The Best I Could (2 page)

In the early years of his law practice, Subhas was framed by rogue police officers and incarcerated in Queenstown Remand Prison under the Criminal Law (Temporary Provisions) Act. Many people then deemed that his life was over. However, that was the period when special friends stood by him and worked tirelessly to get him released. Friends and neighbours, although frightened that they would also become targets of the rogue police conspiracy, still came out in large numbers to support the mass signature campaign to the Home Minister for his release. More than 5,000 signatories joined us in his release petition. Many others gave affidavits to support the contention that Subhas was framed and declared that they would go to court to testify if needed. Indefinite detention is a cruel sentence.

In the darkest hour of our misery, Subhas realised many things. Friendship is a crucible—friends are tested in crises. Most of his friends remained friends. Some, beyond our expectations, eased away, the fear of collateral damage haunting them. A few, to our despair, anguish and pain, gloated. But most of his tested and trusted friends stood by him and his family. They warmed our hearts and gave us courage and hope.

When Subhas was released early, he focused on his law practice. He and his partner, Mr M P D Nair, restructured their firm and took on many cases. In his practise of the law, Subhas showed compassion and empathy for the underdog. Many of the cases in this book testify to this. He has been there for people accused of heinous crimes who pleaded for help to clear their names. For many of them, Subhas the defence lawyer became their only friend. His practice blossomed and reputation as an excellent criminal lawyer grew.

The second milestone that shaped his life and his practise of the law was the death of our younger brother Surash, a chief steward in SIA. Surash died tragically in the infamous SQ006 flight that failed to take off from Taipei airport and crashed and burned on the runway on October 31, 2000. His colleagues who survived told us that Surash remained in the burning aircraft helping the passengers under his care to escape. Many survived, but Surash and others were caught in a blinding flash fire and perished. They found Surash close to his friend and colleague, Alfred, who also stayed back to help and made the ultimate sacrifice as well.

In many ways, Subhas reminds me of Surash. Both have the same fierce determination to complete their professional responsibilities. “Not on my watch. The best I could.” These were beacons to them. Like Surash, Subhas also cares for his friends and the people who come to him for help. Both of them had many friends but Surash was the more realistic one. He reminded us that all you need at the end are six friends to be your pallbearers in the Mount Vernon crematorium. Surash had more than a thousand friends in his final send-off.

Subhas is very different now. Many of his life experiences have tempered him, and the criminal cases he shares with us in this book reveal the tough, aggressive, brash, gentle, generous and kind nature of the man. He has always loved being a court-room lawyer, enjoying the cut and thrust of logic, evidence, and setting precedents. He now shares his vast expertise with many young lawyers, teaching and mentoring them. My son, Sunil, his legal assistant, is grateful to his uncle for the guidance and training. Both of them share a deep love of the law.

Friends there were many and many more will come into my brother’s life. He knows those who will stick by him regardless of the slings and arrows of misfortune. He is patient, listens well, and has become more compassionate and tolerant. His dry sense of humour and that rare smile that can light up a room is still there.

Our parents taught us well. They always reiterated, “Never forget the good that people have done for you and do your best to help them whenever you can.” The practise of law enables Subhas to continue doing this. All of us, his family and his friends in Sembawang and other parts of Singapore, wish him well and pray for his good health, happiness and prosperity.

Sudheesan Anandan

October 2008, Singapore

I have been asked many times why my son is not studying law as though it’s a given that he must read law. Some blame me for not encouraging him to be a lawyer while others accuse me of being indifferent. To me, it doesn’t really matter if he is a lawyer, a doctor or a salesman. He should grow up to be a good human being. A person who will have time and compassion for those who are less fortunate than him. I want him to have a life where he has time to stop and smell the flowers. I want his life to be a journey of surprises and discovery, and not one where he is in a constant rush. Let him be anything he wants to be as long as he is happy. He should lead his life according to standards he sets for himself and he should not live to please others. He should have the discipline to resist evil and the same discipline not to overindulge. He knows my weaknesses and my strengths, and with that knowledge, he should be able to build his own strengths and discard what is not good for him. I have, to the best of my ability, taught him to differentiate between good from bad. You don’t need to be a lawyer to know that.

