CONDEMNATION

My heart raced every time the police opened the door. I wanted to go to court and get it over with.

But, while I painfully waited, I used my time to read books with the help of the sunlight that crept through the iron barred window next to my bunk. I’d also admire the panoramic view of the city, making me a little melancholic about the elusive freedom that stood far away.

Early one morning, I was called by a guard. I practically jumped out of my bed and rushed towards him, already offering my wrists so that he could hand-cuff me. This was a routine that became second-nature to all of us.

He told me we were going to see the judge. We walked through the dark corridor and when we got to the first floor, Ana was there holding a bag with sandwiches and orange juice. I thought it clever to offer him some food with a $20 dollar bill to get him to seat us at one of the benches that stretched throughout the garden and across to the judge’s chamber. It worked.

His mood changed as so did his strict attitude. So much so that he removed my hand-cuffs and told me to relax and enjoy my time with Ana.

I immediately hugged and kissed her, feeling a rush come over me as if I was being touched for the first time.

She quietly explained the conversation she had with a prominent lawyer in town who “schooled” her on the proceedings of “court in first instance.” I didn’t know what this meant but according to the advisement of the lawyer, I was to keep my mouth shut and not worry about it.

Before I could ask her give me thorough details, I was “cuffed” and escorted to the judge’s chamber.

She appeared to be in her 40’s, sitting behind a monstrous desk smoking a cigarette in a nonchalant demeanor.

As soon as our eyes met, she ordered me to sit in one of the two black leather chairs that faced her.

The thought of bribing her seemed like a good idea and rather enticing, but I already was in a lot of heat. I didn’t want to take any further chances. I brushed it off and decided to trust the council of the lawyer. Since I was going to hire a good one anyway, it’d be better to leave it up to him to handle it. I felt that putting up a fight with the judge would inevitably prolong my stay there.

Her office was a mess. Folders and papers were spread every-where, and her ashtray had a thick mountain of ashes that stunk up the room.

Behind her, a massive bookshelf held an assortment of law books and a 5 foot pole steadily balanced the Dominican flag on its base.

Her secretary who looked more like a center-piece than an individual, wasted no time in introducing a sheet of paper in between the rolls of her old vintage typewriting machine.

“Mr. Roca, do you know why you’re here?”

“Not really.” I responded.

“Well, I’m going to remind you. You are here for cocaine importation into this country.”

“I won’t say a word until I talk to my lawyer.”

“Don’t matter to me…by the way…” she said, opening one of the drawers of her desk, “Do you know this man?” She held up a photograph.

Oh God, I thought. Silently freaking out. It was the image of Dario. The friend who introduced me to his connections in the Dominican Republic.

“No, I don’t know who he is.”

“Once again, I’m going to remind you. His name is Dario Duncellor, and he’s the one who brought you here to meet Pacheco, a real drug-dealing son-of-a-bitch.” The judge stared me down while stamping out her filtered cigarette in the ashtray.

I swallowed and of course, she knew I was lying.

In an effort to presume I was collaborating, and not being deceitful, hoping that she’d go easy on me if it seemed I was ignorant to the truth, I came clean about knowing them.

“Well, yeah, I know the man, but I have nothing to do with drugs.”

At that moment I remembered Pacheco telling me about his travels to Colombia to arrange the smuggling of “kilos” into the island.

I figured he was the snitch and the judge was slyly trying to protect him by making him look like the drug trafficker.

She asked one of the guards to take me outside while she sorted through her papers and studied

the evidence.

It didn’t even take her 5 minutes before she ordered me back in along with 3 additional guards.

“I’ve decided that there is enough evidence against you so I’m ordering your immediate transfer to La Victoria Penitentiary while you wait to be sentenced by a judge.”

One of the guards grabbed me by my arm and pulled me up from the chair. He signaled for me to extend my wrists so that he could place the cold steel apparatus on them. Not only was he and the judge chastising a part of my body, but they were chastising and crippling my spirit as well.

 

SNEAKY PLAYS IN SANTO DOMINGO

Dario and I arrived at Las Americas Airport in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic, around 11:00 a.m.

The island’s sun was at its peak and it welcomed us with cruel and unapologetic heat. His friend Pacheco, an ex- military major of the country’s armed forces, greeted us on the tarmac once the plane landed.

I was introduced and he led us through Customs without any problem, something that impressed me since being led by an official of that caliber meant that I was important and free of any warrants. I wasn’t to be questioned or touched.

It had been a long time since I stepped foot on the island.

Years before, a stunning beauty from Puerto Plata had invited me to spend two weeks at her family’s hacienda (a country estate) and enjoy the pleasures of their wealth. They were owners of several large sugar-cane plantations in the northern segment of the island that extended well beyond the horizon.

We rode in Pacheco’s S.U.V. to the Melia Hotel, one of the most sophisticated in the city. As he drove, I soaked in the panoramic view of old colonial structures and the natural landscapes that surrounded them. The palm trees looked lovely as they adorned the coastline with their fronds dancing in the wind, and the smell of earth mixed with spices that traveled out of kitchen windows was intoxicating. For a split second, this reminded me of my childhood back in Cuba.

Pacheco was very cordial and even invited us to one of the nicest massage parlors in the city called Casa Theresa. Here, we could get all sorts of discreet massages performed by the most exquisite looking women around.

