Welcome to Hell

by Colin Martin

  The other factories, though, were controlled by the prison. An individual or a company paid the prison for the use of one of the factories and the inmates. This was slave labour, pure and simple.

  The guard in charge of that factory charged commission on everything his factory produced. The salary for working in one of these factories was ten to 20 baht a month. That’s about 80 cents.

  The money for the salaries was paid to the prison, but Ali informed me that the commandos and guards stole most of it and divided it amongst themselves, leaving a pittance for their slave labourers.

  I was flabbergasted; I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  But at this point I finally heard some good news.

  Foreigners didn’t work, Ali told me – not because they’re not supposed to, but because they refuse.

  Whispering in my ear, he told me not to agree to work under any circumstances. He said there was absolutely no regard for safety. There were no work clothes or overalls, and in most of the factories there weren’t even benches or work tables. Everybody sat and worked on the floor.

  So all foreigners refused to work and sat in the canteen all day, or simply walked around the prison yard. He said I should do the same. I agreed.

  * * *

  The prison regime was based on the principle that prisoners should be treated like animals. The prison rules made no sense whatsoever.

  As I began to see what life inside was going to be like, Ali told me that sport is only allowed after working hours.

  But foreigners weren’t even allowed to lift weights. He said the commandos claimed that we were too big already and they didn’t want us getting any bigger or stronger.

  Thai prisoners, on the other hand, were allowed to pump iron all day if they wanted.

  I’d always considered myself to be an open minded and enlightened person. After all, by that time I’d done a lot of travelling, so I thought I’d seen most that human nature had to offer.

  But that day I began to realise that in a Thai prison, all standards and normal codes of behaviour go out the window.

  When I was locked into my cell at night, I gradually came to conclude that I had been jailed with a group of animals.

  After a few days, my fellow prisoners began to disgust me. They picked their noses while talking to others. One man used every finger on his hand to pick his nose until he finally got the piece of snot he wanted, and then ate it, all while talking face to face with his friends.

  It was horrific and turned my stomach.

  In the cell, prisoners would often sit down beside me and squeeze their spots and pimples. They would also repeat this practice in the canteen where they would wipe the pus on the dinner table, or chair.

  It got worse.

  During the first week, I saw some of them sit down and, in full view of everyone, take their penises out and compare them, check their pubic hair for lice, then smell their fingers.

  I saw one man scratch his armpit with his spoon, next scratch his arse with it before using the spoon to eat his lunch.

  I also saw prisoners swapping spit with their boyfriends as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

  They used to blow their noses out onto the floor. It was like something from hell.

  The amount of snot that can come out of one person’s nose is unbelievable. The same goes for spitting. You couldn’t walk in the cell without stepping in someone’s snot or spit. They had no sense of respect for others.

  During the first week, I remember standing at the water trough trying to have a shower.

  Minutes later, I noticed that the man next to me was pissing on my feet. There was no hygiene, never mind honour among thieves.

  I quickly came to realise that it was the law of the jungle that ruled within Chonburi.

  For example, fighting was an everyday occurrence at shower time. Men would push and beat each other senseless for a jug of water. The commandos never intervened because fights were considered a form of entertainment.

  The atmosphere sent me into a spiral of depression.

  I had difficulties with everything. I began to lose weight because I couldn’t find any sort of edible food inside the jail.

  My other problem involved going to the toilet. There were no toilets that flushed. As I said, the toilets consisted of a hole in the ground, which no one cleaned. It was rancid, and the smell was disgusting.

  I put off going to the toilet for as long as I could, but two days after I first arrived I realised I had to bite the bullet.

  The first time I tried to relieve myself, I vomited.

  Eventually I attempted to go only to have another prisoner come right up to me.

  ‘You got a cigarette, my friend?’

  I soon learned that, for some reason, Thai prisoners love to hang around, eat and even play chess directly in front of other prisoners while they’re trying to use the toilets.

  On that occasion, I had to stop. I tried to relieve myself the next day but I was unable to. Have you ever tried to use a toilet with a room full of people watching you? I certainly couldn’t.

  I quickly learned that decency and dignity were dirty words in Chonburi. Nobody even pretended, because there was no point.

  Nothing I’d ever experienced prepared me for life inside a Thai prison. It was hell on earth.

  The frustration and despair I felt was overwhelming. I found depression impossible to avoid, especially because I was kept chained like an animal 24 hours a day.

  In those first few days, I became fixated on myself and everything about me. I fixated on the chains.

  Dragging them around between my legs was my way of rebelling against the system. It was my way of protesting.

  But after a few days, I couldn’t even walk. Every time I attempted to move, I kept tripping over, but I still refused to pick them up.