There is a long-standing TV programme in Singapore called ‘Crimewatch’. I remember watching it 10 years ago with my son who was then eight years old. Many of the cases shown in the programme were cases for which I was the defence counsel. Often, I would tell him, “Hey, that was papa’s case.”

One day, during the showing of a particular case, I got very angry because the police had taken credit for something they did not do. It was such an exaggeration and the police overplayed their importance. I told my wife Vimi: “You know, this is nonsense. Actually it’s quite shameful. What they are showing in this programme is nothing like what really happened. I think I should write to the papers to say that they are pulling wool over the public’s eyes.” The police did a good job in many cases but sometimes their exaggerations were a bit too much.

Vimi didn’t think I should send a letter. “Why don’t you leave it as it is?” she said. “Don’t go and antagonise these police people. Don’t you remember why you went to Queenstown Prison? It’s because you antagonised some of these people that you got into trouble. So, just leave them alone, please.”

My son had been quiet during my rant but he suddenly interrupted us. “Papa, all these people in these cases are your clients?” he asked earnestly.

“Yes, my son, most of them are,” I replied with pride in my voice, hoping my young son would be proud of his father and that I could inspire him into a legal career.

“Papa, don’t you have any good clients?” he exclaimed and walked away in disgust. I just looked at Vimi and we both burst out laughing.

But his innocent question lingered in my mind for many days after that. How do you tell a boy that everyone charged with an offence is not necessarily guilty? How do you tell him that the defence counsel has an important role to play? How do you tell him that people who are charged with crimes are not necessarily bad people? Some of them commit their crimes on impulse, or perhaps when they are in a state of utter despair, drowning in their own disappointments and frustrations. How could I tell my son that, sometimes, people hit out at society because they have lost all hope? I couldn’t explain these thoughts to my son but I shared them with my wife.

She said, “Yes, I understand that you have to do what you have to do.”

“You know, Vimi, in my years of practice, I’ve seen all sorts of people. I’ve seen the best in men and the worst in men.”

When I was young, my father told me that he wanted all his children to receive a university education. That was his target for all of us, which we met. I personally argued with him about it because I was sick of studying by the time I reached the age when I could go to university. But I did and forged this career for myself. It made him very proud. A few years ago, my son indicated to me that he didn’t want to read law and, naturally, I had to ask him for his reasons.

“I don’t have an interest in that subject, papa. I hope you don’t mind,” he replied.

“Of course I don’t mind. I’ve never insisted that you must read law and I will encourage and support you in whatever you choose to do.”

When I asked him what he wanted to do, he replied, “Banking and finance.”

I said, “Okay, that’s fine.” My wife listened to our conversation but didn’t say anything. She asked me later if I was disappointed and I told her that I honestly wasn’t. As I have stated, my son has to make his own choices in life. I will support him in whatever he does.

It wasn’t like that for me initially. In 1963, I was sent to India to study medicine because my mother wanted me to be a doctor. I lost one whole year of my life trying to please my mother. I knew from the first few classes I attended that I wasn’t suited to study medicine. I was very homesick too. I came back after only three months in Loyola College, Madras, and enrolled in Raffles Institution. I had to wait a long time to start school because the school year was already in full swing. I wouldn’t want my son to be in a position where he is doing something he doesn’t want to do just to please me or my wife.

Right now, he’s chasing his own dream, studying banking and financial services at Ngee Ann Polytechnic. He chose to go to the polytechnic despite qualifying for a place in a junior college because he wanted to start doing the subjects that he liked straight away. He said there was no point in doing history or geography or physics or chemistry when he could embark on banking and finance at Ngee Ann. It made sense to me. But lately, he has shown some interest in the law which I’m secretly pleased about. He will read the case files that I bring home from the office and sometimes even discuss aspects of those cases with me. I find his input valuable also because he provides me with an insight into how his generation thinks about crime and punishment. In fact, he has enlightened me on many issues. I must say that, even after almost four decades of working as a lawyer, crime and punishment is something which I find very hard to define. Many books and papers have been written, but to me it’s a subject that bears different definitions for different people. Like my career as a lawyer, crime and punishment has evolved since I first started. It’s like a living being I have walked side by side with all these years, our respective paths sometimes crossing but never for too long.

