Snowing in Bali (22 page)

*

Soon after, Ruggiero's customer, American big-wave surfer Gabriel, joined them in Kerobokan Prison. As part of the party set, he'd watched his friends get busted. ‘That's why I was so blown away, I'd been witnessing this shit first-hand.' He'd followed the waves from Hawaii to Tahiti, Bali and Australia, where he once had a fiancée. But for the last year and a half he'd settled in Bali, planning to start a surfboard storage business with his brother. He'd been hanging out with Marco in the days before his last fatal trip and saw Ruggiero, Alberto and Frederico all fall, like this was some kind of bad movie.

Marco was another one of these Scarface guys – he got some kind of notoriety and glamour out of it. It was an image I didn't agree with. Marco is a really good, great guy, but he still had that same stupid mentality – they can't touch me – and these guys were running around like Tony Montana.

– Gabriel

One afternoon, leaving his luxury rented villa, close to Kerobokan jail, and about to climb on his bike, three men approached saying they had a warrant to search his house. Initially, Gabriel didn't believe they were cops.

One guy pointed to his T-shirt that had ‘Police' written on it, and said, ‘Me police,' and I said, ‘I can buy that in Kuta. I don't care what that T-shirt says.' The next guy goes, ‘Look, I have this, a badge.' I say, ‘You can buy one of those too.' And then the third guy shows me a gun and I thought, okay, maybe you are police. I didn't want to believe it. I wasn't dealing; I wasn't selling drugs like Ruggiero. I didn't want to let them in just because of some police T-shirt, but the old Balinese man whose daughter's husband owned the villa talked me into it. He said, ‘They're real police and that's a real warrant and they're going to search your place.'

I kept them outside for about half an hour. I was worried about being set up. I've always had that thought in my mind; you don't want to mess with the cops, they can just put something on you, do anything they want. And I was thinking I don't want these guys in my room, maybe a joint or something will fall out of my golf bag, something stupid. I just didn't want them in my house. There was seven, one boss and six plain clothes, they all came in at the same time. And they all did the search at the same time.

– Gabriel

As police searched his villa, rifling through his clothes, bags, drawers, cupboards and under his bed, he was watching, pissed off, but staying calm. But every time they touched his impressive stack of 22 surfboards he imperceptibly winced, tensed, held his breath, aware they were close. They'd shuffle through the boards, getting hot, hotter, scorching, then . . . they'd walk away – until the next time. They were so, so close. In a tiny Velcro pocket on one of the leg ropes, Gabriel kept his personal stash of coke and maybe one or two stray ecstasy pills.

While they were searching, they picked the boards up in their hands 10 times, and every time I was like, ‘Whooo, oh god.' I was thinking they might find it, even though I knew they probably wouldn't, but I was worried.

– Gabriel

The boss kept intermittently taking him outside, playing good cop, repeatedly crooning, ‘We want to help you; tell us where your drugs are.' After six long hours, and no drugs, a different cop took him outside to do the same little tap dance. This time, when he came back inside, the boss smirked at him.

I came back into my bedroom and the guy had his arm buried in my pillow. As soon as I walk in he goes, ‘Ahhhh' and pulls out of the pillow a little blue plastic zip lock bag and says, ‘Gentlemen, drugs, heroin.' I'm like, ‘No way, that ain't mine.' First, I don't fucking keep drugs in my pillow and second, how does he know it's heroin if he's just discovered it?

They changed as soon as that guy pulled the drugs out; they got mean. They were laughing with a smirk on their faces, ‘Aha, we got you,' and I was like, ‘Noooo.' Running around the room, stamping my feet, pounding on the bed, screaming, ‘Noooo. Nooo, man, no, no, no, don't do this. It's not mine. Don't do this to me, guys.'

