The Angel of Bang Kwang Prison (13 page)

Of course it would be wrong if I gave the impression that it was only the men who caused me trouble. As I said I did indulge in harmless, friendly banter with the guards, which is something that could be perceived as akin to flirtation by Thai standards. However, excluding Bulldog, they all knew I was only joking—and I knew I was only joking—but I forgot about possible third parties. There was one guard in particular who I really got along with. We shared the same sense of humour and he was mad about Talya —though they all were, and spoilt her rotten when she accompanied me to the prison. Anyway, the others would tease him about his
farang
wife; me, and we would take it all in good fun. Things got deadly serious, however, when his mistress got wind of the teasing. For one thing, I didn’t even know she existed, and for another, I didn’t consider for a minute that anyone would’ve actually believed we were having an affair since, by this stage, Garth and I were well known in Bang Kwang as a couple.

It turned out that she was the wife of an inmate who was serving a sentence of 20 years and this was how they met, which, I suppose, is sort of romantic, or sort of not. One Sunday evening I decided to bring Talya into town to have a nice dinner. As we walked past the prison that mysterious voice in my head warned me, ‘You’re going to be attacked. Don’t panic and it will be alright.’

I wasn’t taking any chances. I put my purse under my arm and turned to Talya, who was about nine at the time.

‘Brace yourself honey. Something is going to happen in a minute but don’t be scared; we’re going to be ok.’

She nodded at me in complete trust. I didn’t even have a can of deodorant in my bag but we kept walking. Suddenly, there was a strangled scream. I gripped Talya’s hand tightly and looked around. She came at us from the left and held a knife to my face. Her face was red and contorted with her jealous rage as she screamed threats and obscenities at me. I pushed Talya behind me and tried to keep clear of the brandished knife. The woman’s over-the-top hysteria made me calm. I slowly took hold of her chin with my hand and, looking straight into her eyes, I quietly and firmly said, ‘Listen to me. I am not having an affair with your man. I already have a boyfriend who I love very much. I couldn’t cheat on him; it would kill him and me.’

It did the trick and her rage instantly disappeared. She came to her senses and probably, for the first time, noticed the trembling child hiding behind me. She looked mortified and lowered the knife, holding it behind her back.

‘Sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s just that I thought that … I’m sorry.’

I patted her on the arm and told her that it was ok—what else could I say? I put my arm around Talya who still looked worried about the hidden knife. Our assailant begged me to follow her to the guard’s recreational area where her boyfriend was relaxing. We duly went with her and she bought us food and beer. She sheepishly told him what she had done and that she wanted to make it up to Talya and me for the fright she had given us. She was a different woman now, and looked tired and anxious in the evening light. He regarded her simultaneously with shock and tenderness. I accepted a bottle of beer and toasted both of them:

‘Here’s to you two. And here’s to my boyfriend, Garth, who I love very much—as you now both know.’

After that she turned up at my apartment, still apologising, and now offering to cut my hair for free. Call me a coward, but there was absolutely no way that I was ever going to let her near me with a pair of scissors. No way.

Meanwhile, I was busy with my work, branching out wherever I could be of service, in between bringing up Talya and visiting Garth. My days were full and long, with no end to the problems in sight. It’s the impossibly long prison sentences that get me. Sometimes there seems to be no other reason other than that the judge must have been in a very bad mood, so he gives a guy 50 years one day. The next day he’s feeling better so he hands out a sentence of 10 years to a guy for the exact same crime as the previous day. When I was helping out at Klong Prem Hospital the doctors told me that some poor inmate had just received 30 years for getting into a fight when he was drunk and giving someone a thump—30 years! His entire life was blown away in an instant. Later on that same day another inmate received 17 years for committing murder. The medical staff was fascinated by this and a lengthy discussion followed, in search of the judge’s logic. Unsurprisingly, no one came up with a logical explanation.

