A Favor for Friends
Short Story
by Stephen Collicoat
'Do you mind?'
The young woman was angry. Her shoulders tensed and, standing behind
her in the queue, Chris saw she was blushing. The color spread swiftly
across her cheeks to where her blonde hair was drawn back into a
ponytail.
What a stupid question, Chris thought with amused detachment. Whatever
else the customs officer was thinking, it certainly wasn't concern for
the feelings of a rich, spoilt traveler.
On the counter, partly screened by the woman, Stewart saw an open
Hermés bag. The officer, a man in his thirties with an expressionless face,
scooped out the woman's flimsy underwear, heaping it neatly on the
counter. Removing a make-up case, he carefully examined the steel sides.
Then extracting a tin of powder from the bag, he turned it upside down,
checking the base.
Feeling sorry for the woman, Chris looked away. As he waited, he read
the stern notice set above the inspection desk. In English, Malay,
Chinese and several other languages, it warned travelers that it was a
serious offense to smuggle drugs, the penalties for which included long
prison sentences or death by hanging.
The customs officer finished his inspection and the young woman,
doubtless feeling her privacy had been violated, hurriedly stuffed her
lingerie back into the carry-on bag.
The officer was right to be suspicious, Chris thought. Anyone could be
a drug smuggler. Nuns, businessmen, grandmothers, paraplegics or
children. Drugs had been tied in condoms and swallowed, found in the heels of
shoes, toothpaste tubes, medicine bottles, religious statues and
false-bottomed suitcases - the list of ingenious hiding places seemed
endless. Only a tiny percentage of drug smugglers were ever caught. Chris
loathed the grubby trade. Considering the misery they caused, he wished
every drug smuggler would rot in jail or dangle at the end of a rope.
'You can go,' the customs officer curtly told the woman. He beckoned
Chris to the counter.
'Passport,' he ordered.
Chris handed over his passport, together with his departure
flight-boarding pass.
'How long were you in Malaysia?'
'A fortnight.'
'Where did you stay?'
'A week in Kuala Lumpur, then the rest of the time in Penang.'
'Purpose of your visit?'
'A holiday.'
The officer opened the front cover of the passport and began leafing
through the pages. His eyes hardened.
'You are Mr.Pearson? Mr.Christopher Pearson?'
'Yes.'
The officer looked beyond Chris and nodded. A middle-aged Malay in a
business suit stepped up behind Chris.
'Mr.Pearson,' he said quietly, 'Please pick up your bag and come with
me.'
'Why?' Chris asked. 'Is there a problem?'
'Come with me,' the man insisted. 'Let's not cause a scene in front of
these travelers.'
Feeling distinctly uneasy, Chris followed the man who had took his
passport and boarding pass from the counter. He was acutely aware of the
curious stares of other passengers.
The man stopped at an unmarked key. He produced a key and unlocked the
door, motioning Chris to step inside. The room was small, windowless
and bare except for a table, three chairs and a camera mounted near the
ceiling. A framed photograph of former Malaysian Prime Minister,
Dr.Mahathir smiled uncertainly from the wall above the desk.
'Please sit down, Mr.Pearson.'
'Look, is this going to take long? That was the last boarding call for
passengers.'
Already, Chris was dreading the complications of missing his flight. He
would need to stay an extra night, assuming he could find an airline
seat the next day. He'd also need to ring Melbourne and tell the airport
bus service from Tullamarine to Castlemaine that he would coming in a
day late. He'd also need to ring the boarding kennels to arrange for
Austin, his pet terrier to be kept there an extra night.
Chris forced himself to concentrate on what the man was saying. The
interview must be to clear up some minor bureaucratic glitch. He might
still make the flight.
The man introduced himself as an officer in the Malaysian Police Force.
Before he finished speaking, there was a light knock on the door and a
Westerner slipped inside. The man was offered a chair, but shook his
head, preferring to stand facing Chris, staring hard at him. He wasn't
introduced and didn't say a word.
