Gryphonn
Well-Known Member
I just read an article on one of the online news sites about a guy who got busted in Russia with one twentieth of an ounce of hash. He spent two years in the Gulag. He's just released a book about it.
The Guardian article
An extract from the book
The official who pulled me up looked as if he'd been there all night. As my case emerged from the scanner, he pointed to my duty-free bags, one containing cigarettes and perfume, the other two bottles of whisky - presents for my clients. He peered inside the bags and said, "Two whisky, two cigarettes, no!"
He looked around the room and over his shoulder, leant towards me and rubbed his fingers and thumb together. I didn't twig that he was inviting me to bribe him. I thought he was asking whether I was carrying large sums of cash in my luggage. I had about $500 - two months' wages for this guy but hardly enough to put me in smuggler class. I was too tired, too rushed for protracted negotiations, and I said, "No! Me-No-Money!"
He stabbed a finger at my suitcase. "Oh, for God's sake," I mumbled. He snapped it open and started taking out my clothes, piece by piece. He was in no hurry now. I was the last passenger. He hung up a couple of shirts and T-shirts on the screen behind him. Then he picked up my jeans. I froze.
Images tumbled through my mind like a video on fast-forward: stag party, pub garden, scrap of hash in Rizla paper, light blue jeans, tiny change pocket ... shit! I tried to suck air into my lungs as the blood in my head dropped into my feet. I watched spellbound as he lifted out the jeans and began to run his hands through the pockets. He put his index and middle finger into the change pocket. He let out a low groan, then barked something in Russian. Two huge men with submachine guns appeared on either side of me. Another guy strode forward: Mr Meathead, a great bear of a man in a blue jacket and military cap.
I was truly terrified for the first time in my life. Meathead took the hash and pushed it towards my face. "What this?" he asked in English. "What this?"
"It's hashish," I said. What else could I say? He asked me if it was mine and I replied: "Yes, it is. I didn't mean to bring it to Moscow. It was a mistake. I was at a stag party and ..."
The guards walked me into what looked like some kind of medical room. Meathead handed the piece of hashish to a woman who went to a cupboard and took out a thick black bag made of heavy polythene. Into it she dropped the tiny blim of hash - enough for one joint, maybe two if you're a student - wrapped it into a ball, took out a roll of tape and bound it round the bag. When she'd finished, she dropped it on to some electric scales and let out a little wolf whistle, as if to say: "Wow, this lad's carrying a serious load of drugs." Everything went into slow motion as the realisation hit me: I was being fitted up.
The court hearing passed in a flurry of Russian. I caught only every other word and the legalese meant nothing to me but I did hear the word "smuggler" and was seized with alarm. "Hague was smuggling 28.9 grams of hashish ..." the translator continued. 28.9 grams! Adrenaline exploded through my body like an electric shock and I found myself getting to my feet. An ounce! There wasn't so much as a 20th of an ounce. "That's not true!" I shouted. "There was nothing like an ounce. That's a bloody lie!"
The judge told me to sit down and then spoke clearly in two bursts, allowing the translator to relay the message. Sentence one: "No bail is granted." Pause. Sentence two: "You will be detained for two months while the state investigates your case, the standard for foreigners."
I was taken to Piat Central prison to await my trial. Ninety-five per cent of my time in cell 310 was mind-numbing routine. But all the while, fear was eating away at my guts: the fear of what would happen at the trial, the fear I would end up in a gulag for seven years, the fear that Lucy would leave me, the fear that Mum or Dad would die while I was inside, the fear I was going to lose my job and never get another one in the City, the fear I was going to get sick or stabbed or buggered, the fear I'd go mad ...
My trial was finally scheduled for October 9. I had been waiting three months for this chance to put the record straight, imagining that when the moment came I would get to my feet and lay out the truth, simply and eloquently. At the end of it, common sense would win the day and I'd be sent on my way with a fine and perhaps an apology for my long detention and the way I had been treated.
But in the event I was seized by confusion and panic. The lawyer the embassy had found me stood up and started reading out character references from people in the UK and clients in Russia, but after a couple of minutes the judge cut him off and he just sat down. The verdict came to me in staccato pidgin English."Your sentencing is five years. You are four years for smuggling drugs and one years for the possessing. In Russia law, two sentences are being together ... You are in the Russian prison for four years and six months."
