The Cocaine Diaries: A Venezuelan Prison Nightmare (15 page)

Myself and another gringo, Macedonia, took to playing chess in the afternoons to pass the time, a game I had learned as a kid. He had a job in the mornings out in the driveway area inside the main gate, lugging bags of rubbish and sweeping and cleaning. One afternoon as usual we sat down on two buckets and laid out a chessboard on another. ‘Play, Paul,’ he said, laughing. ‘I show how we always win in my country.’

‘Easy for you Russky commies,’ I laughed. ‘You were brought up on the game.’ It was his board. He didn’t smoke or do drugs and had paid the jefe to have the chessboard smuggled in for him. His English wasn’t great, but I enjoyed the chat with him. He was one of the few inmates older than me. I put him down as about 50. He was a tall fellow, well built with a hard, chiselled face and a short haircut. The lags said he had been a sergeant back home.

About half an hour into the game (Macedonia was winning again, damn) one of the Venos came over, standing over the game. He laughed and made silly gestures, as if the game was stupid. More like he was. A scrawny little moron. All of a sudden he lashed out at the board and it went flying, the chess pieces scattering on the ground.

Macedonia jumped to his feet and grabbed the Veno by the throat. The blood drained out of the Veno’s face. It was a knee-jerk reaction from Macedonia, not thinking about what the bosses might do. The Veno ran off, shocked, looking like his pride was hurt. Macedonia just shrugged and set up the board and pieces again for a new game.

‘Let’s get this moving,’ I said. ‘Forget about that clown.’

‘Yes, the game,’ said Macedonia. ‘Stupid man stop us. I kill him.’

Minutes later, Fidel ran out. His acne-scarred face was raging with anger. Myself and Macedonia looked at each other and knew we were in trouble. The Veno he pushed wasn’t a ‘made’ man or even a lucero, but he cooked food for Fidel and his henchmen. Oh shit, I thought, we’re in for it. Macedonia stood up. He had decent Spanish and told Fidel that the Veno had ruined our
juego
(game), tumbling the board over to show him.

‘
Está bien,
’ (‘OK’) said Fidel. He calmed down and walked away.

We thought that was that. Shortly afterwards we set up the pieces and had the game going. Two luceros then appeared at the door into the yard, carrying the Veno. One had him by the feet and the other had him by his hands, carrying him like a sack of potatoes. He was writhing and groaning. They dropped him on a spot on the ground. His arms were all blotchy and bruised, like old bananas. He lay there whimpering.

Myself and Macedonia were shocked. We couldn’t believe it. The boss must have called a luz, giving the luceros the order to beat up our villain. I can’t say we weren’t satisfied, but I did feel a bit sorry for him. What surprised me was that Fidel took our side; a gringo laying a finger on a Veno was a no-no. They didn’t like us, but we paid the causa and the boss knew our money was good. I learned that day that not only could you not hit another prisoner, you couldn’t even get in their face.

* * *

I was walking through the passageway to the wing after the morning Spanish class. Up ahead I saw Costa Rica from Macuto jail.

‘Paul, hallo,’ he said, smiling. We shook hands.

‘Great, good to see you.’ I noticed he was carrying a Bible. ‘Where’s your Papa?’ I said, joking. Papa was an old Mexican guy Costa Rica had taken under his wing in Macuto.

‘Upstairs in another cell block. About five Mexicans taking care of him. His brothers.’ I could tell he didn’t want much chitchat and we parted. He hadn’t mentioned he was in the Church wing, but it was obvious that he was from carrying the Palabra de Dios, the Bible. I could tell he was a relaxed, spiritual guy and genuinely wanted to do his time as quietly as possible. No drugs or violence. And the Church seemed to be the place for it. So they said.

* * *

The prisoner seemed to be having a row on the payphone. He stood in the passageway shouting into it. ‘
Sí
’ and ‘
hijo de puta
’ (‘son of a bitch’) was all I understood. In the same hand as the phone he held a gun, the barrel pointing near his head. I was with Silvio going towards the canteen. Suddenly the gun went off. A loud crack echoed out. Red mist sprayed out over the payphone. I stopped in my tracks and just stared. I watched half his head exploding. Brain and bone. What was left of his head tilted backwards and he keeled over. I wanted to puke at the sight.

‘Oh my God, Paul, my God,’ said Silvio, ‘this place is terrible.’ I just stood there shaking my head, my eyes not believing what they saw.

A couple of cops ran out from their office. I was ushered back to Maxima. ‘
Regresa, ahora
’ (‘Go back, now’). Back in the yard I stood there shaking my head again. What I saw didn’t make sense. A man in a prison talking on the phone with a gun, then shooting his head off. An upside-down world.

