Bali 9: The Untold Story (24 page)

T
he written testimonials painted a picture of a very different person from the one portrayed during the trial. To the Indonesian police he was known simply as ‘the black man’; the Australian Federal Police had never even heard of him. He was likened to the second aircraft engine that helps keep a plane in the air. There was Andrew Chan and there was his sidekick, Myuran Sukumaran, running the Bali Nine drug operation. The mules claimed they were scared of them both.

With his shaved head, a mean-looking scar running down the back of his neck and his sullen disposition, Myuran Sukumaran always looked menacing. He was, after all, trained in karate. But whenever he opened his
mouth in court—which was not all that often—it was almost a shock. He had, at least for public display, a gentle and softly spoken, almost lilting, voice. It was at odds with the way witnesses described him. But it wasn’t at odds with the character references quite readily provided for the judge’s consideration. They told of a kind and caring Christian family man, a regular blood donor, Salvation Army and Red Cross volunteer and UNICEF child sponsor. It was almost as though the letter writers were talking about someone else, not the man whom prosecutors and Bali Nine members said was an enforcer, someone to be feared.

It must be said that many times throughout the trial it had been difficult for observers to ‘read’ Sukumaran. Some people you can read like a book—not him. He kept to himself, never spoke or interacted with the media in the court holding cell, and tried as much as possible to keep out of the limelight. His biggest problem was that he didn’t have quite the right physical appearance to keep a low profile—his looks made him stand out amongst the Indonesians and the Bali Nine accused.

According to family friends, Sukumaran is quite the opposite to his media portrayal. They see him differently, and that’s often the case when it comes to criminal defendants. But back in 1998, when he left Homebush Boys High School, it was with a glowing Year Twelve reference under his arm. There was no sign then that in a mere seven years’ time he would be in a foreign land facing a possible death penalty for masterminding a drug ring. It was for these charges
that his lawyers invoked the glowing reference, handing it to the judges as part of a bundle of character testimonials to be used in mitigation.

Sukumaran was known at school as Myu, and according to then principal Brian Greene and Year Twelve advisor Traci Lewis’s reference, he was extremely honest, reliable, responsible, punctual and well prepared, with high standards, and he was a good example for junior students. He had taken part in national mathematics and science competitions, was a gold-medal winner in karate tournaments and played in the school’s second-grade rugby team. He gave blood in the annual school appeal and was a volunteer collector for the Salvation Army’s Red Shield Appeal.

‘Myu has a friendly disposition and is well liked by all,’ says the reference. ‘He has a willingness to work and participate in academic activities and sporting activities. Myu has a mature personality and will adequately fit into any work place. Myu is a charming young man, always polite and courteous and takes great pride in his appearance.’

Family friend Victor Sinnadurai had known the Sukumaran family for almost ten years, and he told the court in his letter that Sukumaran had the potential to be a valuable member of society and the community. Mr Sinnadurai had met the Sukumaran family through their local church, where he was a director and secretary. Sukumaran, his brother and sister had all been confirmed in the church, and Sukumaran had
been a regular at weekly youth meetings until 2001. He had also been on church youth camps.

‘Myuran is generally a very humorous person, jovial, witty and friendly,’ wrote Sinnadurai. ‘He presents himself well and articulates his mannerism with friendship, sincerity, honesty and trustworthiness. He is a kind-hearted and compassionate person. He is ever ready to help those in need, a regular blood donor and a volunteer helper in the Salvation Army. He is a highly motivated young man with determination to complete tasks when allocated to him…I understand from his family members that in his current situation in Bali he is reading and meditating in the Bible daily and seeking the Lord for deliverance. Having known Myuran personally well, I wish to appeal to Bali’s judicial governing body for a sympathetic hearing and a resolution in favour of Myuran’s freedom.’

The sentiments from another family friend were in a similar vein—that Sukumaran was a role model to his brother and sister and cousins, he was polite and responsible, and came from a well-educated and highly respected family.

