Playboy Magazine South Africa November 2013 November 2013 | Page 41

summed up in the following sentence: “We are
in a world of shit, my friend.” So was Tim.

Tim spent 36 days in Helicoide, an experience
that, given the circumstances, was actually
not that bad. His fellow inmates were a cast
of characters worthy of a Dirty Dozen remake.
There was David from El Salvador, who lent
Tim his iPod in exchange for Ping-Pong lessons; Steve, aka Boris, a fun-loving Russian
arms and ecstasy dealer; Assan, a chess
champion and financier from Lebanon whose
only crime was losing his passport; and Walid
Makled García, aka El Arabe, who until his
capture in 2011 was one of the world’s most
powerful drug lords.
Tim fit in immediately and within days was
holding his own in the nightly Ping-Pong
tournament. He spent hours writing obsessively
in his diary and taking advantage of the gym.
He had faith that when judgment time came
on 11 June, he’d be exonerated and could go
back to making his movie. If you lose hope in
a situation like this, you slip into darkness, he
thought to himself.
His communication with the outside world
was limited to phone calls to his parents, his
Venezuelan attorney and his best friend, Stone
Douglass, a film producer who had somehow
convinced the Venezuelan authorities that he
and Tim were cousins. The stress of trying to
secure Tim’s release from a government that appeared to have no regard for reality, diplomacy
or justice made for tense moments back in the
States. Tim’s friends, acquaintances and more
than a few total strangers were trying to solicit
celebrities, organize protests, launch social
media campaigns and initiate other forms of
public outcry. The fact that so many were trying
to help was telling. It wasn’t just out of loyalty
or in the interest of justice; it was because
Tim had put it all on the line to tell a story
that needed to be told and in so doing had
transformed himself from a run-of-the-mill LA
freelancer half a year earlier to the man he had
always wanted to be. Tim wasn’t just loved by
his friends – now he was something of a hero.
The darkest moments came after speaking
to his parents, who were in a state of extreme
anguish. I never doubted or regretted one
decision I made, Tim thought to himself. I did
the right thing, but was I selfish? Did I consider
anybody but me?
On Tuesday, 28 May, word spread that some
prisoners were going to be evacuated without
any explanation. Some said it was because of
overcrowding, others said it was for renovations. At five the next morning, Tim and seven
inmates from his “band of brothers” were
awakened and told they had a few minutes to
pack a shopping bag to take with them. Whatever possessions remained in the cell would be
thrown out.
They were being moved to El Rodeo Dos,

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which SEBIN officials assured them was Venezuela’s model prison, complete with athletic
facilities and staffed by corrections officers
specially trained to understand the needs
of foreign inmates. None of what Tim heard
passed the smell test. To begin with, if it really
was necessary to evacuate Helicoide, why
were so many of his fellow inmates remaining
behind?
This wasn’t looking good. As Tim was being
led out, Steve, the Russian, pulled him aside.
“I got one word of advice for you,” said Steve.
“Don’t trust anybody.”

29 May 2013
The moment El Rodeo came into view from his
seat on the transport van, Tim knew his fears
were justified. The prison entrance was riddled
with bullet holes from a prisoner uprising two
years earlier that had resulted in 25 deaths.
The whole thing reminded him of Mad Max
Beyond Thunderdome.
“Venezuela’s prisons are just about the worst
on Earth, and I say that measuring every word
carefully,” says Anderson. “El Rodeo has an absolutely terrible reputation. For an American to
get sent there and not get hurt or killed would
be highly unlikely.”
The warden, a 40-ish slob whose godmother
was head of the national prison system, was
waiting for Tim and the other SEBIN transplants
in the processing area. He wasted no time in
marking his territory. After confiscating all the
prisoners’ personal items but their toothbrushes, he took out a pair of electric clippers and
shaved the head of each new arrival. He lit up
when it was Tim’s turn. Here was the famous
gringo he’d heard so much about. The warden
leaned in close.
“You tried to kill our revolution, and now
you’re going to die in here,” he said. All the
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NOEMBER 2013

guards laughed.
Tim spent his entire stint at El Rodeo in
solitary confinement, during which time he
was subjected to taunts and various forms of
humiliation by a guard named Alvaro, one of
the highest-ranking corrections officers in the
building. Tim took to calling him Kevin Bacon,
whose prison-guard character in the film Sleepers had a similar sadistic streak. Alvaro verbally
berated Tim while he defecated, wouldn’t let
him bathe and confiscated his bedding and
towel. On day three, as Tim was being transferred from one solitary cell to another for no
apparent reason, he saw his friend Assan from
Helicoide being led in the opposite direction.
As the guards stopped to chat, Assan leaned
and whispered to Tim.
“I heard they’re going to kill you tonight,” he
said. “Be careful.”
Tim barely made it to his new cell without
collapsing. He was overcome by a panic attack
that left him shaking in his bed. He told the
guard he needed to speak to Alvaro. When
Alvaro arrived, Tim begged to see a priest so he
could be issued last rites before they murdered
him.
“Sorry, gringo,” Alvaro said, smiling, “we
don’t do that in here.”
Tim spent the night in terror. When morning
came and he was still alive, the fear was replaced with rage. Alvaro came by to talk smack
about Tim being in the CIA. On this morning
Tim wasn’t taking any of it. A few minutes
later, he was thrown into a vermin-infested,
shit-stained basement pit and left alone to drive
himself mad.
On the night of his 42nd day of incarceration
– his sixth night inside El Rodeo – he found
himself awake and trembling, another night of
insomnia, listening to the sounds of the prison,
smelling its despair, scratching at the bloody