The Guardian article
An extract from the book
The official who pulled me up looked as if he'd been there all night. As my case emerged from the scanner, he pointed to my duty-free bags, one containing cigarettes and perfume, the other two bottles of whisky - presents for my clients. He peered inside the bags and said, "Two whisky, two cigarettes, no!"
He looked around the room and over his shoulder, leant towards me and rubbed his fingers and thumb together. I didn't twig that he was inviting me to bribe him. I thought he was asking whether I was carrying large sums of cash in my luggage. I had about $500 - two months' wages for this guy but hardly enough to put me in smuggler class. I was too tired, too rushed for protracted negotiations, and I said, "No! Me-No-Money!"
He stabbed a finger at my suitcase. "Oh, for God's sake," I mumbled. He snapped it open and started taking out my clothes, piece by piece. He was in no hurry now. I was the last passenger. He hung up a couple of shirts and T-shirts on the screen behind him. Then he picked up my jeans. I froze.
Images tumbled through my mind like a video on fast-forward: stag party, pub garden, scrap of hash in Rizla paper, light blue jeans, tiny change pocket ... shit! I tried to suck air into my lungs as the blood in my head dropped into my feet. I watched spellbound as he lifted out the jeans and began to run his hands through the pockets. He put his index and middle finger into the change pocket. He let out a low groan, then barked something in Russian. Two huge men with submachine guns appeared on either side of me. Another guy strode forward: Mr Meathead, a great bear of a man in a blue jacket and military cap.
I was truly terrified for the first time in my life. Meathead took the hash and pushed it towards my face. "What this?" he asked in English. "What this?"
"It's hashish," I said. What else could I say? He asked me if it was mine and I replied: "Yes, it is. I didn't mean to bring it to Moscow. It was a mistake. I was at a stag party and ..."
The guards walked me into what looked like some kind of medical room. Meathead handed the piece of hashish to a woman who went to a cupboard and took out a thick black bag made of heavy polythene. Into it she dropped the tiny blim of hash - enough for one joint, maybe two if you're a student - wrapped it into a ball, took out a roll of tape and bound it round the bag. When she'd finished, she dropped it on to some electric scales and let out a little wolf whistle, as if to say: "Wow, this lad's carrying a serious load of drugs." Everything went into slow motion as the realisation hit me: I was being fitted up.
The court hearing passed in a flurry of Russian. I caught only every other word and the legalese meant nothing to me but I did hear the word "smuggler" and was seized with alarm. "Hague was smuggling 28.9 grams of hashish ..." the translator continued. 28.9 grams! Adrenaline exploded through my body like an electric shock and I found myself getting to my feet. An ounce! There wasn't so much as a 20th of an ounce. "That's not true!" I shouted. "There was nothing like an ounce. That's a bloody lie!"
The judge told me to sit down and then spoke clearly in two bursts, allowing the translator to relay the message. Sentence one: "No bail is granted." Pause. Sentence two: "You will be detained for two months while the state investigates your case, the standard for foreigners."
I was taken to Piat Central prison to await my trial. Ninety-five per cent of my time in cell 310 was mind-numbing routine. But all the while, fear was eating away at my guts: the fear of what would happen at the trial, the fear I would end up in a gulag for seven years, the fear that Lucy would leave me, the fear that Mum or Dad would die while I was inside, the fear I was going to lose my job and never get another one in the City, the fear I was going to get sick or stabbed or buggered, the fear I'd go mad ...
My trial was finally scheduled for October 9. I had been waiting three months for this chance to put the record straight, imagining that when the moment came I would get to my feet and lay out the truth, simply and eloquently. At the end of it, common sense would win the day and I'd be sent on my way with a fine and perhaps an apology for my long detention and the way I had been treated.
But in the event I was seized by confusion and panic. The lawyer the embassy had found me stood up and started reading out character references from people in the UK and clients in Russia, but after a couple of minutes the judge cut him off and he just sat down. The verdict came to me in staccato pidgin English."Your sentencing is five years. You are four years for smuggling drugs and one years for the possessing. In Russia law, two sentences are being together ... You are in the Russian prison for four years and six months."
