In 2017, Cassie Sainsbury fell for her friend Wendy. It ended in the ultimate betrayal.

The following is an edited extract of Cocaine Cassie: Setting the Record Straight by Cassie Sainsbury.

This story mentions abuse.

The Arrest

12 April 2017 - 10:50pm

In the hushed corridors of the Colombian airport, a sense of foreboding draped over me like a suffocating shroud. 

As I stepped into the interrogation room, the harsh fluorescent lights exposed the vulnerability of my suitcase on a cold metal table. This was the next stage of my nightmare.

A chill ran down my spine. It was a warning that my life was about to be irreversibly altered. 

Wendy, once the confidante of my deepest fears, had become my downfall. How could she do this to me, why did she do this? Two police officers waited at a desk.

I felt nauseous. I vomited. 

The officers' expressions were marked by an eerie understanding. If only they knew how many lies had been told to me to get in this exact place. But would anyone actually understand?

The room echoed with the metallic scrape of zippers and the ominous snap of gloves. Each item extracted from my suitcase was a piece of my soul torn away.

When the hands of the officers reached the nondescript fabric bag, I knew the universe had conspired against me. This was it: I too would finally know what the contents of the bag held.

Inside the bag held six wrapped cubes.

The cubes were unwrapped, revealing headphones – an absurd twist, in a nightmare I couldn't comprehend, headphones weren't that bad right? Then… these small black rolls were pulled out from the insides of each box, the police cutting into each roll and testing it. Cocaine… in box after box. COCAINE.

F**k.

It was the unveiling of a betrayal, each layer peeled back the depth of Wendy's deceit. And the same question that had echoed through my head the whole week, why? Why me?

Watch: Cassie Sainsbury in her first interview post-prison. Post continues after video.

A person I had adored had become the architect of my destruction. Handcuffed, I faced the cold reality of the anti-narcotics station amidst the rapid-fire Spanish police around me. How could anyone understand this language? Tears came to my eyes. It was a lose-lose situation of ultimate betrayal from Wendy.

The police sergeant wielded his power with an unsettling oddity. Google Translate bridged a linguistic gap but couldn't bridge the abyss of my vulnerability.

"Do you want a lawyer?" the Sergeant asked and demanded that I unlock my phone. As I did this, I watched as he stored it away in his personal drawers. He asked questions without a lawyer being present and proceeded to ignore my questions of my request for a lawyer, in fact, his behaviour struck me as odd, when questioned if there was anyone else involved and I told him that everything he needed to know was in my phone, the one that he had stored away and he just nodded, something told me that phone was long gone and I had this horrible gut feeling that I was eye to eye with one of the insiders of Wendy's crew.

Hours crawled by.

The sergeant exercised his power with as you would expect and the cavalier trampling of my belongings.

An eerie comment about safety in prison sent shivers down my spine.

"You won't be safe there, especially if you don't keep your mouth shut." Had I just been threatened? I was made to sign several papers without comprehension as someone said something about 'credit cards', money, property and when questioning, again I asked for a translator to help or assist me and again I was told that I wasn't going to be granted anything to help my situation.

At 4:45 am, lawyer-less and lost, I faced a transfer to 'URI.' Police drove me through the city.

I was 22 and now contemplating prison. Prison in a third-world country. Prison in Colombia.

The police van ran through winding back streets – the city was beautiful and complex, something that I hadn't even seen up until now. They took me to an unexpected destination – a doctor's clinic. What was that about?

The lady officer's phone explained that this clinic would conduct a check to ensure I hadn't been mistreated or assaulted by the police. This urgency to validate the legality of my arrest seemed a little belated.

We waited an hour. There were curious glances from those who passed by.

The police officer diligently filled out paperwork, and soon we entered a room where a nurse waited.

Seated at a desk with a checkbox sheet, the nurse began probing into the treatment I had received from the police.

There were questions about physical mistreatment. I answered truthfully. That I hadn't been mistreated or hit by the police since my arrest.

I acknowledged the disregard for my rights.

She asked me to disrobe down to my underwear. She saw the bruises on my legs, in-between my legs and it was a painful testament to what had happened before. Something that I wanted so badly to forget.

I clarified that the bruises predated the encounter with the police. The nurse and the officer scrutinized the bruises on my upper arms. The nurse's frustration was evident as the officer repeatedly denied any physical abuse.

Were you attacked by someone? Were you hurt? A question hung in the air, and with a heavy heart, I nodded in acknowledgment of the violation I had experienced.

