The Beginning of Hope: The Highly Anticipated, Mind-Blowing Sequel to the Killing of Faith (The Killing of Faith Series Book 2)

by William Holms

  E arly the next morning Blake and I take a taxi back to the prison. He insists I don't go alone which is probably a good idea. I’m relieved he’s with me. He looks a lot older than me, and he seems to be able to navigate around the city pretty well. He’s picked up a few words that come in real handy like “Chi” that means yes, “Mi” that means no, and “roomran” that means hotel.”

  We’re not the only people entering the prison so we follow the flow of people heading to the visiting area. As soon as we turn the corner there’s this giant line, more like a giant crowd, of people pressing towards the waiting area. Never would I have imagined this many people would be waiting. Obviously, you have to come really early if you don’t want to be here all day. “You don't have to stay,” I tell Bake. “I can take it from here.”

  “Are you kidding me?” he asks as we take our place in line, “I wouldn't miss this for the world.”

  I’m glad he decided to stay. My cell phone doesn't work, and I didn’t bring my laptop to keep me busy. I plan on spending a few hours each day getting to know my mother. I figured they wouldn’t let me bring anything in so I left it at the hotel. We get in line behind a beautiful middle-aged woman and wait. The line moves forward at an incredibly slow pace. After about thirty minutes I ask the woman, “Is it always this crowded?”

  “Chi,” she answers nodding her head. “Come early.”

  “Yeah,” I sigh. “I thought I did come early.”

  “Where from?” she asks in not-too-bad English.

  “United States,” I answer.

  “Wow,” she says sounding surprised, “you long way!”

  “Long way,” I agree. “I’m here to visit my mom. I haven’t seen her since I was a little girl.” She looks at me with a puzzled look. “Mom,” I repeat cradling my arms like I’m holding a baby. “You know, mommy?”

  “Chi,” she says as if she understands. “Maa.”

  I just learned another useful word. I'm sure it’ll come in handy sometime. After waiting for a little longer she points at me and says, “You young.”

  “Eighteen,” I say. “My mom….”Maa”… has been here many years. We have lots to talk about.”

  She nods her head, smiles, and says, “Twenty minutes.”

  I turn to Blake, and he looks as confused as I am . “What?” I ask her. “What’s twenty minutes?”

  “Twenty minutes,” she repeats.

  I look at Blake, hoping he somehow heard this differently, and whisper, “I’m not sure I heard her right. Is she saying we’ll be at the front of the line in twenty minutes?”

  “I don’t think so,” Blake says shaking his head, “the line is way too long.”

  “We visit for only twenty minutes?” he asks the woman.

  “Chi,” she says pointing at her watch. “Visit maa twenty minute. Only twenty minute.”

  I turn to Blake in shock. “What? I flew across the world, and all I get is twenty minutes to visit with my mom who I haven’t seen since I was little? How can this be?”

  “I don’t know,” he questions. “Maybe that’s just for locals. Maybe when they hear you came all the way from America and it’s your mom, they’ll give you more time.”

  Three and a half hours later, we finally reach the point where I sign in and provide the name of the prisoner I’m here to visit. I write “FAITH BRUNICK” on a piece of paper with her birthdate, and hand it to the man behind the counter. He puts my mom’s name into his computer and looks at the screen. He taps on a few keys and looks again. Each time he stares at the computer with a look of confusion. Back and forth this goes, until he finally turns his clipboard around to me, points at the name, “FAITH BRUNICK” and says, “mi.”

  What, what does that mean?” I ask.

  “Mi,” he repeats shaking his head.

  “Mi thini?” Blake asks. “Where?”

  “Mi” the man repeats one last time.

  The people behind us give me a terrible stare for holding up the line. I walk down the hall and back to the same woman who helped me yesterday. I tell her how the man at the other window kept saying “mi”, but wouldn’t tell us anything else. She asks me to wait and walks to the back. She returns a few minutes later with a paper in her hand and says, “You maa no here.”

