There is a client who paid me a king’s ransom.

This happened many, many years ago. It concerned an elderly ethnic Chinese gentleman and his wife.

In the interior of Perak there is a tiny farm. A brook courses through it. On one side of it stood a wooden shack. A family lived there. This Uncle (as we shall call him) was born there. He had an elder brother. After many decades, his parents passed on. That left him and his brother. The land was registered into the elder brother’s name. The brothers had an excellent relationship.  Uncle was a boy, and his name was not on the title.  At that time no one thought it was necessary. They worked the land and tended to the orchard. They reared chicken and ducks, but only sufficient to look after the family’s needs. They lived a frugal but happy life.

One day his elder brother expressed a desire to venture into other areas of business. He left the farm in Uncle’s hands and went off to a place far away.

But Uncle stayed on the farm. All he knew was the land, his farm, his chicken and ducks.  He tended to them.  He sold eggs and vegetables. Later on he married Aunty. They had no children. He wanted his wife to be as comfortable as possible. So Uncle repaired the house. She didn’t care. She loved him to bits.

The elder brother often visited them. Uncle and Aunty enjoyed these visits. Aunty would cook.  The brothers would sit out at the verandah and speak quietly.  Or just enjoy looking at the orchard.  Each brother knew which tree was planted where, and when it bore fruit. The elder brother would stay over and talk of old times. They were really good friends.

The elder brother did well for himself. So much so that after a few years, he did not ask for any proceeds from the farm.  He told Uncle, ‘You keep it for yourself.  I am okay.  I can look after myself.’

One day, during one of his visits, the elder brother told Uncle, ‘You can live here as long as you like.  After that your wife and children.  I will tell my children.  Not to worry’. 

No documentary evidence existed of this benefaction.

Their thinking was, ‘This had been our parent’s land.  When they died, they gave it to both of us.’  

Things stood thus, for decades.

Many years later the elder brother passed on. But he left no will. His children did not bother Uncle or Aunty. They left them alone. So did the grandchildren. By this time the land must have become rather valuable. Eventually, his elder brother’s descendants wanted the land back. Uncle and Aunty simply wished to live out their life there. Uncle said so. They did not agree.

Uncle received a letter of demand.

Litigation ensued.

The questions were whether he owned any interest in the land and whether he and his wife could continue to live there.

Eventually, the court decided he had to leave. He fought appeals at all levels. Many kind lawyers had helped him. All to no avail.

After many years, he received a notice. He was asked to move out. Or he would be turned out. He had a matter of days. He did not know what to do. In desperation, he and Aunty take a bus to  Kuala Lumpur. They got off at the old Klang bus stand and walked all the way to the Bar Council. Someone there, having heard his story, says ‘Go to this place.’ 

Naturally, we knew nothing of this. We did not even know he was coming to meet us.

So he turns up.

He was tall. His hands were like the bark of an old tree, all gnarled. He must have been a six-footer. His back was straight. He walked with some pain. He says he is more than 80 years old. He is accompanied by an elderly lady. He introduces her as his wife. They speak rather loudly.

He tells us his tale.

‘We have lost our land.  Can we get it back?’

We ask for documents.  He pulls out a sheaf of papers from a pink plastic bag.  We offer them some tea. They ask for water. We ask them to wait. The old couple whisper to each other.  The air conditioner hums quietly.

We study the papers. We look at all the cases. We hit the books. We pull out old files. Everyone stops work and comes to help. There is a great deal of legal research. The library tables are littered with open journals and textbooks. We discover that we are not on the right side of the law. There are a many reasons why we’d fail.

Eventually, we decide nothing can be done. The situation is bad.

We explain it to them. They are in distress.

I think of my parents.

We did not wish to send them away with nothing.

So we look at the cases again. We check and re-check our assumptions.

After a long time, one line in a decided case gives us pause.

Someone says, ‘Let us try your kamikaze technique.’  It is a simple technique: you go to a fight knowing you will lose. But you raise a rare point of law. You threaten to bring the entire proceedings to a dead stop until the point is decided.

So we say, ‘Okay, let us try this’. So we tell him. We try to explain our strategy. He is not interested in all that.

‘Can you succeed?’  he aks.

We say, ‘Absolutely not’. 

He does not ask, ‘So why are you doing it then?’ 

‘But you will try, yes?’ is all he asks.

Next, he asks how much is to be paid. He takes out an old envelope and rummages through it.  A partner waves him off.

The case is unsuccessful.

Months later, I can hear loud Chinese conversation at the reception. I stick my head out of the room. It is Uncle and Aunty. He points to a few plastic bags on the carpet. Some bags contain crimson rambutans. Another box is full of other fruit. He waves a hand over the gifts.  ‘All planted from our land.  Harvested by us personally’.

His eyes gleam with pride: ‘Our own produce’. He insists we take it as fees.

‘They haven’t turned you out of the land?’  I ask, a little anxiously.

‘No’, he says, ‘All this fighting has scared them off.  I am still there.  I will bury my bones there,’ he says in Chinese.  A colleague translates.

They are defiant and happy. Aunty is shaking everyone’s hands.

It is as if we had given the couple a royal victory.

When I get home,  I bite into the rambutan, and juice runs down.

It is rich, deep, and true.  Like Uncle and Aunty.

Imagine this couple. Average age 80. Planting those trees. Looking after them for years, as one would one’s children. Waiting until they bear fruit.  Harvesting, packing and getting all that into a bus. And lugging it from the old Klang bus stand to our office.

These were not mere fruits. It was a representation of their lives’ struggle.

How expensive a fee was it?

As expensive as a king’s ransom.