Once a Jolly Hangman

by Alan Shadrake

  Darshan Singh told me that he wanted to retire one day but the authorities could not find a replacement hangman. Not long ago he spent weeks training two understudies, one Chinese and the other Malay. Using dummies he taught them the Table of Drops, how to weigh and measure the condemned, and calculate the length of the drop accordingly. He told them it was important to get the length of the rope and the drop exactly right. Too short and they are strangled. Too long and they are decapitated, he always reminded them. Before the short walk to the scaffold arms are pinioned behind back on the trapdoors, the noose placed around the necks, the white cap on heads. Darshan Singh even told the trainees that he always uttered those now infamous words: 'I am sending you to a better place than this'. Then pull the lever. Perhaps he wanted them to carry on this tradition that he began. But when it came to a real execution, the would-be executioners froze and could not do it. They could not pull the lever. According to Darshan Singh, the young Chinese prison officer actually ran from the execution chamber in horror and never came back. He resigned from

  the prison service the next day. The Malay prison officer returned to his normal duties. He refused to go anywhere near the scaffold again, however, and Singh was obliged to stick at the job while more futile attempts were made to find his successor.

  At one time the prison authorities considered abandoning hanging and replace it with the lethal injection method used in some American states. Two arguments quickly put paid to that idea. It has always been a tradition in Changi Prison for the condemned to be given the opportunity to agree to organ donation. Singh always told them that if they agreed to 'make good' it would ensure reincarnation. Then it was discovered that if they died by lethal injection their vital organs would be destroyed. But more importantly, that proposal was shelved because it removed key elements to being executed on the gallows: the stark fear and horror that it presents and the utter ignominy of being hanged, say human rights activists. Lethal injection to the Singaporean way of thinking is too humane, too painless and too dignified. It would be more like lying on a gurney ready for surgery and never waking up from the anaesthetic. It is the very dread of being hanged by your country and the awful spectre of the gallows, death penalty advocates maintain, that is so important. It is the ultimate degradation.

  7

  Man In Transit

  The neatly-dressed young man strolled nonchalantly through terminal ones transit lounge at Changi airport trying to look every bit a typical student traveller without a care in the world. He was returning from a trip to Phnom Penh, Cambodia, and looking forward to being home with his family in Melbourne for the Christmas holiday. But his cool look belied what was really going on behind that inscrutable face. It was 12 December 2002, a date he would come to remember until the end of his days. There would not be many more of them. In fact, although he didn't know it then, there were only another 1,085 days left. The countdown had just begun. This is the story of the very short life and violent death of Australian citizen, Nguyen Van Tuong.

  Completely in the dark as to the nature of his trip his mother, Kim Nguyen, a devout Catholic, was at home busily preparing for the Christmas celebrations and a welcome meal for Van. It would be breakfast time when she expected him to walk through the door. But it was a meal he would never eat and a welcome he would never receive. The 22 year-old was also looking forward to seeing his young friends Kelly Ng and Bronwyn Lew again - and especially twin brother, Khoa. He had a very special Christmas present for him. It was strapped to his back and hidden in his luggage. Silk Air Flight MI622 from Phnom Penh touched down at terminal one at precisely 3.06 p.m. The connecting flight that would take him home on the final leg of the journey was Qantas Airways QF10. He had quite a long wait. Take-off time was not until 8.15 p.m. Nguyen tried to remain composed and as inscrutable as possible, anxious not to make eye contact with anyone.

  He held on tightly to his canvas bag. The haversack slung over his left shoulder was trapped securely by his arm. He looked around for a quiet spot to spend the next five hours. He wanted to look natural but his stomach was churning and deep down he was feeling extremely nervous. He purchased a magazine and many cups of coffee and tried to take a nagging fear off his mind. Nguyen kept glancing at his brand new $1,150 Rado wristwatch he had bought for his 21st birthday, hoping his nervousness was not being noticed by anyone. He knew hidden CCTV cameras were quietly whirring away with men and women trained in reading body language sitting at batteries of screens looking for tell tale signs of trouble or anxious people with something to hide or fear. Terrorists are their priority targets. And drug traffickers. Security officers in uniform and some in plain clothes pretending to be fellow travellers were also everywhere ready to respond to any eventuality. He was also aware that other eyes could be watching him. The syndicate in Phnom Penh had warned he would be shadowed every step of the way to make sure he delivered. If they were bluffing he would take no chances. The man in the seat behind him might have been one of them. Any deviation, change of heart, would mean serious trouble. He feared for his life from all quarters. He just wanted to get home, safe and sound, among family and friends again. Just after 7.15 p.m. he heard the Qantas flight announcement. He downed the last dregs of the coffee to keep his mouth from drying up, gathered his belongings and began walking slowly towards Gate C22.