'Now, Mr.Pearson,' the police sergeant said, 'I see from your passport
that you're an Australian citizen, aged 58 and retired. This is a new
passport and shows no other stamp than when you arrived. Have you
traveled outside Australia before?'
'No, this was my first overseas trip.'
'I see. Now shall we see what you have in your bag?' He unzipped the
bag and immediately found the wrapped parcel.
'What is this?'
'It's a present.'
'What is the present?'
'I don't know.'
'You don't know,' the sergeant said with a hint of mockery. 'I wonder
why. Who is the present for? Or perhaps you don't know that either.'
Chris stung by the sarcasm forced himself to reply carefully, 'It's a
present for a couple I know in Australia. They're friends. I was given
the present to take back to them.'
The sergeant raised his eyebrows. 'But you don't know what that present
is?'
'Well, no,' Chris conceded lamely, 'I didn't feel it was my business to
ask.'
'Oh, I think it was your business,' the policeman corrected Chris. 'I
think you may shortly agree that it is very much your business.'
Chilled by the response, Chris hurried into an explanation. 'Look, it's
very simple. Friends of mine, David and Simone Kirby of Castlemaine, a
regional city in Victoria asked me to look up the daughter of their
former servant in KL. I can give you the Kirby's phone number. They'll
confirm what I'm saying. The woman I met is Mrs. Indira Bamphura. Until
recently, I understand she was the Night Manager for the 'Regent'. I
don't have her contact details, but they will. I met her a week ago, before
flying to Penang. She gave me this present to take back.'
'What did you meet?'
'The lobby of "The Marriot", which was were I was staying.' The
sergeant made a note. He looked up skeptically.
'You must have had a phone number to arrange the meeting.'
Chris shook his head. 'No, the Kirbys arranged the details with Indira
before I left.
'So, did you give her the present from the Kirbys?'
'Yes.'
'But you don't know what was in that present either?'
'Well, yes because they told me. It's expensive perfume that's
manufactured in Australia and is difficult to obtain overseas. I can't remember
the brand name.'
'But you never actually saw this perfume being wrapped. You took your
friends' word about what was in the parcel. Would you say you are an
intelligent man, Mr.Pearson?'
'Yes,' Chris bridled.
The policeman shrugged. 'Then, you see I have a problem, Mr. Pearson.
If I thought you were a stupid man, I could understand you much more
easily than I do.
'When you met this,' he consulted his notes, 'Mrs.Indira Bhumpura. What
did you discuss?'
'Nothing really. After all, I didn't know her. She seemed pleasant
enough, but reserved. We spoke for perhaps 15 minutes. She asked me what I
had seen in Malaysia, then suggested several tourist attractions and
restaurants I might see if I returned. Finally, we exchanged gifts. It
was a short meeting.'
'You seem a very obliging individual, Mr.Pearson. Do you always
unquestioningly do whatever you're asked?'
'Of course not,' Chris snapped, 'But I don't mind being a messenger for
my friends.'
'Ah yes. A messenger. The willing horse. A mule.'
He changed direction. 'Let's talk for a moment about these friends of
yours. How well do you know Mr. and Mrs. Kirby?'
Asked in Australia, Chris would have unhesitatingly replied that they
were his best friends. Here, he reflected he didn't feel as sure they
were friends, after all. Like most men Chris had few friends, none of
whom were close. Besides, a best friend is a person one understands.
What, after all, did he really know about the Kirbys?
In the late nineties, Chris lost his job as Claims Manager for an
insurance firm. The company, though efficiently operated in Australia, was
part of a British owned insurance and financial services conglomerate
that went into receivership after suffering crippling losses in its
reinsurance operation. Chris was retrenched with a modest payout. After
three years applying for scores of jobs, most of which were far below his
capability, he realised that at 56, his career was over.
A single man, he decided to save money by beginning a new life outside
Melbourne. He moved to the small, regional city of Castlemaine and
purchased a goldminer's cottage. The sale of his house in Melbourne bought
more than expected. Willing to undertake most renovations in the
primitive cottage, he found he was able to create a comfortable home, as well
as live off his invested capital. A man of frugal tastes, he soon saved
enough for an overseas holiday.