  I became more depressed as the days passed. I would secretly cry at night and wallow in my own misery. I could see no way out and contemplated suicide.

  The chains became my obsession. They seemed to affect every facet of my life.

  I couldn’t wash properly with them on. It was impossible to take my shorts off, so I’d shower, still wearing them, and then stumble around, or sit in the sun until they dried.

  My chains had been dirty when they were hammered on, but after a few days of showering in them and dragging them around they were putrid. This added to my despair.

  Then someone showed me some kindness.

  One of the other foreign prisoners, Stefan from Germany, came and talked to me. Stefan had been in chains for nearly three years, and he explained that I’d better get used to it. He encouraged me to pull myself together.

  He laid it on the line. He said the chains wouldn’t be taken off until after I had been sentenced, whether I liked it or not.

  If I fought my case that meant at least five years, he said. And if I was sentenced to 30 years or more, they wouldn’t come off at all.

  More than 30 years? At the time I couldn’t contemplate the idea of spending the rest of my life in Chonburi. It was too much for me.

  Stefan showed me how to change my shorts while wearing shackles and how to scrub and clean them to avoid infections from the dirt and rust.

  I now dedicated myself to keeping them spotlessly clean. The shackles were made of mild steel, so new rust would form every day. It took about six months, scrubbing every day, to get them really clean. There weren’t any Brillo pads or special cleaners, only soap and elbow grease, but I persevered and they became bearable.

  Once I realised that no one was going to come and rescue me, I began to deal with my situation.

  By this time I had lost all faith. For a variety of reasons, my own family were not in a position to help in any practical way.

  My only hope
was that justice would prevail in the courtroom. In this regard, I decided to focus on preparing a solid defence for my trial.

  * * *

  I was brought to court 12 days later. In the first few days inside that squalid jail, I had hoped and prayed that the Thai courts would somehow become my salvation. But even the experience of going to court was shrouded in brutality and indignity.

  When the day came, I was forced to wear the prison-issue brown clothes – brown shirt and brown shorts, no underwear and, of course, no socks or shoes.

  I was loaded onto a bus with dozens of men and driven to a courthouse. I half expected them to remove the chains before we entered the court; I thought they would prejudice my trial. But I was wrong.

  We were marched into the court only to find that once again there was no judge, no prosecutor and no lawyer. There was only a court clerk and the police. There was no hearing.

  The clerk called out all 20 names, and said, ‘12 days.’

  And that was it. The whole process didn’t take more than five minutes.

  Once again, we were squeezed like sardines onto the bus; we were strip-searched by the sadistic guards; we watched the new prisoners get humiliated; we rushed through into the sleeping section for a very quick shower; and we hurried up to the room to be counted and locked up for the night.

  I would go through exactly the same procedure seven times before I was even formally charged.

  The police had 84 days to complete their investigations. After that they had to charge you or let you go. I eventually found out that no judge or prosecutor bothered to go to the court before the 84 days had expired.

  I convinced myself that I would be released after I had spent 84 days in jail because I had not received any legal papers or been served with any charge sheets.

  I talked to my new friends about what I was going to do when I was released. No one contradicted me because I seemed to be in better spirits. The notion of freedom lifted me out of my despair.

  I had been taken to court every 12 days and nothing had happened. I interpreted this as a good sign.

  When the 84-day period had expired, I was taken to court as usual with everyone else. I was sure this was the day they were going to release me. My mental health had improved noticeably. I was in good form.

  After I complied with the various security procedures at the court, I was brought before another court clerk.

  He told me to sign for another 12 days. I couldn’t believe it; I felt like a fool. I fought back the tears and promised myself I would never be so self-deluding again.

  There was nothing I could do. I kept asking myself what was happening. Just as I was being put onto the bus to go back to the prison, a court police guard came up to me.

  ‘You Colin Martin?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. I’m Colin Martin.’

  ‘This is for you,’ he said.

  He handed me three pages of paper, and simply walked away. At first I thought he had given me release papers or some court order. But the commandos insisted that I step on the bus and return to the prison. I held on to the papers for my dear life.

  During the strip-search at the prison gate, one commando saw the papers lying on the ground at my feet while I stood naked.

  He asked me what they were.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘They’re in Thai.’

  He held out his hand, so I picked them up and gave the papers to him. He told me that they were my charge papers. I’d just been charged with first degree murder.

  10

  By the time I was charged with murder, I’d come to terms with the situation that I found myself in. I had pulled myself together as best I could. I suppose I knew all along in my heart that I was trapped and wouldn’t be freed any time soon. In this regard, the most important lesson that I learned was that I couldn’t survive without money.

  Nothing was provided in prison, and nothing was free. The food they gave the prisoners was inedible. To stay alive, I had to buy my own food from the guards along with everything else. So I never knew whether I’d eat tomorrow if I bought food today.