  “Not here?” I ask. “Where is she?”

  She hands me a brochure from the United States Embassy with the name, address, and phone number of someone named “John Taylor”. I have no idea what’s going on, but makes no sense. It never occurred to me to call our embassy.

  It appears my mom has been transferred to another prison – or maybe she got released. We walk out the front and get in another taxi. Blake takes the brochure with the address and hands it to the driver. I hope this “John Taylor” will have some answers.

  The taxi drops us off at a very different Bangkok than the one I saw on Khaosan Road. It’s very modern with buildings as beautiful as any you’d see in the states. The streets are clean, and business people are scrambling from one building to the next.

  “You don’t have to go with me,” I tell Blake. “I don't want to ruin your whole trip.”

  “Ruin my trip? This is the best part of my trip. You can’t dream this stuff up.”

  We walk in the front door and go right up to the reception desk. For the first time since I arrived in Thailand, I hear people all around me speaking perfect English. “May I help you?” the lady at the desk asks.

  “Yes, my mom’s in prison here. I came to Thailand to see her. They gave me this paper and told me to come here.”

  I hand her the paper, and she looks at both sides. “Do you have an appointment?” she asks.

  “An appointment?” I answer confused. “No, I just got this card today. I didn’t even know I needed to talk to someone here.”

  “You can only come in with an appointment. If you go online or call they can give you an appointment.”

  “Please, I flew all the way from California to see my mom. She’s in prison. I just need is to find out where she’s at. I was told Mr. Taylor can help.”

  “Mr. Taylor isn’t available. He’s leaving for the U.S. He’ll be gone for a week.”

  She looks at her computer screen and says, “Let me see…hmm…he can see you Monday the twenty-third at two o’clock.”

  “The twenty-third! That won’t work. I’m only here for four more days.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Taylor is the prison liaison for all the area prisons. He’s very busy.”

  “Will he be back today? What if I wait for him?”

  “He’s at the airport right now. As I said, he won’t be back until the twenty-third.”

  “I haven’t seen my mom in fifteen years. I just need to find out where she is. Is there someone else who can help me?”

  The woman looks at her computer again and says, “Stay right here, Ms. Brunick, Let me see what I can do.” She gets up from her desk, and walks to the back.

  A few minutes later she comes back and says, “Ms. Brunick, I have Mr. Taylor’s supervisor, Mike Sassen, on the line. He’s gonna try to help you.”

  “Thank you so much,” I say taking the phone from her hand.

  “Your welcome sweetie. He’ll be able to find your mom.”

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Hello, I’m Mike Sassen. How can I help you?”

  “I’m trying to find my mom so I can visit her,” I explain. “She’s in prison. I haven’t seen her in a very long time.”

  “How long are you going to be in Thailand?” he asks.

  “Four more days,” I say.

  “Let’s see what we can do,” he says. “I can meet you tomorrow at the Embassy. How does nine o’clock sound?”

  “That sounds great,” I say.

  “See you tomorrow,” he says and hangs up.

  Hope hands the phone back to the receptionist who says, “Don’t worry about it, sweetie. We get this all the time. They move the prisoners here and there. It can be hard to keep up with them. Don’t
you worry, Mr. Sassen will find your mother.”

  – CHAPTER 10 –

  W hen I return to the hotel that evening, I Facetime Grace again. It’s early in the morning back in Dallas, and she answers the phone from her office. “Hope!” she says sounding anxious.

  I want to appear completely carefree like my whole trip has been great so in my most upbeat voice I say, “Hey Grace.”..

  “So you made it to the prison okay?” she asks.

  “I went to see Mom on Tuesday,” I say and then pause. “It’s so weird, calling her mom.”

  “Did you see her?” she asks.

  “Well, first I had to register, so I filled out a paper. Then came back today. Grace, it was crazy. This place is scary. There are guards everywhere with guns and posters all over the walls in Thai warning about everything. There’s no air conditioning and it’s so hot in there. I couldn't imagine being locked up there. I don't know how you could sleep in this heat. I can barely sleep here.”

