Sitting in the dock of the (Benoa) bay

I don’t want to get my hopes up, but I have a good feeling after this week’s court session and my legal team has been all smiles.

The prison doctor went above and beyond the call of duty in his testimony, telling the court that marijuana was increasingly being used as a treatment option for PTSD in the West.

Apparently this is the first time in Indonesia that a state expert witness has acknowledged the use of cannabis for medicinal purposes, although he didn’t go as far as to advocate its use.

The doctor told the court I appeared to be making genuine efforts to quit my addiction; I had passed every random drug test, I attended every AA and NA meeting, and was regularly counseled by the prison psychotherapist.

The last part was a stretch. The psych only comes on Thursday afternoon — when I’m in court — and so I’ve only met him once, and all he wanted to know was which (prescribed) drugs I would like to take.

The doctor concluded by saying I’d benefit more from rehab than prison, adding that he felt I was an excellent candidate to successfully stop smoking weed.

I took the stand after that, first to be questioned by the prosecutor and then the judges.

In Indonesia, suspects have a relationship with their prosecutor that would certainly be considered unusual in the West.

I first met Ibu Erawati Susina when I was transferred from remand jail to Kerobokan, and I liked her immediately. She was warm and friendly, and laughed when prison guards told her how I’d refused to be handcuffed to Joe the Grass.

Each time you appear in court, the prosecutor personally fetches you from the holding cell, handcuffs you, and leads you to the bench, where you are formally unshackled. The process is repeated at the close.

Ibu Susina is a typically small Indonesian, and so I’m sure the sight of her leading this manacled giant “bule” from cell to court must be quite comical. I always ask, in Indonesian, about her family, and when I appeared on Valentine Day recently I gave her one of the heart-shaped chocolates that my lovely lawyer Elizabeth had earlier given me. She actually blushed when she took it, and I tell myself she rather likes slapping the handcuffs on me…

She only asked two very routine questions before handing over to the judges, but their first one actually had me scrambling.

“How would you feel if we sent you to a mental facility instead of prison?”

I’ve heard nothing good about the Indonesian psych hospitals — particularly the one attached to the specialist narcotics prison in the far north of the island. Apparently it is even more feral than Kerobokan, and the chances of visitors are remote given it is a two hour drive each way from Sanur.

“I leave it to the wisdom of the court to decide what’s best for me,” was all I could muster, adding “but I think I would benefit more from process aimed specifically at my problems.”

My lawyer interjected at this point, telling the court that Reuters had offered to pay for any professional PTSD counseling — something seized on by the media afterwards.

They had jumped the gun a bit. I’d mentioned to my lawyer that following sterling efforts by Dean Yates, the management was seriously considering this, for which I am grateful, but it certainly isn’t a done deal.

Still, I don’t think the revelation casts my old employers in a bad light and ultimately the final decision won’t be decided on whether they do or not. The offer, however, gives the judges more leeway to impose a lenient sentence.

The judges quizzed me on my career, with the head of the court saying “you really went to some difficult places”. It certainly wasn’t the grilling I’d feared or anticipated.

It was then the turn of my lawyer to question me — an opportunity to throw some softballs that cast me in good light. We certainly hadn’t rehearsed anything, and I had no idea what he’d ask.

I’ve said before that Pak Haposan can appear lethargic or unfocused, but he really is a force in court and knows which buttons to press.

“Your ex-wife has given written testimony as to how your PTSD and addictions contributed to your divorce. Has she ever visited you here and what does she think about your situation?”

It was almost too much. Elizabeth has been brilliant through this — a rock just like she was throughout our marriage — and I choked up as I told the court how supportive she had been.

I choked up because it hit me, not for the first time, what turmoil I have put all my family and friends though, and how they have supported me without complaint — although in fairness Elizabeth’s first words to me were “you plonker”.

My reaction was honest and genuine, and afterwards Pak Haposan apologized, adding: “I didn’t want to warn you, but your answer gave a very good impression.”

Next week is the pre-sentencing hearing, when the prosecutor will make her recommendation on how I should be punished (handcuffs in the bedroom?) telling the court if there are any mitigating factors, such as me being cooperative and remorseful.

The maximum she can ask for is four years, but I know my lawyers have a pretty good idea what the actual number will be. They don’t want to tell me in case things go awry, and I don’t want to ask for the same reason.

Her demand will be a good indication to the final sentence, as in the overwhelming majority of cases the judges always impose a lighter punishment than that recommended by the prosecutor. (Invariably, should you dare to appeal, the sentence will be increased).

The following week Pak Haposan mounts our “defense”, in reality our mitigation, as my guilt is admitted. Elizabeth had volunteered to testify in person, but Haposan feels it won’t be necessary — especially as the prosecution did us the favour of themselves introducing her written statement, so it has already been accepted by the court.

The same is true for the wonderful David Tredrea, the psychotherapist I’ve known since Nairobi days in the 1990s, who wrote to the court saying he’d be willing to fly over and personally drag me off in handcuffs to rehab.

David has twice gone out on a limb for me in my career — as well as helped many colleagues — and his written testimony has been a crucial part of our defense. It also has already been accepted by the court.

The following week, Thursday March 23, I’ll learn my fate.

I’m trying to heed the counsel of Tom Hilditch and others in shedding my seething anger towards Joe, and it is actually slowly being replaced by something akin to pity.

He was so off his head after a weekend on the meth pipe that he missed his urine test and then called in sick for his Tuesday court appearance.

This is also good for me, as it means my process is now ahead of his. Given I had three grams more than him, my concern was they’d sentence him first to X years and then I’d have a week of tension while expecting to get X+3. Now I’ll be sentenced first, and don’t have that dread.