However, locked up in a Bali jail, painted as an enforcer and drug king, it was difficult to see how, these days, Sukumaran could be a role model to anybody. It seemed almost impossible to reconcile the character references with the person authorities were alleging. Sometimes criminals can be chameleons, and Sukumaran’s school reference was written seven years ago—a lot can happen to change a person in seven
years. Just what had happened to change Sukumaran from the young man his school teachers remembered to the young man sitting in the Denpasar District Court is a mystery—and he wasn’t intending to shed any light on matters. He didn’t believe he needed to, anyway, since he had claimed from day one that he had nothing whatsoever to do with any of this business.

In police interviews Sukumaran had denied any role in the smuggling attempt and that was his courtroom stance as well. Time after time when he was called to testify at the trials of the other eight he made the same objection: he was an accused in the same case and he did not want to testify. His stance both puzzled and annoyed judges in the various trials, who began to sound like broken records:
If you cooperate and testify now it can help you achieve leniency if you are convicted in your own case
. It didn’t matter—Sukumaran was not budging. In one trial he even went so far as to claim he had not signed the police statement, even though his signature was there in black and white. It was not boding well for him.

One police officer testified that Sukumaran had carried a suitcase containing 350 grams of heroin to the Melasti Beach Bungalows shortly before his arrest; police said tests showed that it was identical to the heroin on the four mules. In court Sukumaran denied carrying any suitcases to the room, insisting that all his gear had still been at the Hard Rock Hotel.

Giving evidence for himself, Sukumaran was no more forthcoming. Yes, he knew Andrew Chan—the
pair had gone to school together—but he was in Bali for a holiday and nothing more sinister than that. His testimony included a lot of ‘don’t knows’, ‘don’t remembers’ and ‘can’t remembers’, so many that judges admonished him, telling him to stop saying ‘I don’t know’. It culminated in one clearly annoyed judge inquiring whether he suffered from any memory-loss ailments.

Q. Have you ever suffered from amnesia?

A. Sorry?

Q. Amnesia. Loss of memory.

A. Ah, amnesia. I have once, it’s so long ago I can’t remember. It was more than eight months ago.

Q. So you forget things?

Sukumaran mumbled something about being under a lot of stress. The court laughed. It was his case that the police, quite simply, had the wrong man.

Not so, prosecutors said when they told the court in their sentence demand that Sukumaran was indeed guilty and deserved not one shred of leniency. He had been evasive during the trial, creating obstacles and giving confusing evidence; his penalty should be death by firing squad. As always, Sukumaran’s face gave absolutely nothing away. Whatever he felt and thought when he heard those awful words ‘death penalty’ would be a secret locked inside himself. He barely flinched, a widening of his eyes the only sign that he had heard. If a cold hand had gripped his heart or wrenched his
stomach, he wasn’t showing it. And when it came time, he didn’t take the opportunity to make a personal plea for mercy—he left all the talking to his lawyers.

Given the position he had taken since his arrest, it should have been no surprise that Sukumaran wouldn’t want to plead for his life. His lawyer, Mochamad Rifan, painted his client as a scapegoat for the mules, who had tried to absolve themselves of any blame by shovelling all the responsibility onto people like Sukumaran. Mr Rifan warned the judges against accepting the four mules’ stories about Sukumaran having helped strap the drugs to their bodies, and about being threatened, unless there was more concrete evidence and corroborating information than just their own testimony. They, he pointed out, had a vested interest in giving such evidence.

Clearly angered, outside the court Mr Rifan—a normally genial man with good English—declined to answer media questions in English as he normally did, saying that he would answer only in Indonesian. He generally gives little away, but having just heard the prosecutors say that his client should be shot for his crimes, he made surprisingly critical remarks about the Australian Federal Police and their letter alerting their Indonesian counterparts to the activities of the Bali Nine. It was most unlike Mr Rifan to say anything so strong or, in fact, to say anything like that at all. His client may have been hiding his emotions that morning, but Mr Rifan was not.

