The last case Singapore had under a jury was that of the Public Prosecutor vs Freddie Tan. Freddie was accused of the murder of his friend, Gene Koh, whose father was a big contractor in the public works sector. He had befriended Gene since their days in London. When they were back in Singapore, he kidnapped Gene and murdered him. David Marshall was holding a watching brief for the family of the deceased. Another well-known criminal lawyer, S K Lee, was defending Freddie Tan. The presiding judge was Justice Choor Singh. When the prosecution and the defence had made their case, S K Lee was able to convince the jury, among other arguments, that it was not murder but culpable homicide because of diminished responsibility. The jury agreed with the defence that Freddie Tan was guilty of culpable homicide and not murder. The judge sentenced Freddie to life imprisonment. We were told that when Justice Choor Singh was asked what had happened, he had to say that his hands were tied as the jury had found the accused guilty of culpable homicide. So, he did the next best thing and sent him in for life.
Strangely enough, in 1976 when I was sent to the psychiatric ward of Changi Prison, I met Freddie Tan. He came to see me, having heard that I was there. He was serving out his life sentence. He wore a green ribbon on his uniform. He said that it allowed him to move around the prison freely with no restrictions. The wardens gave him a lot of freedom and he could choose to visit me with cigarettes whenever he felt like it. Looking at him, you would never know that he had killed somebody and that he had narrowly escaped the death sentence. He was cheerful and looked strong as he said he had been working out.
Freddie Tan’s case was the last held with a jury. The law was amended thereafter and it was determined that all capital cases—cases where the death sentence is mandatory—would be heard by two judges, who would decide based on facts and the law. After some time, it was decided that there was no need for two judges to hear capital cases. For many years now, a single judge hears such cases. It was a gradual process—from the jury being abolished to the setting up of a two-judge court and finally to a single judge hearing capital cases. Let us hope that one day we will not reach the situation where capital cases will be heard in the Subordinate Courts. Looking at the calibre of some of the judges there, that would be a real tragedy.
TWENTY-NINE
KEEPING A PROMISE
I will end this book by going back full circle to my early days in Naval Base. But before I do that, I would like to relate an episode in my life that has affected me greatly. I think it’s important that I tell you this story because it always reminds me to keep my promises. It also reminds me of the intrinsic goodness in people. You just have to show that you care and people will respond in ways that pleasantly surprise you.
I think I was in my third or final year at university. Before heading for classes in the morning, I would drive my elder sister to the Singapore General Hospital where she was a houseman. I would then head to the university canteen and have my breakfast of usually coffee and toast. I had different groups of friends at university. One of the groups I used to move around with consisted of Sunny Chew, who was at one time president of the Socialist Club; Conrad Raj, who is today a well-known journalist; Francis Yeo, a business administration graduate; Sim Yong Chan, the present vice-president of the Association of Criminal Lawyers of Singapore; and Linda Neo, a very close and dear friend with whom I still keep in touch. She now lives in Germany where she has settled down with a German doctor. There were other ladies in the group like food columnist Violet Oon; Laura Tan, who really wasn’t part of the core group but used to hang around us; and also Jill, Sue and Ruth Kuok, the daughters of the Malaysian sugar magnate, Robert Kuok.
Sunny Chew had this wild idea of making money from the Turf Club. He said that he studied the horses and knew how to read the tracks and that we could make a lot of money betting on the horses. My friends would go to the Turf Club on weekends but I seldom joined them as Saturday was football day and Sunday was “stay-at-home” day for me.
One Saturday, after collecting my sister’s salary from her, I went to the Union House and met my friends. There was an excited discussion among the group about the race day. Sunny Chew said he had picked some sure winners and they were going to the Turf Club that afternoon. They persuaded me to join them. I agreed and went with them, still holding on to my sister’s salary. I also had with me my university fees which I was supposed to pay.
At the Turf Club, off Dunearn Road in those days, we started betting. Sunny Chew had this habit of changing his mind at the last minute, saying that even though his research showed a particular horse should win, his instinct told him that another horse would be the one to win. Laura never followed Sunny’s tips. Instead, she relied on her grandmother, who would give her one or two tips. She would share the tips with us but we did not take her seriously because we thought Sunny was the expert. We should have known better because every time they attended the races, Sunny would lose and Laura would make some money. It was no different that day.
