by Rusty Young
I complained to the capitán about wanting my clothes back. He shook his head. All my possessions were needed as evidencia, he said. He then gave me a receipt and told me that I should claim them back after my trial. There was nothing more that I could do. Apart from the guards, there was no one to complain to because during the FELCN investigation period, I was officially incomunicado – I wasn’t allowed visitors, or even phone calls. This also meant that the interrogation police could do anything they wanted to me. If I hadn’t been a foreigner, they probably would have tortured me, like they did the Bolivian prisoners. Many of them died before they even made it to court.
I wasn’t completely cut off. The police did allow a stream of lawyers to visit me. In fact, they had called the lawyers themselves, hoping for a kickback when I agreed to hire one of them. The lawyers all promised to have me let off, but I had to pay them up front. When I said I had no money on me, they left their business cards and told me to call them when I did.
I eventually managed to bribe one of the guards with a full packet of cigarettes to ring the British Embassy. As soon as the embassy got word that I was there, they sent someone around. Simon Harris was a serious man with a good heart. He brought me some supplies, including orange juice, sandwiches and a few magazines to read. He asked me whether I had been tortured or mistreated. I said that I hadn’t because I was worried that the police might take revenge on me if I made a complaint about being deprived of food.
However, I did complain about not having a mattress or blanket. The capitán pretended to be outraged when Mr Harris questioned him about this. He ordered his men to fix the problem immediately. They gave me a sack filled with straw to lie on and two blankets. But as soon as Mr Harris left, they took them away.
I thought the investigating police were treating me harshly in order to make me confess. But it wasn’t that. After four or five days I made my declaración stating my innocence, and signed it. I thought that now the police would send me to court to be charged in front of a judge, but they just kept me imprisoned in my cell. They seemed to want to punish me because I hadn’t given in and confessed.
After another week in the FELCN interrogation cells I became extremely sick. By then, even if they had let me out to exercise, I couldn’t have. I was too weak to remain standing, so I spent most of the time lying down. I no longer noticed how cold the floor was. I could see my ribs poking through my skin. I had also developed a severe cough. At first I thought this was because my lungs weren’t used to smoking, but when I started coughing up blood, I knew it was something more serious. I spat the blood into the corner of the cell because there was nowhere else to put it. Gradually, the wall became stained with small red and green lumps where the bloody phlegm had trickled down and dried against the cold concrete. Some mornings, after the colder nights, I noticed that little crystals had formed on them. The guards refused to call a doctor because I had no money to pay for a consultation, or even for the phone call. I knew for certain that I was dying.
On the thirteenth day, I had a fight with the guards. When it was time to return to my cell after the morning toilet break, I refused to go back in. There were two guards and they were nice about it at first.
‘My friend, por favor,’ they said, patting me on the back and pointing into the cell. But I refused to go in. I was thinking to myself, if I go back into that cell, I’m a dead man. I won’t ever come out again.
‘Vamos, Enkono,’ they said, still trying to get me to cooperate voluntarily. They called me ‘Enkono’ because I reminded them of Thomas Enkono, a famous black goalkeeper from Cameroon who had been contracted by one of the Bolivian football clubs.
For a few minutes, they tried gently to persuade me. Then they ordered me in, and finally they tried to drag me in by force. But I wouldn’t go. I was weak, but even two of them couldn’t get me in there because I was so afraid that that would be the end of my life. I started panicking and thrashing about with a strength that came from fear.
‘Let me go! Help! Somebody!’
A third guard arrived when he heard me yelling. Between the three of them, they got hold of me and lifted me up to carry me into the cell. However, they still couldn’t get me through the doorway. Each time I got near it, I wedged my legs against either side of the doorframe and pushed back with all my remaining strength. They almost succeeded, but I went crazy, twisting around and punching out at them and yelling at the top of my voice for someone to save me. I think they were afraid because they knew that my file listed me as dangerous.
‘OK. Tranquilo. Tranquilo, Enkono.’ One of them went to call the capitán, while the others attempted to calm me down.
When the capitán came down the stairs, his face was flushed red. He was very annoyed at having been disturbed and I thought he would simply order his men to use more force on me. The sudden strength I had found when fighting with the guards had disappeared. I was now very weak and my body was trembling. I wouldn’t have been able to resist them again.
‘What this time?’ demanded the capitán, looking at me angrily.
‘I want to go to court, please señor,’ I said, trying not to show him how much my muscles were twitching or that I was on the point of collapsing.
The capitán gave me the same excuse as every other time: I couldn’t go to court until the police investigation was complete.
‘But I’ve already made my statement,’ I said.
‘The judge will only send you direct to the prison. You want to go to the prison, yes?’ he asked sarcastically.
‘I’m sick. I need food. Can’t you see? I’m dying here.’
‘And you think the prison is better?’
‘It can’t be any worse.’ The capitán laughed at this and translated it for the other guards, who also laughed.
‘Really? You are sure?’ he asked, smiling.