  He knew the next few steps would be the most hazardous part of the journey. His very life was on the line. He understood the meaning of those four simple words, always in English, on the sign he had just passed: 'Death To Drug Traffickers'. rfhey were everywhere - on immigration and customs declaration forms and walls at every checkpoint. Nguyen did his best to maintain a cool look as he was motioned through the arch of the metal detector by a female security officer. The canvas bag and haversack were going through the X- ray machine to his left. His heart almost missed a beat as the alarm sounded. But this was not unusual. A bunch of keys, a belt buckle, a mobile phone or a few coins could do that. He stayed cool - on the outside. The officer told him to stand facing her, legs apart on two 'Big Foot' imprints embedded in the thick carpet. She passed a hand

  held metal detector around his body, front and back, up and down and between his legs. No alarm this time. Nguyen breathed a sigh of relief. But it was not over yet. The officer then ran her hand gently over Nguyen's back. Perhaps she had already sensed there was something suspicious under his jacket. Or perhaps she already knew more than he could ever have imagined. Perhaps she had been waiting for him. Whatever the reason, she called a male officer to take a closer look, a closer feel. Nguyen was taken to a room within Gate C22 for a more intrusive search. His haversack and canvas bag were now being carried by the officer. His heart was pounding. Inside the search room, Nguyen was ordered to take off his jacket and shirt. He did as he was told without further prompting. Then he turned around. A plastic packet was strapped to his lower back with yellow and white adhesive tape. He also had half a dozen counterfeit watches, and a number of belts - Christmas presents for friends - in the haversack with a second plain packet. At this point the police officer called for his superior, Sergeant Teh Kim Leng, to take over the questioning. The calm demeanour he tried to exhibit was now one of sheer terror. Streaks of sweat ran down his forehead. He cried, banged his head against the wall, and crumpled to the floor, howling, rocking back and forth with his head in his hands. His nightmare had just begun. He would never see his family and friends in Melbourne again. He would now be re-routed. Destination: Changi Prison. He was a man in transit of an entirely different kind. But at that moment he was still inside the search room at terminal one.

  The questioning began. 'What's this on your back?' 'Heroin'. 'What's inside the haversack?' Nguyen meekly took out a second packet. 'What is this?' 'Heroin'. The baby-faced trafficker was in possession of just under 400 grams of the stuff - enough to hang him 26 times. Under Singapore law anyone caught with more than 15 grams of heroin faces a mandatory death penalty. The street value of 400 grams would have netted
several million dollars on the streets of Sydney and Melbourne. At the time of Nguyen's arrest a heavily diluted gram would fetch A$300 to A$400 from desperate men and women craving another fix. Drug addiction had long become a major social scourge in Australia especially Melbourne and Sydney - and an easy money-maker for some. Syndicate bosses, mostly Vietnamese, were becoming multimillionaires almost overnight. It was a business many wanted to get into. At the same time addicts and their families were suffering from its cruel destructive influence. Turf wars broke out regularly between the drug gangs creating yet more havoc for everyone to fear and bear.

  I watched Nguyen's demise unfold in the High Court and the day the verdict was announced: death by hanging. His trial began in early 2004. The evidence was clear and damning. In statements read to the court, Nguyen claimed he was just a drug mule, involved in a one- off attempt to make some quick money. He told investigators he and twin brother Khoa had serious financial problems. Khoa in particular, he said, was in deep with a Melbourne loan shark. He would receive around $40,000 for the drug run and would settle his brother's debts of $12,000. It was to be Khoa's Christmas present, he told his interrogators, hoping it would arouse some emotion and sympathy for his plight. The rest would get him out of trouble.

