The Best I Could (34 page)

One day, when I was having lunch at the Singapore Cricket Club with Harry, Eddie, Joe Grimberg, who is my good neighbour, and a few others, Harry asked, “Why don’t you want to come? Just come and have a good time.” Then I said, “Harry, I must tell you a story.” I narrated the events of 1968 and the promise I made to the man. Harry looked at me and said: “What a beautiful story this is, Subhas, and of course, you must keep your promise. I am so proud that you’re still keeping it even though the man is dead and gone as you said. If ever you write a book, you must include this part of your life.”

Gambling got people of the likes of Johnny Tan into trouble. It could easily have gotten me into a lot of trouble if not for a wise old man. He may have been a gangster but he cared enough to give me sound advice. I will forever be grateful to him.

When I think about the Turf Club incident and the promise I made, I’m reminded of another encounter I had when I was still in university. The encounter was with a young Indian boy I met while in a coffee shop with some friends in Naval Base. I noticed the boy, who was perhaps 11 or 12 years old, coming into the coffee shop smoking a cigarette. He sat at a corner table and ordered a cup of coffee. I turned around and asked him, “Hey, don’t you think you’re a bit too young to smoke?” He looked at me arrogantly and replied, “Well, it’s my money and if I want to smoke, I’ll smoke. Just because you’re older than me gives you the right to smoke and I can’t?”

I looked at him and since he made some sense to me, I agreed. My friends were upset with his rudeness but I felt that he showed some spunk and I suggested that we should leave him alone.

After about 10 minutes, he finished his coffee and came over and tapped me on the shoulder. He said, “Can I speak with you alone outside?” This further irritated my friends and one of them retorted, “Hey, young punk, what are you trying to do?” I calmed them down and agreed to leave the coffee shop with the boy. Once we were outside, he asked me if I could lend him $50. I was shocked.

“Fifty dollars! What the hell do you want $50 for? To buy more cigarettes, is it?”

The air of arrogance left his face and he said rather humbly, “Please, I need the money to pay for school fees for myself and my sister and for some household expenses.”

“What about your father? Don’t you have a father?”

“Don’t talk about my father,” he replied. “He’s always drunk and he doesn’t care much about the family. He frequently beats up my mother and that’s all he does.”

I was curious. “How have you been managing all this while then?”

He told me his story. In those days at the Base, lunch for the workers was prepared by the wives. The families would pay someone to collect tiffin carriers containing food from the homes and deliver them to the workers at lunchtime. The boy assisted the deliveryman and he was paid every day. The man, however, had gone back to India for a long break. The boy did not have the same arrangement with the new deliveryman.

I told the boy: “If your story is true, of course, I’ll help you. Not that I’ve got money but I’ll raise it from somewhere. If you’re telling me some bullshit, boy, you’re in big trouble.” He assured me that he wasn’t lying and that he knew who I was. I suggested that we meet in a day or two at the same coffee shop.

I discussed the matter with my friends and we decided to find out who his father was. We discovered that his father worked at the Base and drew a regular income. But he was a drunk who had a bad habit of frequenting a strip of 50 to 60 bars called The Sembawang Patio. It was normally patronised by sailors, amongst others. Like the boy’s father, most of the customers would get drunk at the bars and beat up their wives when they got home. For some of these Indian men drunk on alcohol, the climax of their night would be to beat up their wives.

When we knew that his story was true, I collected $50 with the help of some friends and gave it to the boy. I said to him: “Here, take your time to pay it back. Study hard and do well. I have one condition when I hand this money to you. You must stop smoking. It’s bad for you.” He said that he appreciated my help and would definitely agree to quit smoking. He said that he was not addicted to it and it was not difficult to give it up.

Meanwhile, my friends and I decided that his father should stop visiting the bars. We made sure that whichever bar he went to, he would be beaten up when he left and warned not to go there again. Soon we learnt that he had stopped going there and was just enjoying a beer or two at home. His neighbours also confirmed that he had stopped beating up his wife because he was not that drunk anymore.