I already had a mental image of what a South American prison would be like. There would be fifty prisoners crammed into a single room. The small amount of food we would get would be infested with maggots. The toilets would be overflowing. Rats would crawl over my face in the middle of the night. The guards would be corrupt and violent. They would torture prisoners. And the inmates would have blunt, homemade knives with which to attack new inmates.
As a foreigner, I mightn’t last long in a Bolivian jail. However, I knew that if I stayed at the FELCN, I would die anyway. Besides, there was a slight chance that I might survive in prison – they would give me some food, a blanket and a uniform that would be warmer than my suit. I might even get a bed. There would at least be a prison doctor. With a little nutritious food, I could get back enough strength to protect myself in a fight.
Two weeks before, I would have done anything to avoid being sent to a Bolivian prison. However, at that moment, I actually wanted to go.
‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘I would prefer to be in prison.’
When the capitán and his men had finished laughing, he looked at me sternly. ‘You know what they do to the gringos in the prison of Bolivia, my friend?’ I shook my head.
‘This is what they will do to you.’ He put his hands forward as though he was clutching someone’s hips and started pumping his groin back and forth, making grunting noises. The three guards laughed again and joined in groaning and squealing as he thrusted. ‘You still want to be in the prison?’
‘Yes,’ I answered determinedly, meeting his gaze. The other guards stopped laughing and waited for the capitán’s reaction. He made another joke in Spanish, probably saying that I would enjoy being raped. I continued to stare back at him while they laughed.
‘Fine, then, my friend.’ He threw his hands in the air. ‘You will go to the court. Then after you will see how is the prison in Bolivia.’
5
SAN PEDRO PRISON
I put my tie back on and the FELCN guards took me up the stairs and then outside into the glare of daylight. I stopped, wanting time for my eyes to adjust after so long without seeing the sun, but the guards pushed
me into a police car and drove me to the courthouse. I was placed in a holding cell that was no different from the one I had just come from, except that there was a window high up in the wall. I waited there all day, watching the light through the window gradually fade. No one brought me any food or came near my cell. I coughed blood a few times into the corner. It was no use yelling out or banging on the door; I had to conserve my energy.
‘Thomas McFadden!’ someone finally called from the corridor.
I patted my hair and flattened out my tie, thinking I was going to appear before a judge. I had been wearing the same suit for thirteen days. I must have smelled bad, but I no longer noticed. Two policemen unlocked the door and helped me to my feet because I was too weak to stand properly on my own. They handcuffed me and led me outside and into the street.
I was expecting to be taken to court, but the two men in charge of me waved to an unmarked car on the street. When it stopped, the shorter, bossier policeman opened the door and said, ‘Suba,’ and then pointed for me to get in. ‘¡Suba!’ he repeated louder, when he saw that I was hesitating.
I thought they were trying to trick me. The driver wasn’t wearing a police uniform, and I could tell that the car, which was old, wasn’t a police vehicle. However, I was weak from hunger and my hands were cuffed behind my back, so they simply pushed my head down and threw me in. At first I thought they were taking me somewhere to kill me, because that sometimes happens with the police in South America. People just disappear. There had been no sign on top of the car and I only realised it was a taxi when I saw a cardboard sign on the dashboard and the driver stopped in traffic to buy cigarettes, blocking the whole road. After that, I relaxed a little.
When we stopped outside the prison gates, one of the policemen guarding me in the back seat asked me something in Spanish. I didn’t understand, so I just stared back at him, confused. He repeated the same phrase – ‘La tarifa’ – again and again. He sounded like he wanted something. Then the taxi driver became angry and the two policemen started grabbing at me. I was still handcuffed, but at first I struggled to get away because I didn’t know what they were trying to do. One policeman got hold of my arms and kept me still, while the other went through my pockets. Then I worked it out: they wanted me to pay the taxi fare.
It was almost dark when I was escorted through the outer gates of San Pedro prison. I remember thinking that the building we were entering couldn’t possibly be a prison, because the plaza in front of it was so beautiful. The last thing I saw of the outside world was a couple walking hand in hand along the footpath. The girl was pretty, and I thought it would be a long time before I saw a woman again.
The policemen were angry that I hadn’t had any money to pay for the taxi. They dragged me roughly up the stairs to a big, important-looking office. A plaque on the door said that the office was that of a major. When we entered the office, the major didn’t look up. My file was open on the desk in front of him and he continued studying it as if I wasn’t there, just like the colonel had done at the airport. I sat patiently, watching him and waiting. I noticed that his uniform was perfectly ironed, although he was so fat that the buttons looked like they were about to pop off. I desperately needed food, but I decided it would be best to wait for the major to speak first. Eventually, he lifted his head and just stared at me.
When the major did finally speak, it was to ask me for money. I couldn’t understand much of what he said, but I knew the numbers in Spanish, so I picked up the words ‘twenty-five bolivianos’. I automatically assumed he was asking me for a bribe because I was a foreigner. At the time, one boliviano was worth about twenty US cents, so the amount he wanted was only five dollars. I wouldn’t have argued with him, except that I didn’t have any money.