Not long ago, as I was addressing the Court of Appeal in a case of the prosecution’s appeal against the sentence of three years given to a person who had killed his pregnant wife, I was trying very hard to argue why the sentence was not manifestly inadequate. I was throwing arguments about how there must be rehabilitation. The Court of Appeal, comprising Justice of Appeal Andrew Pang, Justice of Appeal V K Rajah and Justice Tay Yong Kwang listened very attentively. I was stopped at one stage by the presiding judge, Andrew Pang. He said: “You know, Mr Anandan, we agree with you on rehabilitation and the need to rehabilitate offenders, especially those who suffer from mental disorders, but don’t you think that this court also has the responsibility to look after the interest of the community?”

I agreed. “Of course, you have the responsibility to look after the community.”

“Don’t you think we should balance the rights of the accused person and the rights of the community and society in general, and make sure that the rights of the accused person do not supersede the rights of the community?” Justice Pang asked.

Again, I agreed. “Yes, Your Honour, it’s a very fine balancing act and I am glad that I don’t have to do it. The responsibility is yours.” It was the first time I saw Justice Pang showing one of his rare smiles. Justice Rajah was smiling too. Naturally, they reserved judgment on the appeal and subsequently raised the prison sentence from three to five years. I thought it was fair, especially as the prosecution was asking for 10 years.

One of the questions that people often ask me is how I deal with my cases and the accused persons. I always tell them that preparation for a case is not an easy task, especially when it is a capital case. In capital cases, you are burdened with a very heavy responsibility because the life of the accused is at stake. You simply cannot afford to make mistakes. If you do, there is a possibility that your client will hang. The situation puts you under a lot of stress and the pressure is unrelenting. You have to do the best you can to keep your client away from the gallows.

In the last few years, I have been lucky in the sense that I have my nephew, Sunil, to help me. He does most of the ground work of running around and most of the preparation. He has a passion for criminal law and does his research very well. We also have our own interns and other legal associates who will do research and prepare documents and briefs, which I read and correct if necessary. Whatever others do for you on a case, you still have to countercheck and amend. Sometimes, you have to rehash the whole thing because if something goes wrong in your case, ultimately only you will be held responsible.

Interviewing and taking instructions from the accused person is a very difficult task. In all capital cases, the accused persons are in prison and instructions can only be taken from them there. Practically every Saturday morning, Sunil and I spend our time in one prison or another because that’s just about the only time we have to interview clients who are being held there. We are both in court virtually non-stop from Mondays to Fridays, but we do make trips to prison during weekdays when we don’t have to appear in court. For accused persons who are out on bail, instructions can be taken in our office at Raffles Place, which is definitely a more conducive environment. We can even do it over a cup of coffee. I can tell you that it’s certainly more relaxing as you know that the punishment will not be as harsh as in capital cases. No one’s life is in your hands.

When you are seeing the accused for the first time, there are always difficulties. They don’t know you and they have no reason yet to trust you. It’s very difficult to build trust and confidence in a prison. In the early days of my practice, it was especially difficult because no one knew me. But as I became a little more popular, prisoners started to know about me and it was easier to talk to them. Still, it is no cakewalk. As a lawyer you have to ensure that the accused person is telling you the truth and, to do that, sometimes you have to cross-examine him, just as you would do a witness in court. When you think that the accused is not telling you the whole story, you have to scream and shout at him, or threaten to discharge yourself, or tell him that you know he is a liar. It saps a lot of energy out of you because you have to make judgement calls on people you don’t know at all. Only after two or three sessions with the accused person will you get the truth, or at least very close to the truth. Without these sessions, it is very difficult to defend an accused person because you can be caught by surprise by what the prosecution presents in court. In our system where ambush tactics are still allowed, the prosecution sometimes takes full advantage and catches you flat-footed in court. It’s definitely not a pleasant feeling for any lawyer when that happens.