  As she busied herself in her kitchen after returning from work his mother, Kim Nguyen, was soon to learn all about the purpose of the 'holiday' trip to Cambodia. The Australian Federal Police had received a phone call from Singapore. Officers raided the bewildered woman's home just before midnight. He had been arrested at Changi airport for drug trafficking. It was serious, they told her. Her son was facing the death penalty. They also had a warrant to search his bedroom and the rest of the house.

  I'd moved to Singapore from the United States about the same time of his arrest and I kept track of the case and pending trial. Australia's biggest magazine, Woman's Day, commissioned me to write a special feature about the many Australian citizens banged up in prisons across Asia - Vietnam, Hong Kong, Laos, Cambodia, Thailand, Brunei and Indonesia - serving long sentences or awaiting execution. Schapelle Corby, an Australian beauty with a model's figure, had just been arrested in Bali for trafficking 4.2 kilograms of marijuana into Bali and Nguyen's appeal was to be heard twelve days later. Both were wondering whether they would live or die. He was heading for the gallows. She was supposed to die in front of a firing squad. There were scores of their fellow citizens rotting away in filthy prisons, some also fighting for their lives or begging for leniency, some forgotten and some wishing they had never been born. But from my inquiries, the threat of being strung up, shot or given impossibly long prison sentences in the most sordid conditions didn't seem to be any kind of deterrent for them. They were mostly fools, too naive for their own good, putting their lives on the line at the most ridiculous odds.

  Nguyen was an unknown quantity to me at that time. He was facing the mandatory death penalty for his crime. Would it be another controversial case that would reverberate across Australia and perhaps the world and stir anti-death penalty campaigners into action again? Because of its death penalty laws, eyes are often focused on Singapore whenever news that they are about to hang someone gets out, especially Westerners. To get a better picture of some of these characters, I boned up on the trial reports and executions of Australians Kevin Barlow and Brian Chambers who were hanged in Malaysia 1986 for trafficking 141.9 grams of heroin. Next was British-born Michael McAuliffe, a barman from Sydney. He was executed in Malaysia in June 1993 after languishing for eight years on death row while going through a tortuous appeals process. McAuliffe was arrested at Penang International airport with a large stash of heroin packed into condoms in his money belt. While looking into these old and new cases, I met up with an AFP narcotics agent based in Singapore. 'Why on earth do they take such risks?', I asked somewhat naively. 'If you find out, let me know', he replied dryly.

  If Nguyen was telling the truth that this was his first venture in drug smuggling, just another foolish mule or a partner with his brother Khoa trying to make the big time as syndicate bosses, news of his 'financial problems' quickly got around Melbourne's murky haunts of the drug kingpins. He was soon propositioned by two mystery men, so he told Singapore's Central Narcotics Bureau investigators. One was named Tan, he said. The other was named Sun. Tan? Sun? Sun Tan, I mused. A joke? Not their real names surely although they are typically Chinese. Maybe they had a sense of humour? Or maybe it was Nguyen's joke? Perhaps he made them up on the spur of the moment as part of his cover story when he was caught. If he were telling the truth they would not use their real names anyway. The CNB brushed the information aside as useless, the usual disinformation. Nguyen's defence lawyers claimed at the trial he had given them helpful leads to track down the Melbourne syndicate and the Cambodia connection. He deserved a break. But in court a CNB agent said he had only wasted their time

  with false leads. According to Nguyen the plan was for him to transport a 'package' from Phnom Penh to Melbourne or Sydney via Singapore. He said he was given several thousand dollars to cover the air fares and accommodation. When Nguyen arrived in Phnom Penh he was met by members of a drug syndicate. He described a dramatic cat-and-mouse game giving last minute instructions via mobile phones, moving from one meeting point to another to make sure he was not being tailed by narcotics agents until they were satisfied Nguyen was 'clean. He was taken to a secret hideout, a backstreet garage, shown how to crush heroin crystals and tape the two packets he divided it into on his back. He then made a first-ever trip to his ancestral homeland, Vietnam, for some sightseeing in Ho Chi Minh City. He also sought the company of prostitutes but during his interrogation Nguyen claimed he did not have sex with them. Even though he knew then he would never see his girlfriend in Melbourne again, he was gentlemanly enough not to reveal such an indiscretion.