About a month or two later, the boy returned the $50. I asked him, “How are things at home now?” He said that he could now focus on his studies and didn’t need to assist the deliveryman anymore as his father had stopped going to the bars and would give the family money. Things were much better at home. The boy said that his father claimed that he had been beaten up many times and had lodged police reports but nothing had come out of them. So he decided to stay at home.

I smiled and said, “You mean he has changed for the better?”

“Something like that,” the boy replied. He gave me a funny look as though he knew that I must have had something to do with the change in his father but he didn’t say anything. He was very grateful, thanked me for the loan and walked off.

Many years later, when I was staying at Kampung Wak Hassan, I had to drive past The Sembawang Patio every day. One night on my way home, I stopped there to buy a packet of Dunhill cigarettes. I parked my car, bought my cigarettes and as I was returning to my car, I heard this voice call out, “Mr Subhas, Mr Subhas.” A young man came running and caught me by my hand and asked, “Do you know who I am?”

Obviously, I didn’t and said to him, “The way you caught hold of me, I thought you were going to beat me up.”

He laughed. “Who would want to beat you up, Mr Subhas? Not in this area.”

He led me to a group of people who were having supper there. He introduced me to his wife and a few other couples. He quickly grabbed a stool for me and insisted that I joined them. He said, “You don’t remember me, do you? Remember, a very long time ago, I borrowed $50 from you and after a month or two, I returned the loan?” As he was narrating the story of our meeting, it all came rushing back to me.

I looked at his wife and asked, “Does your husband smoke?”

She smiled warmly and replied, “No, he doesn’t smoke. He told me the whole story and how he gave you his word that he would not smoke and he has not since then. I’ve not seen him smoke.”

I looked at him and said, “You don’t smoke, huh?”

“No, Mr Subhas. A promise is a promise.”

We talked for a while and I learnt he was working as an engineer. At that time, he had one child. As I got up to leave, his wife held my hand and said, “There’s nothing we can do to repay the kindness you showed my husband then but we always pray for you.”

I said, “That’s the greatest thing anyone can do for me. Thank you.”

“Look after your health,” she called out as I left.

On August 14, 2008, as I neared the end of writing this book, I went to the Women’s Prison in Changi to see three people: two ladies who were charged with capital offences for drug trafficking, and another who was charged for murdering her husband’s brother and stabbing the brother’s wife and mother. The husband of the accused is an opposition politician in Singapore. As the woman is a Chinese citizen, I was briefed to handle the case by the Chinese embassy. The prison has not given me permission to see her yet and I still do not know why she murdered her brother-in-law. She is going through a psychiatric evaluation.

After seeing the other two alleged drug traffickers, I visited One-eyed Dragon in his condemned cell. I had just prepared his clemency petition and wanted him to sign it. When I gave the petition to him, he looked at it, turned to me and said, “Lawyer, is there any use in sending this to the President? You know and I know that I’m not going to get any clemency from the President. So why are we going through this rigmarole?”

“It is your last avenue of appeal asking for clemency and as your lawyer, I have to advise you to do it. Of course, if you don’t want to do it, I can’t force you.”

“What is your advice?” he asked.

“My advice obviously is that you should sign the petition and we should send it to the Istana. If not, I would not have bothered to prepare one and come to see you.”

One-eyed Dragon thought for a moment. “You know, I want to defer my execution for as long as I can.”

“Why? Are you afraid to die?” I asked

“No, no, no. I’m not afraid to die. In fact, it would be quite good to die.”

“Then why do you want to delay the execution?”

“When I was arrested and charged, my son was only a few months old. Now he is almost two years old. When he comes to see me, he calls me ‘papa’. I spend time with him even though I’m in this condemned cell. I love that boy and love even more to hear him call me ‘papa’. I just want to hear him call me that for a few months more. That’s why I hope to have the execution delayed.”

I told him that when I send the petition to the President, I could include a note stating his wish. It could give him a little more time. He instructed me to do that.

