“I know. It was in the papers.” Jessica nodded. “A total of one hundred and twenty-two culprits were apprehended.”
“The problem is, many of these hundred and twenty-two are not guilty.”
“How would you know?”
“The team at Migrant Workers Count Too has been interviewing the migrant workers to get their side of the story. The turnout last night was crazy, it being Saturday night and all. They were queuing around the block. By 3am we had to stop and ask them to come back the next afternoon. And they were telling us a different story.”
“What was it?” Jessica’s curiosity was piqued.
“Many of these migrant workers are uneducated men from small villages in India and Bangladesh. They have an innate fear of those in authority. Some of them sat terrified throughout the police interrogation and felt that their only way out was to provide some names. So they simply gave names of co-workers they were not on good terms with.”
“Oh my God!” Jessica gasped, horrified.
“Among those who were accused, many could not prove they were somewhere else during the rioting. So they were incarcerated and will be charged along with the actual rioters. Their friends came to us for help. We have been taking their statements in the hope that we can petition for them when the time comes.”
“But couldn’t the police sort out the real culprits among the hundred and twenty-two?”
“The riot has shaken the entire nation. The police are under tremendous pressure to produce results. I suspect they are just happy they arrested the hundred and twenty-two so quickly.”
Jessica sat stunned. In her mind she could see the scene clearly. One hundred and twenty-two migrant workers held behind bars. Some of them were guilty; they were the ones who upturned the vehicles and set them on fire in Little India. Some of them were not; they sat on the grass patches along the side of Serangoon Road and watched the rioting in shock. Among them, Jessica saw Haroon’s face. She saw Haroon run towards her curled-up body on the road, pick her up and carry her to the ambulance. Were Haroon not grievously injured and lying comatose in the ICU, he would be the 123rd behind bars. She alone knew he was innocent.
“I want to help.”
“What?”
“You need manpower to interview the migrant workers today, don’t you?” Jessica said. “What time do you start?”
“Two o’clock in the afternoon. But are you sure you’re up to it?” Krison looked uncertain.
Jessica nodded with determination. This was how she could redeem herself. If she could not help Haroon, at least she could help these others who were equally innocent.
Krison had tears in his eyes again. Jessica was the bravest victim he had ever had the honour to serve. “I am meeting the team at noon for lunch before the interview sessions begin. Come join us.”
Jessica hardly slept after she got home, but she was in high spirits when she stepped into the Migrant Workers Count Too office shortly after noon. The tables in the interior were grouped into five clusters while the chairs were lined up side by side for the queue to sit on. She guessed that the arrangement was meant to facilitate five concurrent interviews. There was a group of volunteers huddled around one of the table clusters consuming packed lunches. They looked up with curiosity as Jessica stepped in.
“Over here, Jess! It is so good to see you again!”
Jessica swivelled around to see Omala emerge from the director’s office.
“Krison told me you were coming,” Omala said as she gave Jessica a warm hug. “Come into my office. I want you to meet someone.”
A man who looked to be in his thirties was seated on a sofa. He immediately stood up and extended a hand as Jessica entered. “You must be Jessica. My name is Kuan Eng. I’m pleased to meet you.”
“Kuan Eng is a close friend of mine,” Omala explained as she motioned for Jessica to take a seat. “He works as a corporate lawyer and gives Migrant Workers Count Too pro bono legal assistance. That’s what best friends do—steal one another’s expertise.”
“I am honoured to help.” Kuan Eng gave a cheerful wink. “Omala does great work for migrant workers, especially at critical times like these, when the odds are heavily stacked against them.”
“Which is why we are so grateful that you decided to come in,” Omala added, looking into Jessica’s eyes with a burning intensity that unnerved her.
“Krison told me you were short of manpower. I thought I should help out with the interviews.”
Omala and Kuan Eng exchanged a loaded glance.
“We are hoping you can do more than that.”
“What do you mean?” Jessica asked, mystified.
Kuan Eng shifted himself forward until he was seated at the edge of the sofa, his body heavily tilted towards her.
“The riot lasted for under three hours. There was some damage to property. Up to nine vehicles were set on fire, including three police patrol cars. There was one death—a migrant worker who was fatally pinned between two buses. Otherwise, no mass casualties have resulted from the riot. In fact, as far as we can tell, you are the only one.”
“The media has been training the spotlight on your case,” Omala interjected. “You put a face to the fear the entire nation shares. You reminded the people that they are vulnerable to circumstances beyond their control. What happened to you could happen to them.”
“We cannot deny that a group of migrant workers started the riot,” Kuan Eng continued. “It is too early in the investigation process to guess at why it happened. But we are pretty certain that the authorities are going to point a finger at the migrant worker community.”
“We at Migrant Workers Count Too can make an educated guess or two, though,” Omala again jumped in. “You have heard Majumder and Bhimul’s stories. There are hundreds of other similar tales. Their collective frustrations are a time bomb waiting to go off. That is likely what happened last Sunday.”
“But what is it that you want me to do?” Jessica asked, her heart palpitating. She had an inkling they had something significant lined up for her.