The nurse, sighing with empathy, asked me about any lingering pain. I told her about the continuing pain and the unsettling amount of blood in my urine.

The medical assessment concluded with routine measurements and documentation. Fingerprints were captured in a digital system, and photographs were taken. This was something that never in my life I expected to be doing. The nurse engaged in a final discussion with the police officer, her gestures towards my legs met with a shrugged response.

The language barrier left me in the dark.

The nurse's evident anger hinted at a discrepancy, an unsettling undercurrent that added to the enigma surrounding my predicament. Something told me she had tried to talk to the officer about my bruises and there was no interest.

The clock inched toward 8:00 pm, which was to be the time of my accusation hearing.

Escorted by the lady officer and the newly appointed translator, we made our way to the courthouse. I was told that I needed to meet with my prosecutor before the case because she wanted to talk to me in private. She was short but quite beautiful and extremely stern, which is what one might expect in a prosecutor. She pointed to the chair for me to sit and then the police officers left the room. She had Google Translate ready on her computer and she typed. "I'm sorry you're going through this, and I'm sorry for what's to come. I see situations like yours all the time, however, I have to do my job. I can help you if you help me."

As I read this, I still didn't know if this was a trap, if she was in on this, Carlos and Wendy had really scared me into thinking that everyone here couldn't be trusted. I reached for the keyboard and began to type. "I don't know who I can trust".

I didn't know what else to say, it was the truth. I didn't want to die because I didn't keep my mouth shut. The prosecutor nodded, seeming to understand the situation and typed.

"I understand, but this means you will go into the system, it will be tough, try to be strong, I believe you are innocent in this, but I can't help you, I have to follow the law."

I felt that there was no need to type back, I nodded in understanding. She had a job to do, and I broke the law. Security-laden corridors screamed confnement and the gravity of the situation became real of what was happening.

The courtroom was stark. The atmosphere was heavy with formality. They led me to a designated seat, flanked by the translator and my newly assigned lawyer, the one who had shown a sudden interest in my case just hours before.

Seated at a desk laden with paperwork, my lawyer engaged in hurried conversations with the other legal professionals present. A sense of urgency filled the room as they navigated the complexities of my case, something that I didn't even understand, but it left decisions about my immediate future hanging in the balance.

The minutes ticked away. The judge entered the room, exuding solemnity.

Spanish became an impenetrable barrier, leaving me to decipher the gravity of each moment through the subtle cues and expressions of those around me.

The prosecutor presented the charges.

My lawyer, in a hurried defence, articulated arguments that I could only hope were in my favour.

The translator's voice became my lifeline because I couldn't grip even one word of Spanish, it was so hard to understand, it all just sounded like word vomit.

Witnesses were called, each testimonial a puzzle piece contributing to the mosaic of my case. The gallery had a mix of curious spectators and those with a vested interest in my predicament. They observed with a mix of detachment and scrutiny. The weight of their gaze intensified the isolation I felt.

A sense of helplessness engulfed me.

The prosecutor's arguments seemed relentless. My prosecutor claimed that I was the mastermind behind this, that I had thought, planned and set myself up. Something I just didn't understand as to how she had come to this conclusion when I had told the police officer earlier that I didn't do this!

The defence didn't do anything, he just sat and listened to the charges and what the prosecutor was saying. I didn't know if he was doing his job or not because I had never been in anything to compare this to.

Suddenly the stark realisation that my fate hung in the balance of these legal deliberations and Spanish conversations.

The gavel fell. Its sound marked the beginning of a new chapter – one that was to unfold within the cold confines of a remand prison cell. Not an actual prison, a holding cell while space was made for me in prison because of over capacity of people in there.

The reality of incarceration set in. Each step away from the courtroom felt like a step deeper into the abyss.

The lady officer – a constant, if not sympathetic, presence throughout this ordeal – guided me through the logistics of my imprisonment. Explaining that from here I would be taken to a police holding cell until Monday and they would reassess whether the prison would have space for me.

The clinking of metal doors and the echoes of distant voices marked my descent deeper into the abyss. What would become of me?

Cocaine Cassie: Setting the Record Straight by Cassie Sainsbury. Image: Supplied.

Cocaine Cassie: Setting the Record Straight by Cassie Sainsbury will be available for purchase on October 15, 2024, by New Holland Publishers.

While you're here, listen to No Filter where Cassie Sainsbury speaks to Mia Freedman about prison life: the abuse, the relationships, the sex. And what happened afterwards.

If you or someone you know is at risk of violence, contact: 1800 RESPECT.

Feature image: Instagram @cassiesainsbury.