He was just smiling at me, going, ‘We got you,' and I was just fucking pissed, man. I was thinking, ‘This isn't real, this isn't real, this can't be happening.' Cos I knew that the worst thing is to get busted in a place like Bali, so when it started to hit that this guy was serious about busting me with his fucking shit, I got scared and worried then. They handcuffed me right then, they started tearing my place apart, even worse you know, they grabbed all my money.

They stole half of everything I had. The guys were packing bags for themselves when they were leaving; they were stealing stuff from me. I was walking out, so humiliated, and the guy's wearing my best Quiksilver duds – they didn't even fit him. He got my jeans vest. They took as much as they could carry when they walked out of there. I was so humiliated looking at these little short guys wearing my clothes. Like, I'm a big guy – they were walking out of the villa with me like a trophy, in my clothes. They looked stupid because they were like midgets wearing my sized clothes – they didn't look good, they thought they looked good.

I can't believe these guys loaded me up, man. I thought this only happened in the movies. And they took me to the police station and shut the bars on me and it was as real as it gets.

– Gabriel

*

In the police cells, he met Juri Angione. Juri was a 24-year-old Italian jeweller, who it turned out, was Carlino's failed plan to help Marco. Carlino had asked compatriot Juri, living in Bali with his Timorese girlfriend, to do an emergency run to get cash to save Marco from a firing squad. Juri had already done between 20 to 30 international drug runs, carrying both in his stomach and in bags.

This time Juri took Carlino's job and flew to Brazil to pick up the surfboard bag of coke. Juri instantly knew it was badly packed, but decided to risk it anyway, flying from Brazil to Amsterdam, and then via Bangkok to Bali, avoiding Marco's failed, tainted route. But instead of helping Marco, he joined him. Customs in Bali busted Juri with 5.26 kilos in his surfboard bag.

Airport authorities on the resort island of Bali arrested a 24-year old Italian national on Wednesday afternoon for attempting to smuggle some 5.26 kilos of cocaine with a street value of about Rp 4.5 billion ($600,000) into Indonesia.

A thorough search of the bag produced three surfboards, two swim suits, two pairs of surfing shoes, a snorkel and 29 plastic packages hidden in the inner lining of the bag. Wrapped in black carbon paper, the packages contained suspicious white powder, which a simple test confirmed as high-quality cocaine. [Juri] Angione admitted that the bag, clothes, shoes and surfboards were his, but denied any knowledge of the cocaine.

–
Jakarta Post,
4 December 2003

How were you feeling?

Juri: Fucked up. Yeah, fucked up. Way bad . . . It was the first time I bring something for somebody else. I always bring my own stuff. I always pack my own bags. I'm a user. But I do it this time because there was an emergency for Marco. They had to find someone to bring more stuff to make money to help Marco. I didn't know Marco that time. But to help my boss, I say, ‘Yeah, okay, I go.'

Was it going to be sold in Bali?

Juri: No, in New Zealand and Australia.

Were you going to take it there?

Juri: No, not me. Somebody else take it by boat.
Fellow inmate: By catamaran.

Carlino's plan had been to send the coke to Australia in his catamaran, as he'd planned to do with his slice of Marco's load.

Instead, he now had two guys potentially facing the firing squad.

I remember the community of drug dealers, was a little bit . . . even me . . . say, ‘Fuck man, who does this guy think he is?' He just has a problem with Marco and tries to send another guy to help and fucks up another one – actually he was my good friend.

– Rafael

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

WHITE CHRISTMAS

Marco after the accident repeats a thousand times, ‘If I don't die in my accident, nothing is going to kill me.' It's like he challenged death; he chased death. This is so crazy, like karma, you attract the things you think about too much. Fucking crazy, one guy repeats every day, ‘I can't die, I can't die.' Now he is on death row waiting to die. Looks like his energy attracted death. Like the book
The Secret,
it's exactly like that.

– Andre

Everybody in Brazil who was a friend of his, we all tried to get money from everybody and send it to him, try to pay the police. But the thing was so big, they could not make a deal, you know. He's not a bad guy, he's a good guy.

