counsel.
The accused’s bribes story had not been published. No editor dared print such stuff if he wanted to retain his licence and liberty. The journalist’s crime was to have
tried
to disseminate his heresy.
Maxwell’s knowledge of the local language
Bahasa Indonesia
was insufficient for him to follow the proceedings. The outcome, however, was not in doubt. The accused would be gaoled for ‘sowing hate’, a catch-all law that made insulting the president a crime that could lead to seven years in gaol.
Suddenly the prosecutor branded the young journalist a communist, which prompted the rear of the court to stir like a wasp’s nest. The bench called for order but the shout was ignored. The handful of police, there to protect the judges, eyed the crowd uneasily, knowing they hadn’t the numbers to stop the protests.
‘I don’t understand your country,’ Maxwell whispered.
‘Nor do I, and I’m Indonesian,’ Abdul grinned.
‘We’re in a police state, right? They’re going to gaol your friend to silence him, yet these guys behind us can come in here, shout the same stuff that he was writing, and get away with it! Make any sense to you?’
‘Easy. They want us to – how you say – let off steam?’ Abdul answered. His voice was almost girlish. ‘In this room we harmless, because no one dare report what we say
outside
the court.’
On the wall behind the judges hung a photograph of the president who’d had his way with this nation for over thirty years. Supported by the West as a bastion against communism, a man who’d used the development of the nation’s economy to fill his family’s coffers, Maxwell thought he saw a twinkle of amusement in those monochrome eyes.
Let them shout
, they seemed to say.
Words can’t harm me
.
‘What’s the point of all this, then?’ he asked, putting his mouth close to Abdul’s delicately formed ear. ‘Why do you guys bother to try to print stuff that’ll get you locked up?’
The noise in the packed chamber rose. The soft Malay-based language hardened into a bark. ‘Free the press! Free the press! No more gags!’
‘You won’t change things while
he
’s around,’ Maxwell bellowed, pointing at the picture of the president. ‘The man’s got a skin as thick as an elephant.’
Abdul held up a finger to stop him.
‘Yes …’ he shouted back. ‘But if you inject an elephant with a little poison each day, even
he
will become weak in the end …’
Maxwell smiled. It’d take a bigger syringe than the one these boys had. Yet he knew they were part of something bigger, a diffuse, disorganised democracy movement that was marshalling itself for the time when the ageing president gave up his hold on power. The regime was doing all it could to crush it. Hence this trial.
The sallow faces of the judges had the uneasy eyes of men administering laws they didn’t support. The accused was on his feet defending himself.
‘Free-dom! Free-dom!’ A new chant from the back of the court.
Maxwell saw strain on the judges’ faces, caught the uneasy glances between them. Not long now, he thought. The verdict came within minutes. Guilty. The sentence – two-and-a-half years. Long enough to stifle a voice of protest, short enough to limit the anger of the mob.
The court erupted. The judges slunk away.
Maxwell knew his own masters would be pleased with the outcome. Trade with this country would flourish best if little was said about the means by which it was secured.
‘Bad luck,’ he murmured, his mouth close to Abdul’s ear. ‘Lost another battle, but you can still win the war.’
Important to keep the boy sweet. Abdul was useful.
London – the News Channel newsroom
06.55 hrs
‘The re-write on the hospital … where the fuck is it?’
Tom Marples yelling, back from the gallery during a commercial break and haunted by the nightmare of a hole in his programme.
‘Shit! Sorry! It’s there! It’s there!’
Charlotte hammered her keyboard. She’d
The accused’s bribes story had not been published. No editor dared print such stuff if he wanted to retain his licence and liberty. The journalist’s crime was to have
tried
to disseminate his heresy.
Maxwell’s knowledge of the local language
Bahasa Indonesia
was insufficient for him to follow the proceedings. The outcome, however, was not in doubt. The accused would be gaoled for ‘sowing hate’, a catch-all law that made insulting the president a crime that could lead to seven years in gaol.
Suddenly the prosecutor branded the young journalist a communist, which prompted the rear of the court to stir like a wasp’s nest. The bench called for order but the shout was ignored. The handful of police, there to protect the judges, eyed the crowd uneasily, knowing they hadn’t the numbers to stop the protests.
‘I don’t understand your country,’ Maxwell whispered.
‘Nor do I, and I’m Indonesian,’ Abdul grinned.
‘We’re in a police state, right? They’re going to gaol your friend to silence him, yet these guys behind us can come in here, shout the same stuff that he was writing, and get away with it! Make any sense to you?’
‘Easy. They want us to – how you say – let off steam?’ Abdul answered. His voice was almost girlish. ‘In this room we harmless, because no one dare report what we say
outside
the court.’
On the wall behind the judges hung a photograph of the president who’d had his way with this nation for over thirty years. Supported by the West as a bastion against communism, a man who’d used the development of the nation’s economy to fill his family’s coffers, Maxwell thought he saw a twinkle of amusement in those monochrome eyes.
Let them shout
, they seemed to say.
Words can’t harm me
.
‘What’s the point of all this, then?’ he asked, putting his mouth close to Abdul’s delicately formed ear. ‘Why do you guys bother to try to print stuff that’ll get you locked up?’
The noise in the packed chamber rose. The soft Malay-based language hardened into a bark. ‘Free the press! Free the press! No more gags!’
‘You won’t change things while
he
’s around,’ Maxwell bellowed, pointing at the picture of the president. ‘The man’s got a skin as thick as an elephant.’
Abdul held up a finger to stop him.
‘Yes …’ he shouted back. ‘But if you inject an elephant with a little poison each day, even
he
will become weak in the end …’
Maxwell smiled. It’d take a bigger syringe than the one these boys had. Yet he knew they were part of something bigger, a diffuse, disorganised democracy movement that was marshalling itself for the time when the ageing president gave up his hold on power. The regime was doing all it could to crush it. Hence this trial.
The sallow faces of the judges had the uneasy eyes of men administering laws they didn’t support. The accused was on his feet defending himself.
‘Free-dom! Free-dom!’ A new chant from the back of the court.
Maxwell saw strain on the judges’ faces, caught the uneasy glances between them. Not long now, he thought. The verdict came within minutes. Guilty. The sentence – two-and-a-half years. Long enough to stifle a voice of protest, short enough to limit the anger of the mob.
The court erupted. The judges slunk away.
Maxwell knew his own masters would be pleased with the outcome. Trade with this country would flourish best if little was said about the means by which it was secured.
‘Bad luck,’ he murmured, his mouth close to Abdul’s ear. ‘Lost another battle, but you can still win the war.’
Important to keep the boy sweet. Abdul was useful.
London – the News Channel newsroom
06.55 hrs
‘The re-write on the hospital … where the fuck is it?’
Tom Marples yelling, back from the gallery during a commercial break and haunted by the nightmare of a hole in his programme.
‘Shit! Sorry! It’s there! It’s there!’
Charlotte hammered her keyboard. She’d
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