Flower Lounge (15) -- The Guards

In ancient China, general perception of social ranking, though not rigid, reflected a pragmatic order based on productivity and relative importance to the emperor and society at large. Crouching underfoot the Son of Heaven were soldiers and officials whom he needed to exercise mandate, followed by farmers, craftsmen, and merchants. Merchants were at the bottom end of the respectability scale, loyal to profitability only. Entertainers and prostitutes and beggars were pariahs. They didn’t really count. Investment bankers, had they existed, might have been slotted marginally between merchants and prostitutes.

In the modern world, this productivity based hierarchy has been upended. Besides low paid farmers whose absence would mean the end of the world, other real jobs such as cleaning up and guarding prisoners are sneered at. The reason is simple: They don’t pay well. Entertainers, on the other hand, have been elevated to stellar status. When multi-millionaire actors impersonate jail-guards, they put on an evil squint.

In reality, the guards at Tong Fuk had minimal facial expressions except resigned boredom as his shift wore on. To the best of my judgement, none of them would be remotely interested in waterboarding prisoners for fun, unless it was an official order with special allowance. Neither would they be inclined to sodomise sweaty criminals. No way. Seriously, who would? Ah, yes, Hollywood screws would. Is this due to cultural difference? or perverted fabrication?

In prison, strangers from unthinkable corners of society live closely together for a term of time, then go their own ways. In all likelihood, they may never meet again, especially for ‘non-professionals’ like myself. Like nomads chancing upon each other in the desert, courtesy cannot be taken for granted. Spontaneous kindness to a stranger under that situation is genuinely moving, especially when that stranger is me.

The Indian Ah Sir at Lai Chi Kok who prompted me to inform my wife about my imminent transfer tried to quell my anxiety. ‘Don’t look so terribly worried lah,’ he said kindly. ‘Tong Fuk’s a fucking nice place.’ He didn’t need to comfort me. He didn’t need to be nice. He didn’t need to do anything. He had unquestionable authority over me, and our paths will most likely never cross again. I don’t even know his name. He helped out of impulsive compassion, or pity. What else could it have been? He didn’t even expect an emphatic ‘thank you’ which would probably have embarrassed him. My Flower Lounge experience verified one of infinite Chinese sayings for me: The truly righteous are often from the dog-butchering class. Dog butchers were ranked at par with hookers, marginally below merchants. Outside the high walls of prison, similarly unmotivated generosity is extremely rare among the tie-wearing class.

To be sure, many guards were officious and authoritative. Part of their job. Jail could otherwise be dangerously chaotic. But in general, even the most scary looking ones were helpful, ordinary, and neutral when I got to know them, far from devious.

The Correctional Services Department (CSD) has no incentive to frame or entrap. Guilty verdicts have already been clinched by others when they take over. Nor do they incline on passing further judgement on those who have fallen into their custody. Being downstream of justice, they have no influence or direct interest in the outcome of a trial. The crime rate affects workload, but not job security. They eat from a government iron rice bowl. They can afford to be honest without prejudice.

In the court room, duty officers daydream next to anxious defendants in the dock. When a verdict is announced in English, guilty and not guilty are about the only words they need to understand. Upon hearing the code word, they whip out the handcuffs, or open the dock to let the ex-defendant out. Congratulations. The room would be charged with celebratory vibes in that case. But the prosecution team would be pouting, the prosecutor deep in thought. A good sportsman don’t give up easy. What about appeal technicalities? Somehow, we’re gonna nail him…

Correctional officers seem to understand the game of justice without judgement or illusion. Lowly paid lackeys seldom concern themselves with how and why the system is the way it is.

On the other hand, some upstream agencies make a living out of prosecution. Liveried operatives are under performance pressure, systemically trained with KPI, and bribed with career incentives to nail suspects — the more the better. Swing the hammer hard. Drive the nail deep. The system leans on them to be zealous, to presume all suspects guilty while reading them their rights, to craftily lure them into self-incrimination. Most suspects are nervous and vulnerable, easy prey to experienced agents. Conscience? What conscience? Professionals are supposedly objective and unemotional. Conscience distracts professionalism. That’s right, part of the job. The job is to prove guilt, make guilt by hook or by crook — oops, scrap that — it should be ‘without perverting justice’ instead.

Suspects are objectified targets against which professionals score points. A high conviction rate looks good on career statistics. It also means job satisfaction, promotion prospects, contract renewal, et cetera, all good stuff. Innocence is the merchandise of expensive lawyers. No money? Uh, there’s legal aid, hehe, followed by the Flower Lounge — all free of charge. So, ready or not, here we come! Just part of the game.

Lawyer Derek had warned me: ‘Someone may tell him (the accomplice witness) to admit immediately to having lied when questioned, in order to deflect attacks on his credibility and gain the judge’s confidence.’

