Welcome to Hell

by Colin Martin

  I was sent to court 12 days later.

  I assumed that my ploy would work, but when I arrived in court, the lawyer was nowhere to be seen.

  I waited and waited in the court holding cell. Eventually my name was called and I was taken upstairs to a courtroom, without a defending lawyer. Evidently, he had no interest in the case until he was paid.

  I remember that day for all the wrong reasons. It should have been the beginning of the end of my troubles, but it was actually the day my life took another horrible turn for the worse.

  A judge walked in and asked me in Thai how I pleaded. I said that I didn’t understand Thai, so the judge sent for a translator. I was taken back downstairs to wait.

  The translator arrived two hours later. I still had no lawyer, but there was no prosecutor either. Through the translator, the judge explained that I had been charged with the first degree murder of Mr Brett Holdsworth. He asked me if I had a lawyer. I said I did, so he asked where my lawyer was.

  I said I didn’t know.

  The judge told me that murder was a very serious charge, and that I’d have to have a reliable lawyer. He decided that he would appoint one to defend me, and he set the next court appearance for a date six weeks away. That was it.

  * * *

  I kept myself together in anticipation of the trial date. I’d been disappointed so much at this stage that I never really allowed my hopes to build up, but I was quietly confident that the new court-appointed lawyer assigned to my case might be more effective than his predecessor.

  Six weeks later I was transferred to court, where I met my new lawyer. He introduced himself, was accompanied by a translator, and seemed quite professional. Perhaps that was mainly because he had actually turned up. We had a brief discussion in court while I waited for the judge to arrive. At that point he explained that there would be no hearing.

  ‘You’ve only been brought to court to meet me,’ he said.

  ‘Why couldn’t you have come to the prison?’ I asked.

  He looked at me blankly.

  ‘That’s not the way we do things in Thailand.’

  My illusions were shattered instantly. He snapped his briefcase shut and bid me a brief farewell before I was returned to jail.

  The weeks and months passed without any news from the prosecution. I let matters run their course. I had no other option.

  I was transported to court every 12 weeks or so, where I would meet my lawyer. He was no better than the others. After the second hearing, he started to ask for money, and he got very angry when I asked him how I was supposed to raise any cash from behind bars.

  I now saw him for what he was. He had only turned up at the court in the hope of receiving an advance payment.

  The judge never showed for the remand hearings either. It was all very coincidental. I suspected that since the judge had assigned the lawyer to my case, the two were in it together.

  * * *

  Later that same year, my wife Nanglung reappeared at one of my court appearances with news. She turned up unexpectedly at the court. To be honest, I didn’t know what to say to her when I saw her. I was stunned.

  She eventually walked over to me. I engaged in some small talk. I asked about Brendan and how he was coping. She told me he was doing well and missed me very much.

  Then she eventually told me the reason why she’d come.

  She said she had heard that O’Connor had died three weeks previously in Lard Yao prison in Bangkok. I was doubly shocked.

  I thought about this for a moment. I wasn’t sure if it was true. I wasn’t sure if I trusted Nanglung.

  Even if she was telling the truth, I wouldn’t necessarily believe that O’Connor really was dead. Maybe he’d paid to fake his own death and disappeared. With enough money, anything is possible in Thailand, especially inside a prison. And O’Connor had plenty of money.

  But if it was true, it was good news. Death inside a Thai prison was something I wouldn’t wish upon anybody, even O’Connor—but, on the other hand, O’Connor was the one man who had accused me of Holdsworth’s murder. If he really was dead, I figured the prosecution would have no case. With no witness, they would have to release me.

  Minutes after Nanglung gave me the news, the prosecutor dealing with my case just happened to enter the court. I told my lawyer about O’Connor and asked him to ask his opposite if O’Connor was indeed dead.

  He did as he was told, then came back and said the prosecutor didn’t know anything about it.

  For some reason, my lawyer took it upon himself to find out exactly what had happened. In the space of a few hours, he managed to obtain copies of O’Connor’s death certificate. As it turned out, there were two certificates—one for Gerald Cathar O’Connor, an Irish national, and one for a Mitchel Joseph Laddie Heath, a New Zealand national. The dates of birth on each certificate were also different.

  In fairness to him, by that afternoon my lawyer had confirmed that O’Connor’s true name was Mitchel Heath, and that he was dead.

  I guessed that O’Connor had got sick and been unable to recover in the prison.

  I thought that I would be free within weeks. My trial would almost certainly collapse.

  But I was wrong.

  Shortly after the prosecutor left the court, my lawyer went over to an official and collected some papers. I distinctly remember allowing myself to believe for a second that the documents were my release papers. But again, any illusion I had that I would soon be free was soon completely shattered. My lawyer returned to say that O’Connor was due to be the first witness at the next court date.

