One of Shanmugam's sideline businesses was repairing all kinds of motorised land or sea vehicles which kept him very busy. On the surface all seemed well but trouble was brewing in his marriage. It was an arranged union to a first cousin on his mothers side from India and it never became one of wedded bliss. He discovered that his wife was not as faithful as he was and on one occasion caught her 'entertaining' a boyfriend. He divorced his wife, won custody of the twin boys, then 12 years-old. His mother helped look after them. Other things began to go wrong in his life and he lost interest in his sports activities. His mother fell ill and he found himself being the sole breadwinner for her and his unmarried sister. A new promising relationship with an attractive American woman also suddenly came to an abrupt end. She had second thoughts about becoming a mother to his sons and decided to return to the US. All this made him extremely depressed and he tried to escape in the haze of cannabis smoke. Shanmugam took jobs as a taxi driver and part-time window cleaner and sometimes repaired boats in Johor Bahru, the town where Vignes Mourthi had lived until his arrest. Occasionally Shanmugam would meet up privately with friends in Johor to smoke some weed, throwing in $20 each to purchase what they needed. One of them, a Chinese man named Ah Seng, linked him up with Mok who was to become the shadowy figure in his eventual demise. He had a motorbike and a boat with problems and Shanmugam was the man to fix them. He also joined Shanmugam in smoking weed with his other friends which appeared to seal their friendship. Shanmugam also had a reputation of being too trusting, even gullible. What happened next should have been a warning to him.
By this time Shanmugam was now supporting not only his own family including his frail mother, but also a sister, Mahes, who had separated from her husband and her two sons. The burdens on his shoulders, however broad and willing, were becoming too much for him. By a strange coincidence, his younger brother, Kuben, was a police officer and at one time was seconded to the Central Narcotics Bureau but at this time was a member of the marine police. Except for a minor traffic offence, Shanmugam did not have a single previous conviction before that fatal day, 30 August 2003. He had decided, with Mok as his supplier, to help solve his financial problems, to take small amounts of cannabis into Singapore and sell it. He was always sure never to carry an amount weighing more than 500 grams that would lead to the gallows and he only handled cannabis. He may have been too trusting of some people but he was not an idiot.
Instead of being able to contact Ravi to take on his case, he was represented by two court-appointed counsels, Ganesan and Rajah Retnam. His trial was in total contrast to the action-packed trial of Vignes Mourthi and Moorthy Angappan which dragged on full of suspense for almost five months. Shanmugam's trial lasted exactly four days. The only witnesses called were the defendant himself, arresting and interrogating officers, police recorders - outnumbering him 23 to one - and a Tamil-language interpreter. "The same evidence against him was repeated over and over like layers of cement preventing any mental daylight to creep in', Ravi told me later after examining the case.
Shanmugam could only repeat that the other five packets totaling 1,880 grams of cannabis and mixed cannabis had been secreted into cavities in his motorcycle by someone else, mostly likely the now mysterious Mok who had been encouraging him to trade higher but without success for months. He maintained that he knowingly had just under 300 grams in his possession - not a hanging offence. One of the issues against Shanmugam was that he was slow in naming Mok as his supplier. His answer was that he did not want to get this man, whom he regarded as a friend, into trouble. But as time went on, especially after revealing all he knew about him, he was certain he was the one who landed him in all this trouble, and quite deliberately. The trial began on 19 April 2004 and was all over four days later. Judge Tay Yong Kwang decided that Shanmugam's account was 'highly unlikely to be true'. Shanmugan also claimed he had been 'severely intimidated' during his interrogation with officers shouting at him, even slapping him on the side of his head several times. In Singapore suspects have no right to legal counsel during interrogations and very rarely do any lawyers even get to see their clients during the early stages of their confinement. The prosecution denied all these allegations, however, and persuaded the court that it was Shanmugam's intention to smuggle a larger amount of cannabis was purely to make a larger amount of money. At 11.46 a.m. on 23 April Judge Tay adjourned to his chambers to consider his verdict. He must have already made up his mind. He was back at 11.59 a.m. The sentence was death. At his flat in Woodlands, Darshan Singh checked his diary. He knew he would be making a special entry very soon and he wanted to know what else he would be doing over the next few months.
