Chapter 26 - An Open and Shut Case

94 12 6
                                    

The day of my trial rolled round. As usual, everything was out of my control, I was searched, shackled, searched again and bundled into the van which took me to the courthouse.

They shuffled me into a small room and told me to wait. What else could I do? Mookjai arrived shortly afterwards struggling with a briefcase, a file full of papers and a suit carrier. He bowed and treated me to one of his wonderful Thai smiles; it actually made me feel a little better. Then he looked at me and his smile faded.

"Oh dear," he said, looking at my shackles, "how will we get suit on while you're wearing those?"

"Fuck," I said. Was this early setback an indication of how my day was going to go?

He thought about it for a minute. I wondered if he was going to come up with some clever topological solution, like the one which had allowed Hazel to take off her jumper without putting down her wine glass. I'd been thinking a lot about Hazel over the last few weeks, too much, if I was honest.

"I have answer," said Mr Mookjai. "You will be in dock, so judges will only see you from waist up. You can wear shirt, tie and jacket... it will be perfect."

He unzipped the suit holder and started to pull out the required items. I just praised the Lord that I wasn't handcuffed as well, otherwise I'd only have been able to wear the tie, and that would have been just plain stupid. Whereas now, I stood in a white shirt, subtle green tie and a grey jacket, finished off with my orange prison jump bottoms, shackles and rather smart, black patent leather shoes. Jesus Christ, what did I look like?

A few minutes later, two policemen guided me through a side door which led to the dock area of a small courtroom. They chattered away to each other in Thai and every so often the pair of them giggled. I could only imagine they were talking about the new style of dressing which I was introducing to their country.

"So now you're the fashion police," I said under my breath as they pushed me towards a wooden bench. It might have been a funny remark given any other circumstances.

Mookjai was right, the wood of the dock would come up to my stomach when I stood up, so the judges wouldn't see my bottom half. I was probably going to look quite smart, and more importantly, respectful to them. I hobbled unaided to the wooden bench. Walking in these damned shackles had been easier ever since a fellow prisoner had given me a piece of string to tie to the chain. So, as I walked, I could hold my ankle chain off the floor making movement easier and a lot more dignified. It was amazing the joy a piece of string could provide.

Shortly after I was in my place, and I felt I'd been very much put in my place, Mr Mookjai entered the courtroom and took up his position just in front of the dock. A thick sheet of plate glass separated us although a number of small drilled holes allowed me to whisper to my lawyer. He smiled at me and bowed before he took his seat. These people are the most polite people in the world.

The whole place reminded me of a British courtroom in appearance. I haven't been in many but I've seen lots of them on TV. However, the heat and humidity in this place told me I wasn't in London. This place was stiflingly hot and the large, slowly rotating ceiling fan wasn't much of a substitute for air conditioning, it was more of a way to move the hot air around, ensuring the humidity got into every corner of the room. I surveyed my surroundings, to my left, right at the front of the room was a raised platform where I assumed the judges would sit. A huge portrait of the King hung above it, so the monarch could keep an eye on proceedings. A court clerk sat in front of the judges' bench. He looked bored and uninterested in what was going on around him, in fact, I think he might have been playing a game on his iPhone.

The prosecution team sat to the right of Mr Mookjai. Like the clerk, they didn't seem particularly interested in what was going on either. I guess they weren't feeling under any pressure as far as this case was concerned. They were expecting a slam dunk.

When the two judges entered through a private entrance at the front of the court, the atmosphere changed and everyone stood, except me. I was too busy watching the female member of the prosecution team. My mind drifted when she stood and I saw the length of her short black skirt. Was she deliberately teasing me or was she doing it for the judges? Either way, she looked good.

"Show respect," whispered Mr Mookjai. "Stand."

I stood. I had been stupid, I needed to concentrate.

The judges wore black robes with dark velvet edging around the neck and down the front. Sitting on their raised dais behind dark wood panelling, they ruled this courtroom, what they said went. There was no jury, the two black-robed men would decide my fate. My peers had no say in this courtroom, no sir-eee.

One judge banged his gavel. Everyone sat. The trial was now in session. It was being conducted in Thai. I'd been told there would be an interpreter. I leaned forward and insisted that Mr Mookjai objected. I made him demand, or rather respectfully request, that there be translations into English for me during the trial but the judges ruled it would slow the proceedings too much and told my lawyer to translate anything he thought was relevant. To be fair, apparently I was lucky to have had a lawyer who spoke English, so I should be counting my blessings. One.

As the trial proceeded, I noticed the judges had tape recorders. Every so often, they spoke into little microphones, paraphrasing witness statements, I guessed. Nobody kept a record of the whole trial, there was no stenographer or anything, which probably made appeals more difficult, if the particular crime allowed appeals, that is. Just another advantage the court had over the defendant.

When Mr Mookjai cross-examined the prosecution's witnesses, I noticed him pausing before asking each question, giving the judges time to summarise the answer to the previous question. Sometimes neither judge recorded anything which seemed to bother the little man.

Both judges participated in the questioning of the witnesses. Mr Mookjai told me that sometimes they asked questions which they felt the prosecutor should have asked and sometimes they merely sought clarification. It was clear to me from early on that although there were two judges, one led while the other was there for support. Every now and then the support guy would change tapes, giving the full one to the court clerk.

My trial lasted three hours, it needn't have taken as long as that as it was an open and shut case. Well, more of an open case I guess, customs had opened my case and there were the drugs, three point eight kilos of cocaine to be precise. A street value of over a hundred and seventy thousand pounds in the UK, they kept saying, patently not for personal use. Over a hundred and seventy thousand pounds worth, shit, that was a lot.

The last hour of the trial involved the court clerk reading out the statements which witnesses had made to the police before the trial. Each witness was asked if what had been read to the court was a true account. When they said it was, they signed their statements and that was that.

"Oh," whispered Mr Mookjai, "it seems there will be a verdict today."

The wee man hadn't expected the verdict to be delivered on the same day as the evidence was given but what did this dick of a lawyer know?

So the lead judge read out the verdict, in Thai. I didn't have to be able to understand the language to know that the long missive, conveyed in a foreign tongue, could be summed up in one word... guilty.

That's my story. That's how I got to where I am now.

Dying to LiveWhere stories live. Discover now