‘I haven’t got any money. I’m sorry,’ I said, shaking my head, frustrated that I couldn’t use my hands to explain. When the major noticed that I was struggling with my handcuffs, he nodded for my police escorts to remove them. They had been done up very tightly and my hands stung as soon as the blood started to flow again.
‘Gracias, señor,’ I said respectfully, nodding to him. I wondered whether this was the right time to ask him for some food. However, first I wanted to apologise for not being able to give him any money. I turned my pockets inside out to demonstrate that I actually wanted to pay him but couldn’t. I think the major misinterpreted this gesture as a refusal, because he immediately sent for a corporal who could speak English. The first thing the corporal translated was, ‘But is true, my amigo. Everybody pay the entrance fee. Bolivia prisoners also.’
I still assumed this ‘entrance fee’ was just the major’s polite way of asking for a bribe. But I later learned that all new prisoners were indeed required to pay an entrance fee of twenty-five bolivianos for the privilege of being imprisoned in San Pedro. They called this ‘el Ingreso’ and when you paid it, the police gave you a receipt.
‘But what if I can’t pay?’ I asked, when I realised they were serious. I was worried that the major would become angry.
‘You must work in the kitchen for a period of six months to pay the money,’ answered the corporal.
I promised the major that the British Embassy would pay the fee when they came to visit me. He seemed satisfied with that arrangement. Even though he now knew that I had no money, he then told me that I would have to buy a prison cell. When the corporal translated this, I looked at him blankly and said that I didn’t understand. The other policemen in the room grinned when they saw the look of confusion on my face.
‘Ahora tiene que comprar su propia celda,’ the major repeated impatiently. When his men heard this the second time, they struggled to contain their laughter.
‘Now you must buy your own cell,’ the corporal translated again. Once more, I suspected that this was simply another way of asking for a bribe because I was a foreigner. ‘OK,’ I nodded, playing along with it. My plan was to stay on the major’s good side and promise him some money later.
The major then sent one of the policemen out of the room to get something. While we were waiting for him to return, I told the corporal that I was hungry. He put his hand up to silence me.
‘Wait. After,’ he said, as the policeman came back in carrying a large blue book. The major opened the book upside down so that I could read it from my side of the desk. He motioned for me to come closer. I leaned forward in my chair and followed his finger as he ran it down the page, explaining something in Spanish as he went.
It took me some time to understand what the book was about. The pages were divided into columns that contained dates and names and descriptions. When he sensed that I was having difficulty, the corporal explained that this was a list of all the cells currently for sale that I could choose from.
Still not quite believing that any of this was real, I asked the major how much a cell cost, using one of my few Spanish expressions: ‘¿Cuánto cuesta?’
‘Cinco mil,’ he responded. I thought I knew the numbers, but I must have misheard. Five thousand was too much. I asked the translator to repeat the amount in English. He confirmed that it was five thousand.
‘Dollars or bolivianos?’
‘Dollars, my amigo,’ he said. ‘Cell prices in San Pedro are always in American dollars.’
‘But I’ve already told you. I haven’t got any money,’ I said. The major said something to the corporal, who translated.
‘The major say four thousand. But that is minimum. Is good price, no?’
Once the major realised that there was no money to be made out of me, our interview was terminated immediately. He nodded to his men to remove me from the office.
‘Wait!’ I cried out as the guards stepped forward. ‘Can I have some food? Where do I sleep?’ But the major had already begun shuffling the papers on his desk. ‘Please,’ I begged him. ‘I have money. Just not here.’
Themajor didn’t look up again, not even when I tried to struggle with the guards. That morning, I had been able to fight them, b
ut by then I was too weak. There was no need to handcuff me this time. They took me down the stairs again, opened a big gate with metal bars and pushed me through. I felt myself collapsing from hunger and exhaustion.
When I looked up, it wasn’t at all what I had expected. There were no prisoners to be seen anywhere. I was in a cement-paved area that appeared to be the main prison courtyard, but the place was completely deserted. It was now night-time, and the yard was well lit by a number of naked bulbs hanging from the walls. In the centre of the courtyard were two garden beds, each with a large, healthy-looking tree. A few colourful flowers grew at their bases. I noticed a tap beside me. Underneath it was a bucket for watering the gardens with. The water was freezing cold and tasted dirty, but I was so thirsty I didn’t care.
When I had finished drinking, I looked upwards. I expected to see guards patrolling the roofs with rifles slung over their shoulders, but there weren’t any. Above me was a wooden balcony with two separate staircases running down into the courtyard. Over on the other side of the courtyard were three doors. Two of them were closed.
There was no way that I could sleep in the courtyard; it would be too cold. I needed to find somewhere warm to sleep. I went through the open door and felt my way down a dimly lit tunnel, with my hands stretched out in front of me for protection. The corridor led to two more passageways and, at the end of one of these, a second courtyard. Fronting onto this courtyard was a building with three storeys, each with rows of doors that seemed to open into tiny rooms.