‘I
’ve got God in my hands,’ Andrew Chan declared from behind the court holding cell bars. ‘What? Did you say you’ve got blood on your hands?’ someone asked. Chan didn’t appear to see the irony, but it was a fair enough question given the way he had been portrayed in court by the four mules. However, he was referring to God and the spirituality that had been giving him solace during his darkest hours.

People sometimes find God in the most bizarre places and under the most extreme circumstances. In Chan’s case he said religion hadn’t just found him, he’d always been a believer and churchgoer, but now he was happy for the world to know about his faith and the strength it was giving him.

This is what he told the judges on the day he was called upon to make a personal defence plea to the court: ‘To the judges and prosecutors, today is my defence that I have to defend myself and what I would like to do is address a few words. Firstly, what I would like to say is that no matter what outcome comes out of all this, I am thankful to God myself and thankful that you are listening to this. My life has been changed dramatically since my arrest last year. I could honestly say it is [by] God’s strength alone I am standing here today and saying these words to you. My faith has grown towards God and I am thankful for everything. What I wanted to say is that I never tried to organise or even tried to do anything to break the law in any country. I am twenty-two years old and I am a young man. All I ask Your Honour is that you will give me an opportunity to restart my new, fulfilled life. I am not demanding for you to release me tomorrow but, please, I would like the opportunity to come here one day, not just by myself, but with my family. I am sorry for what trouble I have caused the Indonesian system and, of course, yourselves but I never intended to hurt anybody, but I guess the factor is it hurt my family very deeply to see me inside a prison.

‘Your Honour, the outcome I wish, of course, and my family, is that you find that you would release me, for I had nothing to participate in this. I didn’t say anything in court because if I did I’d be lying. The truth is I know nothing. I am thankful in whatever decision you decide to give me and I respect the Indonesian
system, no matter what circumstances, but to go on and tell you about how much faith I have learnt about Jesus Christ, the words I have wanted to say I have presented to you today. So thank you so much Your Majesty and prosecutors, and I pray that you find in your hearts you will give me a second opportunity to redeem myself as a citizen of society and no longer a convict.

‘I’d just like to point out that a lot of lies have been said against me, but the true reality is I am not what people put out, what people put me out to be. I have never threatened anybody in my life. I work six to seven days a week and I always try to be a helpful family member of my household. The reason why I always smile is because I feel the Lord’s presence anywhere I go and it gives me the courage. I feel it in this very courtroom today and also in myself so thank you for listening.’

It was an odd plea for mercy. On one hand Chan was saying that he would be happy with whatever decision the judges reached and he wasn’t asking to be released immediately, but on the other he insisted he knew nothing and had never threatened anybody. Why, people wondered, wouldn’t he be screaming to be released immediately if he had nothing to do with this whole sordid business? And what was the reason for the religious references peppered throughout? It’s no secret that religion and strong family bonds are attributes that are deeply valued in Indonesian society. Chan was not the only Bali Nine member to home in on these themes in his mercy plea, perhaps hoping to strike a chord with the judges, for whom religion is an integral part of daily
life (the judges in the Denpasar Court are mainly Hindu or Muslim, with a few Christians). Others told the court that since being in jail they had either found God or renewed their faith, and begged to be released to restart their new, Christian lives.

A week before this plea, during a strange question-and-answer session in the court holding cell, Chan had told the media of his faith in God, of reading the Bible, praying and attending church services inside jail. It was a bizarre performance, prompting some to question whether he was ‘on’ something that day. Up to that point he’d shown nothing but disdain for the press, retreating to the cell corner and ignoring questions. But this day he was enjoying the game. He didn’t really want to answer anything but he wanted to play the media along, acting the clown and smiling like a Cheshire cat.