– Sparrow

American Gabriel often spoke by phone from his Bali cell to Marco in jail in Java awaiting his court verdict day. ‘I was on the phone to him all the time. And he would be all upbeat, amazing how he can do that.'

Another friend, Danilo, a Brazilian photographer living in Bali, was often visiting him in jail to take photos, and Marco would use his culinary talents to cook up the food he brought in, then serve Danilo lunch in his private cell, always the same lively, laughing company.

Only once did Danilo see any trace of worry. They were together in the holding cell at court, a week before the verdict, and Marco looked at him, asking, ‘Do you think they are really going to kill me?' It was a poignant moment, and Danilo took a photo. In court, Marco testified that he'd needed cash from the run to pay a several years overdue $80,000 hospital bill in Singapore.

On the day of his verdict a week later, Marco's demeanour was as upbeat as always, as he stood at the barred holding cell door, chatting and laughing with journalists.

He wasn't taking it seriously, he thought he would get out somehow, he didn't show any emotion – he wasn't scared.

– Danilo

Before going into court, Marco told Danilo that he'd give him a good photo opportunity. ‘He said, “Pay attention, when they give the death sentence, I'm going to turn around.” '

The verdict of death was widely expected as Carlino hadn't been able to cut a deal for him – the case was too high-profile, and raising big bucks had failed at Juri's bust. So, the little boy with the big personality from the Amazon jungle sat in court with his head bowed as he listened to his fate.

‘He is guilty of importing a type one narcotic, cocaine, and the court punishes the defendant with the death penalty,' said presiding judge Suprapto. ‘The defendant was one link in an international narcotics network that has threatened the country.'

Moreira, 42, gave a courteous hand gesture to the court after the verdict and his lawyer said he would appeal. The judge chided Moreira for escaping at the airport in August when customs officers quizzed him about the hang-glider. Asked by reporters how he managed to slip away from airport authorities, Moreira said: ‘I'm David Copperfield' – a reference to the US magician.

–
Reuters News,
8 June 2004

Marco's story was headline news in Brazil, with reports that he could be put to death by an elephant crushing his head.

The Brazilian sentenced to death can be executed with an elephant kick crushing his skull. Or, if their executors employ what they call a ‘more humane method', then he may be shot.

–
Istoé Independente,
16 June 2004

The Brazilian Marco Archer, known among the communities of surfing and hang-gliding by ‘Curumim', was sentenced to death yesterday by the Indonesian court . . . The executions are carried out by a firing squad or by crushing the head by the leg of an elephant.

–
Waves,
8 June 2004

The head-crushing stories continued despite being refuted by the Indonesian embassy in Brasília.

The Indonesian Embassy in Brasília denied, as was reported by the press, that if convicted and sentenced to death, Moreira will have his head crushed by an elephant. The convict is executed with rifle shots.

–
Folha de São Paulo,
26 May 2004

Straight after his verdict, Marco was loaded back into the police van, and through the window asked Danilo to bring him two beers to the jail.

I actually got three beers for him. I went straight after to the jail to see him, he was kind of shook up, you could tell he was a little bit emotional, he didn't say anything, but he needed a beer to digest everything. I didn't stay long, I didn't really want to because it was kind of hard for me too, what are you going to say to the guy?

– Danilo

Seeing Marco get a death sentence, with his future now a dark tunnel towards a firing squad, was sobering for all the dealers. Execution had always been a vague unthinkable chance, but now it was a reality, and smart horses were suddenly thin on the ground. But it served as no deterrent for Dimitrius, who set up another run to Bali only weeks later, using a 32-year-old rich upper middle-class guy from South Brazil to do a run.

Rodrigo Gularte was the black sheep in a rich family. He'd started sniffing solvents as a teenager and, despite his mother trying to set him up in various careers, he chose to traffic drugs. He was softly spoken, handsome and nicknamed Fraldinha (nappy) by the Bali crew ‘because he complained like a baby'. He flew out with eight surfboards, six loaded, and two friends to help camouflage the trip as a boys' surfing holiday. At 3 pm they flew into Jakarta, transiting to Bali.

