Chapter 1 – Batman Begins…Badly
The Singapore police handcuffed me and paraded me through the power plant, past the guard shack, and to a patrol boat waiting at the dock. Even though there was a cabin, they sat me in the open air at the back of the boat. I kept my head down against the blinding sunlight. Michael’s words kept repeating in my mind, “Don’t talk to anyone until someone from the US Embassy is with you.” My physical state went from unsteady to nauseous.
Once we cleared the pier, the oldest police officer sat beside me. “You’re in big trouble, my friend,” he said. The captain aimed the bow at the mainland and pushed down the throttle. The boat leaped into action. My body bounced up and down as we zoomed across the open water.
Sure, now we’re in a hurry.
It only took a few moments of bouncing for my stomach to declare its contents had to be expelled. I stood up to try to throw up over the side, but the officer forced me back to the bench seat. I puked to my left, which went on my shirt, jeans, and the bench next to me. Another officer grabbed some towels and tried to clean up the mess as he bent around the back seat. When he finished, he put a bucket between my legs. I was thankful for the fresh air blasting my face, which kept the smell away. With the first policeman gripping my shoulder, my head bobbed and swiveled with the motion of the boat. It was misery.
Once we were in sight of Jurong Pier, a new horror came to mind. I had never restored the new programs to the Simulator. The disc was still in my backpack, which sat on the deck by one of the policemen.
Which carries a higher penalty – assault causing grievous injury or software piracy?
No one wants to cause an international incident, but I did it on my first try.
#
The next morning, prison guards woke me up at six a.m. They handed me two slices of white bread and a cup of tea. I was in a solitary cell, which was more like a concrete closet with a barred door on the front. I went from a five-star hotel to a mat on the floor with no sheets or pillow, a metal toilet, and a small sink. The only consolation was that the prison issued me a new set of clothes when I checked in. Instead of an orange jumpsuit, the uniform was a white t-shirt and khaki shorts. It seemed like I would be wearing this outfit for a long time.
The day before had gone from panic to interminable. After the boat ride, I was taken to Jurong Police Station and locked in an interrogation room for hours. Every forty-five minutes, a different police officer would walk in to ask if I was ready to give a statement.
I would answer, “Where is my US embassy representative?”
The officer would shake his head and walk out.
Late in the afternoon, a man entered the room in a blue suit but without a tie. “Hi, I’m Mason Hayes from the US Embassy. You must be Curtis.”
It was the only handshake I have ever had while handcuffed.
“Wow! You stink,” Mason said.
“Sorry, I puked on the boat.”
“And then they locked you up in a little room,” Mason said. “Well, my job has its challenges.”
Mason took out a notepad from his briefcase and sat down across from me. “I’m sorry to tell you, Mr. Lin WuYang is still in a coma. He has an epidural hematoma, which means his skull is fractured and his brain is bleeding. They are evaluating the CT scans to see if he needs surgery to decrease pressure from the collection of blood.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to hurt Yang. I saw a terrorist barge in firing a gun, so I hit him in the back of the head with a bat.”
“That may be,” Mason said. “But Singapore is a very serious place. You would be surprised how many Americans get in trouble in Singapore. There’s always some young man who gets into a fight in a bar or some young woman who shoplifts an expensive dress. They don’t realize how much trouble they are in. Clueless punks! Unfortunately, Singapore’s laws are very strict, and the penalties can be severe.”
“Will the US protect me?”
“Protect you? The US didn’t hit someone in the back of the head with a bat. You need a lawyer, kid. And no, the US is not paying for your defense.”
“How do I find a lawyer?”
“I’ll find you one tomorrow morning. No talking to the police today. At this point, we don’t want to give them any ammunition.”
“Understood.”
“I’m just curious,” he said. “Was it an aluminum bat or a wooden bat, like a Louisville Slugger?”
“It was a cricket bat.”
“Of course it was. British boredom with a handle. I turn on cricket when I’m having trouble sleeping. Works wonders. Probably a good thing for you that they play cricket here. If it were a good old-fashioned baseball bat, we would be having a more difficult conversation.”
This is one of our diplomats?
“Ouch,” I said.
“Sorry,” Mason said. “I played baseball in college. I tried to get assigned to a country that played baseball like Korea or Japan, but I was sidetracked to Singapore. Turned out okay. Met my wife here. Two kids. So really, this post worked out, except for days like today.”
Back to me. “So what happens now?”
“First, we get you a lawyer. Do you have money for a retainer?”
“I have a few hundred dollars in traveler’s checks. They are in a drawer in my hotel room.”
“Your hotel room is item number two.” He flipped a page on his pad. “I’ll need you to sign a few forms so I can check you out. I’m assuming everything gets packed up and stored at the embassy?”
“Are you saying I’m going to jail? What about bail?”