Shanmugan arrived on death row that evening and Darshan Singh would soon be busy weighing and measuring this very fit young man noting his muscularity which he would have to take into account when calculating the drop so to ensure a humane execution. But first the routine appeals stage had to be gone through. Shanmugam's second lawyer was Peter Fernando, who had handled many drug cases over a long career with an enviable record of successful defences - but not necessarily capital offences. His appeal, filed on 25 October 2004, was again heard before Chief Justice Yong Pung How with Judge Chow Hick Tin and Kan Ting Chiu. It was just routine with both sides repeating what had already been said at the original trial. The appeal was, predictably, dismissed. All Shanmugam could do now was to sit on death row and pray for a presidential clemency. The chances were grim. Only six had been granted in the 40-year history of the Republic. Perhaps a miracle in that case would be more likely. But if the Government was angry with attorney and human rights activist M. Ravi exposing the dark side of Singapore coldly efficient justice system in the Vignes Mourthi case, they were in for a bigger surprise this time. The zealous lawyer took up the cause before the President's clemency ruling was issued, realising that the odds were against getting a clemency ruling. This time he took a different tack, a new strategy. He decided to take the battle to the court of public opinion as well. His ideas soon won the approval of Shanmugam's family, including his police officer brother, Kuben. In the petition to the President which his appeal lawyers had prepared, the team cited six cases from just the previous two years in which individuals had been arrested for
possession of cannabis wherein the amount was officially reduced to 499 grams, allowing the defendant to escape the death penalty. In five of the cases the original amounts of cannabis had been higher than what Shanmugam himself was caught with. The plea also mentioned he had been ready to cut such a deal with the prosecuting attorneys but found his offer spurned, with no reason given. The petition also included letters attesting to his character from his two sons, both his parents, his former girlfriend now living back in America and his brother, Kuben, the Singapore policeman. The case for clemency looked good but Ravi felt it needed something more. And there wasn't much time before the President made his decision.
He decided on launching a public relations campaign: printing up hundreds of flyers on the case and distributing them. These flyers were handed out primarily at Centrepoint, a popular shopping and dining complex along Singapore's Orchard Road. While his sons played the major role in the distribution, other volunteers also came forward to help out. Unusually, the local press took notice of this action and gave the story some valuable space. Photos of the twins offering flyers to passers-by made for good attention grabbers in the papers. The effect was promising in attracting the attention and support of many, including some opposition political figures, such as Dr Chee Soon Juan, the head of Singapore's Democratic Party and a long time campaigner for civil rights. Chee and Ravi then organised a special forum on the death penalty itself, printing more flyers and booking a meeting hall at the Asia Hotel. They had expected about 70 to turn up but they totaled almost 200. This number included me and several plainclothes police officers from the much-feared Internal Security Department. Talks on the death penalty were given by the condemned man's lawyers and Dr Chee. The emotional high point was a
plea by Letchumi Amah for her son's life. This brief appeal, delivered in Tamil, then translated into English by Ravi, came at the end and stirred almost everyone in the room bringing tears to the eyes of many.