Never having traveled before, he asked the advice of friends. Most
predictably suggested he go to Europe - the majority favoring Britain.
Chris however rejected this suggestion as the Australian dollar struggled
to reach 50 cents on the exchange rates..
Shortly after moving to Castlemaine, Chris joined the Art Gallery
Society. It was at the gallery during a fund raising dinner that he met the
Kirbys.
He learnt that David Kirby, a former engineer had lived in numerous
Asian countries, consulting on major infrastructure projects, before
retiring to Sydney and later moving down to country Victoria. Christopher
liked the couple, finding them amusing and informed. Simone Kirby, a
talented landscape artist, encouraged Chris to join a painting group she
had formed. Although Chris suspected that he lacked talent, she praised
his tentative watercolors and under her patient tutelage, his work
improved. When the group held an exhibition, Simone insisted he contribute
several works. To his surprise and delight, two of his works sold.
'To your new painting career,' David said, raising his glass in a
toast.
The three touched glasses, laughing. They sat on the terrace of the
Kirby's home, set on a steep hill at the edge of town. It was a mild
evening in early spring. Beneath them, the lights of Castlemaine twinkled in
the dark valley.
'Do you ever miss work?' Chris asked.
David shook his head. 'Not now. I did for perhaps two years after I
retired.'
Simone went to make coffee while the two men talked.
Chris had spent all of his life in Melbourne. His longest trip had been
to Perth over a decade before. He felt slightly envious of the many
exciting and exotic countries in David and Simone had lived and worked.
After discussing the merits and drawbacks of various Asian countries,
David went on to enthusiastically describe Malaysia where the couple had
spent five years before retiring to Australia. He spoke of the
fascinating culture, Muslim beliefs, the patriotic Sons of the Soil patriotic
movement, the old sea port of Malacca, with its ties to the Catholic
missionary, St.Francis Xavier, the beaches of Penang, and the stunning
modern architecture of the "Petronius Towers", for a time the tallest
office and shopping complex in the world.
'You know Chris, that's the place you should visit. Europe is fine in
its way, but it's a very long and tiring journey. Malaysia is less than
half the airtime. It offers great value and is an exciting place. You'd
have a ball.'
'What mischief are you two planning?' Simone inquired, as she placed a
tray laden with coffee bodum, cups, milk, sugar and a bowl of "Bachi"
chocolates on the table between the two men.
'Malaysia,' David replied, lunging out to seize a wrapped chocolate. He
unwrapped the large sweet and popped into his mouth. 'I was saying
that's where Chris should go for his first overseas holiday.'
'What a wonderful idea,' Simone enthused. 'You'll absolutely love it.
Some of their food is out of this world for flavor. David and I will
make out a list of some of the best places to eat. We know a lot of places
off the tourist track. It makes me feel so nostalgic. I wish we were
going there with you. We can't, can we David?' she pleaded. 'It would be
great fun.'
'I wish we could,' David said, making another lunge at the chocolate
dish which Simone swept out of his reach. 'Some of the shares in my
investment portfolio have proved dogs. You know the old problem of asset
rich, but cash poor. No, I'm afraid any traveling is out of the question
for the Kirbys for the next year or so. Still Chris, your trip will
bring back many happy memories.'
When they finished their coffee, they went back into the house. David
fetched a map while Simone showed Chris an album of photos from their
time in Kuala Lumpur. 'Expats with good jobs lived like kings in those
days,' Simone sighed. 'Company flats, housekeeper and a chauffeur. We
could dine out every night, except I started to worry about David's
waistline. He's terribly greedy, as you know.'
'My only vice,' David laughingly agreed, overhearing his wife as he
returned. He spread out a large map of the Malay Peninsula. For the next
hour, the couple gave Chris many useful suggestions of what to do or
see.
