Power, like heat, always rises to the top. A critical part of its alchemy is projection: number of followers, the lavishness of spending, the extravagance of buildings, the air of self-confidence, the projection of self-assurance and the smell of success while others falter; material and visible. Through this process, power reinforces itself in a self-serving sort of way, creating an aura of invincibility. We all see this, intuitively and visibly, all around us. Imagine my surprise, then, when I met a very powerful man with no other projection of power than an intimate knowledge of the law.
Victor Fernandez had already been in jail for a decade, convicted for the murder of a woman. He was accused in six other murder cases and was fighting his own defence in court as petitioner-in-person.
At Taloja, there were gang leaders galore, each with a retinue of followers, from small numbers of five to large numbers of up to fifty or more. And they strutted around with their legions. The smaller you were, the larger the strut; the larger you were, the more circumspect the strut — mostly where it mattered, such as before the Authority. You were advised never to lock eyes with them, for fear of becoming a target.
We were being assembled at the front gate, which is also the administrative block, to board the bus to Court. It’s a cumbersome process, where the guards round up those slotted to attend Court that day. Each prisoner has to walk from their Circle to the front gate, identify themselves to a guard, and then wait till the final inmate has arrived. The last to arrive was a bespectacled man, of average height, very slightly on the heavy side, carrying two black leather briefcases in either hand, dressed as a lawyer in a spotless, pressed, full-sleeve white shirt, black pants immaculately creased, a polished black leather belt, and shiny black shoes. He wore a wristwatch that looked expensive, although I couldn’t make out its make.
Everybody seemed to know him. In particular, the guards — who are a rough and assertive lot with prisoners — seemed to wilt in his presence. They greeted him feebly, did not subject him to the rigorous checks they normally conducted on others, and were visibly deferential. Fellow prisoners sidled up to him. I heard several “Victor bhai”s, all dripping with the saccharine sweetness of a crowd that knows it is in the presence of the powerful.
I turned to a fellow prisoner and asked, “Who is this guy? Why are the guards and fellow inmates so deferential to him?” Incredulous that I should have asked such a blatantly stupid question, my fellow inmate whispered, “He is Victor Fernandez. Convicted for life for the murder of a woman, and accused in six other murder cases. He argues his own case as petitioner-in-person.” And then, as if it completed the introduction, he added, “He is the lord of this jungle. Even the superintendent is scared of him and will not tangle with him.”
I watched Victor and noticed in myself a sense of trepidation growing. That is power at work: here was another human being whom I did not know, and already words had infused an emotional reaction to his very presence. I noticed him looking around, acknowledging everyone as a King would his subjects. Our eyes briefly locked, and I saw a question mark in them. I saw him walk up to me in an assured sort of way, reach out to shake my hand, and say, “Hi, I’m Victor Fernandez. And you are?” I had been in jail long enough by then to know it was uncommon to shake hands and introduce yourself this way. This was a man very sure of himself. I realised how little, beyond a firm and evident self-confidence, is required to be seen as powerful. And yet there was something deeper, and much more sinister.
I gave my name. It was clear he knew precisely who I was, and why I was in prison. And in the way he took the next sentence, I realised that my being on this bus was no coincidence. He had manoeuvred it to meet me.
They say that before you die, your whole life flashes past you. I can safely vouch that your whole life also flashes past you in moments of abject fear. The man had completely unnerved me: the cold, soulless eyes; the crocodile smile; the facade of urbanity covering a simmering cauldron of energy that could so easily erupt; the look of complete domination that smothers you to the point that your brain goes blank.
All he said was, “Let’s sit together in the bus. I want to discuss a proposal.”
We boarded the bus. I don’t recall the details; I was in a daze. My mind, first numbed, was now working furiously — what on earth could he want to discuss with me? Those moments were endless. I sank into a seat as everyone else sat down. A guard came up to me and asked me to get up. I tried to avoid it, but he insisted. I was taken to the back and made to sit next to Victor. He betrayed no emotion; his dead, soulless eyes simply looked at me as another slab of meat.
Powerful people don’t waste time. He got to the point directly. “It will take me a few years, but I expect to be exonerated of all the murders — even the one I’ve been convicted for, for life. I have done my research on you, and I know you are no criminal. You will get out eventually. I want you to suggest ideas for me to develop a line of business, and to help me implement it, post-incarceration. I don’t need money, I need ideas. In return, I will make life very smooth for you in jail.”
I was blown away. I had been expecting the worst; instead, I was being asked to partner. And as it began to sink in, I began to sense a deeper thought: what could a murderer of seven women possibly want by going legit? Why? Even if acquitted of all seven, there was no way a history of that sort would ever be ignored or overridden, however good the idea was. But I held my counsel, and looking back, as I write this piece, I am glad I did. And here’s why.
A petitioner-in-person has to be someone confident enough in their understanding of the law to mount a successful defence against seasoned trial lawyers with many years’ experience. The lawyer for the prosecution was a star performer for the State. I wanted to understand better the capability of this man. The table had changed. I told him I would think about this and get back to him over the next few weeks. He then went into a detailed account of his life, and why he was where he was. I felt, at that moment, that the power balance had shifted between us: to the rest of the world he was Victor Fernandez, the most powerful man in jail. To me, he was a wounded, flawed, tortured, delusional, brilliant soul seeking redemption.
On our next meeting, I set him a test. He was to read the Companies Act 2013 and tell me, succinctly, how he would use its various sections perversely to destroy an individual or an organisation. A few weeks later, I got a twenty-page document presenting his findings, and it was breathtaking in its precision, its legal grounding, and its blatant perversion of the Act.
There is an obtuse section in the Act that simply requires companies to maintain proper records. This includes all records, including emails. Victor used this section to invoke another, one that demands that all those who could have avoided or stopped an act do so. By a perverse inference, if you had been cc’d on a chain of emails that resulted in an act, and you were in a seat that could have interfered and didn’t, these sections strung together in this fashion would be sufficient to implicate you — even if, at trial, you were most likely to be acquitted.
The process is the punishment.
I began thinking how I could develop this into a more cogent business plan, and through a series of convoluted steps arrived at an idea: what if we used AI to develop a platform that allowed a corporate to routinely assess how vulnerable it was to perverse attacks? Such a tool would, at a minimum, generate awareness and provide a basis for action. At its best, it could help re-engineer processes and discipline within organisations. Along the way, it would also ensure that all concerned personnel were aware of how their role in any single transaction could be (mis) interpreted.
I next met Victor a few months later. As we greeted each other, I realised he had once again engineered for us to attend Court together. On the bus, I explained the idea that had emerged from his note, and why I felt it had legs. He loved it. And there began the next phase of my dilemma. How do I disentangle myself from this man?
There are some crimes that cannot be redeemed. Murdering seven women is clearly one of them. No matter the extenuating circumstances, including acquittal, there is no coming back from that. There was also the consideration of what refusing to work with him could mean for me. But on balance, I decided to be straightforward and blunt. I told him that while he had brilliantly helped develop a business idea, we could not work together — his background is impossible to overcome, and any debacle would be attributed to him. At best, I could credit the idea to him.
I left. He remains in jail. The life sentence will not end soon.