Tim Parritt from Amnesty International had been invited to speak at the forum. He flew in from Kuala Lumpur specifically for the event. However, the day before he was informed by the Singapore government that he would not be permitted to speak. He was free to come in but if he opened his mouth he would most likely be arrested. Parritt naturally wished to show his solidarity with the cause, so he took his assigned place of honour, then sat silent on the stage with the other scheduled speakers while his prepared speech was read out by the event's moderator, Saliah Ahmad. She was then approached by two plainclothes officers who questioned her and demanded to see her passport proving she was a Singapore citizen. There was nothing more they could do but their action put a damper on the event and the forum was shortly brought to a close. But the forum's impact created quite a stir locally and internationally. Many people from the local arts community put together a three-hour vigil with music, poetry, dance and theatre to energise everyone on this issue. Reporters and photographers from the Associated Press, Agence France Presse and Reuters turned up in full force. Even The Straits Times relaxed its straitjacket buttons just a tad and sent a reporter to record the goings on. Later a dedicated group of 30 headed off to the Istana, the Presidents palace, to make yet another personal appeal to the President to grant clemency. They were bent on making this appeal as effective as possible. In at least one regard, it produced undeniable effect. Observers noted that there were probably more police than petitioners there, many of them Internal Security Department officers. So that they would not get arrested for 'unlawful assembly' the demonstrators split into groups of four - otherwise they would have been carted off in black marias to spend the night in a detention centre on a cold concrete block of a bed with only a smelly, bug-infested blanket to keep them warm. Then hauled before a court the next morning and fined.
The most dramatic moment in the impromptu demonstration came when Shanmugam's mother and both sons knelt down before the Istana's gates and implored the president to grant the convicted man a reprieve from the death sentence. A Reuters's photographer had gone with the group to shoot photos of such spontaneous protests. Over the next few days dramatic photos of Letchumi and the boys were flashed around the world. The impact was stunning. Never before in the history of the city state had an impending presidential clemency ruling drawn such widespread attention. Less than a week later, President Nathan issued his ruling. Despite all the activities of the previous few weeks, the appeal was rejected. Was this just a demonstration to the world that Singapore's rulers would not be moved and by such protests and react in a humane manner? Just consider the difference in the treatment serial drug trafficker Julia Bohl received when the German government stepped in and saved her life. Had Shanmugam's name been Schonfeld and had he been born in Dortmund, the outcome would have been entirely different. He had no valuable currency, no huge trade deal to offer. He was dead meat. Ravi, a man I am proud to know, felt sick when he read the President's decision which was sent straight to his office. He shook his head. 'I really couldn't understand this president, denying clemency to a man who seemed to be a perfect candidate for such a show of mercy', he told me later. 'What had gone through the Head of State's head as he weighed all the factors in coming to this decision?' Ravi said he then had the awful duty to tell Shanmugam's family. When he arrived at their home, a housing development flat in Jurong West district, only his mother, Letchumi, and her elderly aunt were at home. What happened next is something he will never erase from his memory bank. 'For a few minutes', he said, 'she just stood there, numb with shock'. Then, as the shock wore off, he recalled, she first started beating her own face with her fists, then dropped her hands and started drumming hard on her chest. Finally, she screamed and almost collapsed on the floor in grief. Well aware of her poor physical health, Ravi said he was afraid she was about to have a stroke, or maybe already in the throes of one. Then tensions and pain in her body, he said, seemed to have taken on an intense weight of their own.
Ravi had never been the recipient of such a notification from the President before and said he was 'surprised' at the rather cold handling of this matter. The letter from Nathan was sent by regular mail and took four days to reach his office. 'I thought that the head of state, generally known for his courtesy and congeniality, could have accorded this one small courtesy to the family of a condemned man'. And just as bizarrely, Ravi revealed, Shanmugam received a medal for his achievements as an army reservist, which was presented to him around the time of the clemency decision! Obviously, he pointed out, the clemency committee had not allowed this honour, or any of the previous honours, to influence them in their deliberations.