I was later told that the Venos thought holding the gun and the phone in the same hand was cool. I’d say he was cool now all right, his body freezing in the morgue.

* * *

Billy arrived in the wing. ‘How’s it going? I’m Billy,’ he said. He had mousey-brown hair, a crooked nose and eyes spaced a bit too wide apart. He was thin but had a bit of a pot belly. He had a sports bag slung over his shoulder and was carrying a tobo and a thin colchoneta rolled up under his arm.

We shook hands. ‘You look like you’re sticking around?’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘for good.’ He blurted out his words rather than speaking them.

‘How long you here?’

‘About 14 months.’

‘Caught at the airport?’

‘Yep, barely out of the taxi. Walked in the front door and the cops pulled me over. Did a search and I was done. Three kilos. Got eight years.’ He told the story in a matter-of-fact way, as if he was recalling going to the shop to buy a pint of milk. He was an easy-going guy with a cheesy grin and had a bit of a blank look to him. The world did its thing and Billy did his thing. He didn’t seem bothered about what came his way. Even doing eight years in Los Teques. He was 26 and got caught at 25. He was wasting the best years of his life behind bars.

He had taken a bit of coke in his first months in the jail, like most, but then it became an all-day habit, which didn’t do anyone any good. That set him up for a six-month rehab spell in La Iglesia, or the Church wing. No drugs, no drink, nothing.

‘How’d it go up there?’

‘My head was in bits with the charlie. Cleaned me up. Just had to say a few prayers and carry a Bible and they left me alone.’ He wasn’t a religious type, but carrying the book of God around the jail was like a badge of protection. Nobody touched you, Billy explained; the Church wing was under the rule of Wing 1. The jefe there was one of the biggest drug runners and outlaws in Venezuela. He was the most feared inmate in the jail. In the Church wing they had no guns or knives to protect themselves, but the inmates paid their causa to him. In return the evangelicals who ran La Iglesia enjoyed his protection. The Bible they carried was their badge: mess with me and fear the wrath of God, or, in this case, the Wing 1 padrino.

Although they were evangelicals, Billy explained, they were the usual mix of inmates: rapists, murderers, kiddy fiddlers and all-round sickos. One was even a genuine ex-pastor. He stood up in the wing and gave sermons every evening, banishing devils and damning sinners to hell. We heard he was locked up because of swindling his flock to the tune of thousands in a fraud scam.

Later that day Billy sat down beside me on the ground in the yard for the headcount. The usual band of troops filed in.

‘Can you call out my number?’ I asked. ‘I can’t speak this poxy language.’

‘No bother.’ He spoke decent Spanish and knew all the local slang, which made the Venos laugh.

The cop started his count from the row of inmates lined up around the yard. ‘
Uno. Dos. Tres . . .
’ He came to Billy, who I worked out was about number thirty-something in the headcount, and pointed his index finger at him. ‘
Treinta-seis.
’ (‘Thirty-six.’) The finger pointed at me. Billy put his hand on my shoulder and called out ‘
treinta-siete
’ (‘thirty-seven’). As well as having an amigo from the homeland I now had another body to fall back on for the headcount.

Later on Vampy came over, babbling ‘número, número’ and pointing at me, his lips rising at times, showing his baby gums and two molars poking out. A tall, skinny Dracula, a Venezuelan phantom. ‘He says you should be calling out your own number,’ said Billy, interpreting. ‘If I can do it, you can.’

‘Wankers,’ I said to Billy, looking into Vampy’s face. ‘All wankers.’ Vampy walked away with a grunt.

‘Ha ha, boy, you’re right there,’ said Billy.

Silvio and a few other Italians came over, including Vito and Roberto. ‘Welcome to Maxima, mate,’ said Eddy, extending his hand. Billy took it, looking down at his name, ‘Eddy’, tattooed on his knuckles. ‘How was the Church? You a Bible basher?’

‘No, but I got clean,’ said Billy. He wouldn’t be for long.

* * *

It was December, and with Christmas on the way I decided I was going to make some home brew, for no reason other than that I wanted to have a drink to mark the festive season. I also saw it as a way to make a bit of cash. I told Billy I wanted to ask the jefe for permission first. You never did anything out of the ordinary without getting the nod. ‘Let’s go,’ said Billy boy. We walked into Fidel’s cell, where he was stretched out on his bed watching his little portable TV. Some stupid
novela
soap opera with a girl crying over losing her boyfriend. The jefes were addicted to that crap. Some hard men. Carlos was standing by his big double bed curling weights, his biceps rising up and down like two babies’ heads trying to pop out of his arms.

