ESCAPE FROM AMBERGRIS CAYE (25 page)

Never
having been taken into custody before Jackson didn’t know what to expect. The
coast guard had turned them over to the police. Now they sat on a bench at the intake
room of Belize Central Prison fearing what would happen next. It was well past
midnight, and the sergeant at the front desk was none too happy to have his
mid-shift lunch interrupted. He listened as the arresting officer explained the
situation. Jackson understood only snatches of the mixed English and Kriol.

“They
stole a yacht. Coast guard
caught’em
red-handed. ”

Whatever
the officer said in response was garbled. Besides Jackson was too busy worrying
about the consequences of Charlie’s misguided efforts. He couldn’t remember
exactly who it was, but recalled someone having said to avoid the police at all
costs, that they were thoroughly corrupt. Too late for that. To make matters
worse, Mo had confiscated their money, so the possibility of a bribe was out of
the question.

They
were, once again, in the jaws of a dilemma, but this time escape wasn’t a
possibility. Their only hope was a sympathetic judge. Perhaps once he heard
their story, he’d let them go. Even then, without money, how could they make it
back home? The all too familiar emotions of panic and fear surged inside. He
swallowed hard, took several deep breaths and uttered a silent prayer.

Izzie,
who’d been sitting beside him, periodically sniffed and wiped away tears. Then,
as if there was no more fight left inside, she slumped and leaned her head on
his shoulder.

Squeezing
her hand, Jackson said, “Hang in there,
Iz
. It’ll be
all right. We got this far. It’s only another bump in the road.”

“You.
Shut up,” the desk sergeant growled. He turned to a guard standing nearby, “We
can’t do anything till morning. Take them to holding.”

Jackson
had hoped Captain Tom would realize it was Charlie who’d taken the yacht and
had only intended to "borrow" it. Now he could see that wasn’t going
to happen. They’d have to spend at least one night in the clutches of the
prison system.

"Put
everything in your pockets in this here bag and give it back to me." The
guard handed them each a sack. "And don't try hiding anything,
’cause
you're gonna be searched anyway, so it won't go well
with you if we find stuff." The man was dressed in a khaki army-style
uniform complete with combat boots and a thick black weapons belt which held a
revolver and nightstick. His black hair was clipped so short, Jackson could see
his scalp.

"Get
in line while I make sure you done what
yore
told." As he began to frisk each one, Izzie looked increasingly
uncomfortable.

Jackson,
noticing Izzie’s expression, said, "Sir, is there a female guard who can,
you know, search my lady friend?"

The guard
gave him a look. "Why shore, we'll get right on it. And is there anything
else you'd like? Room service? A pizza or some drinks? How ’bout a private room
with a view? You think
yore
at a damn resort over in
San Pedro? If
yore
lady friend’s too embarrassed to
be checked over, maybe she
shoulda
thought twice
afore
hangin
' out with a bunch a thieves." He'd
just finished with Zac and said, "Step right up, Miss."

Izzie
moved forward, her eyes glued to the floor. "Hands out to the side."
He patted her down, slowing visibly at her breast, butt and crotch. Jackson
could scarcely contain himself and was about to intervene when the guard looked
over and said, "Next."

The
holding cell was a grim affair composed of a cement-block wall at the rear and
thick bars on the other three sides. A bunk bed and benches were occupied by
bodies so close as to appear almost as one in the gloom. More were sprawled on
the bare floor, as occupants tried grabbing a few winks in the overcrowded
space. The only amenity, if it can be called such, was a toilet consisting of a
plastic milk carton cut in half. The stench provided proof it had been used.

Izzie
pinched her nose and put her hand over her mouth as if trying to avoid
breathing in the foul odor.

“Holy
crap, what the hell is this? You expect us to stay here?” Zac had been in jail
for disorderly conduct in the past, and most likely had a notion of what prison
should be like: clean cells, bunk beds with thin mattresses, blankets, maybe
even a pillow,
a
sink with running water and a toilet
in the corner. Belize Central Prison at Mile Two of
Burrel
Boom Road had none of these. Compared to the sight before him, the jails he’d
been in seemed like five-star hotels. "I'm not joining a bunch of
low-life’s on the floor infested with God only knows what," he declared.

The guard
thrust a baton in his face. “Oh no?”

When Zac
didn’t respond Jackson nudged him forward. The guard gave him a look that
seemed to say he was disappointed at being robbed of the chance to demonstrate
who was in charge.

Alone in
the darkened cell, each of the four carved out a small space on the floor and
curled up, intending to get some rest after their ordeal. Snores ricocheting
back and forth across the room, the occasional insect bite along with the chill
creeping into their bones from the damp cement floor made that nearly
impossible. Finally after what seemed like endless hours later, a guard opened
the cell door and they were informed breakfast was available—if they were
hungry. Morning had arrived at last.

 Thinking
they’d be offered some kind of cereal, toast and a cup of coffee, Jackson got
in line behind his cellmate. Instead of being led to a cafeteria, he was met at
the door with a guard handing out sandwiches consisting of two slices of dry
bread with a piece of rancid cheese in the middle. And coffee? Their liquid
refreshment came from the tap.

As bad as
things were, the real horror of their situation came home to roost half an hour
later when the men were issued orange jumpsuits, and a guard told Izzie to
accompany him to the women's section of the prison.

"I
want to stay with them," she protested.

"In
case you haven't noticed, nobody gives a shit what you want," the guard
said, and gave her a shove. "Now move."

"What
about the judge?" Jackson said.

"What
about him?" Impatience was woven into the fabric of the man's expression.

“When do
we get to see him?"

