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The American pulled out a pen and small notepad. 'Between fifty and seventy, you say,' and he noted it down on his pad.

'You're writing a travel diary?'

'Actually, no. I'm a freelance journalist working with the Bolivian Times. Mark Johnson. Pleased to meet you,' he stood up, extending his hand to greet me and at the same time asked, 'How do you spell "McFadden"?'

I didn't answer because I was thinking about what I should do. I had never met someone who did things in such a strange order. He had been in my room almost five minutes and only then had he decided to shake hands. And he hadn't even warned me that he was a journalist, but there he was, still writing down everything I said without my permission.

'Sorry. I guess we should start at the beginning. What did you do to get in here? Oh, by the way, I can pay you for the interview, if you want. How much do you need?'

'No, it's fine.' This guy just didn't get it. I still hadn't even agreed to an interview.

'OK, then,' he continued, seeming pleased about not having to pay me. 'Are you in here for drugs?'

Another direct question from Mark Johnson, freelance journalist from the Bolivian Times. I didn't want to be rude and tell him to leave, but there was no way I was going to give him any information. How can you trust someone you have just met with information that they might publish about you the next day? Besides, I wasn't going to admit something in a newspaper that might affect my Supreme Court appeal. So, I decided to lie. If this guy wanted a story out of me, he could have one, but it wouldn't be the real one.

'No, not drugs. And I think you've spelled that wrong. My name, I mean,' I pointed to where he had written my name on his notepad. 'It's not Thomas, it's Tomo - T-o-m-o. And my surname is spelled M-a-c-f-a-r-g-y-e-n, although you pronounce the "g" like a "d". It's Jamaican. I'm from Jamaica.' He wrote that down, too.

'Oh, thanks,' he said, crossing out the correct spelling and replacing it with the bogus one I'd given him. 'May I ask you for what crime you are in here?'

'Yes, you may. Terrorism,' I informed him, sitting back in my chair and folding my arms. I was trying not to laugh, but he caught me

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