It was clear he was loving the attention. He could easily have walked away from the cameras but he didn’t.
Are you worried? ‘
No, not really.’
Do you have animosity toward those who paint you as being a threatening enforcer?
Shrug of the shoulders.
Is it true? ‘
No.’
Are you worried you might get a heavier sentence and that people call you the Godfather? ‘
No, not really. I have God in my hands.’
Are you a changed person since you went to jail? ‘
I’ll let you decide that.’
Have you been praying to God? ‘
Oh yeah, you could say something like that.’
Are you completely not guilty of these charges? ‘
I will leave the court to decide that.’
What regrets do you have? ‘
None, to be honest.’
You
must regret being in jail? ‘
Not really.’
There is evidence your girlfriend, Grace, is involved in this? ‘
Everyone’s saying everyone’s involved, aren’t they.’ Then, taking a huge bite from his roll, he told the reporters theatrically ‘End of interview’ and turned his back, pretending to walk offstage. But then he returned to the bars again, knowing full well that the questions would keep coming.

This was definitely a different Chan to the one the press had seen before. People wondered what was going on—whether he had taken some kind of drug before coming to court—or had he just been a master of disguise all that time?

Chan is far wittier than his usual persona would indicate. When Scott Rush offered him one of his McDonald’s cheeseburgers, Chan got stuck into it for the cameras, asking if McDonald’s perhaps wanted to sponsor him.

One day Chan turned up at court clutching a book called
Iceman
. The analogy seemed apt—Chan had always appeared to be an iceman: cool exterior, calm under pressure, under control. From day one of his arrest he hadn’t tried to hide his face, boldly telling the press that police suggestions he was the ‘Godfather’ were ‘full of shit’. ‘Do you think I am the Godfather of things? Do I look like a Godfather?’ he snapped. ‘Whatever happened to Schapelle Corby happened to me.’ His courtroom appearances were no different, his rigid refusal to give evidence in the trials of any of the co-accused, and his insolence, both angering and amusing the judges.

When he was called to testify at Renae Lawerence’s trial, he claimed he hardly knew Lawrence and that he wasn’t going to give evidence. But in his original police statement, made and signed after his arrest, Chan told officers that he met Lawrence in 2003 at work. In court that day he was a picture of cool contempt and defiance, engaging in a comical exchange with Lawrence’s lead lawyer, Yan Apul.

Q. So do you understand why you were arrested? A. No.

Q. Have you been investigated in the police station?

A. What, here? Yeah.

Q. So do you think the police statement is a mock-up or not true?

A. I don’t know.

Q. Did you know if there is a case named Bali Nine about narcotics?

A. I dunno.

Q. So did you know if Renae was arrested and detained because of a narcotics case?

A. I dunno.

Q. Did you report to the government of Australia that you were detained and arrested in the airport illegally?

A. I don’t remember.

Q. Didn’t the government of Australia feel objection to the [illegal] dentention of his citizen in Indonesia?

A. I dunno.

Q. Do you want to revoke your statement you gave in the police station?

A. No, I don’t want to make a statement.

Q. Can you explain why you don’t want to give a statement?

A. Um, I’m in the same case, so no, that’s why.

Q. Can you explain what the case is that you mean?

A. I don’t know.

It was too much for Judge Putu Widnya, who burst into laughter at the ridiculous nature of the answers. But while the judges and prosecutors guffawed away, they all knew it was really no laughing matter. Chan must have known, too, because he had already heard the warning that refusing to cooperate could mean harsh treatment down the track. If it bothered him, though, the Iceman didn’t let it show, half smirking at his own hilarity that day.

Iceman
by Ron Rearick is the true story of a Mafia enforcer who had a penchant for violence and turned to God inside jail, going on to co-direct Born to Choose Ministries and become an assistant pastor in Washington. Another day Chan was reading
Free
by Rita Nightingale, the true story of a young Englishwoman wrongly convicted and sentenced to twenty years’ jail in Thailand after heroin was found in her luggage. She served three years before receiving a royal pardon. During her awful years in prison she found God, and after her release she became involved in Christian fellowship work.

