baht he said would be required. He left me sitting alone in the huge waiting hall with my briefcase and leather bag holding the balance of my money. He had said he was going to speak with a friend in the court about arranging my bail.
For a while, I sat there befuddled, then decided that I needed another snort of nose spray that did not help in any way to unbefuddle me. This was all too strange. No one was watching me other than the few dozen curious Thais who were waiting there in the hall for their own particular court business. About that time, my friend and legitimate business associate Damrong unexpectedly showed up. I told him what the situation was. He was the one who had consigned the snakeskin shipment. I asked him to take my briefcase and hold the balance of my bail money, but kept my dollars and a couple thousand baht.
He was as surprised as I was to find me sitting unattended. When I asked if Sandy had called him to pick up his snakeskins, he said “Yes, but forget about that. What is happening here?”
I answered, “Don’t know. Maybe you better go now. I will see you later.” He reluctantly agreed and left, but not before warning me not to do something stupid.
“You cannot trust all Thai police,” Damrong advised. “I don’t think you can have bail.”
Moments later, I stood up with my leather bag in hand and sauntered over to the exit leading to the street. Thanon Atsadang, a beautiful road running parallel with one of the relatively few remaining free-flowing canals in Bangkok, lay enticingly near, below me just down the few courthouse steps.
A number of taxis and unmarked cars for hire were awaiting fares at curbside, close to where the captain had parked. One of the drivers approached, almost like he had been waiting for me, and asked in clear English where I would like to go. That settled it for me. I turned and walked back inside and sat down. I was suddenly faced with a major quandary.
The quandary: Was this a setup intended for me to disappear before the court appearance, allowing the captain to retain the bail money? Perhaps someone was waiting close by to retrieve me quickly, thus saving face for the captain. Even if I got away successfully, without a ready passport and ticket to leave immediately, I would again be stuck in Thailand with my face in the Thai newspapers. I could not try to hide with anyone I knew.
Or, perhaps I was actually going to get bail (allowing time to find a usable passport), and that is why the captain had felt confident enough to leave me sitting alone in the hall. That was all I could hope for. Much like the quandary I experienced at the window in the captain’s office, this felt like the whole of the Thai people were holding me there.
Half an hour later, the captain reappeared. I clearly gathered by his rolling eyes, exasperated expression and silence that it had indeed been a setup. He then led me to a small courtroom, where I was charged with possession of 230 grams of heroin and intent to leave the Kingdom. The judge said bail was not an option.
As the bailiff escorted me from the courtroom to the courthouse lockup, I told the captain to hold onto my bail money because the Embassy would be coming to pick it up for me. He did, and they did.
For years thereafter, I would agonize over my possibly missed opportunity to escape what was then in store for me. Decades later, after reading his book Escape: The true story of the only Westerner ever to escape from the Bangkok Hilton, I would learn from David McMillan that my decision to stay had indeed been correct. McMillan, a kindred spirit and fellow Bangkok Hilton inmate, is to date the only farang to have escaped from Klong Prem Central Prison. His observation, that escaping from the prison was the easy part but avoiding being caught again was the hard part, rang true. Because he had a passport and a ticket for a flight waiting for him to pick up on the way to the airport after his escape, his very dangerous
For a while, I sat there befuddled, then decided that I needed another snort of nose spray that did not help in any way to unbefuddle me. This was all too strange. No one was watching me other than the few dozen curious Thais who were waiting there in the hall for their own particular court business. About that time, my friend and legitimate business associate Damrong unexpectedly showed up. I told him what the situation was. He was the one who had consigned the snakeskin shipment. I asked him to take my briefcase and hold the balance of my bail money, but kept my dollars and a couple thousand baht.
He was as surprised as I was to find me sitting unattended. When I asked if Sandy had called him to pick up his snakeskins, he said “Yes, but forget about that. What is happening here?”
I answered, “Don’t know. Maybe you better go now. I will see you later.” He reluctantly agreed and left, but not before warning me not to do something stupid.
“You cannot trust all Thai police,” Damrong advised. “I don’t think you can have bail.”
Moments later, I stood up with my leather bag in hand and sauntered over to the exit leading to the street. Thanon Atsadang, a beautiful road running parallel with one of the relatively few remaining free-flowing canals in Bangkok, lay enticingly near, below me just down the few courthouse steps.
A number of taxis and unmarked cars for hire were awaiting fares at curbside, close to where the captain had parked. One of the drivers approached, almost like he had been waiting for me, and asked in clear English where I would like to go. That settled it for me. I turned and walked back inside and sat down. I was suddenly faced with a major quandary.
The quandary: Was this a setup intended for me to disappear before the court appearance, allowing the captain to retain the bail money? Perhaps someone was waiting close by to retrieve me quickly, thus saving face for the captain. Even if I got away successfully, without a ready passport and ticket to leave immediately, I would again be stuck in Thailand with my face in the Thai newspapers. I could not try to hide with anyone I knew.
Or, perhaps I was actually going to get bail (allowing time to find a usable passport), and that is why the captain had felt confident enough to leave me sitting alone in the hall. That was all I could hope for. Much like the quandary I experienced at the window in the captain’s office, this felt like the whole of the Thai people were holding me there.
Half an hour later, the captain reappeared. I clearly gathered by his rolling eyes, exasperated expression and silence that it had indeed been a setup. He then led me to a small courtroom, where I was charged with possession of 230 grams of heroin and intent to leave the Kingdom. The judge said bail was not an option.
As the bailiff escorted me from the courtroom to the courthouse lockup, I told the captain to hold onto my bail money because the Embassy would be coming to pick it up for me. He did, and they did.
For years thereafter, I would agonize over my possibly missed opportunity to escape what was then in store for me. Decades later, after reading his book Escape: The true story of the only Westerner ever to escape from the Bangkok Hilton, I would learn from David McMillan that my decision to stay had indeed been correct. McMillan, a kindred spirit and fellow Bangkok Hilton inmate, is to date the only farang to have escaped from Klong Prem Central Prison. His observation, that escaping from the prison was the easy part but avoiding being caught again was the hard part, rang true. Because he had a passport and a ticket for a flight waiting for him to pick up on the way to the airport after his escape, his very dangerous
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