bout de papier, Vol. 8, No. 3 (1991) — Summer 1991 // Été 1991, p. 37
“I am sorry, but we must be sure that there are no mistakes,” said the Deputy Superintendent (DS), sensing my irritation and fatigue. It was dusk, and I had returned, once again, for the Prisoner. I found the DS in his underwear in his shabby house behind the high prison wall, and I waited by my car as he struggled into his uniform.
It was very hot, perhaps 45°C. I was dressed for consular duty in a tie and a dark wool suit, and I had brought the Ambassador’s car and driver. “Authority,” I tried to say to these men. As always, they shrugged, unimpressed. We all knew that the game was over. The flow of money and cigarettes would now stop. It was time for the Prisoner to be released.
“Where is the appeal order?” the DS asked the Assistant Superintendent (AS) in charge of records. The AS pointed to the bundle of papers before the DS, bound with a single thin string. The appeal order lay on top. The court clerk had told us that it would be sent to the prison in due course, but it never arrived. We had procured another copy, from the same clerk, after payment of an “administrative fee” ’, as we had carefully designated the expense in our file.
The DS slowly ran his finger down the column of hand-written numbers indicating the days of sentence served and remitted until he came to the bottom of the page. He stabbed at the total with his finger as if butting out a cigarette. “Six months,” he said, “six months still to serve.” I sagged. How many long days had we spent trying to determine the actual release date!
’The two sentences are to be served concurrently,” I said. “We have secured written confirmation of this from the Assistant Sessions Judge.” I pointed to a single thin sheet of paper on his desk.
That morning, when we had first come for the Prisoner, that particular paper had been missing. So we had gone to see the judge, far from the prison, in the collapsing bungalow that served as his court and chamber. “He is not here, ’” said his clerk. “Come back at two o’clock.” We pushed back through the tide of defendants and their relatives, past rows of fruit sellers and lawyers who drafted pleas in the sun for the illiterate and the dispossessed. An hour later, at the Embassy, I wrote a formal request to the judge for clarification of the sentence. When we returned at 2:00 p.m. we found the judge at his desk.
“We will have tea,” he said sadly, which we drank while he dictated to his clerk. “Justice delayed,” he said, “is justice denied. I have more than thirty murder cases before me at the present time. They seem to drag on for years. After a while even I can’t tell the defendants apart.” As he spoke, a fine yellow frost of plaster dust descended upon us from the distant ceiling above where a fan spun violently. We thanked the judge and left, clutching the order that we hoped would set the Prisoner free.
We returned to the prison. “The Deputy Superintendent is not here,” said the young jailer with whom I had argued angrily the week before, when I had found the Prisoner in iron shackles. “We found drugs. It is the punishment. You may complain to the Superintendent, if you wish,” he had said. “He denies the charge,” I had replied. “In any event, it is cruel and inhumane. He is a Canadian citizen.” The jailer had smiled broadly. “Ah, you see, but this is not Canada.” He did not forget our quarrel, or my complaint. “Come back at dusk,” he said. As we went to leave he asked: “Do you wish to see the Prisoner now?” I hesitated. He knew today was to be the day. “No,” I said coldly, without explanation.
Now, at dusk, the Deputy Superintendent reviewed the judge’s order. While he did so, a line of almost thirty prisoners, all in shackles, was brought into the corridor outside his office. Three older men were also brought in, and they sat with us, drinking coke and chatting pleasantly. “They are to be released as well,” whispered my friend. “What was their crime?” I asked. ’Inciting sectarian violence,” he replied, referring to a riot which had occurred during a recent religious holiday. Suddenly, the three men rose from their chairs, embraced their jailers, and left. In turn each of the thirty remaining prisoners was called before the DS. “Name!” he shouted, referring to a large green register. “Father’s name! Village! Clan! Identifying marks!” Each prisoner responded in turn and bared his scars. Finally, my Prisoner entered the room.
He was very, very thin; thinner still by half than when I had first met him, in this same office, nearly two years before. At that time he had already confessed. The clothes he now wore, which had been donated by the Ambassador, hung on him loosely, and he looked like a small boy dressed in his father’s old suit. The DS turned to the Prisoner. found heroin in your bed,” he cried. “Admit it was yours!” Every muscle in my body tensed with fear and anger. The DS scowled, the Prisoner weakly protested his innocence, and I glared madly at them both. “It is finished!” I said slowly to the DS. He held my gaze for two long seconds. Then he sat back, and nodded. “You have two days to deport him,” he said and slammed the register shut.
The sun had set as we passed, for the very last time, through the heavy iron door. “Where are your things?” I asked the Prisoner, remembering the dozens of paperback books loaned from the Embassy library, two of my shirts, and the Ambassador’s suitcase. “All stolen,” he said simply, as his foot hit the gravel of freedom outside the prison door. “You are free!” said my friend, as he embraced the Prisoner. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said with a wry smile, and so we left.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 8, No. 3 (1991) — Summer 1991 // Été 1991, p. 37. Read the rest of this issue →
