1. The Time-Worn Shadow of the Convict

The *Betawi song “Kicir-kicir” echoed melodiously from a cellphone resting on a worn, brown wooden table. Two men seated behind the table, seemingly lost in the music, hummed along effortlessly. Laughter erupted sporadically as they playfully hit some off-key notes, creating their own little symphony of discordant tones.

Togi Johanes Purba, the younger of the two who was a 30-year-old man hailing from North Sumatra, wore an unmistakably joyful expression that morning. He had meticulously shaved his head, donned his finest suit and shoes, and proudly adorned the only expensive watch he had ever managed to afford.

His fingers danced nimbly on the table, keeping pace with the cheerful music he was singing. Every so often, his eyes shot a mocking glance at the old man beside him.

Fear and trepidation were absent in him that day. The only thing occupying his mind—driving his cheerful demeanor—was the effort to appear happy.

Indeed, Togi had to exude optimism and happiness that day. Armed with determination, he believed that these, coupled with a positive outlook, would be sufficient to shatter the chains of anger and sadness that had haunted him year after year.

Hence, that morning, he was at his prime, beaming from ear to ear. Without a pause, he played a set of the old man’s favorite songs. Occasionally, he even stood up, dancing with a touch of wit, all in an effort to uplift the old man’s spirits.

His moves were definitely hitting the mark. The old man couldn’t help but burst into laughter at Togi’s antics, even if it did make him slightly self-conscious amidst the curious gazes of those nearby.

“Wait a minute, *Om,” Togi said as the song on his cell phone was terminated by the ringtone of an incoming call.

Togi glanced at the caller’s name on his cell phone screen for a few seconds. He then stood up from his chair, walking a little away from it to pick up the call. Within just a few seconds of engaging in a serious conversation with the person on the other end of the line, creases formed on the man’s forehead.

Several times, his voice rose, punctuated by questions and what seemed like protests. However, at the conclusion of his conversation, he took a deep breath and returned to his seat.

“Sorry, Om Warih, that call was from my office,” he said to the elderly man next to him without being asked. “They’re a bunch of lazy folks, bothering me even here, just to inquire about the location of a specific document folder.”

“You’ve truly become quite successful and busy now,” Warih commented with a husky voice and a crooked smile. Frown lines at the corners of the gray-haired man’s eyes became evident as he flashed a proud smile at Togi, whom he considered his own son.

“Not really, Om. I just happened to get a work call,” Togi said as he took out an eyeglass case from his bag and put it on his face.

“Don’t work too hard. Once in a while, you should enjoy life and refresh your mind,” Warih advised Togi, patting the young man lightly on the shoulder. “You’ve been eating and resting enough, right?”

The stocky Togi quickly moved back from the edge of the table and stared at Warih with a smug face. “Of course, Om! If I didn’t eat and rest enough, I wouldn’t be this big now!”

Once again, Warih burst into laughter at Togi’s words, laughing until he coughed. Calmly, the old man picked up the mineral water bottle in front of him and poured it into an empty glass on the table.

“Now, I feel reassured because I’ve truly seen your readiness,” Warih said after taking a sip of his water. “It’s only because of you that I can muster the courage to face this again. Your extensive trial experience will undoubtedly help us later.”

Togi suddenly fell silent. He lowered his head toward the table, avoiding Warih’s warm gaze.

There was one lie that Togi had never confessed to the man beside him. When he approached Warih a year ago, he claimed to have found success and possessed an extensive reservoir of trial experience to assist the old man with his legal case.

In reality, over the past three years, Togi found himself toiling away in a humble Jakarta law firm, far from the grandeur he once portrayed. Rarely did he get the chance to stand as the face of his office in court. The lone trial where he served as counsel resulted in a devastating defeat, leaving scars of trauma etched in his memory.

There was only one force compelling him to rise and forge ahead independently as a lawyer, armed with the courage to face the courtroom. It all stemmed from the influence of Warih, a figure he knew personally.

The man had known Warih since he was very young. He knew Warih personally—he knew Warih’s character and the trials Warih had faced in the past. This deep connection encouraged him to step forward, advocating for the poor man’s struggle against the legal system that had wronged him.

Whether to ensure a smooth interaction—or to make Warih believe he was as successful as the old man had hoped—Togi had lied about his trial career. He recognized he had gone too far, but admitting the mistake from his talkative nature proved to be a challenging task.

He didn’t want to tarnish the pride Warih felt for him with disappointment or pity. That’s why Warih’s recent words made Togi suddenly feel embarrassed and guilty.

“You’re going to make a great lawyer,” Warih said again, this time fixing Togi with a warmer gaze. “You know why? Because you’re smart and determined.”

Togi then looked up at the old man again. “Being a lawyer is just a label in the pursuit of a livelihood. What I truly desire is to be a good person like you. All those illegal tickets given out yet you still manage to be the nicest person I know.”

Warih shot Togi a warm grin in reply to his comment. “You’re a decent guy,” he said, his smile widening. “Maybe you haven’t realized it, but it’s true.”