"In
about a month—if you last that long." The surly guard looked pointedly at
Zac then threw back his head and laughed.   

Patricia
Maxwell was tall for a woman, slim with a rack that made most men drool. She
had large brown eyes and thick black hair that reached her shoulders. She was
dressed in a business suit that did nothing to hide her voluptuous figure. Her
lips were full and just begging to be kissed. The woman was a looker, that’s
for sure. Even in the dire straits in which he found himself—or perhaps despite
them, Leon wasn’t above appreciating the sight of a beautiful woman.

“Mr.
Donatello
? Did you hear what I said?”

Leon’s
eyes snapped up from where they’d been focused. “Uh, I’m sorry, what?”

“I said
we need to face facts. You’ve been caught in the act. The police discovered
those women in your basement. And you were the only one in the house at the
time. Considering the circumstances, it’d be ludicrous to tell a judge you were
unaware of what was going on.”

“But I
didn’t load them up in that van and drag them into my house. They came
willingly.” Leon thought he’d made a good point. Maybe Miss Good-looking
Attorney sitting across from him in her short skirt with her long legs crossed,
would agree.

“But
where did they think they were going?” She leaned in to the table and waited
for him to respond.

“How do I
know? I don’t speak their language. I mean, I was just a middle man, providing
lodging for the night and passing them on to the next buy…uh, er, person who
would take them to their final destination.”

“Okay,
let’s say that’s true,” Ms. Maxwell said. “Then how do we account for the
ledger the police found?”

Unaware
that his notebook had been discovered, Leon was shaken. It provided a complete
record of the sales that had taken place and was in his handwriting. His mouth
parched, he swallowed hard then took a swig from a bottle of water that had
been provided.

“How do
they know it’s mine? Maybe the previous owner left it there.” That was a Hail
Mary pass, but worth a try.

“Well, we
could argue that but then how do we explain your name on the front cover?”

“My
name’s on it? You sure?” He specifically remembered erasing it. They couldn’t
possibly know it belonged to him.

“They
traced it from the indents the pen made.” The attorney’s patience was wearing
thin.

At this
point Leon realized he had no more wiggle room; it was time to start dealing.

A sea of
orange greeted Zac, as he, Jackson and Charlie headed out to the prison
courtyard.  The baggy jumpsuits encased some of the meanest looking men
he’d ever seen. No stranger to barroom brawls, he wanted nothing to do with
this bunch. Despite their weapons, the guards were greatly outnumbered and
couldn’t be counted on for protection, especially since several had taken an
obvious disliking to him.

He stood
next to Charlie who leaned against the wall and rubbed his temples. “Guys, I’m
sorry about all this. I really thought I could make it to Mexico and back
undetected. I’ve done it several times and never had a problem. Guess old
Captain Tom decided to take his lady friend for a ride. In case you didn’t
notice, there was a full moon out last night and it was spectacular.”

Zac looked
at Charlie as if the man had lost his mind. They had not only been trying to
escape from Mo—who considered them one step above dogs—but now they faced
felony-theft charges. And the guy who’d taken them from a desperate situation
to an impossible one was commenting on the moon
? Seriously?
There were
no words. He’d trusted this guy and look where it had gotten him. How long
would they be in this hellhole? And would they survive?

Even if
they managed to avoid getting beaten to death by that bunch of lunatics, he
glanced at a fight in progress, they still had to survive the prison’s medieval
conditions: polluted drinking water, spoiled food—what there was of it—and
getting bit by God only knows what kind of insects.

Maybe
he’d manage to stay alive, but what about Jackson, not to mention Izzie.
Neither of them had been subjected to the brutality and primitive living
conditions they were facing. Zac couldn’t do anything to help them—not a single
thing.

As he
took several steps from the wall, an inmate bumped into him. “Hey, watch
yourself.”

“You ran
into me.”

“Say
what? You better apologize and be quick about it if you know what’s good for
you.” The man’s eyes drilled Zac with an almost maniacal intensity.

Zac rarely
ever walked away from a fight, but sizing the guy up he thought this might be
the time to start. The man was well over two hundred-fifty pounds and several
inches taller than he was. Well-developed biceps bulged from the sleeves of his
jumpsuit. Scars, recent cuts and bruises on his face, arms and hands broadcast
his willingness to exchange blows.

“My bad.
Sorry man, I didn’t see you.” Zac offered to shake hands but the man refused.

“I’ll let
it go
this
time,” he said. “Don’t let it happen again.” He walked away
without another word.

The other
inmates resumed whatever it was they were doing. Zac assumed they felt
deprived. Watching an American receive a good beating would have provided a
badly needed source of entertainment. Oh well, Zac realized, they knew there’d
be another opportunity to revisit the situation—most likely soon.

In the
meantime it was around noon and his stomach began to remind him he hadn’t eaten
since the poor excuse of a breakfast four hours earlier. He approached a
scrawny inmate, thinking he could easily defend himself against this one if the
need arose.

“Hey
Dude. When do we eat?”

The guy
gave Zac a puzzled look. “Eat? We already ate. You didn’t get anything?”

“Well,
yeah, I had a sandwich with cheese for breakfast.”

“So?”

“So when
do we get lunch? I’m starving.”

The man
shrugged. “What can I tell you? You
shoulda
saved one
a them
pieces of bread to eat later. Supper isn’t till
six. And don’t ask me what time it is now
’cause
I
don’t know.” He pointed at the empty place on his arm where the contrast
between his dark tan and lighter skin bore witness to the absence of a watch.
Then, seeming to notice he’d begun to attract unwanted attention from the yard
bullies, he quickly walked away leaving Zac and his rumbling stomach to fend for
themselves.