  When I asked the obvious question, he told me the hearing was due to be held in Bangkok in two weeks time because that’s where O’Connor was. He then explained, in logic that made sense only to himself, that it would be too much trouble to transport me there and back for just one day, so I wouldn’t be allowed to go.

  However, he said he would attend the hearing and secure my release. If O’Connor was really dead, he told me, then he would demand that my trial be stopped and the case closed.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll take care of everything!’

  Needless to say, when he said, ‘Don’t worry,’ I began to panic.

  Six months passed before I was called to court again. Nobody told me what had happened at the hearing in Bangkok and I hadn’t heard anything from my own lawyer. The court process was a joke.

  When I arrived in the courtroom, the judge sat down and read out what had happened in Bangkok.

  My lawyer was present that day but made no eye contact with me. When I was brought into the court-room he had made a point of not looking at me. In fact, he ignored me completely.

  The judge proclaimed that Mr O’Connor had failed to turn up to give evidence, before stating that the case would not proceed without this vital witness.

  I listened to the speech in utter disbelief.

  Next, the judge announced that he was adjourning the trial until 26 June 1998 to another court, where O’Connor would present himself.

  My lawyer just sat there and said nothing.

  As the hearing seemed to be over, and my lawyer hadn’t said anything about O’Connor’s death, I stuck my hand up and managed to get the judge’s attention. The lawyer looked at me in horror, as did the judge.

  I ignored them both and started to explain to the judge that O’Connor was in fact dead.

  The judge was astonished that I had spoken. Everybody in the court seemed to be too. The judge did his best to look solemn and asked my lawyer if this was indeed the case.

  ‘Is Mr O’Connor really dead?’

  ‘Yes, it’s true, Your Honour,’ he said, bowing at the judge. ‘Mr O’Connor is dead.’

  The judge said nothing, then turned and left the courtroom without saying a word.<
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  ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ I said. ‘My case should have been closed if there were no witnesses! Why did you just sit there?’

  He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me, but his translator was far from silent.

  ‘Rude, ungrateful bastard!’ he said. ‘He has done everything to help you. He went to Bangkok for the hearing and he’s here to help you today, and you insult him by talking directly to the judge!’

  I lost my temper and I sacked him right there and then. His translator called me a few names but I didn’t care. That was the end of him.

  I found a new lawyer, my third since this ordeal began. I hoped he would move to conclude the case as quickly as possible – if only so that he’d get paid quickly.

  But my decision to appoint him only delayed my final trial date. It was back to the same old routine. I would be taken from prison to court every 12 weeks just to hang around and wait.

  My Thai was still pretty basic at this stage. I was learning but I still had trouble. I only found out what was going on in court through the Thai boys who were on trial during the same sessions. They listened to all the other cases, and reported in detail what had been said. Without them, I wouldn’t have known how I was being screwed.

  My trial finally came to court after three years. It was a very informal hearing, to say the least.

  This time, the prosecution called witnesses.

  The first was one of my colleagues, who’d come with me to help at the meeting at the construction yard. He testified that I had explained to him how this Mr O’Connor had stolen $460,000 from me using one of his con tricks. He told the court that he had agreed to help me catch O’Connor and arranged for two Thai policemen to be present at the meeting.

  He agreed with my statement that O’Connor had attacked me the moment he realised he’d been caught. He said that O’Connor seemed to be too strong for me and the two police officers had to pull him off me. There had been no further trouble and towards the end of the meeting he’d left, so didn’t know what happened after that.

  He also testified that he had known me for a couple of years, and described me as a nice guy who was liked by everybody at the office. He and everyone else were surprised to hear that I’d been arrested for murder.

  My lawyer didn’t bother cross-examining him, because he’d said nothing damaging. In fact, I thought he’d helped the case for the defence more than the prosecution.

  The second witness was one of the police officers present at the meeting where I’d caught O’Connor. He testified that he’d been asked to attend and arrest O’Connor when he appeared. This officer said he had seen O’Connor attack me and had dragged him off me.

  He said that O’Connor had agreed to return the money he had stolen and he and the other police officer had left.

  He said he could shed no light on what might have occurred after that, and he knew nothing about any murder. Again, this prosecutor’s witness could tell the court nothing and said nothing that could be or was damaging to me.

  The third witness was supposed to be the doctor who’d examined Holdsworth’s body. However, he decided not to attend court, but a written report he supplied was entered as evidence by the prosecutor.

  The document simply said that it was clear from the marks and bruises on Holdsworth’s body that he had been involved in a fight. The report stated that Holdsworth had been stabbed a number of times, and had a gash on his neck and his ear, possibly after having been bitten by a rat or a dog.

  The report didn’t specifically state the cause of death; it just confirmed that Holdsworth was dead. The case was farcical in almost every way. The prosecution presented no forensic evidence linking me to the crime.

  But they saved the best till last.

  Towards the end, the prosecutor held up a piece of paper – which he claimed was the murder weapon.

  It wasn’t a knife; it wasn’t even a photograph of a knife. It was a black-and-white photocopy of part of a knife, twisted and bent with no handle.