With each bet, we slowly lost more of our money. I lost the money for my fees and finally, in desperation, with my friends urging me on with “sure bet, sure bet”, I lost my sister’s salary too. I was miserable and in my frustration, shouted out loud at Sunny and Conrad, “What the hell!” I could always delay paying the fees as good old Reginald Quahe, deputy vice-chancellor at the university, was always sympathetic to sad stories. But my sister’s salary of $650—it had to be given to my mother as she was expecting it. “What am I going to do?” I exclaimed. It was too late to borrow money from anyone. My friends tried to calm me by saying that they would try to recover some of the losses on Monday by borrowing from other friends. They told me that somehow I had to bear with it the best I could.
It was easier said than done for them and I wondered what I was going to tell my mother. Out of desperation, I drove my car to one of those places where regular people would not go, as it was infested with triad members. I knew a few of the members, having grown up with them. I went into a den, found some of them building up their bodies with weights, and asked, “Where’s the boss?” I was told that he was in one of the rooms and I proceeded to enter.
A game of mahjong was being played, and I stood and watched for a while before the boss spoke to me: “I’ve not seen you for a long time. How are your studies? What made you come here?”
I replied that I needed to talk with him.
We went into one of the inner chambers and he asked, “What’s wrong? You look worried? What’s happening?” I explained that I needed money to buy some textbooks and added that I would be able to return the loan later. He told me that even though he was illiterate, he was well aware that it was not the time of year to buy books. Besides, I was asking for quite a lot of money, almost $1,000. I had thought that since I was asking for an amount equivalent to my sister’s salary, I might as well ask for my university fees too. I tried to convince him that I would be able to return the loan in a few months time.
Somewhat affectionately he asked me: “Keling kiah, are you telling me the truth? Don’t bluff me. I hate it when people bluff me. Tell me what happened. Why do you really need the money?”
I looked at him sheepishly and decided that it was better to come clean. “I went to the Turf Club today with my friends. My friend thought it was a sure bet and I betted my sister’s salary and my university fees. I lost everything. I have to go home now and my mother is waiting for my sister’s salary to pay for household expenses as my father’s salary is not enough.”
He was shocked that I had gone to the Turf Club and reprimanded me. “You gambled with money that didn’t belong to you! What are you trying to do? You’re already showing signs that you can be irresponsible with other people’s money. Tomorrow you will be a lawyer. Then what will you do? Take other people’s money and gamble it away in the Turf Club? Pay it back and take more money to gamble again?”
He went on. “Your parents are so proud that you’re going to be a lawyer. We too are proud that you’r
e going to be a lawyer and this is what you do. You’re such a disappointing bastard. Actually I don’t know why I should be talking to you. I should just kick you out of this place.”
I just kept quiet. Feeling miserable and remorseful, I asked him softly: “Are you going to help me?”
After calling me all sorts of undesirable names, he said: “Well, what has happened, has happened.” He opened a drawer and took out $1,000 and gave it to me. He said: “This should cover your sister’s salary and your fees. Let me say one thing. This money is not given to you for nothing. You promise me today, give me your word that you will never ever return to the Turf Club and do what you did today.” I made the promise on the spot.
He added: “You’d better keep your promise, Subhas. You see, I’m going to tell our people in the Turf Club to look out for you. If you’re there, they are going to pick you up and throw you out and I will definitely not interfere. So, you’d better not go.”
I assured him. “I’ve promised you that I will not go. So I will not.”
As I was walking away, he called me back, put his arms on my shoulders, gave me a hug and said: “Don’t get angry with me for being so tough on you just now but I’m worried. You’re the hope of so many people. I hope you realise that.”
I nodded. “Yes, I realise that. I realise what a fool I’ve been. I’ll keep my promise.”
He then went back to the same drawer, took out another $500 and shoved it into my pocket. “Take your girlfriend out for dinner. Do what you like but don’t gamble.” I thanked him. He ruffled my hair like an uncle would and walked me to my car.
That was in 1968. Ever since that day, I have not stepped into the Turf Club. My friends have invited me, especially Harry Elias, who is a member of the committee at the Turf Club, and Edward D’Souza, who is a steward. I’ve also been invited by the chairman, Herman Hochstadt, but I have always made excuses to avoid going there.
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?”
The Best I Could Page 25