Plan B

By Lupo Phoenix

This story will take the reader into the spectacular adventure of an expat in South America who gets incarcerated in a drug conspiracy, where he was acting as a mule to carry drugs overseas in his luggage. The prison turns out to be hell, and the circumstances dont leave him with much of a choice when hes offered a way to escape in return for an acting role in another drug expedition, this time of a much bigger scope. He breaks out of jail, and with the aid of a skipper he met behind bars and the drug cartel sponsoring him, he leaves Dominican Republic in a rented Catamaran for Curacao, Venezuela, and ultimately, Colombia.

Without papers and a clean identity, he will embark in a story that will take twists and turns between the high seas, the Columbian jungle, and the rich lifestyle of a Columbian drug lord.

You will have a raw look of prison life in South America and then fall in a never-ending vortex of shocking scenarios that only veracity can offer. Mostly, you will feel that truth and real-life options are unfiltered in this breathtaking sequel.

Fasten your seatbelts; this is a ride!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504996082

Lupo Phoenix

This is the actual true story and events of an expat, Lupo Phoenix, an Italian national who lived in Dominican Republic, an island of the Caribbean, between 1990 and 2004, when he was arrested for drug trafficking. His cocaine addiction was the gateway to a criminal behaviour and subsequent arrest that led to excruciating circumstances that spiraled into an escape from the South American jail he was incarcerated at (to save his own life) and led him to live first-person a story that changed his future forever. He feels that these events could have happened to anyone, given the circumstances, and therefore, he wrote this book to share with the public his ordeal and give his readers a raw, firsthand look into the intricate world of drugs and the many reasons why prison or death is the ultimate outcome for anybody who dwells in them.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

I have been an inmate in the United States Federal Bureau of Prisons for almost seven years for a drug conspiracy. After all these years I sometimes still find myself looking out the barred window of my cell in a daze. Besides the obvious reasons, what still puzzles me is how did my life take such an unexpected turn?

I spent the better part of my reclusion trying to decipher the answer to that very question and I think I am finally coming to grasp the reality of it. I have been a drug user since the age of 20.

You see, the teaching our parents and society in general give us about using ‘illegal’ drugs is not focused toward the right direction. They would tell us how harmful marijuana, cocaine and heroin are to our health, how addictive these drugs are to our systems, how much poison we are putting into our systems every time we take them. However, the user (in this case myself) goes into defense mode and makes all those points about any drug he is not touching. I have been around users most of my life and

they all have their theory about the physical detriment of every other drug except their drug of choice. They will try to make their point in endless, useless discussions of how they can control it and how cigarettes are worse than weed or how alcohol is worse than cocaine.

What is not emphasized enough, and many times omitted, is the psychological factor of how illegal drugs make normal people from every walk of life be in the wrong neighborhood at two o’clock in the morning, talking to a complete stranger with cash in their hands and find themselves in situations they would never ever think of if they weren’t inebriated by their drug of choice. Under the influence of most drugs you lose inhibitions, perspective and all fear until walking through Harlem in the middle of the night to talk to ‘Rico the killer pimp’ becomes as familiar as going to a neighborhood Walmart to buy cereal.

People in the drug riddled neighborhoods begin to know you, you become a familiar face. Sometimes a joke is thrown your way and you both laugh and before you know it, you are brushing shoulders with criminals every weekend. Before you realize it you are now part of something your parents and your teachers in school never prepared

you for. You become part of the fabric of the criminal element in your town. You have become immersed in it without even realizing it.

I came from a middle class Italian family; we lived in a middle class Italian neighborhood. I was an honor student in High School. Following High School I enrolled in one of the top schools in Canada, near Ottawa. It was a boarding school that prepared you to embark into the higher echelon of society. I wore a tie and a jacket with a crest which read LITIS IN VERITAS (Freedom in Truth). I chose to go to Concorolia University and enroll in their business program. There I moonlighted as a bartender to pay part of my tuition like most students in America do. It was there that I first met cocaine. It was there that cocaine became MY drug of choice.

So how did the life of a college student from a middle class family with every opportunity awaiting him turn into a convicted felon who is currently a fugitive in two other countries? You be the judge of that. This is my story.

PART I

CHAPTER 1

They said it was easy and I couldn’t believe that for once I hadn’t been deceived. I was lying with Natasha, my beautiful Romanian girlfriend, on a bed somewhere in Berlin with twenty thousand euros spread all over the sheets.

As soon as the German contact handed us the money and left the hotel room, we were so euphoric that we couldn’t help staring at the ceiling with smiles on our faces, giggling like two little children. I felt that I had finally proven to Natasha that she could trust me to take the reins in our relationship and lead us both toward the unknown.

At last we didn’t have to worry about money anymore. I had found a way to take care of all of our expenses for a year and I had done so in less than eight hours.

The trip to the airport of Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic, had been tense. But after that, everything happened as if we were on auto pilot. After checking our luggage containing six kilos of pure cocaine through the ticket counter of Condor Airlines, we

boarded and had a pretty uneventful flight. We never once mentioned the risk at arrival or discussed how we would go through Customs. Part of it was from the fact that I wanted to seem sure of myself, I wanted to appear to be a Professional in her eyes. I had, in fact, convinced Natasha to take this trip with me. It would be like a honeymoon after all.