  “How’s your hostel by the way?” she asks.

  Shoot! Why did I bring up the hostel? “It’s not fancy, that’s for sure. I guess you get what you pay for. Actually, it’s pretty crazy. Everyone’s coming in and out all through the night. I think the whole world comes here to party.”

  “Just be super careful, Hope.”

  I don’t want to lie to her. This seems as good a time as any to let her know I’m not staying at the hostel anymore. “Actually, I met a couple of new friends. They let me crash at their hotel for a while.”

  “Hope no! You don’t know anyone there. Do you know what happens to young girls your age?”

  “I’m careful Grace. It gets hard trying to communicate. This guy is helping me find Mom.”

  “This guy!” she fumes. “You can’t trust some guy you met in Thailand. They’ll lie to you. They’ll drug you. You can just disappear. No one will ever know where you went.”

  Well, she’s got a point. “It’s not like that Grace,” I try to explain. “He’s an American. He’s a senior at UCLA.”

  “I don’t care who he says he is,” she warns.

  Grace and I talk about everything. I wasn’t sure if I was going to tell her about my evening with the grasshopper the other night, but hearing her freak out about meeting a college guy convinces me the grasshopper story is one secret I’ll take to my grave.

  “I wouldn’t have gotten this far without him,” I say.

  “Please be careful Hope,” she warns again.

  “So she got transferred?” she asks.

  “Yeah, she got transferred to another prison. “They told me to go to the U.S. Embassy to find her so I went straight there. I just got back. The guy who works at the prison is gone for a week. His supervisor is going to meet with me tomorrow.”

  “Maybe she got released,” Grace says, “and she didn’t even bother to tell us. She’s probably so ashamed she didn't want to face anyone back home.”

  “I don’t think so. The lady there said this happens all the time. They move someone, and people have to come there to find out where the person is.”

  “Nothings easy,” Grace says with a sigh.

  “Oh, you have no idea,” I agree.

  “Well call me tomorrow when you know more,” she says.

  – CHAPTER 11 –

  B lake and I arrive back at the embassy at a quarter till nine. Mr. Sassen comes out and introduces himself. We both do the same. He looks like he’s in his early sixties with mostly grey hair, a full beard, and glasses. He kinda looks more like a college professor than a government official.

  We walk to his office and he offers us coffee – which we both accept. A cup of American coffee sounds great. His office is full of plaques, an American flag, a picture of the president, and photos of him standing with all kinds of important people. Most of them I don't even recognize.

  After we sit down, he puts his hands on his desk and asks, “So guys, how’s your stay in Thailand?”

  I look at Blake and say, “A little too crazy.”

  “Oh yes,” he says with a grin. “Be careful. There are lots of scammers out there. Stay away from the strip clubs––especially the Ping Pong shows. Once they get you in they have lots of tricks to take your money. People come in here all the time because some club won’t let them out unless they give them all their money. The police won’t help.”

  “I don’t think that’s something I want to see anyway,” I reply.

  “Definitely not,” he says. “Once you see it you can’t unsee it.”

  After my wild time the other day, I can’t help but think of my mom and dad sitting down in this very chair trying to find out what happened to me.

  Wanting to change the subject, I say, “I’m hoping you can give me some information about my mother.”

  He types on his computer and asks, “Let’s see…give me your mom’s last name?”

  “Brunick…. B..R..U..N..I..C..K,’ I spell out.

  He repeats each letter as he enters it into the computer using only two fingers. “B..R..U.. N..I..C..K. What’s her first name?”

  “Faith… Faith Brunick.”

  As soon I get out the word “Faith” he pauses, looks at me, and asks, “Faith Brunick?”

  “Yes,” I confirm. “Faith Brunick?”

  “What is her date of birth?”

  “February 28, 1972.”

  He goes back to typing. After he’s finished, he takes a deep breath and asks, “What’s your name again?”