‘I want to make some booze, some wine. Billy, tell him.’ He stood next to me, and interpreted.

‘
Sí, no problema.
’

I’d got the OK from the Godfather; all was good. Now all I needed were the tools and the ingredients. I’d been making home brew for years back in Ireland, so I already had the knowledge. I needed a vat to make the brew: an empty ten-litre water bottle came in handy for that. I also needed rice and sugar: I got that off the lags in the kitchens for a few bolos. The big problem was the yeast. No one seemed to have it. Billy had a brainwave. ‘We’ll ask Father Pat on the next visit!’ he said, grinning.

‘Father Pat, yeah, that might work.’ But I couldn’t see a priest being party to my plans to get merrily on high over the festive season. I’d have to think about that one.

THE BOYS IN GREEN MARCHED INTO THE YARD. ABOUT HALF A DOZEN armed with the usual pump-action shotguns. Fingers resting close to the trigger. Just another número. It was morning, and we all sat around the yard on our buckets waiting for the headcount to start. I sat perched on a paint tin beside Silvio so he could shout my number. ‘
Uno, dos, tres . . .
’ The cop stood in front of me for my turn. He pointed his finger at me, like he was staring down the barrel of a gun. Silvio called my number and I watched the cop go round the yard with the headcount while a National Guard ticked off his roll sheet on a clipboard.

At the last number, one of the verdes lifted up the barrel of his shotgun and fired into the air.
Boom-boom
. ‘
Búsqueda,
’ (‘Search’) shouted another verde. We all jumped to our feet. The soldier cocked his rifle and fired again.
Click-click, boom
. ‘
Al sotea,
’ (‘To the roof’) the soldier barked in Spanish again. There was a mad scramble to the door into the cells. A soldier aimed his rifle and shot at our backs as we ran. Men cried out, screaming and shouting. I couldn’t believe this was happening.

Inside in the cells the guards shouted orders. ‘
Correte, gringo, correte,
’ (‘Run, gringo, run’) one shouted at me. I ran toward the narrow door into the passageway. There was a bottleneck of bodies, like a stampede of elephants trying to run through the eye of a needle, pushing and shoving. Other soldiers stood there, their swords drawn, lashing out at us with the flats of the blades as we ran out the door. I scrambled out and felt the blade slap at me, a sharp flick like a bite. But it was on my ass, softening the blow.

Eddy and Silvio were up ahead, running. Other troops stood next to the stairs. ‘
Arriba, arriba,
’ (‘Up, up’) they shouted, pointing to the stairs on the left that led up towards the roof. I ran on. I copied the others and put my hands on top of my head. The troops kicked out at us with heavy-duty military boots as we passed. I stood at the top of the stairs. My heart raced. I could feel it pounding in my ears like a bass drum.

None of the English speakers were nearby, so I couldn’t find out what was going on. The inmates were filing into a line on the second floor, heading up to the roof. Calm had settled in now. The panic was gone. Troops barked orders. Prisoners pulled their clothes off at the top of the stairs. Guards shoved inmates out onto the roof. Now it was my turn. The soldier shouted a flurry of Spanish. ‘Gringo’ was all I picked up, but I knew what to do. I quickly pulled off my jeans and T-shirt. One guard with surgical gloves grabbed my groin and groped around. He pushed my back and I bent over, standing there while the cop looked at my ass. ‘
Vete,
’ (‘Go’) he barked.

I quickly grabbed my bundle of clothes off the floor, pulled them on and ran out onto the roof. There was already another wing of inmates up there, more than 200 men lying on the ground with their hands behind their heads, foreheads pressed into the ground. The troops, armed with shotguns, marched around the perimeter of the wall keeping watch. I could see others in a watchtower above, aiming machine guns our way. I ran over, joined a line and lay down on the roof. Face touching the ground. Some of the inmates were shouting among themselves. Hundreds more inmates were now pouring out of the door to the roof. The whole prison was obviously being searched. All lay on the ground, hands behind heads.

The army started a headcount. A soldier went up and down the lines of men stretched out on the ground – legs apart like giant starfish washed up on a beach. I heard the soldier come closer as he passed each prisoner, each calling his own number. I panicked. I couldn’t see Silvio or Eddy to help me. The numbers came closer. The squeak of boots nearer. What would they do to me if I messed up the number? ‘
No español,
’ (‘No Spanish’), I said. The soldier called out my number and moved on. Lucky.