“You’re going to a place called a ‘remand prison’. That’s where they will hold you until your case gets worked out. They don’t let international people out on bail.”
“In that case, could you grab the backpack they brought with me to the station?”
Mason didn’t look up. “I’m afraid that’s seized property. You won’t see that bag again until this mess is over. They will inventory the contents to see if they want to use anything in court. I assume there are no drugs or cricket bats in there.”
I didn’t acknowledge the attempt at humor.
Mason Hayes was more interested in logistics than in my version of events. He still had hours of work ahead of him. I signed some power-of-attorney-type forms and several variations of “the U.S. government is not responsible for whatever idiot thing you do next” forms.
When he was ready to leave, he said, “Our story is, you believed you were saving your co-workers, and you had no idea this was a drill. Short and sweet. There isn’t anything else I should know about, right?”
Oh, there’s a big thing, but you’re not going to hear about it today. I shook my head.
Mason left me in the interrogation room. He told the police I was waiting for counsel. He advised me to stay at the police station as long as possible because the police would treat me better than the prison guards. So I sat there for a few more hours. An officer handed me some dim sum and a Mountain Dew rip-off called “Kickapoo” for dinner. At nine p.m., they gave up and took me to my concrete cell in Queenstown Remand Prison.
At noon, Mason showed up accompanied by my lawyer, Luo Chunyi. They showed me an article in the newspaper. According to the report, an American had gotten into an argument with a Singaporean engineer and bashed him in the head. The article focused more on the severity of the crime than on the crime itself.
There were four people there; how could this be the story being reported?
“That’s not what happened,” I said.
“It’s sensationalism,” Chunyi said. “Because an American involved, they have to make the story more dramatic than it really was. This will be the story for the whole weekend. Just let it go. At the arraignment this afternoon, please say nothing. When the judge asks how you plead, the only thing you say is ‘not guilty.’ Let me do the rest of the talking.”
Mason had brought me a button-down shirt and a pair of khakis from my clothes. Chunyi explained that appearing in prison clothes at an arraignment sent the wrong message.
The two men sat on the floor while I walked them through the incident. “I had just walked into the Instructor Overlook seconds before the terrorist came in. He threw a smoke bomb, fired shots into the ceiling, and started towards the two guys at the control panels. I grabbed the cricket bat, jumped out of the overlook, and swung the bat before I knew what I was doing.”
“Did Mr. Miller know that the terrorist was Yang?” Chunyi asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “He must’ve been told before I got there. He came running out of the overlook yelling, That’s Yang.”
Chunyi kept circling back to the gun. The Uzi looked real and sounded real. When I picked it up, it was too light to be real.
“I’m sure I will be able to convince a jury that I thought it was a real gun,” I said.
“This Singapore,” Chunyi said. “We got rid of juries thirty years ago. Everything decided by judge. You got Justice Huang Wenqi. We call her Ms. RBF – resting bitch face – ‘cause she never smiles. She’s no nonsense but she moves things along.”
“Great. A judge who looks like she’s already pissed off at me.”
“Don’t take it personal,” Chunyi said. “She’s pissed at everyone. You’ll see.”
When the conversation wound down, I asked, “What’s the sentence for ‘Voluntary Assault Causing Grievous Hurt’?”
“Fifteen years and twenty-four whacks of the cane,” Mason said.
Gulp.
“That’s maximum,” Chunyi said. “We’re long way from that. Let’s focus on today. Just stay quiet and act like you’re paying attention.”
When it was time to head to City Hall, two officers came to my cell. They cuffed me and loaded me into the back of a minivan for the ride to the courthouse. “You’re lucky,” one of them said. “This is our smallest Black Maria. You can look out the window.”
Chunyi was supposed to follow close behind, and the officers were instructed not to get me out of the van until he arrived. Apparently, your perp walk is not official without your lawyer.
As we approached City Hall, the driver made a surprised “Wha?” sound. The place was mobbed with cameras and reporters. The van crawled forward as people pressed in from all sides, lenses and microphones crowding the windows.
Mom’s going to love this.
“You popular guy,” the officer in the passenger seat said.
It felt like an eternity before Luo Chunyi reached the car. I refused to look pathetic. I fixed my eyes straight ahead and practiced a blank stare.
When Chunyi arrived, the officer in the passenger seat jumped out and tried to push the crowd back. Chunyi took hold of my forearm, and we moved toward the courthouse entrance.
The questions came fast and furious.
“Were you trying to kill Lin WuYang?”
“Why did you hit him?”
“Do you play cricket?”
I kept my blank stare in place. Once we were inside, the chatter stopped, but the filming continued. Cameras followed us through the corridors all the way to the courtroom. Inside the courtroom, more cameras were set up.
Either this crime was out of the ordinary, or Singaporeans are into courtroom TV.