On the day of Chan’s personal plea, in which he attested to his faith, he sat quietly in the holding cell reading a book called
The Heavenly Man
, the true story of Brother Yun, a Chinese Christian who was jailed due to religious persecution. The book tells of the miracles of God during this wretched period of his life.

So there was a pattern—Chan the avid reader seemed to be scouring everything he could find about the persecuted and wrongly convicted, and religious conversions inside jail.

However, according to evidence given at his trial, Chan was not undergoing a conversion behind bars. From the time he was a small boy he had always been a practising Christian. This was outlined in character evidence given by his older brother, twenty-seven-year-old Michael, and by his longtime friend and youth pastor, Mark Timothy Soper, during the closing stages of his trial. Michael Chan told of a ‘good kid’ who listened to him and listened to their parents. Andrew lived at home with the family, one of four children, and had a range of friends from many different cultures.

Michael said that both their parents were retired and sick and needed their children, including Andrew, to support them. It was their hope that Andrew would be found not guilty and allowed to return to his family.

His younger sibling, Michael told the court, was not the same person as the one depicted in the trial. Michael said his brother often attended church back home. This point was affirmed by the next witness, Mr Soper, a friend of Andrew Chan’s for eighteen years.
The families had been next-door neighbours, and Mr Soper’s father was the minister at the church attended by Chan. ‘Sometimes he goes to our church, sometimes he goes to another church, but often,’ Mr Soper told the court. He described his friend as ‘very family-oriented and very kind to other people’, someone who always helps others. Mr Soper said he had never seen Chan using drugs, adding, ‘he doesn’t like that’.

The Chan who appeared in court was certainly different to the one depicted in the police mug shot of him which graced the cover of the weighty police dossier, or brief of evidence, against him. Shirtless, with a shaved head, the trace of a goatee, wearing gold earrings in both ears and a gold crucifix on a chain around his neck, he looked like some kind of tough enforcer or standover man. The tattoos on his chest and arms stood out boldly. One was some kind of Maori image, another included the word ‘Grace’, the name of his girlfriend. Nine months later in court, though, Chan was much softer looking. Dressed in black pants and a white long-sleeved shirt, wearing spectacles, his hair—which he’d let grow—all gelled up, and clutching a book, he could easily have passed for a university student or public servant. There was nothing remarkable about him; no reason, really, to give him a second glance. But the softened image didn’t fool the judges—they had the mug shot in front of them every day of his trial.

On the day Chan was called to give evidence in his own defence—and unlike the day he had Judge Putu
Widnya in Lawrence’s trial in laughter—there were no laughing judges in sight; not even a smile from the bench. Instead, Judge Arif Supratman could barely control his ire, instructing the female translator to deliver a stern warning: ‘Tell him to tell the truth, don’t lie to the judges, lawyers and prosecutor in this trial. Indonesian judges are not stupid people but we are the people who know the law. Tell him.’

Chan, seemingly unperturbed by the admonishment, was quick with his answer. ‘Yeah, I know they are civilised people and I’m telling the truth.’ He was reminded again to tell the truth when asked who owned the packages of heroin. ‘I don’t know. I don’t even know who owns it…I never saw it until they showed me at [the police station], they started throwing it at me saying, “This is yours” and I’ve never seen it.’

Earlier the entire Bali Nine contingent had been called as witnesses in Chan’s trial. Some, like Myuran Sukumaran, flatly denied taking part in the unfolding drama. Backwards and forwards it went like a game of ping pong, Sukumaran saying he didn’t want to testify because he was a suspect in the same case, Judge Supratman warning him that if someone had told him to make an objection it was wrong. But Sukumaran wasn’t going to budge. It was the tactic employed by most of the Nine, except those caught with the drugs on them, at all of the trials. The only time they agreed to give evidence was in their own defence. And, given some of their answers, observers
were left scratching their heads as to the motivation behind such blatant stonewalling, especially in a court system where politeness, cooperation and respect are rewarded and appreciated.