The good thing about my work is that I get to learn quite a bit about the way a country is run. I received quite a lot of court work in my role as translator and was always interested to learn new things. The amount of paperwork required for a court case is a huge stumbling block; every little thing has to be documented several times in print. A prisoner’s defence involves a truckload of paperwork. The prosecutor interviews his witnesses, who are usually police officials, and then the defendant’s witnesses are presented. The hardest thing for westerners to accept is that the judge never ever addresses the defendant, or anyone else for that matter; they just sit in silence on their high bench. There were three judges in the first criminal court that I attended—one senior and two junior—and they would frequently swap over during the one trial. Therefore the only continuity in a case was your lawyer, the prosecutor and the mound of paperwork.

Sometimes the defendant would arrive first thing to await his turn, only to be told hours and hours later that his hearing had been cancelled for that day. Inmates are shuffled in and out, and spend days listening to other cases. There have been times when I’ve arrived at the court for one particular case and then I’ve been assigned to anything else that has been going on that day without any prior warning or knowledge of the cases involved.

It is very wearying, especially for nervous inmates who are hoping to reduce their ‘life’ sentences. As I’ve said, the judges don’t address the defendant but the defendant is entitled to address the judge; only it’s best not to. If you look like you’re about to say something you will be quickly hushed up either by your lawyer or prosecutor and told to let the experts do their work. If a frustrated inmate ignores his lawyer and addresses the judge he is risking having his sentence increased for his impudence.

As prison legend would have it, one Thai inmate actually took off his flip-flop and threw it at the judge, who instantly added six years to his already life-long sentence. Since then inmates aren’t allowed to wear footwear in court. It’s hard for a prisoner to make a decent impression on the judge when he is in chains, barefoot and clad in filthy clothes. Normally defendants are allowed to wear civilian clothes but the prisons don’t agree with this practice since it makes it easier for the prisoner to escape into the crowds, or else he can have someone paid up to take his place. Imagine that. Some desperate men will, for an undisclosed sum of money, take a prisoner’s place—full-time employment indeed.

I have to say though that I think, generally, the judges are not a bad lot. They carefully comb through the paperwork and then make a decision based on that, regardless of their mood. At least that is what they tell me they do. I don’t think there is anything personal in their decisions. Sometimes, though, they might hand out heavy sentences as proof that they are not being bribed by the defendant or anyone else. Also, new judges might want to illustrate that they will not be intimidated by the crooks and their colleagues so they hand out long sentences or the death penalty. In a way, they want to protect themselves from the judgment of others. They are monitored by the Supreme (
Dika
) Court and there are always plenty of promotion opportunities for judges who stick to the letter of the law.

I also think that they are careful where western inmates are concerned and don’t subject them to the overly long prison sentences—as in they might receive 30 years instead of 50! They like to show foreigners that they are fair men who nevertheless take the law, and, therefore, law-breaking, seriously. The trick is not to look cocky or disrespectful. When my journalist friends wanted to accompany me to court I always warned them to look as ‘un-media like’ as possible because if the judge thought that I was bringing in the media to pressure him to give a lenient sentence it would probably result in a much longer one than usual. Fortunately, my friends always complied as they did not want someone to lose their freedom permanently as a result of some news coverage.

I’m always careful in court to do things the ‘Thai way’ and not step on anyone’s toes. The ‘Thai way’ could be said to work on the premise that it’s ‘nice to be nice’. However, there’s always one. I particularly dislike rudeness and arrogance in a person and, one day in court, I came up against a smart ass prosecutor who was a walking combination of these two unpleasant qualities. They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul and they are absolutely right; the minute this guy and I looked directly into each other’s eyes over a crowded court room my stomach flipped and I thought to myself, ‘Yuck!’

He hated me on sight because I was there fighting for basic human rights, and I hated him on sight because he just looked evil. He even wore a long, black cloak which swirled around him as he entered the court and made his case in the most flamboyant way possible. Naturally Dracula sprung to my mind as I watched him in action. He swanned around the court like he owned the place. This was quite unusual behaviour because arrogance is not a typical Thai quality. He was almost rude, even to the judges—almost. His line of prosecution went something like this:

‘Why doesn’t the defendant just confess, he’ll meet his death if he doesn’t?’ and such like. Fortunately I kept calm and polite, and managed to resist the strong urge to kick off my heels, spring over my desk and clock him right in the mouth, exactly like
Simon
had done to me all those years ago. Afterwards we sniggered like naughty children when one of the other translators showed me a sketch he had done of Mr Evil, which perfectly captured his big nose, scrawny neck, black eyes and ridiculous cloak—a dastardly villain indeed.