“It would help if you could agree to an interview to speak up for these migrant workers in spite of what happened to you.” Kuan Eng picked his words cautiously. “You need not reveal details about your personal experience of the riot if you do not wish to. But it would make a huge difference if the people of Singapore witness you being impartial and understanding. They will be inspired to emulate your magnanimity. They will open up their ears and hearts to listen to the migrant workers’ side of the story.”
“Your words can change the destiny of these migrant workers,” Omala concluded. “Will you help?”
Jessica flushed like a beetroot. Omala was right. This was a call for action that she alone could take up.
“If I agree, you will arrange an interview for me?”
“There is a team from the news portal Online Citizen coming in at 3pm to film our session with the migrant workers. We can arrange for you to give them an exclusive interview.”
“You mean today?” Jessica stammered. “But I am not prepared!”
“Kuan Eng here has drafted an outline for you.” Omala smiled to reassure her. “He will prep you over the next hour or two and guide you along during the interview. I know this feels like an ambush, Jessica, but in life, challenges will jump at you when you least expect them. It is the brave who will grab the opportunity and make history. Say yes, Jessica. The migrant workers need you to stand up for them.”
Jessica took a deep breath and nodded. She knew an opportunity when she saw one.
“There is one thing, though,” Kuan Eng remarked solemnly. “I am going to make a rather sensitive request.”
“What is it?” Jessica asked, her curiosity once again piqued.
“We are not denying what happened or the suffering you endured, Jessica, but we cannot show this on screen,” Kuan Eng said as he pointed at the bruise on her wrist. “Omala has a wristband that you can wear to cover it up. I hope you understand, Jessica.”
Jessica blushed deeply. It was a good thing Kuan Eng had spotted it. She would be hard put to explain the bruise to the interviewer. “I do.”
Both Kuan Eng and Omala broke out into radiant smiles of relief. Omala unhooked her wristband and handed it over. “I bought this in a souk in Marrakesh when I was backpacking in Morocco many years ago. I would like you to have it. Consider it a little something to thank you for your courage. Now I will leave you two to go over the script. Thank you so much for stepping up to the challenge, Jessica.”
Over the next two hours Kuan Eng went through the script with Jessica and coached her intensively. Omala brought in their lunches. She did not even allow Krison to interrupt the two when he arrived.
The crew from The Online Citizen was ecstatic when they learnt that Omala had arranged for an impromptu interview with the young woman who had disappeared for 15 minutes into the ambulance. They disputed Omala’s request that they not question Jessica about what happened in the ambulance as their viewers might then criticise them for avoiding a sensitive topic. They insisted that Jessica had to make a statement. In the end, it was agreed that the question would be asked and that Jessica would be stating on record that she did not wish to talk about it.
Jessica thought she did well. She had looked squarely into the video camera and enunciated her words properly. At the end of the interview, Kuan Eng gave her a thumbs-up from behind the videographer while Omala stepped forward to give her a warm hug.
What none of the three realised was that the wristband had slid down when Jessica reached out to return Omala’s hug, and that the videographer had not yet switched off the recording device.
Chapter 6
Sharon was humbled. She had not realised how naïve she had been.
At the same time, she was invigorated. Within the tight span of a few days, Elvis Overee had given her a crash course in how an effective politician operated.
The first lesson started off a little harshly. At the Special Operations Command Centre, when she watched on screen the young woman being carried out of the ambulance with her jeans pulled midway down her thighs, she had made a remark to the effect that she hoped the poor girl had not been sexually assaulted. Elvis had thrown her a strange look, but said nothing. He waited till he was next alone with her before he gave her a piece of his mind.
“That was a really stupid thing to say out loud.”
Sharon glared at Elvis with her mouth agape.
“That is what a housewife might say to her neighbours when they gossip about the riot incident. That is what a taxi driver might lament when he is making conversation with his customers. But that is not what a politician says out loud. You are a public figure. Whatever comes out of your mouth carries weight. There are consequences, depending on how your words are interpreted. The last thing you should do is shoot off your mouth without first considering the impact your words might have.”
Sharon blushed deeply. She fought the urge to defend herself. It was obvious that Elvis was not done with the lecturing.
“When words come out of your mouth, they should serve a purpose. Do you aim to convince and persuade, or do you need to defend or deflect? Are you herding the listeners in a certain direction you want them to go or away from a steep slope you don’t want them to approach? No one knows yet what happened to that girl in the ambulance. Why are you bringing attention to the specific possibility that she might have been sexually assaulted?”
“I am merely hoping that it was not the case,” Sharon stammered. “It would be terrible if it were.”
“Again, that is how the average man on the street thinks and operates, but not us. As politicians, we ought to analyse the situation and kick-start the planning for multiple scenarios. If there is a victim in the equation, yes, it would be a terrible experience for him or her. But if we handle it right, we can emerge winners.”
Sharon nodded and kept listening. It did not escape her that Elvis had switched from “you” to “we”.