Customs officers noticed the men acting ‘nervous and agitated' and when the X-ray showed foreign objects inside six of the boards the three friends were taken to a security room. As they watched, one of the boards was cut open and it revealed two embedded plastic bags, each with 500 grams of white powder. The rest of the boards were then cut and another ten bags uncovered.

Surfboards are very suspicious, obvious, doesn't work. Frank [De Castro Dias] already fucked up that equipment. It was a bad job too. You don't need to even put in an X-ray, you just hold it up to the light and you can see.

– Rafael

Incredibly, Rodrigo had agreed to do this run for Dimitrius just weeks after Marco was sent to death row.

The death penalty handed down to Brazilian Marco Archer Cardosa Moreira on 8 June for attempting to smuggle 13.7 kilos of cocaine from Peru apparently failed to deter three of his countrymen from attempting the same thing last week . . . On Saturday, officers of the Interdiction Task Force at Soekarno–Hatta International Airport arrested the three Brazilians for trying to smuggle 6 kilos of cocaine from São Paulo in six out of eight surfboards they were carrying . . . ‘The agency strongly suspects that the three have a link with a John Miller, the person who gave Moreira the order to bring in the cocaine,' Makbul [National Narcotics Agency Director] said, adding that Miller was still at large.

–
Jakarta Post,
6 August 2004

Rodrigo admitted guilt straight away, absolving his two friends, and now faced the probable death penalty alone.

*

Meanwhile, in Bali, Italian jeweller Juri and American surfer Gabriel were trying to cut a deal.

The two westerners had shared the concrete floors of the police cell, sleeping on towels, until Gabriel splashed out cash. ‘I always had $1000 in my pocket.' He was the first to be allowed a thin mattress and was soon getting margaritas delivered to the police cell. When he moved to Kerobokan Prison, he slung the boss $1000 to transfer instantly out of the vile initiation cell into the foreigners' block, sharing with Argentinian hashish dealer Frederico. Quickly renowned among the guards for his cash-splashing, they nicknamed Gabriel ‘America'.

Like most, he was anxiously trying to do a deal and get out. One morning the police drove him and his lawyer, William, to a meeting with the prosecutors. Afterwards, William met with the judge and the deal was set. For $50,000, Gabriel would be sentenced to three years, six months. William just had to slip them the cash an hour before the courts opened at 7 am on the day of his verdict.

Handcuffed in the bus, en route to his last day in court, Gabriel was stressed, desperately hoping the deal would work.

William had the money in time for the deal, it was all set, and I was just ready to get this behind me, because your head is just so foggy when you don't know what you're going to get. I was all worked up. I went to the court, I'm sitting there in the cell waiting, and they called my name. But I hadn't seen William yet; he was always there when I went to court – he would meet me at the bars.

Then the prosecutor came to take me into court. He had an angry look. I was asking, ‘What's wrong, what's wrong? Where's William?' I was freaking out and he wouldn't even look at me. He just grabbed me by the arm and dragged me into the courtroom and rammed me down. I was sitting in court and William never showed up. So all the judges who were supposed to get paid that morning, they didn't. They were pissed off, man. They were all stinking mad at me and I got eight years. Then the prosecutor dragged me back to the cell and didn't say a word.

I was speechless. I'd given the shirt off my back to help my cause and it had been working. Then I found out when I got back to jail that William died the night before. We'd just sent like $50,000 and he died before he handed them the money. All that time I had built up hope, all the money spent, all the planning for this one big court date and the guy croaks the night before. I couldn't believe it, but it was true. Everyone was completely blown away. I thought, ‘Oh my god, my problems aren't ending, they're just beginning. I can't be here for eight years. The guy who set up the Marriott bombing in Jakarta and killed 12 people got ten years.' I'm thinking I got eight for this pillow dope, and this mass murderer got ten. I couldn't live with that. That's when I turned into a ghost. I was like a walking dead man.