Chapter Eight

Meanwhile Garth and I were getting on just fine; well, except for the fact he was being held in a maximum security prison and was a junkie. He was a challenge to me in the beginning. In fact, for a while I don’t think I even liked him much. He was this cool dude who flicked his long hair in people’s faces just to annoy them. When I first knew him, pleasure was his number one hobby; in the form of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. He had a fancy townhouse and BMW courtesy of the drug trade, and he got stoned every night of the week. Every morning there was a different girl in his bed—especially true in Thailand. He certainly loved it here, until he got caught. Up to then he hadn’t a care in the world and just lived completely in the moment. This was certainly illustrated by his spending habits. I almost choked when he told me what he used to spend on drugs, alcohol and prostitutes—I could’ve fed a small third world country for a week.

It took a while to break through his ‘tough guy’ exterior, and I suppose I had to prove myself to him too. He wasn’t religious in the least and refused to believe that I visited prisoners and gave them gifts merely because I wanted to do something positive for others. I think he was afraid that I’d contaminate him with my spirituality and Miss Goody Two Shoes existence. He had this fear that he would become a community pet project, something which his manly pride couldn’t have dealt with. Perhaps you could compare it to the tentative relationship that grew between the stand-offish Captain Von Trapp and the novice nun Maria in the film,
The
Sound of Music
. It was a long, long time before he rewarded my patience with his confidence.

As far as I was concerned, early on, I was already too busy and fulfilled by my work. I wasn’t looking for a relationship and especially wouldn’t have advocated falling for a client, and especially if he was a long-haired, arrogant American with an, ‘I’m too cool for you,’ attitude.

But you don’t choose who you fall in love with and I’m not about to start explaining why or how. It just happened, despite all the warnings I received from Bang Kwang’s well-meaning staff. The prison warden called me into his office one day and delivered a stern lecture, which reduced me to tears.

‘Listen Susan, you seriously cannot be involved with this man. You have got to be careful, there are so many people here who look up to you and trust you. What will they think about you hanging around this dirtbag?’

I had to keep repeating a mantra in my mind: ‘He means well, he means well, he means well,’ but it was difficult. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Garth about the warden’s words. It wouldn’t have done either of us any good. There was also a lovely young nurse who worked at the prison. She used to give me donations and little gifts whenever she could. One afternoon she approached me and without looking directly at me she stammered out her words:

‘Please Susan, I hate saying this but you’re my friend and I care about you. Please don’t get involved with Garth, for your own sake.’

She looked very uncomfortable and I knew it had cost her to say what she had to say to me.

The guards certainly made their feelings known. The more aggressive ones would pretend that Garth had been busted and sent on to another prison, just to see me freak out, while others would mumble under their breath, barely audible, ‘The guy’s a loser,’ and would ignore me when I looked at them.

I could never challenge them for fear that I wouldn’t be let visit Garth, or he wouldn’t be let see me. All I could do was smile politely and say something jokey in return, just keeping it light while my insides churned. There was certainly no love lost between the guards and Garth; he had no respect for any of them and refused to play the role of co-operative prisoner. He hated the fact that I would have a laugh with the guards and it took some explaining on my part to point out that having the guards on my side could only help me and anyone to do with me. Some of the more unpleasant prison guards could be particularly nasty to visiting girlfriends, just to get at an unpopular prisoner. I’ve heard of some young girls being blackmailed for sex, told that their guy would suffer if they didn’t comply. What saved me was that I had good contacts and was a foreigner. I was also good at joking my way out of situations, all the while getting my point across about what I would, or wouldn’t, accept.

Garth also didn’t have many friends among the prisoners, Thai or foreign. He was an arrogant American and a bit of a loner who found it hard to get on with, and trust, others. This also proved a bit of a sticking point in the early days of our relationship, this lack of trust. Nobody wants to get hurt. When I first started to visit Garth, I was still smarting from my break-up with Niall. Garth wasn’t looking to make his life even worse than it was so we both wanted to protect ourselves. All the same, neither of us wanted to put an end to my visits.