Both men worked on a minor scale. Dario used to send “carriers” called “mules”—kids as young as 16 or 17 that would swallow more than 100 cocaine-filled balls inside their stomachs—to wherever they needed to go. Unfortunately, complicated surgery or even death would result from these highly dangerous smuggling tactics. Although the balls were covered in serine to prevent it from exploding in their stomach, it would almost never be the case. The risky move was like playing Russian-Roulette for both the carrier and the dealer.

I hooked up with Pacheco because according to Dario, he had the connections to smuggle cocaine into the country and then export it to the U.S. and Italy camouflaged in banana crates.

The next morning we went to see a banana plantation on the northern part of the island. We met the owner, a guy who went by the nickname “El Negrito” which translates into the black man.

There were more than 200 workers, all from Haiti, working like slaves under the burning sun for pennies. “El Negrito” explained the entire process of production and how they moved the cargo to certain companies in Miami and Italy that were already set-up to receive them under the radar.

Suddenly a pick-up truck arrived and a man named Elvis jumped out of it.

Pacheco introduced me but when I shook his hand, I got that old suspicious feeling that always sent chills down my spine.

“Tu eres policia (you’re a cop)?” I blurted out.

 

Colombian Gold

24 hours later, I was back at John’s house. He wanted a whole kilo and he paid me $52,000 dollars for it. This was the beginning of a great relationship between us. He introduced me to all his friends, big-time dope smugglers who had tons of money to buy cocaine in loads. They lived in Colorado, Beverly Hills, Palm Beach, Vegas, Chicago, among other cities across the country. They’d have me send them “keys” as soon as the deal was made. I was “banking,” making so much “loot” that I decided to open an import-export business of appliances—to Colombia—that would cover up my real enterprise. This way I could traffic the contraband in disguise in and out of U.S. borders without any detection. I would also get “Uncle Sam” off my back. If I paid taxes like a regular citizen, they wouldn’t have reason to suspect, much less trace me.

By this time my relationship with the Colombians incremented to the point that some of them wanted me to take care of their product as soon as it arrived in Miami. John introduced me to Michael, a Jewish fellow who was a heavy “pot” smuggler from N.Y. He had this beautiful 158′ schooner that would sail across the Atlantic to Colombia to collect 35,000 pounds of Pure Gold: a psychedelic mostly sativa cannabis variety from the Santa Marta region of Colombia. John had set it up so that we’d help each other out. He would provide the necessary space for my loads aboard his ship and I would in turn serve as a guide once he landed. I had a “family” in Barranquilla willing to front me all the merchandise without having me pay one dime in return what-so-ever—a sort of credit agreement if you will. So I embarked to Barranquilla and met up with my friends Jose and Erick and remained there for 3 days before travelling to the Sierra Nevada of Santa Marta. To get there, we relied on mules as a means of transportation—riding on them for more than 12 hours without relent. My body, not being used to the physical strain, felt like a train wreck afterwards.

Finally, after a few weeks of intense labor and smoking cannabis to the bones with the natives, dozens of mules like I’ve never seen before were assembled to transport the dry leaves from the mountains down to the pick-up trucks that would take it to Rio Hacha, a town of dirt roads in the Guajira. There, I met a Wayoo native who’d serve as a guide and guard against the violence that ran rampant. I mean it had become customary for the slayings to escalate out of control—the people had become desensitized to human life. It wasn’t that they were barbaric by nature. It was a direct result of the chaotic life they lived. The production and movement of these raw plants began to incite a corrupt drug war that spread from the interior to the outskirts of the country, invading it like a venomous plague.

The big black wooden sailboat that furnished huge sails with a British flag on one of the posts, arrived at the coast of Rio Hacha days before the transport made it into town. This was a huge mistake given that many locals, mostly natives, created havoc on the beach just to get a glimpse of the mesmerizing Moby Dick. An English captain and first mate along with crew members picked up along the way from different islands, made up the ensemble aboard.

Once I made it through, I met the captain and warned him about the riskiness of arriving so early. The spectacle—practically everyone in town had rushed to admire her—was receiving a lot of attention and putting in jeopardy our mission. I remember an airplane circulating above us and because it flew so low, I was able to notice the absence of a registration number. I found this odd and my first instinct prompted me to hide inside the cabin to avoid prying eyes, possibly police photographers who could incriminate me later on.

That night, we were invited by the natives to attend a spiritual session with a “lady medium” who would call upon the soul of a boat captain that died many years ago. According to the legend, this ghost was going to lead the way for the English captain and keep away any negative forces. All who would make the voyage back to North America—excluding myself—formed a circle around her and held hands and to tell you the truth, we were all freaking out. The lady’s face turned a devilish “exorcist-like” appearance and her voice deepened in the tone of a man. It would be the last dramatic and supernatural event before departing.

But, before we did, I decided to take advantage of the vessel and brought on board a few animals that would travel back with the cargo disguised in packed Marlboro cigarette boxes, for my new home in Miami. I bought 2 small monkeys, one “tigrillo” (small tiger), a toucan and a colorful parrot. I told the captain to take good care of my animals as I wouldn’t be traveling with them, and he promised he would.

Finally, at 3:30 in the morning, the captain raised anchor and set sail for N.Y.