Did you get your money back?

No, not a dime. His wife was a rotten bitch, she took all my money.

– Gabriel

Italian Juri had also been working on a deal to try to avoid literally being a walking dead man. Busted with 5 kilos of coke at the airport, he was facing Marco's fate. His devoted family in Italy was trying to scrape together cash to help, but airport busts were intrinsically more high-profile, more scrutinised and trickier to deal. Anything less than life would create suspicion. Using the priciest lawyer in town saved him. Juri was sentenced to life in prison, with a very expensive wink that it would drop to 15 years later.

Gabriel was devastated by his double whammy of bad luck. He was trying to figure it out; make sense of it . . . maybe it was karma for the drugs he had tucked away. Moping around the jail, he was miserable, zombie-like, drinking beers to blur reality, dazed at the idea of waking up in hell every day for the next eight years. Then he got a tip from the prison boss advising him to call Juri's lawyer.

I call the guy and he comes in all cavalier and swagger, ‘Yeah Gabriel, tell me how much time you want.' ‘How much time do I want to do?' ‘Yeah, tell me how much time and I'll tell you the price.' I open my mouth and say, ‘I can't do more than two years.' I should have said one. Stupid. But anyway, he says, ‘All right, two years, I give you two years for $30,000.'

I call my parents and they're like, ‘What, more money? Another scam?' They didn't want any part of it. And the worst thing I could say to my brother was, ‘More money?'. But I talked him into it. So I ended up paying some crooked lawyer to get my sentence brought down. He got some lady at court to change it from eight years to two, so that when the paperwork came from the court to jail it said two years. The warden knew about it, but it was a secret at the courts. This one lawyer, he was doing a lot of the foreigners' cases, he was the guy.

– Gabriel

Like most westerners, Gabriel was also flinging money around just to survive, paying for all the basics in Kerobokan Prison like toilet paper, soap, water and food. For his sanity he was also bribing the guards to bring in beers, dishes from his favourite restaurants and for days out. The westerners were injecting a fortune into the coffers of guards, police and the judiciary.

Hotel Kerobokan was just a cash cow for the Indonesians who were involved in it, from the cops, to courts to the jailers. They don't see $30,000 in their life, and then all of a sudden there's this blitz by the cops and they're all getting the money – the judge, the warden and the staff at the jail. These people had made this Kerobokan a machine to make money.

They set out in a way to extort money from westerners with their little bit of drugs, that's the way I saw it. It wasn't so much they were trying to stop crime or drugs, they were trying to get these people, like me . . . to try to get all the money out of them, scare them into having their families send money.

The cops were busting everybody doing anything. People were coming in once a week, from all different countries – Greece, France, Brazil, Peru, Australia, you name it, Africa – and every one of them like me, thinking the same thing: we need to raise money to bribe these people to let us go home. Everybody had a plan or a deal to make. I didn't know any foreigner in there who didn't have a deal worked out about how they were going to get out of this mess.

It's incredible just how much money they make. I had to pay the warden $1000 just to go to [a better part of ] the jail; the chief of police took my $2000 set of golf clubs; I paid them to type up my paperwork; it's just pay, pay, pay. They are just bloodsuckers. It cost me $200,000, that whole thing.

– Gabriel

Rafael went only once to visit the guys in Kerobokan, arriving with armfuls of bags of food from the Bali Deli. The guys swarmed, happy to see him, passing on letters to send, asking him to buy phone credit. Ruggiero offered to sell Rafael cheap drugs, explaining the jail was a frenetic drugs market with the best and cheapest prices on the island. Ruggiero was already selling to customers, often girls who he'd instruct to come into visits wearing skirts so they could insert the package like a tampon to avoid any risk of being busted as they walked out.