He started testing me a little with sexual innuendo. Now remember, he was behind a fence when I went to visit so we couldn’t touch one another ... for a few years! He wrote me letters tentatively describing his dreams or fantasies of making love to me on a secluded beach, with the sun tipping towards the horizon and the sound of the lapping waves in our ears. Our conversations became deeper and deeper because they were all we had. We couldn’t waste time staring into each other’s eyes since we only had one short visit a couple of times a week, plus the visiting room was so insanely noisy that it would’ve taken a better person than me not to keep talking as loud as I could, to drown the other visitors and prisoners out. And like any other relationship we had our bad days.

Sometimes I would doll myself up to see him, after racing through what needed to be done that day, and charge into Bang Kwang like an excited little girl on Christmas morning, only to find he was in a bad mood and utterly depressed with life behind bars. I tried my best to hide my disappointment, especially since I completely understood what he was upset about. But when it happened a few times in a row, and then he started moaning about what I did, or didn’t, write in my letters to him I snapped;

‘Hey, I know you’re upset and I want to be here for you, but I’m only human. I’m not the enemy—I’m on your side. So could you give me a break ... or a smile, please?’

He did his best but as time went on I noticed he was looking more and more frustrated and I worried that he’d get into a fight with a guard or another inmate or just little old me. I had a feeling about what was going on but I wasn’t sure how he’d take my addressing it. Then I just thought to myself, ‘The hell with it’, and asked him the sixty-six million dollar question:

‘When was the last time you jerked off?’

He nearly fell off the chair and stared at me as if I had just let off the most enormous, stinking fart. His face reddened as he stuttered out the fact that he hadn’t indulged in that particular sport since arriving in Bang Kwang. I tut-tutted and told him that it was unnatural and unhealthy to abstain, and it was making him angry and aggressive. He didn’t look very convinced and I felt I was way, way out on a very small, vulnerable limb. I sent him an article on the benefits of masturbation but I think he still thought I was a lunatic. However, it must have worked because he certainly became a lot less aggressive.

Bit by bit, or visit by visit, we started to draw closer in spite of the physical restrictions. We both opened up about our past and about our families. He felt he had let his down badly and found it difficult to get past his shame and write to them. I asked him to let me help and as a result I built up a good relationship with his mother. She was really appreciative of the fact that I loved her wayward son and didn’t judge him for his past doings. She had never given up on him and still saw in Garth the little boy she had raised.

The rest of his family, understandably, found it a bit more difficult as they felt they had been through the mill with him already. They were still too angry to be able to contact him yet. For my part, I waited several years before telling my own family, correctly guessing that they weren’t going to be jumping for joy.

I found it so refreshing to be able to talk to someone in English. Also, Garth was a good listener and didn’t let me away with being glib or casual. He constantly challenged my philosophy on life and the motives behind what I did. I welcomed his questions and opinions. It was the first time that someone had been this interested in me as a person and not just as someone that would help you learn English or bring you cakes in prison.

I cracked first and said that dangerous four-lettered word, following 10 months of visits. We were having one of our talks and he had absent-mindedly pushed a strand of hair out of his eye; suddenly I was filled with a rush of something and interrupted him with my declaration, ‘I’m going to love you like you’ve never been loved before.’

I think I looked as shocked as he did. We had been skirting around the subject for some time and I was pretty sure of our growing commitment to one another. At one point he panicked, saying, ‘Hey, you have to remember I’m in a very vulnerable position. You could meet someone else tomorrow and I’m still locked up here.’

I assured him that I wasn’t planning on hurting or deserting him. After a few more visits I became restless with my unacknowledged feelings and, once again, broached the subject.

‘Garth I’ve fallen for you. I love you.’

He exploded in anger at me: ‘How can you say that to me? How can you love me when I can’t love you? You don’t even know me properly.’