  The prison authorities didn’t even give me a blanket, razors, soap, a toothbrush, toothpaste, or any of the other necessities I needed to stay clean and healthy. Everything came down to money. I realised that fighting my way through the legal system, too, would take cash.

  At that time my older brother and sister sent money when they could afford it, but it wasn’t a weekly or monthly amount. If they didn’t have money to spare, I didn’t eat. I continued to lose weight.

  I didn’t really worry about my health in the beginning because I didn’t think that I’d be in jail very long. When I say long, I mean years. I lived in the hope that I would be freed in the coming months.

  Whatever money I had of my own when I was arrested, I’d left with my wife Nanglung. I’d given everything to her and told her to take care of herself and our 18-month-old son Brendan. My older brother Tommy also sent her some money when he could.

  Nanglung used to visit me regularly, but I wouldn’t let her buy me anything because she had no income. This left me in a horrific position.

  But there was worse to come.

  Some months after my arrest, my brother Tommy arrived in Thailand with money and medicines. His visit was a relief. He was a lifeline. When he arrived, he immediately began to look for ways to secure my release.

  Legally, I was entitled to bail for the duration of my trial. I discussed it with Tommy and he offered to put up the money.

  We decided that it would be best to rent the land papers or deeds of a Thai person willing to help. One of the lawyers I had hired had told me that I would be required to pay 20 per cent of the bail bond.

  I was told that bail isn’t set in Thailand; instead, defendants and their lawyer simply take a guess at what the court will accept. In my case, we thought that one million baht (about $40,000) would be enough, which required a payment of 200,000 baht to rent the land papers.

  My lawyer agreed to arrange everything and Tommy offered to pay the money. When Tommy arrived in Thailand, he naturally spent some time with my wife Nanglung. He discussed the bail application with her.

  When Tommy said the lawyer would make the bail application, she told me and Tommy not to trust him – she said he’d probably steal the money.

  I was paranoid and took her word. She was Thai, and probably more familiar with the system than I was. She said that if I gave her the money she would make the necessary arrangements with her family to rent suitable land papers. Her family were farmers and owned their own land.

  I had no reason not to trust her. She was my wife and the mother of my child.

  So Tommy arranged to raise the money for bail on his return to Ireland, and promptly sent it. I know that Nanglung went and collected it from the embassy.

  That was the last I heard of her. She stole the money and vanished.

  I have to admit that I blamed myself as much as anyone else. Our marriage was one of convenience. She was a young and attractive woman who married me simply to provide for her. I always knew this. Young Thai women don’t fall in love with older foreigners. They fall in love with the lifestyle we can give them.

  She’d never had so much money in her hands in her life, and temptation – or greed – took over.

  As a prisoner in Thailand you don’t have the right to file charges against anybody unless it’s related to your case.

  Stealing is stealing, but since my wife wasn’t directly involved in my dealings with O’Connor and Holdsworth, there was nothing I could do about it.

  At the time, I couldn’t comprehend what had happened. I asked myself again and again how on earth I had ended up in this situation. When I wrote to Tommy and told him what had happened, he simply couldn’t believe it either.

 
; My family refused to send any more money for bail, and I couldn’t really blame them. But I was now completely stuck.

  You have no idea how I felt. The anger nearly drove me crazy. I should have stayed in prison for only about five months, then made bail and fought my case from the outside, or better still, returned home.

  As I soon found out, what made my situation even more serious was that I would have had a much better chance to beat the murder charge if I’d been out on bail. If a defendant is free it makes a big difference in the eyes of the court.

  In practical terms, if a defendant arrives in court dressed smartly in a shirt and tie, the judge gets an opportunity to see him in a positive light. When defendants arrive in shackles and filthy prison uniforms, they are usually convicted. I didn’t know until two years later that I was entitled to wear a suit, because nobody told me.

  Now I was forced to accept that I would have to stay in that stinking hell hole until my trial ended.

  * * *

  Looking back on that time, I find it hard to explain how complicated my predicament was. I might as well have had no legal representation.

  My lawyer had only been to see me once during the 84 days I’d been in prison. And when we spoke, he expressed no interest in my case. The only thing he seemed interested in was his fee.

  I remember him sitting with me and saying that he would charge $20,000, but his fee could double if my case turned out to be complicated. At the time, I didn’t have $20,000 or anywhere near it, but I said nothing. I knew he would abandon me if he knew the truth.

  The legal consultation was farcical. The only truthful thing he said was that it would take months for my trial to start. And that he would, of course, need a down payment.

  For the first time, I decided to start playing them all at their own game. I assured him there would be no trouble in paying his required fees, and promised him I’d try to work something out.