“Look at the bigger picture. We have on our hands the first riot in Singapore since our independence. The public feels shocked, afraid, enraged. They will demand explanations and accountability. Tell me, what should be your priority and focus at this moment?”
“Launch a full-scale investigation, identify and apprehend the rioters, bring them to task.”
There was a prolonged moment of uncomfortable silence as Elvis glared at her without uttering a word. Sharon bit her lip. She was almost certain that was not what Elvis was hoping to hear.
“Why are you doing the job of the police commissioner, Sharon?” Elvis finally spoke. “Our civil service mechanism is in place. Let them do their jobs. When a shophouse catches fire, do you run towards the burning building and douse the flame with a water hose? No! The SCDF will do it. That is not your job. So I will ask you again. People are frightened, confused and angry. They want answers. What should your priority and focus be now?”
Sharon nodded, believing she had finally caught his drift. “My focus should be on the public—to understand how they feel, to address their concerns and fears, to placate and reassure them.”
“You can choose to do that,” Elvis shrugged. “But the demands from the public will exhaust all your time and your energy. They will suck you dry.”
“Alright, I need help here, Elvis,” Sharon conceded. “What would you do were you in my shoes?”
“I would lead from the front,” Elvis declared solemnly. “I will persuade my people as to how they should feel, make it clear whom they should fear, and indicate in which direction they ought to throw the blame. The public is confused right now. They need to be told what to believe and what to do. If you don’t step in quickly and take control, your opponents will. The opposition parties want the public to believe that our government is incapable of securing peace and stability. The social activists want the public to believe that the migrant workers have been bullied and pushed to the edge of tolerance. The keyboard warriors want to keep the riot alive on social media. These will be the challenges facing you, Sharon. To survive, you have to own the riot.”
Sharon took in a deep breath. Elvis’ words had unclogged the muddle in her mind. She could feel the adrenaline pumping through her veins now. It was not unlike the excitement she used to enjoy every time she took her seat on stage and eyed the opponents of her debate team with a cold, mortiferous gaze. There they were, armed, belligerent and ready for battle—the opposition political party, the social activists, the keyboard warriors.
“The first thing you ought to do is arrange to be seen paying the girl a visit at the hospital.” Elvis could tell Sharon had finally caught on. “Get her to be on your side. If she were indeed sexually assaulted, work it to your advantage. She could be the critical switch you need to redirect the public’s fear.”
Sharon’s mind was racing. The girl was but one of the key players in the riot and its aftermath. She needed to identify an influential grassroots leader to convey her messages on the ground and a compliant resident of Little India to publicly receive her care and concern. And then there was that STAR team member whom the entire nation had witnessed single-handedly rescuing the girl. She needed to rope him into her team.
But first, the girl.
Sharon very quickly identified three advantages. Jessica Tan Jia Lin had turned out to be a rather pretty and well-mannered university student. The public would like her. Secondly, she lived with her parents in public housing, which made it easy for the public to identify with her. Last, but not least, the girl was not affiliated or sympathetic to the opposition party. It would be a disaster if she turned out to be a dissident voter who was decidedly against the incumbent party Sharon belonged to.
There was, however, a slight inconvenience. The girl had not, as Sharon had assumed, been sexually assaulted in the ambulance.
Before her visit to the hospital, Sharon had mapped out an action plan. Elvis was right. The public needed to be told whom they should fear. The tragedy of t
he girl assaulted in the ambulance could unite the nation and direct the people’s collective resentment and rage at the migrant worker community. As a parliamentarian, Sharon could push through new laws that enhanced public safety and penalise the unruly among the migrant workers. She could emerge a champion of the people.
Unfortunately for Sharon, the fact that the sexual assault did not happen had thrown a spanner into her action plan. The girl was not enough of a victim to unite the people.
Sharon made the girl promise not to speak to the media without her guidance. That would give her some lead time. After she returned from the hospital visit, Sharon texted one of her grassroots leader to arrange an impromptu meeting. She knew she had to act fast.
Sasukumar Sathiyaseelan was the chairman of the Jalan Besar Constituency Citizens’ Consultative Committee. The man owned a company that provided security services for condominiums and shopping malls all over the island. His home office was an august three-storey terrace house situated at Desker Road, a stone’s throw from where the Little India riot had erupted. He had been a stoic supporter of the incumbent political party his entire life and had generously provided the party candidates with funds and manpower during past election seasons. Sharon knew she could rely on Sasukumar to effectively convey her messages on the ground. It certainly helped that he also served as treasurer for the Little India Shopkeepers Association.
“I need you to identify a resident I can interact with, preferably a small business owner who has deep roots in Little India.” Sharon came straight to the point with Sasukumar. “I will arrange to meet and talk with him, discuss the impact the riot has exerted on his business and explain some measures I intend to roll out. The resident must be comfortable being filmed by the TV crew and should show enthusiasm and support for the government. You have been a Jalan Besar grassroots leader for over twenty years. I am sure you can recommend a suitable candidate.”
Sasukumar nodded earnestly and promised to come back to her with someone appropriate within 24 hours.
The Riot Act Page 9