I had been living in the Dominican Republic for ten years. I had moved there from Canada and joined the community of Expats in 1990 after collecting my father’s inheritance. I bought a house in the most prominent neighborhood and I married the best looking Dominican girl money could buy. I opened an Italian Restaurant and at 28 years old, I owned the world. I was living the dream and I didn’t listen to anyone. Sex, drugs and Rock & Roll, that was my motto. However, the rhythm of life I had chosen was unsustainable. In the course of three years the gasoline tank was running low and after the umpteenth business venture that wasn’t bringing in enough cash to live like King Arthur, I was running on fumes.

In 2000, the best looking Dominican girl money could buy moved on. I was left with an empty house, an empty bank account and a lot of bills to pay. I sold the restaurant and embarked on a cruise line to work as a line cook. That is where I met and fell madly in love with Natasha. At the end of our contract with the Cruise Line, we decided to take a two month vacation at my house in the Dominican Republic. We departed the ship at La Romana, a town on the Southern Dominican coast.

CHAPTER 2

Santiago was at the beach house early that morning; he had shown up as soon as I called him on the cell phone that we were back from our trip. Santiago was a mid-rank drug dealer whom I had met through the years. I couldn’t call him my friend but he had sure been in my life for the better part of my time on the island. He was now the best gig I had ever seen. A mysterious Chinese man who moved to Santo Domingo and had invented a way to soak jeans with cocaine in the liquid form. When they dried, the jeans appeared absolutely normal, except a little heavier. You just had to fold nine pairs of jeans in each luggage and fly to Europe to make a year’s salary. The spirits were high; the people in Germany had found my work very satisfactory. Now, Natasha, Santiago and I were already talking about the next destination.

Santiago needed Europeans for the transport since they fit in perfectly with the tourist population and I needed Santiago to boost my bank account and rebuild a base for my next business.

Natasha and I were going to get married but neither of us felt like getting back on the ships. She loved my house and I loved the idea of having a new start and vindicating my identity on the island. I would open a bigger and better restaurant in Puerto Plata, only this time with the right frame of mind and with a girl who didn’t need Channel flip flops to go fishing.

In retrospect I say we were crazy getting mixed up in something we couldn’t control but there and then I saw the jeans as fail-proof as anything. We just needed one more trip. I also considered Santiago, on the balance of things, a familiar face; someone who would hardly betray me. Through the years I had the opportunity to be in his home and to meet his family and I have to say he always came through when I had to score some drugs for my own parties. Santiago was getting bigger now and very fast. He was already stepping in the court of King Ruben Sosa, one of the Dominican drug lords, a man who received tons of cocaine from the Columbian Cartels and who served them as trampolin to their clients in the rich Western World.

It was a gorgeous morning. Natasha and I had spent the better part of dawn sipping coffee on a lazy chair next to each other just breathing in the spectacular sunrise only a Caribbean coastline can offer. The black silhouettes of palm trees were still and seem embedded in the purple red horizon.

The luggage was ready and the flight to Paris was leaving at 10:30 sharp. The conversation was mainly how we would invest the loot we were about to make. Failing was not an option, at least not one we had considered. Santiago showed up around 8:30 to go over the final details. He handed me the phone number of the French contact. We were set.

We got to the airport early around 9:00 am, but there was already a long line up of French tourists at the counter of Air France. This time though, the atmosphere seemed different. It looked to me as if there were too many airport workers with their different tags pinned on their shirts or held around their necks with a chain. One of them was at the end of the line just readily sitting on the countertop next to the check-in employee. We were already in the middle of the line when he started staring at us, or at least it seemed that way. I kissed Natasha and whispered in her ear asking if she felt the same way but she dismissed me, telling me it was all in my head and I needed to relax. I felt silly, a girl telling me not to be scared. I was some kind of professional smuggler alright!!!

As we got closer, the man with the tag around his neck jumped down from the counter and approached us. He showed us his identification which read Narcotics Police and grabbed our luggage. There were two more who came from the back in stealth mode; we only saw them at the last second. Without making a big scene they led us to an office on the 2nd floor where they opened our luggage and started checking the contents.

One of them took out a white sponge-like cloth from a wrapper and started passing it over every item in our luggage. As soon as it hit the jeans it turned blue. They immediately looked at each other with a smile. The chemical from the cloth had reacted positive for cocaine. We were not going to France that day!

CHAPTER 3

They packed us into the back of a military jeep and we headed to their headquarters in the Capital, Santo Domingo. As I saw the lights of the airport get further and further away and finally disappear behind the vegetation, the reality of the situation started to set in. For the first time in my life I had been handcuffed. Three Army Soldiers were in the back of the jeep with us. Natasha was right in front of me. I looked at her and we smiled. Even this situation couldn’t wipe out the love we felt for each other. I comforted her by saying that I was going to take care of it. We will be out in a few weeks. I knew the police were corrupt, but moreover, I knew Santiago was going to help me somehow. Ruben Sosa had half of the military in the palm of his hand. I was sure Santiago would go to him on my behalf. I fell asleep with that thought.