Two prosecutors, Luo Chunyi and I, stood behind a table ten feet from the judge’s bench. Behind us, spectators packed the gallery. It was clear that Justice Huang Wenqi was not happy with the spectacle. She kept scowling at the noises coming from the back of the courtroom.
When the background noise settled down enough, Justice Huang said, “Ms. Ruth Mei, please begin.”
“Yesterday at Seraya Power Station,” the prosecutor said, “Mr. Barnes used a cricket bat to smash the head of Instructor Lin WuYang. Mr. Lin is still in intensive care unit. He is in very serious condition. The next few days are critical.”
“Given the situation may change, how does the state plan to proceed?” Justice Huang asked.
“The state plans to prosecute the charge. If Mr. Lin passes away, the charge will be amended before trial.”
The judge looked at me. “Curtis Barnes, you are charged with Voluntary Assault Causing Grievous Hurt With A Dangerous Weapon. A conviction for this offense carries a substantial term of imprisonment and possible caning. Do you understand the charges against you?”
“Yes, your honor,” I said. The response seemed too feeble.
“How do you plead?”
“Not guilty,” I said, forcing a masculine voice.
“There will be no consideration of bail,” she said. “Mr. Barnes, you will be remanded to Queenstown Prison pending further proceedings.”
I was led back to the van, and the cameras kept rolling. That was it. My introduction to fame and public humiliation was over.
Now comes prison.
#
A few days later, one of my cellmates showed me his Singaporean version of Chutes and Ladders, called Snakes and Ladders. He had found an oversized sheet of paper, used a ruler to draw one hundred squares, added ladders at random, and then sketched in snakes with a different-colored pen. He scavenged a few pawns from a chess set and wrote numbers on tiny pieces of paper to replace the dice.
It seemed like a lot of work for a simple board game, but when you’re doing time, anything that keeps you busy is worthwhile.
We were on our second game when a guard came to get me.
“Mr. Barnes, you have a visitor.”
I wondered how long it would take for my co-worker, Larry, to find me. I still didn’t have a plan, but I knew I could not give back the software without help getting out of here.
The guard led me down several hallways and a series of metal doors. We arrived at a room that looked like the common area of my cellblock. Several inmates were talking to family members. I did not see Larry. The only individual sitting alone was a small Chinese man with slicked hair.
“Curtis Barnes?” Jesper Le said. “Over here.”
I reached out to shake his hand, but a guard barked, “No touching!”
Jesper Le was a modeling agent who had spotted me at a shopping plaza. I had accepted his offer of a portfolio shoot and one group photo session.
“Mr. Barnes,” he said, “what a mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“Yes,” I said. “And I’m sure I look like one too.”
“We’ll get to that,” he said. “I watched the news last night. You’ve become quite the celebrity. According to the media, you assaulted a co-worker. According to your lawyer, you are a hero. Which version should I believe?” The look on Jesper’s face was out of a black-and-white Charlie Chan movie.
“A guy burst in dressed as a terrorist, firing a gun. I beaned him because I thought he made mistake and thought he was in the real control room.”
“And there were other people in the room?”
“Two or three.”
“And will they tell the same story?”
“I don’t know. They are employees of the Public Utilities of Singapore. Apparently, they knew the terrorist drill was going to happen. They said nothing when the police asked them to speak. I don’t get it.”
Jesper frowned. “Well, that’s not good. I am not going to hire convicted felon.”
“Hire? Jesper, why are you here?”
“I’m here because Mr. Lin WuYang is awake,” he said. “One of my media contacts told me he regained consciousness last night. Your case is much less serious than it was yesterday. And right now, you’re the hottest story in Singapore. I have an idea for an article, but I need to verify your story. If no one will speak for you, then we may be finished here.”
“My co-worker, Larry Miller, will tell you I didn’t know it was a drill.”
“Is he from Singapore?”
“No.”
Jesper shook his head. “Then difficult, lah. People will say he’s only trying to get you out of jail.”
Lay it on thick.
“All I can tell you is that a guy in a ninja outfit burst into the power plant, firing what looked like an Uzi. Why would some kid bash a co-worker over the head with a cricket bat? It’s as ridiculous as it sounds.”
Jesper studied me for a moment. “Perhaps. I’ll make a few inquiries myself. I don’t like betting on long shots.”
People don’t appear out of nowhere to get someone out of prison. “What do you get out of this?”
“I want to make money from you, Mr. Barnes,” Jesper said. “Everyone loses weight in prison. We need you to keep muscle tone. And no barber. Let your hair grow out. We want blond Fabio.”
My cellmate told me they do not have weights in a remand prison because they can be used as weapons, and they don’t want any injuries to the defendants at trial. And my hair looks like a bird’s nest when it’s long.
“No problem,” I said. “Will you help me with legal fees?”