  “My name is Hope Brunick.”

  “Brunick,” he repeats looking directly at me. “I thought I recognized that name when you first came in. I just wanted to make sure we’re talking about the same person. Hope, I was the prison liaison when your mother arrived – such a wonderful woman. I can see the resemblance. It’s been so long since I last saw her.”

  “Can you tell me why she was sent to prison?” I ask.

  “Your mother was on her way back to America when she was stopped at the airport with heroin in her suitcase.”

  “So it’s true what I read? She was smuggling drugs?”

  “Well that’s what she was charged with – actually convicted of, but,” he murmurs parsing his lips, “her case always bothered me. I’ve never been able to get it out of my mind.”

  “Why?”

  “It just didn’t add up. First, your mom didn’t look like someone who’d smuggle drugs. Usually drug smugglers are younger, more desperate. Your mom was beautiful, middle-aged, and wearing a beautiful black dress and high heels. She just didn’t fit the profile. She looked more like a mother or a model.”

  Looking at the old photo in my purse, I can understand why he’d say that. My mom was beautiful – very classy. “Don’t beautiful women smuggle drugs?” I ask.

  “Sure, but they’re not usually mothers with young kids. Your mom always proclaimed her innocence – swore she was set up. She refused to plead guilty even if it meant spending the rest of her life in prison. Lots of people claim to be innocent, but eventually they admit they knew about the drugs. Your mom, however, always swore the drugs were planted, and I believed her.”

  “Why,” I ask.

  “I don’t know.” He pauses like he’s thinking back. Again shaking his head he says, “Drug smugglers don’t just go around putting thousands of dollars worth of drugs in some stranger’s suitcase at the airport. It just doesn't work like that. I watched the surveillance video. You should have seen the look on her face when they pulled the drugs from her suitcase. I’ll never forget it. I don’t think you can fake that.”

  “Another thing,” he continues. “Someone called the airport and told them she had drugs. Whoever called knew her description and that she was carrying heroin. They even knew the flight she was scheduled to take. Your mom just arrived a few days before and spent all her time in Phuket. How would they know this information?”

  “What are you saying?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. It’s always bothered me. It still bothers me.”r />
  “Did you think she was innocent?”

  “Honestly, I did.”

  “Why didn’t you do something?” I ask.

  “I hear this all the time,” he explains. “Your mom asked me the same question. I have no authority to get someone out of jail. I make sure they receive all their rights under the law. I try to help them adjust and survive while in prison. I help them communicate with the outside world. I help them get a lawyer or hire a private investigator. That’s what she needed. I told her to hire a good investigator.”

  “If she looked so innocent, then why was she found guilty?”

  “Your mom isn’t the first person I thought was innocent. Bangkok isn’t like the United States. There aren’t long trials – especially when the drugs are found in your suitcase. Because she was subject to the death penalty she had a lawyer appointed to help her, but there’s only so much a lawyer in Thailand can do. Your mom also had someone,” he pauses trying to remember everything. He taps his finger on his desk and says, “Gosh it’s been so long, and I no longer have my files from way back then. If I remember right she had someone who was a lawyer from the United States. He was helping her. Let me think…his name was Ron or Riley –“

  “Ryan,” I interrupt.

  “Yes, Ryan,” he confirms snapping his fingers. “He tried to help her the best he could. He was looking for this guy she was with who dropped her off at the airport. This guy dropped her off and took off – very strange. We all knew he had something to do with it.”

  So my dad was telling the truth. “So you met my father? He was trying to help my mom get out?”

  “Definitely,” he says like it’s all coming back to him. “I talked to him a couple times. He was convinced your mom was innocent. Your dad and I both believed this guy at the airport planted the drugs in her suitcase. Your mom didn’t want to believe it when I first talked to her. She said the guy was there for business, but I couldn’t find anything about him or his company. Neither could your father. I know he had someone trying to track this guy down. If I remember right he found a witness who was gonna testify at her trial.”