  Back in Phnom Penh several days later he met up with his contacts again. He was late for the appointment but his explanation was accepted. The heroin was ready to be crushed and packed. He went back to his hotel and prepared for the trip home. The journey would take him once more to Singapore. He boarded Silk Air flight MI622 and sat ready for take-off. The arrangement back in Australia was that a stranger would approach him, start a conversation and then suddenly say: 'I like basketball'. The deal would be done. Nguyen would get his money. Some of it would go to his brother. Their problems would be solved. That was his story. It seemed all too simple. Halfway into the journey, however, Nguyen's nerves were getting the better of him. He fidgeted. He had difficulty breathing. One of the tapes binding the heroin packets had become loose and uncomfortable slipping gradually down his back. He headed for the toilet to make some adjustments but the packet fell into the aisle as he got out of his seat. Inside the toilet he tidied himself, then returned and slipped the troublesome packet into the haversack in the compartment above his head. There was nothing more the judge needed to hear. He was caught red-handed. The traditional black cap was placed on the judge's head. Nguyen was ordered to stand. "The sentence of this court upon you is that you will be taken from this place to a lawful prison to be hanged by the neck until you are dead. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul'. Then he was bundled down the steps to a holding cell below the courthouse to await a police vehicle to take him back to Changi Prison. A new cell was being prepared for him. He would now be on death row.

  Seven months later on 30 October 2004 his appeal against the death penalty began. As I arrived by taxi to report the proceedings, I could see wide-berth boats full of tourists, relaxing happily in the warm sunshine as they floated by. Inside the grim, packed courtroom three appeals judges in traditional robes were about to issue their decision in a terse, 90-second statement. I was sitting next to his mother in the public gallery. Kim Nguyen, hands clasped throughout the hearing, was quietly praying, while staring down at her son, a lone, tiny figure in the dock, with two guards on each side armed with guns. Nguyen looked intently at the judges trying to read their faces as they came and went an
d returned again to announce the verdict. He occasionally turned his head to make eye contact with his terrified and tearful mother. When the verdict was announced and the judges quickly filed out of the courtroom, Mrs Nguyen buried her face in her hands and sobbed as she took in what it meant. A young lady from the Australian High Commission tried to comfort her. He had just lost another battle for his life. His only hope was the President. But his appeal for clemency was denied. The appeal was based on various technical grounds: Nguyen was not given access to a lawyer to represent him while he was being interrogated. His lawyers also argued that the mandatory death penalty in Singapore was contrary to international law. That was dismissed because Singapore had not signed any international agreement on this issue. It was a foregone conclusion.

  Even then, Nguyen's case received scant coverage in the Australian media. After all, to the majority white population he was just another Vietnamese immigrant bringing deadly drugs into his adopted country. However, one Australian internet blogger and controversial anti-prohibition campaigner, the late Gary Meyerhoff, could not contain his rage. 'In stark contrast to events in 1986 [when Barlow and Chambers were executed]', Meyerhoff wrote, 'Van Tuong Nguyen has been virtually ignored by the Australian Government and the media'. Meyerhoff went on:

  Nguyen Tuong Van is definitely not a household name. Why is the media ignoring him? Is it because they can't pronounce his name or is the real reason a little more insidious than that? Schapelle Corby doesn't exactly roll off the tongue and she has been turned into a media celebrity, not to mention the millionaire Aussie yachtsman Chris Packer, recently released from an Indonesian jail after serving three months for failing to declare firearms. With regards to media reporting, there is obviously some sort of double standard at play. Brian Chambers, Kevin Barlow, Chris Packer and Schapelle Corby all have one thing in common. They are all white Australians. Nguyen's crime is that he is an Australian of Vietnamese origin. Australia's predominantly white journalists (and our white Prime Minister) have written him off as just another Viet boy dealing smack.