  I thought I was seeing things. I looked around the court to see if the real knife was being examined by anyone or put on display, but I could see nothing.

  The prosecutor continued to speak. He said the knife had been found by police, not in, on or near the body, but somewhere in the vicinity of the supposed murder scene.

  There were no fingerprints.

  I’d been shown this half-a-knife at the police station. It was twisted and bent and rusty, but the police had tried to hammer some of the dents out of it. I remember thinking that they hadn’t done a very good job, because the dents were still clear even in the photocopy.

  The prosecutor told the judge that traces of blood had been found on the knife. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough to identify the blood group, but he said he was sure it was the victim’s blood.

  I objected to my lawyer about this piece of paper being accepted as material evidence. I always believed that material evidence means exactly that – the genuine article, not a photograph, and certainly not a photocopy, must be presented in court.

  I looked on, wondering when this charade would come to an end. I actually felt confident that the judge would just order a retrial.

  I tapped my lawyer on the shoulder and asked him to do something. He turned around and told me it wasn’t necessary for him to object. He said the judge would know himself that this wasn’t acceptable. If we objected, he said, it would look like we were trying to teach the judge points of law.

  He was very anxious that I should keep calm and remain silent.

  ‘Calm down!’ he told me. ‘If you’re angry in front of the judge, he might think you’re aggressive. In a murder trial that’s not a good idea. If you’re not careful it might get you convicted!’

  Against my better judgement, I promised to say nothing. I sincerely believed that I was finally about to be freed. I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardise that.

  The final pieces of evidence the prosecutor placed before the judges were the photographs taken at the police reconstruction, which he claimed showed me re-enacting the murder and also showed my blood-stained clothing.

  This was too much. I objected to this without waiting for my lawyer to intervene.

  I stood up and proclaimed that the police had taken me to the scene and told me where to stand and what to do, under threat of torture. I wanted the judge to know what happened.

  My lawyer looked shocked.

  The judge turned in my direction and said, ‘But that is you in the photographs, isn’t it?’

  I confirmed that it was, but before I could object further, the judge got up and left the courtroom. My lawyer sat there with an expressionless face.

  When I asked him why he hadn’t objected, he said, ‘I told you not to make the judge angry!’

  I didn’t get the opportunity to say anything else. The trial was adjourned yet again and I was returned to prison. As soon as the judge walked out the door, I knew I was fucked.

  11

  Chonburi Prison was designed to hold 3,500 but it actually held over 5,000, with new arrivals every day.

  I often asked myself when they would stop sending men to the already cramped facility. Out of fear, the Thai prisoners never complained, because commandos regularly murdered inmates and raped them. This ensured compliance.

  Foreigners were treated slightly better. When I was in Chonburi there were only around 50 foreign inmates, so they considered themselves to have 4,950 submissive inmates, and about 50 problem-causing foreigners.

  The commandos never trusted us and were always on their guard when they were around us. They knew that we knew they engaged in all types of crime.

  I knew that the prison’s director and the guards stole whatever they could. They stole much of what was intended for our basic provisions and
divided it among themselves according to ranking. The prisoners were left to fend for themselves.

  The place was a cesspit. We were locked up between 3.30 p.m. and 4 p.m. every day. There was no food allowed in the rooms, and no smoking. The only drink allowed was water. There were water bottles in the rooms, but they were filled from the toilet system. Foreigners wouldn’t go near this water, so we were forced us to buy fresh drinking water from the guards.

  They co-operated with us in supplying water because it earned them money, but that was where the relationship ended. We were granted no extra privileges. We were all thoroughly searched before being allowed into the cell block.

  We were permitted to keep no personal belongings in the rooms. If they caught you smuggling cigarettes, you were given a choice. You could either eat them or be taken out and given a vicious beating.

  This was usually one punch or kick per cigarette but, depending on the guard on duty, they might also strip you and make you stand spread-eagled for everybody to have a good laugh at. If you were lucky, they’d give you your clothes back that night.

  If not, you’d go to the room naked and wait to get your clothes back in the morning – and this would cause its own problems. The risk of sexual assault and rape was ever present.

  Even though I had adapted to prison life to a certain extent, I always dreaded going up into the rooms at night. Nobody looked forward to spending the night in a room full of Thai drug dealers, rapists and perverts.

  They were bad enough during the day, but at night they became close to unbearable.

  The room where I was held had a small piece of bamboo and a stick. The prisoners used to bang out an all-clear signal every hour on the hour right through the night. The prisoners rotated each night, doing an hour’s ‘security’ and then waking the next man for his stint.

  The guards were supposed to walk around and check throughout the prison, but instead they just sat in their chairs and rang a little bell. Every room sent the signal each hour and the guard went back to sleep. If a prisoner fell asleep and missed the signal, he was beaten in the morning. This routine made it almost impossible to sleep.