“You won’t need to worry about that,” Jesper said. “Have you ever heard the name Robin Yeo? She’s a top fashion model in Singapore. She’s freelance, but we will convince her to sign with me. If you get out, people will pay good money to see fashion shows featuring Batman and Robin.”
How does an American software engineer end up as Singapore’s Model Prisoner Batman?
“Bloody Mary. You with me?” the gray-haired man asked, leaning toward me. It was a quarter past nine in the morning, and we had made it to southern Connecticut on our New York–Tokyo flight.
“I’m there,” I said. One must be social.
“Good,” The old man said. “I never talk to the person next to me unless he drinks with me.”
“I hear ya.”
“Two Bloody Marys, hold the stalks!” he called the flight attendant several rows away. “If you don’t say that, you end up with a tree sticking out of your drink.”
“Thanks for the tip. I don’t appreciate plants in my beverages.”
“Hi, I’m Bud Parker, by the way.”
“Kurt Barnes.” A quick, firm handshake. “Where are you from, Bud?”
“Originally, Chicago. Now my wife and I live in Singapore,” Bud said.
“Hey, that’s where I’m headed.”
“You’ll enjoy it. Beautiful place, friendly people.”
“Actually, I’ve never been to Asia before.”
“Then be glad your trip doesn’t end in Tokyo,” Bud said. “I’ve found Tokyo to be the opposite of Singapore. The service is good, but people aren’t friendly, especially to white guys. Japanese are more reticent.”
“Hmm.”
“It’s ironic. We share our technology with all of the Asian countries, their economies boom, and some of them won’t talk to you when you sit next to them in a bar.”
The flight attendant set down our Bloody Marys. Bud was right; trees were sticking out of them.
“Next time, when I say ‘hold the stalks,’ I mean I don’t want half a salad in my drink.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the flight attendant apologized. “Would you like me to bring you another one?”
“No thanks. I’ve already uprooted the problem.”
After she left, Bud leaned in. “One thing you’ll notice in Singapore, everyone is so polite, and the service is exceptional. People go out of their way to make sure you’re taken care of. Just wait until we are on the Tokyo-to-Singapore flight. The Asian stewardesses will be exquisite and eager to please. In fact, you need to try an Asian girl in Singapore.”
He winked at me, which made his statement go from offensive to creepy.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“What are you doing in Singapore?” Bud asked.
“My company has a simulator there, mimics a power plant control room for operator training. I’m installing some software there.”
“An engineer, huh? You must be good,” Bud said. “Hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look a little young to be traveling for the company.”
I do mind, and I could point out that you look a little old and a little married to be sizing up women.
“I’ve been with the company about three years,” I said. This was a stretch, even if you counted co-op periods and the six months as a regular employee. “I’m kind of a software whiz kid.”
“I’m in manufacturing myself,” Bud said. “My company invented the bottle cap and still makes the best in the world.” He drained half his drink. “Speaking of bottles, this airline carries a ton of Asian beers. They take pride in their selection. I think I’ll have a Tsingtao. The joys of business class. You with me on this one, Kurt?”
“Sure, Bud.”
And so it went. The next three hours were:
“Kirin — you with me?”
“Sapporo — you with me?”
“Suntory — you with me?”
“Tiger — you with me?”
All of it interspersed with a bland meal and the world according to Bud Parker, international philosopher and bottle cap maker.
I felt a wave of relief when the flight attendant finally listed every Asian beer on board, and I realized we had tried them all. The relief was short-lived.
“Hmm,” Bud said. “We could switch to other imports. I know they’ve got Canadian and German…”
What are we on a flying bar? I tried to keep my expression thoughtful instead of pained.
Before I could answer, Bud told the flight attendant, “On second thought…”
His pause gave me hope. Are we done?
“Let me have a Singapore Sling,” Bud said. “You with me?”
Yes, we are done with the beer tour, but we are starting a new one.
And then it hit me. This wasn’t politeness. This was a challenge. This weathered, 130-pound senior wanted to drink me under the table. Some trophy he could brag about to his post-middle-aged buddies. Screw him.
“Sure, I’m with you,” I said. “And maybe some beer nuts or something?” It was time to hunker down for the long haul.
We made it through margaritas, mojitos, and daiquiris during the first movie, There’s Something About Mary. Bud howled at the slapstick. At the start of the second movie, he picked pina coladas. The sugary combination of the last two selections was a concern for my stomach. Contrary to Bud’s description of American flight attendants, ours seemed to know what was happening. She kept me supplied with bags of pretzels and mini-muffins. Fortunately, the second movie was subtitled, which put Bud to sleep within minutes. I took advantage of the undeclared respite with a magazine before succumbing to sleep as well.
I woke up still drunk, but optimistic that we would be landing soon. A glance at my watch revealed we had two more hours aboard this airborne distillery. Bud noticed.
“Oh, Kurt, you’re awake. I’m about to have a White Russian. You with me?”
It was the bell for the start of the next round.