What?! Who’s that someone, Derek?

He grinned with his mouth shut, that sly son-of-a-bitch.

One day, in the Common Room, after repeating another report on Syria, the TV anchor announced that ICAC Chief Investigator Cho Wing-nin and two of his senior colleagues were convicted of witness coaching. ‘What a fucking surprise,’ a table-mate muttered sarcastically, eyes rolled back, a limp matchstick dangling from the corner of his mouth. More than one insider friend had told me that witness coaching was common, but (or because it was) very difficult to prove. The DOJ was also generally sympathetic to such serious ‘misdemeanours’. Complaints rarely made it to court. In Mr. Cho’s particular case, according to the TV, the witness they coached in a cafe had been wired by the defence lawyer. Haha, so simple. From now on, they had better conduct illegal workshops in the sauna room, all participants stark naked. These crooks — exceptionally bad apples from a bushel of sweet and glittering ones — were sentenced to thirty months.

Welcome, boys!

A few inmates cheered and hi-fived across tables. I would have loved to join them, but remembered my vow to stay low profile. The spontaneous outburst showed why these corrupt anti-corruption agents would be incarcerated in isolation for their own safety. Unfortunately, solitary will stretch their upcoming days and years longer, much longer.

At first, I thought Tong Fuk was laid-back because it was low security. But experienced cons told me that screws are generally more affable in heavy duty slammers where big boys crouch, some for life. They have nothing to lose. The warden can’t add posthumous penalty days to misbehaving lifers. Plus heavy-duty gangsters, though typically not the nitpicking type, could spill animosities over the walls onto the streets of Mong Kok if unduly bullied. Both guards and inmates in high security prisons are aware of this delicate balance, therefore normally respectful as long as the other party reciprocates.

Many guards and inmates grew up in housing estates. At some stage, some became cops, some joined the CSD, others the Triad, all trying to make a living. Somewhere down the line, they met again behind bars, sometimes in different uniforms. They understood each other, and the red lines drawn around them by fate.

Probably influenced by movies as well, I couldn’t help looking out for signs of abuse in Tong Fuk, but found none. The last thing the screws wanted was trouble. The slightest trouble meant written reports, something they absolutely abhorred. They cherished monotonous harmony above all else. An ideal world would be one in which everyone played out their karmic roles dutifully: Read newspapers, gossip about movie stars, smoke, watch TV, visit the Nightclub, or just sit. Pile up the empty moments to make yet another full day — one less to discharge for the cons; one closer to the next pay cheque for the screws. Win-win lah, why not?

Of course, not everyone liked uneventful equilibrium. Some had to test the limits. Trouble makers were handled with remarkable patience, to a point. The most ominous incident I had ear-witnessed happened during my first night at Lai Chi Kok, when my next-cell neighbour was about to manslaughter his cellmate for failing to conjure up a cigarette. Even that, the Polygamist believed he would simply be locked away in isolation, ignored, and left alone to bang head against wall, wondering where the fuck could one get a fag two o’clock in the morning in the Lai Chi Kok Reception Centre.

One stormy night at Tong Fuk, rain was pelting down with a power which urbanites shielded from the raw force of everyday nature might have regarded supernatural. Rural thunders and lightnings burst right outside, throwing tree shadows into our room like spears raining onto a fortress under siege. The kids were in an unquenchable party mood, possibly to hide fear, playing a drinking game with water to see whose bladder would burst first. Muffed by the torrent, their debauchery was sleep inducing. I was about to place a towel over my eyes for the night when a flash of lightning highlighted a young guard looking in through the grilles, captivated by the water-keg party. He was making his rounds between dorms, as stipulated in his job description. Water cascaded from his hat, face, and poncho. He obviously wanted to be on this side of the bars during that particular moment, downing water, frolicking, teasing, screaming obscenities, rather than being cold, wet, and lonely, performing a duty under a waterfall for a wee bit over minimum wage. He suddenly noticed me watching, and abruptly turned to leave as if caught skiving by his supervisor, sloshing into the dark storm.

In the dining hall, a friendly old screw told me he was retiring the week after. I think official retirement age was fifty-five, so he wasn’t that old. I offered my congratulations. He gave a wry smile: ‘About time lah, Ah Cheong. I’ve chor fa tang (sat in a flower lounge) for thirty-three years. Fucking murderers don’t get sentences this long anymore, I tell you!’ Thirty-three years is a very long time in jail. But he was still young. He could still start another job while receiving government pension for as long as he lived. Most Hong Kong people would be envious.

The guards thought the daily letters from Satu were rather odd in size

* * *

Next Episode

Know Thy Inmates

The inmates have many stories, fantasies, and hallucinations?