We were interrogated until 10:00 pm when they realized they were not going to get anything out of us. I was exhausted. The next 15 days were a nightmare. The only positive thing that kept me going was the fact that I knew they wouldn’t harm Natasha

because of her foreign status and European Passport. I knew she hadn’t said a word or the questions would not have kept coming.

They had separated us right after we had reached the main building. When they took me to the men’s cell, I was petrified. It was a dark, humid, putrid 15 X 15 room. There must have been about 20 men in it. The heat and humidity surpassed the stench of wet dog that transpired through the rusted bars of the small door to this sordid cave. The arms of six men were reaching out asking for water. One of the soldiers who was holding me beat the bars with his night stick and everyone’s limbs immediately retreated. The small iron door had been opened and I was thrown into the darkness of the cell where a number of filthy hands immediately grabbed me and pulled me toward the back of the cell.

CHAPTER 4

When my eyes adjusted, I saw that the walls were chipped and the dark green paint was peeling from the tile floor that was slippery from the heat and humidity and who knows what else.

There was an eight foot dividing wall at the end of the room which ran across half of the cell. Behind it there was a hole in the floor with a square piece of wood on it and some newspapers that were completely covered by black flies; so many that you heard a constant buzzing sound. It must have been the bathroom. However, it was a privilege to be there since on top of the back wall there was a small barred window which was the only intake of fresh air in the cell. I was pulled in the back by four men. One of them had a handkerchief tied on his head ‘pirate style’ with his front teeth missing and a shank made of pointed wood in his right hand. He looked like he was the boss. He was staring me down as he instructed me to give him money for the daily cleaning of the cell. It sounded like a joke but his expression made sure it didn’t come across as one. The cops had taken everything I owned except my golden Catholic cross.

I took it off my neck and handed it to him. He made a wide grin and became suddenly friendly and accommodating toward me. He then explained that the women’s cell was next door and told me that he had a cop who would pass pieces of paper with messages from cell to cell if I wished to communicate with a female prisoner. He had seen me being brought in with a woman. When I think back, those were the hardest days I have spent anywhere. At night there was no space for everybody to lie down on the floor so we had to take turns of three hours each. The foul smell that was coming out of the open latrine in the cell was always in your throat and the heat felt to be at least 110 degrees. After the first few days I started to develop a rash on my skin from sleeping on the dirty wet floor. My entire body was covered with red spots and my skin was flaking.

The food was unbearable; some gooey, sticky rice mixed with cold water and the scrap meat that came from the butcher shop next door. You would often find chicken feet, beaks, fat and the occasional cow bone mixed in the blob. The only edible meal was a piece of stale bread they would supply in the morning with some kind of sweet tea which I would make last the entire day. For the whole time I was constricted and

still and only used the hole they called the bathroom once out of desperation. I lost a lot of weight while I was there and began to wonder what it would be like to slowly die.

I thought of Natasha. She was very brave and I would do everything in my power to get her out of this as soon as possible.

CHAPTER 5

The last three days at headquarters I started having health problems. The food was scarce; the drinking water tasted terrible, I had a bad case of diarrhea and the rash on my skin that covered most of my body was getting worse.

Natasha had sent me a secret message that said the women’s section was better. They actually slept on bunks and there were only three in the same size cell. That put my mind at rest. Every day they would pick us up to interrogate us, even when the results were always the same….nothing. We would be taken to a room with nothing but a desk and we would sit there for hours being questioned. The only response they received was that we wanted our lawyer and someone from the Italian Embassy.

After two weeks of unrewarded interrogation we were told we would be sent back to Puerto Plata. We arrived at the original police station around lunchtime. We were been transported with three other prisoners, all men. When we arrived Natasha was once again separated from me and led to the women’s quarters.

The holding cell at Puerto Plata’s police station looked like the Hilton Hotel compared to where we had been. There were the same tiles on the floor but the room was three times bigger than the one in Santo Domingo and with no more than ten people occupying the room.

I was given an orientation as to what to expect next. I was told I had been through the most difficult part and that prison was much, much better. I was also promised I would be allowed to see a lawyer in the next few days. I had my reservations on the much, much better part but already things were looking up. Behind the separation wall used as the bathroom there were two plastic garbage tanks filled with clean water and an empty milk gallon with the top cut off at the handle floating in one of them that I could use to rinse and throw the fresh water on me.

I took my filthy clothes off. I can’t describe how dirty I was after not bathing and sleeping on the floor of that cell for the past two weeks. The dirt was caked on me and

most of my skin was reddened and burned when I poured the water on it. I used the better part of a tank. There were leeches stuck on the sides but the water was clean and it felt wonderful. One of my comrades gave me a used tee shirt and 6x shorts to wear. Anything was better than the clothes I had come in with.

The atmosphere was much more relaxed. I was handed cigarettes and coffee from the other inmates. Apparently in this new holding facility family could come and see you and bring items from the outside. The cops here were corrupt and at night the distinct stench of marijuana filled the air. Obviously, now, with a few dollars anything you wanted could come