I understood, however, that he was angry because he felt he had nothing to offer me—no future to spend with me. The American-Thai transfer treaty stipulated that anyone trafficking over a kilo of Class 1 drugs did not qualify for transfer back to the States. At that time it was much easier for a paedophile or murderer to get out of prison than someone caught with even a small amount of drugs. Some prisoners could take advantage of the treaty which allowed American prisoners to leave Bang Kwang after eight years and return to America to complete their sentence, but not Garth at that time. It would take some time for it to be considered in Thai courts that even if some of these guys were caught with a large amount of heroin, or other drugs, it didn’t necessarily mean that they were the masterminds of the operation. This change and the subsequent removal of the clause from the treaty came about due to a woman inmate’s appeal. Most of the time, as her case would argue, the ones who were arrested were just the addicts or desperately poor people, and not the kingpins of the drug trade. Those ridiculously long sentences weren’t helping anyone—they were just too much, too late.

I’m glad to say that the situation has vastly improved now. Drug addicts are no longer locked away for the rest of their natural lives; they are treated as opposed to merely punished. But there was no light at the end of the long dark tunnel back when I told Garth I loved him.

I used to cry alone in my bed at night imagining what it was like to be locked up for 30 or 40 years in Bang Kwang. Because of Garth I now had to truly consider what that actually meant to a person. When I thought of the hopelessness that Garth was experiencing I felt an actual pain in my chest. It was such a huge obstacle and there was nothing either of us could do about it. In my line of work I was used to dealing with and overcoming situations that had initially seem impossible but I couldn’t work my way around the walls of Bang Kwang and the Thai penal system.

It was a peculiar situation—sometimes I’d be so angry at him for breaking the law and getting himself banged up, but then I’d remember that if he had never been involved with drugs he would never have been arrested and we’d never have met. Time and time again I would dream that he was free to walk down the street holding my hand, free to have dinner with me and Talya in my favourite restaurant, free to help me carry home my groceries, free to kiss me after a soppy movie. Then when I’d wake up, in the bed of the house that Garth had never seen, the bleakness of our future would nearly keep me buried under the duvet, unable to face the day. I’ll be honest; I did go through phases when I questioned my sanity—when I couldn’t see much point in continuing to visit someone who could never take a walk outside in the sun with me.

I took a walk one day and went for a coffee. The sun was high in the sky and I people-watched for a while. I probably looked quite passive to the other customers but there was a battle raging within.

‘I’m going to get hurt, I’m going to get hurt. I should just end it now,’ versus, ‘I love him; he gets me, I get him. Just have faith that it will all work out in the end.’

I did crawl away in tatters when he said he couldn’t love me in return. I shrugged it off for the duration of the visit and then brightly told him, as usual, to take care and I’d see him the following week. I spent the next few days trying to wean myself off Garth as my soul mate and instead tried to focus on Garth as a foreign prisoner in Bang Kwang in need of shower gel and someone to talk to. In reality his needs were a little more serious than my romantic ones. I thought I was getting the hang of it and didn’t even put on lipstick when I went to visit him next. I greeted him as I would any of my other incarcerated friends and had a couple of safe topics in my head to enable a good, old-fashioned, platonic conversation. However Garth had been doing some thinking about our previous chat and was delighted to be able to share with me the fact that he loved me too. Oh well!

When I watch old black and white movies from the 1930s and 1940s they always remind me of my long years of chaste visits with Garth—the smouldering desire that could not be gratified on screen because of the censors. Instead, the director would show what he couldn’t through the looks that passed between the lovers, as well as their words, and let our imagination finish the story. It was difficult, however, to achieve the perfect smouldering look over 4.5ft, including two sets of bars and two sets of chicken mesh wire fencing; for a long time I wasn’t even 100% sure of the colour of his eyes. After a particularly flirtatious visit I would have to power walk for a while, in order to dilute the ‘energy’ (read ‘frustration’) that consumed me. Even then, when I’d get home, I’d have to scrub the house on my hands and knees whilst pondering on whether a human being could actually spontaneously combust. It was not easy. I began to spend a worrying amount of time thinking about sex—I figured this had to be what it’s like inside an average guy’s head.