21 January 2000

Dear Diary,

The day started out badly. I was at my bedroom mirror, trying out a variety of frightening facial expressions to use in the courtroom - Anwar's sodomy trial re-starting after the weekend - when the maid announced a visitor: Augustine Paul. 'Tell him I'm too busy to be disturbed,' I told her curtly for if there is one person I absolutely loath, it is that man, not so much man as creature.

'I did,' she replied. 'But he said he's come from the chief justice.'

'Okay, tell him to wait.'

Although I had to see him, I did not really hurry. When I was ready, I descended the staircase from which I could see an unpleasant look on the visitor's coal-black, dog-like face. But he got up when he saw me and greeted me with false cheeriness:

'Ah! My dear friend, Ariffin. I hope your poor back is so much better. Tell me, was it very painful?'

I did not appreciate this piece of apparent sarcasm, so I answered: 'About as painful as your hand while you were writing the judgement on Anwar's corruption trial. For all that was worth.'

'My friend, I didn't come here to quarrel. Our CJ asked me to drop by to offer you a bit of advice. The sodomy trial on Monday. Let me get to the point my friend. You must use the word "irrelevant" more often. It's a most useful word. You must stop his lawyers from calling important witnesses. You must prevent them from asking embarrassing questions. Ask his lawyers to write out the question beforehand for you to read, then rule it irrelevant if it's too clever. Like what I did. Threaten his lawyers with contempt of court, that will keep them in line. But let the prosecution do or say whatever they like, bring a mattress to court if they wish. Above all, you must �.'

And so he went on and on, as though he were suffering from verbal diarrhoea, he the most junior judge in the High Court, propelled upwards solely to convict Anwar and now daring to offer me advice. I could barely conceal the anger and contempt on my face. So I cut him short with: 'You run your own kangaroo court and I'll run mine.'

The room filled immediately with a swift animosity. The fake smile disappeared off his face and his voice dropped an octave lower. 'Do you suppose I enjoyed doing all that? If you think, I've sold my soul to Mahathir, so have you, Ariffin. So have you.'

'At least I don't bend over backwards like a boneless puppet on a string!'

'At least I didn't pretend to have a bad back!'

'What are you, the pot calling the kettle blacker? There's enough blackness in your heart already to paint the whole judiciary pitch-black.'

From then on, it went rapidly downhill. We traded one insult after another. He got up to leave but I pursued him to the door, still shouting. 'The chief justice will hear of this,' he threatened. 'You'll get transferred to the back of beyond, maybe a village in the jungles of Sarawak. See if you can find some Iban girl to screw, you dickhead.'

'The further away from you the better!' I retorted

Then he spat at me, so I spat back. So we were spitting at one another back and forth, dear Diary, and it was a most undignified sort of tussle for two High Court judges to engage in. But at last he got lost.

It is true that I have sold my sold to Mahathir, dear Diary, but at least I have kept 10% back so that Allah will one day forgive me. But that fellow? He sold all his 100% and must therefore go straight to hell! But I hear that he still attends church as if it's any use. Hypocrite! Assassin!

Anyway, after he left, I was so angry. To let it all out, I logged on to the Internet and put an anonymous post in soc.culture.malaysia, calling Augustine Paul a monster, a dog, a pariah and other things I wouldn't even mention to you, dear Diary. This gave me some pleasure, as such things do, although I have wondered sometimes whether some of the postings blasting me could have been from him.

But that creature must have got to work pretty fast because later in the day, just after lunch, I got a call from none other than our deputy PM, Abdullah Badawi. He ordered me to his office immediately in a commanding tone that sounded uncharacteristically harsh. Luckily for me, the PM is on holiday, otherwise I would have had to kowtow to him.

When I presented myself to Abdullah, I found him so changed that he seemed barely to have any connection with the man I knew before. Before, he was always amiable and polite, now he barked and snapped and growled like, well, like Mahathir himself. Even his facial expressions had become like Mahathir's. No wonder people say that he is Mahathir's marionette. When excited, he even jerked about like a puppet on a string. This is what Mahathir has turned us all into - string puppets. Even this man who used to be called Mr Clean. Pity! Pity! Let us hope he also kept 10% back.

However, he could not inspire in me the same sort of terror as the PM, so no fear of dirtying my underwear here. Anyway, I argued with him, stressing that my way of trying Anwar was a lot more convincing than Augustine's who had turned the entire Malaysian judiciary into a laughing stock of the world. But he felt that I had been letting Anwar expose too much of Mahathir and his cronies before the trial was adjourned for the elections. At last I promised to do my best, although we failed to agree on which way was best, and we left it at that.

Oh well. When this whole sordid business is over, darling Diary, let us take a vacation together in the South Seas so I can tell you stories far more pleasant than today's.

(written by Tsu Nam)

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