“The people here say that one way to get more time is to change lawyers. They said I should tell the Superintendent that I don’t like my present lawyers and that I want to replace them and that would give me some time,” One-eyed Dragon said.

I agreed with this. “There you are. They’ve given you a way to get your extension. Why don’t you just replace me? Get another lawyer.”

He smiled at me. “You know I thought about it but I don’t want to do that. When my wife came to see you to appear for me in the Court of Appeal, you agreed to do so. I know you’ve been a good counsel and you’ve done the best you could for me. I can follow all the arguments you put forward in my defence because the interpreter was there. I don’t think it’s right for me to replace you because people will think that you’ve done something wrong and that you had to be replaced. Nobody would know the real reason and I don’t want to do that to you because, you see, I respect you quite a lot.”

I was really moved and thanked him for his compliment. But I assured him that I wouldn’t mind if he replaced me with another lawyer just to get his extension. He reiterated that he did not think it was right or fair to me. We could not even shake hands. I just placed my palm against the glass panel and he put his palm against mine on the other side.

As I walked away, I saw Sunil approaching me. He had just come from interviewing another client in the prison. As we walked together to the prison’s main exit, I told Sunil what One-eyed Dragon and I talked about. He just smiled. Even though my nephew has been in practice only for three years, he has proven to be a man with a lot of passion for criminal law. He defends the accused very passionately and he does everything he can for them. He is very conscientious.

“Well, at least One-eyed Dragon feels that we have done the best for him,” he said.

“Yes, it looks as though our best is not good enough. It looks as though
so
often our best is not good enough.”

Sunil remained quiet.

He looked at me and asked, “Are you very tired?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You sound very tired,” he replied.

I told him I was a little tired and frustrated. Sometimes I wish I can retire and forget about criminal law and all these accused persons and their problems. I told Sunil I may retire sometime at the end of 2009.

He said: “
Valiachan
(‘big father’ in Malayalam), you’ve been saying this from the time I’ve been your assistant but every year something comes up and you’ve gone on to fight.”

“I suppose so.”

At the exit gate, we retrieved our identity cards and returned the prison entry cards. Sunil asked me to wait there while he fetched the car which was parked quite a distance away. We’ve always had to park a long distance away. It’s not often that lawyers for the accused get to park within the prison compound, which is mainly reserved for civil servants. A police sergeant who is there to take a statement from an accused person will be given a choice parking lot. People like me, who can’t walk long distances due to ill health and who go there for official reasons, are treated like third-class citizens and do not get the same privilege of parking inside.

As I was waiting for Sunil, a guard, an Indian woman, came out and asked me, “Mr Subhas, are you waiting for someone?”

“Yes, I can’t walk. So my nephew has gone to get the car. I’m waiting for him.”

“If he has gone outside to get the car, he’s going to take a while, sir. Please come inside and take a seat in the air-conditioned room while you wait.”

I explained that I had already returned the prison entry card but she insisted that I should wait in the comfort of the air-conditioned room. I was very grateful to her. Another guard showed his hospitality by adjusting the temperature of the air-conditioning as I was still feeling a little hot. Many of the prison wardens greeted me and enquired after my health as they walked past. Some even offered to get me a drink which I politely refused.

As I looked around, I thought to myself: “Years have passed and I really appreciate that at least some people recognise some of the good things I have done. I have in my twilight years become some sort of celebrity but I wonder how long that will last. People have short memories and very easily you can become yesterday’s hero.”

When I was released from prison in 1976, I wanted to write a book about my experiences in prison. When that was reported in the press, David Marshall, who was my lawyer then, rang me up and said to me, “Be careful, my lad. You don’t want to look for trouble. You may state issues that are protected by the Official Secrets Act. I suggest that you hold on.” I took his advice and held on for a very long time — until 2008 when I wrote my first book, which became an instant hit and stayed on the bestsellers chart for a long time. I had initially thought to title it “It’s Easy to Cry” but instead titled it “The Best I Could”.