Toward the end of the evening when Chris was feeling grateful for his
friend's keen interest, Simone asked if he would do them a favor. 'When
we were in KL,' she explained, 'we had a lady who did all our
housekeeping.'
'Amazing people,' David supplied. 'Very clean. Hardworking. Cost us
practically nothing.'
'I wanted to pay her more,' Simone put in. 'But David pointed out that
would spoil it for the next expat.'
Seeing David frown, she hurried on, 'Anyway, we became quite attached
to her. She had a daughter, Indira who was very bright. Won scholarships
to give herself quite a good education. She had just completed a
hospitality industry course and was working a desk at 'The Regent". While we
were there, they promoted her to the position of Night Manager, which
was a real feather in her cap.'
'Smart girl,' Chris commented, sipping a cognac.
'We've sort of kept in touch since we left, but we'd hate Indira to
think we're neglecting her. Would you mind terribly taking her a small
gift?'
'It wouldn't take too much time,' David assured him. 'I doubt she would
invite you to her home. They're very private people. She would probably
feel more comfortable meeting you in a hotel lobby. Don't worry about
offering her lunch and she doesn't drink. 15 minutes tops and you'd be
on your way'
'She might give you something. A gift in exchange,' Simone added. 'It
would be something fairly small that you could put in with your carry on
luggage. You don't mind do you? Please tell us if you do. We could
always post it. We just thought it would seem nicer - more personal - if
you gave it to her.
'It's fine,' Chris assured her. 'No trouble at all.'
'So,' the policeman said, jolting Chris out of his musings, 'Let's open
this present and see what we have.'
Taking a penknife from his desk drawer, he cut the ribbon and deftly
slit open the taped edges and flaps of the package, revealing a plastic
covered white block. He cut off a corner and a fine thread of powder
poured onto the desk. Wetting his tongue, the policeman tasted the powder
and nodded to the man standing beside him. For the first time, the man
lost his impassive expression. Placing his fists on the table, the
Westerner leaned forward, smiling triumphantly at Chris. 'Gotcha!' he
exclaimed.
The next morning, two guards fetched Chris from the prison cell he
shared with 30 other prisoners. They handcuffed him, then attached a long
chain down to where his feet were manacled. They then led him shuffling
down a corridor. Already the steel rings of the manacles were beginning
to rub the soft flesh around his ankles raw. He was taken to a small
room, where a man in his mid-thirties waited. The man was almost hairless
with shaved skull and sparse, sand-colored eyebrows and eyelids. His
eyes, brown behind thick, horn-rimmed glasses were shrewd. He wore a
well-cut blue pin striped suit, snowy white shirt and black shoes that
gleamed in the fluorescent light. His tie, showing small elephants
cavorting across a scarlet background lent an incongruous levity to the bleak
room.
'Mr.Pearson,' he began with a well-educated Australian accent. He
offered his hand that Chris shook with difficulty. 'Please sit down. My
name's Kim Hatfield. I'm attached to the Australian Embassy as First Deputy
Secretary. I'm here to assist you.'
'Can you get me out of here? Post bail or something?'
Hatfield shook his head.
'I'm afraid it's not that simple. That's not what your Embassy is
about. You've been arrested on a very serious criminal charge. Drug
smuggling in Malaysia can result in a very long sentence or capital punishment,
as I'm sure you're aware. If you're convicted, we will probably make
representations to save you from the gallows. We may apply for, but
probably wouldn't succeed in having you sent to Australia to serve the rest
of your sentence in one of our jails.'
'Then what's the point of your visit?' Chris asked miserably.
'As an Australian citizen, you are entitled to certain rights, even as
a prisoner in another country.' Hatfield bridled.
'Can you have me transferred to another cell? Where I am is a
nightmare.'
Again, Hatfield shook his head. 'No, the Malaysian authorities don't
believe foreign-born criminals deserve any better treatment than their
own people. Frankly, I agree with them.
