Schapelle Corby - THE VERDICT

Corby: The verdict'No! No! And then she looked upwards and seemed to be praying'

SCHAPELLE Corby was trapped like a tropical fish in an aquarium running out of bubbles.

She began breathing hard, blowing in and out, sensing her fate was sealed as the Indonesian judge in his red and black robes, sitting in front to the left of her, began reading from the foolscap pages lying on the green baize table in front of him.

Judge Langang Dauh's voice was harsh, strident and accusing. His tone never wavered.
It was 10.54am local time in the Denpasar courtroom. A solitary ceiling fan whirred ineffectually overhead in a cream-coloured steamroom.

Crammed through every open window, the television and camera lenses focused their goggle eyes on her.

Hair swept back in a black bun like a Javanese matron, modest, black high-necked blouse, ankle-length pale pink skirt. Pearl stud earrings and a plain watch on a broad band. Perfectly made up.

For an hour and a half she had maintained her composure, a contrite figure, black and pink, as the two other judges had read from their foolscap pages, reviewing the evidence against the woman accused of smuggling 4.1kg of cannabis into Bali last October.

She sat demurely, hands clasped in a triangle, forefinger to forefinger, thumb to thumb. The judges read on; their voices almost monotonous. She had glanced around a couple of times to see her family when she had arrived at the courtroom at 9.07am, carried along, almost running, between two lines of police who charged their way through a side door.

Her parents, Michael Corby and Rosleigh Rose, had arrived five minutes before, in another heaving media scrum.

They sat, sad-eyed, strained and uncomprehending with sister Mercedes and her Balinese husband, translating in the front row of blocks of five seats in this tiny courtroom. Other friends and Australian diplomats sat behind them.

Australian tourists handed Indonesian photographers their digi-cams to send pictures home. One middle-aged woman waved an Australian flag through one of the windows.

For some who came here, it was almost like another episode of Big Brother. Another TV reality show.

But this was real life.

And now, after an hour and a half, as Judge Dauh got into his stride, the Indonesian media got ready. This was a real question of life and death, not a show.

The motor drives began clicking and the videocams rolled, and Schapelle looked at the local pack leaning through the windows by the judge's right elbow and she began to cry.

Now she was biting her lip, rocking backwards and forwards in her chair. She was mouthing "No! No!" And then she looked upwards and seemed to be praying.

At 11.15 an Indonesian cameraman alongside me translated the judge's firm utterance:
"There is convincing proof . . ."

She knew she was gone then. She was wiping tears from her eyes.

To her right, one of her Indonesian lawyers, Lily Lubis, knew she was gone, too. She slumped behind her desk, hands over her face.

It was getting worse. Schapelle was desperately trying to get herself under control, breathing in and out like a weightlifter about to attempt a record snatch and jerk.

Judge Dauh had finished. Now it was the turn of chief judge Linton Siriat. Schapelle was ordered to stand.

She straightened her skirt, almost stood to attention.

The courtroom began erupting into chaos.

As Judge Siriat announced the sentence -- "20 years' jail, 100 million rupiah fine" -- all hell broke loose as he rapped his gavel three times.

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