Seventh heaven

In years to come it will sound ridiculous to say that one of the happiest days of my life was when I was sentenced to seven months in prison, but I feel as if I’ve picked up a “Get out of jail free” card.

The overwhelming feeling is one of immense relief and joy, but the latter sentiment is tempered by my surroundings. While many of my fellow inmates are genuinely happy for me, I’m well aware of how insensitive it would be to celebrate when so many of them face years more behind bars. Some of them life.

The flood of WhatsApp messages, emails and SMSs I’ve received suggests, however, you’ve all celebrated on my behalf — and I can tell you I’ve vicariously enjoyed it all.

Thinking of what I’ve put you through is very sobering. I’m so very sorry for all the hurt, anguish, anxiety and worry I’ve caused and for the turmoil I’ve brought to your lives. I’m so very grateful for all the love and friendship you’ve given in return, and the material and moral support that you’ve uncomplainingly provided.

This has been a deeply humbling experience.

I was actually more nervous for final sentencing on Thursday than I was for the prosecution’s recommendation the week before — despite knowing we’d get the legal defense we paid for.

Still, I had one heart-stopping moment when the interpreter completely mangled what the judge said.

But first the preamble.

There was a surprisingly big media crush for Thursday, which baffled me. Previously I’d appeared on the same day as one of the Natural Born Killers, and assumed that any attention paid me was a result of the bonus “two-for-one bule” offer.

Over 120 of us were crammed into the two holding cells — the most in all my court appearances — and it was standing room only and insufferably hot.

My fellow inmates offered to protect me from the scores of cameras trained on the cell from just yards away, but I knew they wouldn’t leave us in peace until they had some shots and footage, so I obligingly stood at the front until even the most profligate had what they wanted.

Didier and Sonya Zerathe and Rob Bradley kindly showed up to provide moral support, but I’d told most people not to come as it is very stressful and there is just no knowing when it would be my turn.

Sure enough, I was one of the last of the day.

It was a circus at first. Photographers and video shooters were falling over each other as I did the “perp walk” from cell to dock, and then the judges allowed them free rein in the courtroom for five minutes, when I had cameras stuck in my face, and was peppered with questions.

It was hard not to smile.

How often have I been on the other side of the fence, desperate for a quote and praying my colleagues would get enough shots and footage for a package?

After clearing the courtroom, the head judge and “friendly judge” took turns to read out the charges and précis witness testimony, before summing up.

They made mention of my politeness and behavior and praised the fact I’d passed all the drug tests since my arrest.

My Indonesian has come in in leaps and bounds, but while I was listening keenly for the key phrases about sentencing, the interpreter was muttering in my ear.

“The judge says that the prosecutor has recommended a sentence of one year, but they don’t agree,” the interpreter said, “they think it is too lenient”.

“What?” I said. “Too lenient?”

“Yes, too much…”, but as he was saying that, and a feeling of dread and enveloped me, I heard the magic phrase.

“Tuju bulan …”. Seven months.

I had girded myself to walk out of court facing a year in jail. If I was lucky and the lawyers were right, the very best I could hope for was eight or nine months, so to get seven months was beyond my wildest hope.

I was asked if I’d accept the sentence, would like to appeal, or needed a week to think it over. Not even the fastest chronometer devised by man could detect the length of time it took me to decide. The prosecutor was asked the same question; she wanted a week (the teasing minx). My lawyers said later this was routine.

A bang of the gavel and it was over.

I stood and bowed to the judges, hands clasped, and to my eternal amusement saw “friendly judge”, the one who called me over to the bench for a chat earlier in the trial, give me a thumbs up sign.

Media mayhem descended as the prosecutor led me back to the cell — for the first time she didn’t handcuff me — but I couldn’t in good conscience not give my profession and colleagues something for their effort, so we had a brief “press conference” and I willingly answered their questions.

I got back to the prison to find over 100 messages waiting for me and spent most of the evening answering them. Many of you have asked what happens next, but please let this sink in and I’ll let you know my plans after ruminating over the weekend.

It hit home when “the nice South Africa” Brett Savage popped in for a his usual rugby chat and coffee after evening appel, but was quieter than usual despite my obvious happiness.

He has injured his back and can’t afford treatment outside prison, so is taking industrial quantities of painkillers just to be able to get through each day.

He is serving a life sentence for trafficking, and as the three-time prison tennis champion is in a massive depression because of his immobility, so to try and draw him out I’ve got him to join our Super Rugby tipping championship (which he takes more seriously than anyone I know), and I’m trying to see if I can get a chiropractor in to see him pro bono via fellow Rugby nut Ed Wright.

“Are you sore today?” I asked, “can I get you anything?”

“No, it’s ok,” he said. “I was just thinking I’ll have to find a new friend when you go.”