'What I can do for you is fairly basic. The Embassy can contact your
family and close friends in Australia to tell them where you are. We can
keep them informed about your health, date of trial and so on. We can
also help arrange legal representation if you wish. The choice of
employing an Australian or Malaysian barrister is up to you. Some people
choose to have a Malaysian appear who is briefed by Australian counsel.
That's a fairly costly option, but we're talking about your life and
liberty. I can't advise your best course, but you certainly need legal
representation. I know an excellent Malaysian solicitor who can discuss
these options with you.'
'Please contact the lawyer for me,' Chris sighed.
'Don't expect miracles,' Hatfield warned. 'The best you can hope for is
a very long sentence.'
'But I'm innocent,' Chris protested. 'Let me tell you what happened.'
'Are you sure you want to? I'm not your lawyer and I may be called on
in court to report anything you tell me here.'
'I need to talk. Explain. This is all a terrible mistake. Just listen.'
Chris told Hatfield about the Kirbys and the present that Indira had
given him to take back, which he now knew contained heroin.
When Chris had finished, Hatfield shrugged sympathetically.
'Interesting, even tragic, but I'm not sure that it changes anything
for you.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, you don't seriously expect the Kirbys to corroborate your story?
I doubt that the police will be able to trace this Indira woman either.
'The Regent" certainly won't have employed her at any time.
'But surely noone seriously thinks that I'd be stupid enough to try to
smuggle drugs through customs wrapped as a present?'
'Well, sometimes the bold approach works. Anyway, noone thinks drug
smugglers are very bright. Given the savage punishment if you're caught,
why would any sane, intelligent person take the risk?
'What you haven't considered is that this was probably a set-up. You
say customs were waiting for you. They had probably received an anonymous
telephone tip-off that you were carrying drugs.'
Seeing Chris's shocked expression, Hatfield said quietly, 'You really
don't get it, do you? These people have dropped you in it and walked
away.'
'But why? What have I ever done to them?'
'Nothing. This isn't personal. You're just a pawn in a big game. You
see, in every country there are two basic groups of drug criminals. There
are the people who actually smuggle the goods. These are people who are
generally addicts, individuals desperate for cash or very greedy,
stupid people. These are the carriers - the mules. Then you have the drug
lords. These are individuals who are difficult to identify and harder to
prosecute. They're usually sophisticated businessmen.
'On the other side of the fence, are the police. By making certain
drugs illegal, the price is kept high. At the same time, if no drug
smugglers were arrested there would be a national scandal and massive
resources would be committed, which might affect the business of the drug
lords. It's in everyone's interests that a certain number of drug smugglers
are arrested each year. The drug lords therefore sacrifice a certain
number of mules each year. If the individual isn't actually a mule, so
much the better. Catching a foreigner is a high profile arrest for the
police and helps warn off other Australians from going down that path.'
Seeing Chris slump forward in despair, Hatfield added kindly, 'Look,
perhaps I shouldn't be telling you this. For what it's worth, I believe
everything you've told me. It's quite possible that the judge will
believe you, but that won't help you very much. The fact is you were found
in possession of a sizable quantity of heroin. The story that you tell
is just that - a story with no corroboration. It's your word against
that of your former friends, the Kirbys, who are doubtless seen as
respectable individuals. The fact that you didn't know you were breaking the
law, doesn't negate the fact the law was broken. As the old maxim goes,
''Ignorance is no excuse under the law."
'You'll be given a fair trial. The judge may give you a lighter
sentence for a first offense. Alternatively, he may decide to make an example
of you to deter others.
'Your lawyer will probably let you down gently. He'll assure you that
you have a chance in court. When this fails, he'll suggest you lodge an
appeal. This appeal will probably fail as you're unlikely to produce
fresh evidence or prove the judge failed in law. Perhaps the lawyer's
approach is more humane, but I think - and everything I've told you is
strictly off the record and deniable - you should accept that you'll
remain in jail for a very long time. Indeed, given your age, you may die in
prison.
'There is no happy ending to this story.'
A Favor for Friends© COPYRIGHT 2004 Stephen Collicoat.
Reproduction prohibited without permission from the author.
08/19/04
