Dying to Live

Chapter 28 - Words and Sentences

Sunlight, window, no curtains... yaddah yaddah yaddah. What actually wakes me this time is the guard leaving the cheap suit which my lawyer hired to make me more respectable for my court appearance. Or is it to make me seem more respectful? The little shit hasn't come to see me since the trial and the only thing I've had today is a message to say he'd meet me at the courthouse.

I'm half-suited and booted, the shackles aren't coming off so the suit trousers aren't going on. A couple of prison officers lead me to the antiquated blue van which will transport me to where the judge will pronounce sentence. This is going to be my one opportunity to make a plea for clemency.

"Own up and mention mitigating circumstances," my lawyer had recommended. "And make a heartfelt apology to the fair people of Thailand because true remorse offers best chance of evading death penalty."

I've taken his advice and have been practicing my speech ever since the verdict.

The van bumps and jolts its way along the road. There are no windows although somehow the smoky stench of unfiltered diesel exhaust fumes seeps in. The oppressive heat, lack of ventilation and nerves combine to make me lightheaded and nauseous. A tingle starts at my fingertips and travels up my arms. Don't faint, don't be sick. A wooziness engulfs my skull. My torso swings forward and I crash to the floor of the van. The foul smell and murky wetness jolts me back to full consciousness, like a good old-fashioned dose of smelling salts. I clamber back onto the bench seat with no help from the smiling guards; they seem to find this whole scene amusing.

The right shoulder and arm of my suit jacket are covered in whatever was swishing about on the floor. Involuntarily my head jerks away to escape the stench. I hadn't thought it possible for this cheap suit to look any worse; I was wrong.

A policeman leads me into the court while the two judges peer down at me from their raised dais behind dark wood panelling. Stoney-faced, there they sit with my life in their hands; sort of literally. There had been no jury for the trial so the two men who sit in their black robes in front of me decided my guilt. The massive responsibility seems to sit comfortably on their shoulders, maybe because they hate westerners who pollute their country with deviant sexual appetites, drugs, greed and crime.

Now, here I am again. Guilty as charged, awaiting my sentence.

The large, slowly rotating, ceiling fan wafts stifling air round the room; round me. Sweat trickles down my brow, no doubt making me look even more disreputable. The judges glare down at me with distain from their lofty perches. Above them, the portrait of the King is also staring at me.

I sit in the dock to the left of Mr Mookjai. He's shuffling papers on the defence table. To his right sit the prosecution team, they have no papers in front of them. The lady lawyer on their team is wearing her short skirt again, framed by her black robes, it's a sexy sight.

A low railing splits the room in half and divides us from the members of the public and other interested parties. Today there are none, other than a few local reporters and my friend Marty who I wave to as I hobble into the court. I have to use my left hand as my right is clasping the piece of string which holds my ankle chains off the floor. Just seeing Marty raises my spirits.

"What is dreadful smell?" asks Mr Mookjai, my ineffectual lawyer.

"I fell in the van on the way here."

"Not good look," says the wee fucker as he rearranges his papers some more.

A punch in the face might wipe the cheesy grin off his face but even I know that would be a bad idea, anyway, I couldn't get at him through the thick plate glass which encloses the dock.