The elderly gentleman was on the verge of giving Togi a reassuring pat on the back, ready to offer further encouragement, when a sudden uproar of voices halted him in his tracks. The clamor of people’s chatter echoed loudly from the left, flooding into the room. 

A swarm of journalists had just arrived, bursting in through the main door. They wasted no time in hurriedly positioning themselves, each one vying for the best spot to commence their work.

In just a matter of moments, a slight and wiry court clerk rose from his seat to make an announcement from the front.

“With all due respect,” the clerk spoke into the microphone, “let me announce that the court session is about to begin. Everyone, please rise, as the panel of judges is set to enter the room shortly.”

Togi and nearly everyone else in the room swiftly rose from their seats, their attention shifting to the door behind the judge’s desk as it creaked open. Three middle-aged men clad in black robes entered the courtroom, taking their places with measured steps.

“Well, apparently there are quite a lot of journalists present at this hearing,” Chief Judge Soetardjo remarked with a hint of humor, settling into his chair and switching on the microphone. “Let’s hope for a smooth day ahead.”

The man and his two colleagues shared a brief chuckle, casting glances around the courtroom. However, their expressions quickly shifted back to a more serious demeanor.

“Good morning! With your permission, we will begin the review hearing on the case of sexual abuse, serious maltreatment, and murder of Kemala Fatimah in Jakarta in 1998. Due to the poor health of the petitioner, we will try to use our time as efficiently as possible in this hearing. Are all parties related to this hearing present?”

Judge Soetardjo took a moment to glance to his left and right—briefly surveying the courtroom—before refocusing on the document in front of him.

“With the completion of administrative requirements by the petitioner and his attorney, and the presence of a new key witness for this hearing, we officially commence hearing number 109 – CR – 2016, with Mr. Warih as the petitioner.”

“Before we invite the petitioner or his attorney to present their petition for the hearing,” he continued, “let us collectively offer a prayer according to our respective religions, with the hope that this hearing proceeds smoothly, honestly, and fairly. Let the prayers begin!”

Following the prayer, Judge Soetardjo directed his attention to Warih’s table on his left. “Is the petitioner’s attorney prepared to step forward and present the petition for the hearing?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Togi responded promptly as he rose from his chair.

“Okay, please proceed,” said the judge as he gestured with his hand toward the front.

Togi took a deep breath before stepping forward to read out a bundle of documents before the panel of judges. It took about half an hour for him to articulate the details of their lengthy appeal.

Following Togi’s presentation, it was the public prosecutor’s turn to respond to Warih’s request for a review. Just after eleven o’clock, the panel of judges finally called Warih to come forward.

Two security guards behind Warih and Togi approached Warih. Both of them exchanged words with Togi in a whisper before swiftly guiding Warih—who was apparently seated in a wheelchair—to the center of the courtroom.

“Mr. Warih, are you in a strong enough state of health to undergo this trial?” asked Judge Soetardjo with a concerned expression, noting Warih’s thin and frail figure as he sat before them.

Warih just smiled from his wheelchair. “I’m alright, Your Honor.”

“Okay then, your attorney has already outlined this earlier, but let me ask you again something that many people in Indonesia must be curious about right now.”

“After serving 18 years of your life sentence,” he continued, “what made you suddenly apply for a judicial review of your case, when you have never once appealed before?”

Warih coughed and quickly pulled the worn jacket, covering the prisoner’s uniform, tighter around his body.

“Your Honor,” he said calmly, “before… I didn’t care enough about whatever sentence was handed down to me. The death of my daughter has left me so devastated that I can’t stop blaming myself, so I have chosen to remain silent and live with the verdict of the previous court.”

“But before my time comes to an end,” Warih continued, “I want to clear my name. I want to be a father my daughter can be proud of when I meet her again. Therefore, I’m determined to move forward and fight for myself now.”

The entire courtroom and the judges suddenly fell silent. A sudden somber atmosphere filled the room, and everyone now gazed at Warih with a sense of pity.

“In that case, Mr. Warih…,” said Judge Soetardjo, “after hearing the response from the prosecution earlier, will you maintain your previous statement that you are innocent in this case?”

“From the beginning, I was never guilty in this case. I never did such a damnable thing as abusing my own eleven-year-old daughter – and treating her like an animal,” Warih replied with a hurtful expression in his eyes.

The man then took a pause to breathe, a moment of silence accompanied by a distant gaze.

“The last time I saw her was on May 13, 1998. We had lunch together that day,” Warih continued. “Unfortunately… I never saw my daughter again after that, until four days later when her body was found in the Angke River area.”

Judge Soetardjo gazed at the man with concern. “For the purpose of reviewing your case… can you recount more fully what exactly happened to you and your daughter on May 13, 1998?”

Warih then lowered his head to squeeze his fingers, as if he was trying to summon the courage to recount the worst tragedy of his life. Having done so, the man then looked at the row of judges in front of him with a gaze darkened by the memories of his past.