asking a man if he preferred a cobra or a mamba in his bed.
The defense lawyer bent over his client’s ear and the two men whispered animatedly.
“My lord,” finally answered the lawyer, “this man prefers bar fetters to solitary confinement.” Sputtering indignation, his face flooded with an odd crosscurrent of fury and hauteur, Charles was led from the great hall, Suzy murmuring comfort on one side, Marie-Andrée ministering to the other.
That afternoon in Tihar, guards welded on new leg irons, rather enthusiastically, one would suspect.
Ten months later, ten very long months later, Judge Nath retired to prepare his verdict in the death of Jean-Luc Solomon. A collective sigh of relief swept over the courtroom. The trial had long since become mired in tedium, a play with no end, its performers trapped on a stage whose wings were sealed. One of the young lawyers involved likened the experience to a dreadful evening once spent in a Bombay theater: “We were all waiting for the star, a great woman singer, but first we had to endure a magician. Nothing went right for the poor chap. His rabbit jumped out of the hat before it was supposed to. His assistant bumped into a table and the supposedly empty pitcher spilled wine on the floor. The mirror in his disappearing box fell on his head. But the bloody fool would not get offstage. He may still be there, for all I know. He seemed just stubborn enough to keep attempting tricks, either until the audience succumbed from boredom, or until something worked sufficiently well to reward him with applause.”
Charles’ bag of tricks was similarly abundant.
First came the Disappearing Woman, which Charles tried to present as an epic romance more poignant than Romeo and Juliet. Alas, it became more like a modest variation of The Sting. After Suzy the waitress’s surprise appearance in the Supreme Court chamber, she clung to the defendant like moss on an oak. For several weeks in late 1977 she appeared in Judge Nath’s courtroom, rushing to the chained arms of her beloved and smothering him with kisses. Their liaison was a spectacle that could only be called extraordinary, necking and cooing amid clanking chains at odd moments of the trial. Certainly Suzy brightened the drab chamber of khaki guards. She appeared in brilliant silks, fluttering eyelashes, and on occasion sat in the lap of the prisoner while both professed titanic love. The assumption was that Charles paid not only for Suzy’s importation, but for her wardrobe and substantial hotel bill as well. He must have parted with a few of the sapphires hidden in his mouth.
Marie-Andrée pretended indifference to the gaudy intruder and told a reporter, “I have known this was coming … I wish them well … Charles and I are just friends.” But the hurt that came to her face could not have been hidden by the veil of a Moslem woman.
Then Charles grandly announced an intention to wed Suzy. The Indian Government reacted with no tolerance for romance, denying the couple permission on numerous grounds, principal of which being the lack of a document to prove that Charles was legally divorced from his first wife. This gave the prisoner an opportunity to protest anew with all the passion he had directed toward the irons that bound his legs. For a time, newspapers covered the new development enthusiastically, thwarted love being a favored subject in any setting. One paper even wrote that Charles was “contrite” and “so in love” that he wanted to turn over a new leaf.
During all this, the murder trial managed to continue, but with attention focused less on the witness box than at the rear of the courtroom where Charles conducted frequent press conferences, storming over the cruelty of a bureaucracy that would deny a man his bride.
What was Charles up to?
The romantic might have believed that Charles was truly the prisoner of love whose heart was committed. The skeptic might wonder whether Charles was simply attempting a diversionary tactic, seeking to shift the attention of the press and public—and judge—from murder to matrimony. And the cynic might speculate whether Charles was buying a little flight insurance should the day arise when he was delivered to the eager lawmen of Thailand. Suzy’s father, it was learned, was a Bangkok policeman.
Whatever, the wedding did not occur. Suzy disappeared from her lover’s lap as abruptly as she had come. Rumors had reached Charles that his innamorata was not exactly staying in her Delhi hotel room each night, praying for his well-being. Secretly he engaged a lawyer to investigate Suzy. The ensuing report, both disturbing and somehow amusingly appropriate, brought a sudden final curtain to l’affaire Suzy. The lawyer informed Charles that while his intended was enjoying his largesse she was also accepting the romantic attentions of an Indian waiter, a handsome young man who shared her quarters. Some days the other man even waited outside the courthouse! The implication was that Suzy and her boy friend intended to take Charles for all they could get, then return to Bangkok and live happily ever after.
So much for love in chains.
Charles fired lawyers and hired lawyers and on one occasion received permission from Judge Nath to represent himself. It happened because on the day that Charles was scheduled to enter the witness box and testify on his own behalf, his newest lawyer did not show up. Judge Nath stewed impatiently for one hour, then another, finally summoned the defendant to the bench.
“What is this delay all about?” asked the judge, his tone indicating that he was growing weary of the defendant’s stunts.
Serpentine Page 65