Ravi and his supporters lined up one more major event before the scheduled execution. It was a vigil planned by Lee Weng Choy of the Substation Arts Complex and Lucy Davis, along with Samydorai Sinapan, head of the IhinkCentre. The Substation offered a large garden performance area at the rear of the complex that would have been ideal for such an event. The various acts could perform in the open air with a large open stage. Moreover, a candlelight vigil for the condemned man could be held there with no fear of violating fire laws or endangering participants. The police got wind of their plans and banned the event on the grounds that as it was in an open space things could get out of control. The group then approached the Golden Landmark Hotel on Beach Road and booked a reception room appropriate for their needs. Samydorai Sinapan was the official organiser booking the room. Just three days before the event, he received a call from the hotel with some bad news. There was a leak in the roof and they had to cancel the booking. 'It was more likely a leak to the police', said Ravi. 'We speculated that pressure had been put on the hotel to prevent the vigil'. With total secrecy Ravi then booked a room at the Furama Hotel near Chinatown and the vigil went ahead more or less as planned. It was held in the Canton Meeting Room and lasted more than three hours. There were bands, solo musicians, an a cappella singer and poetry readings. Ravi got up to talk about Shanmugam's demise and the death penalty. Others followed him. But not everyone wanted to speak, read, play or sing in protest at the pending execution. Members of Singapore police department in plainclothes happened to drop by. And when anyone not listed to speak were invited to, the police stepped forward and stopped them, threatening arrest if they continued to defy the law. One of these was V.A. Sivakumar of the Vallalar organisation, a Hindu group opposed to all killing for any reason. He was stopped from talking immediately, his name and address taken down by two police officers at first pretending not to be. Shanmugam's mother and his sons were also present and all this only added to their misery.
An article about the vigil appeared in 7he Guardian, one of Britain's most respected newspapers, the next day. Headed 'Singapore Finally Finds A Voice In Death Row Protest' the article proclaimed that history had been made at the Furama Hotel where 'an unprecedented event for the tightly controlled island republic' had been held. Then a renowned journalist from The Guardian/Observer, John Aglionby, was sent from Jakarta to cover this groundbreaking event. The headline on Aglionby's article, which appeared in that Sunday's Observer read:
'A Silence Broken'. And there was indeed, said Ravi, an invigorating sense of silence being broken. Sadly, whatever this vigil did accomplish, reminisced Ravi, it did not increase Shanmugam's chances of escaping the noose. The execution date was immediately after the vigil: Friday 13 May 2004. Meanwhile, Julia Bohl, drug trafficker, dealer, party hostess extraordinaire from Germany, was busy swotting in her cell in preparation for a distance study course examination with the London School of Economics. She served three years of her five-year sentence and flew back to Europe. The Changi Prison motto: 'Rehab, Renew, Restart' worked for her!
20Don't Let Them Kill Me!
'Please don't let them kill me. I don't understand w
hy they have to kill somebody for something like this'. This haunting cry from a terrified young man was ringing in lawyer M. Ravi's ears as he walked through the gates of Changi Prison into the sunlight. He had just said his final farewell to his client Amara Tochi who was due to hang at dawn the following day. It was a tearful moment for them. Ravi had worked himself to exhaustion to prevent the killing of this likeable, handsome young man, a talented footballer who had come to Singapore to fulfil a dream. For the 21 year-old kid from a dirt poor village in Nigeria, Ravi was his last hope. He knew he would be dead the next day - hung by the neck by Singapore's official grim reaper, Darshan Singh. Earlier that morning, the Court of Appeal refused to commute the death sentences on Tochi and his alleged accomplice Okele Nelson Malachy, a 33 year-old South African for trafficking 727.02 grams of heroin into the country. Ravi had worked ceaselessly day and night to save Tochi, first in the Appeal Court then, as a last resort, a desperate plea for clemency from President S.R. Nathan. Tochi said he thought he was carrying African herbs which tasted like chocolate, and even ate one capsule, according to the evidence, to show the police it was 'safe', a gesture suggesting either complete ignorance or naivete. The court delivered the death sentence after a 13-day trial during which even Judge Kan Ting Chin himself raised reasonable doubts about the alleged crime before he sentenced him to death. Judge Kan wrote at paragraph 42 of his judgement. "There was no direct evidence that he knew the capsules contained diamorphine - or heroin'.
Once a Jolly Hangman Page 20