One August night in 1996, on a rural highway in Java, an investigative journalist was beaten to death by unknown
assailants. Two months later, police arrested a high-school
drop-out and put him on trial for the reporter’s murder. One problem: the accused killer had never met his alleged victim.

Entwined in local rivalries, media intrigues, and the long-held beliefs of many Javanese in fate, myth and magic, the killing of Fuad Muhammad Syafruddin spawned an unprecedented criminal investigation, a gripping courtroom drama and a nationwide controversy that signaled the iron rule of Indonesia’s longtime president, Suharto, was ending.

Researched and written over two years from confidential
documents, court records and exclusive interviews with
police, investigators, lawyers, witnesses and survivors, this
unique account reconstructs the legal and political drama
surrounding one of Indonesia’s most famous unsolved
murders. Combining journalism, travel writing and true
crime, The Invisible Palace is an engrossing and deeply
described study of media, politics and justice in the
contemporary developing world.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

José Manuel Tesoro was Jakarta correspondent for Asiaweek magazine from 1997 to 2000. Born in Manila, he has lived and traveled widely in Indonesia and Southeast Asia, reporting for Asiaweek, Wired, East and the Economist Intelligence Unit. A 1994 graduate of Yale University, he is currently a student at Harvard Law School and lives with his wife in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
This is his first book.

The Invisible Palace

Udin's murder: A crime without punishment
by Bruce Emond, The Jakarta Post, Jakarta
The Invisible Palace: The True Story of a Journalist's Murder in Java
Jose Manuel Tesoro, Equinox Press, August 2004, Rp 139,000

Some of us, most of us, perhaps, prefer to let painful matters slide, unconcerned about finding solace in the now hackneyed term of "closure".

Dredging up our past, especially about who did what in 1965-66, would be difficult to face, for it would mean taking a long, hard, perhaps mortifying look at ourselves (and the murderers among us). For others, especially the Petrus killings of hoodlums in the early 1980s, we probably don't care too much.

But there are other cases of injustice that still prod the conscience, often involving individuals who took a stand, and were branded "rabble rousers", only to suffer the consequences.

One example is Fuad Muhammad Syafruddin, a reporter for a small Yogyakarta newspaper who was beaten to death outside his home, most likely for writing stories that infuriated the powerful, in August 1996.

Former Jakarta-based Asiaweek correspondent Jose "Joel" Manuel Tesoro is not letting Udin's case die. The Invisible Palace, launched last month, is an enthralling account of the investigation into Udin's death. Written in the narrative "nonfiction novel" style first used by Truman Capote in In Cold Blood, it vividly brings to life the facts of the story.

Tesoro is blessed with a cast of characters any pulp fiction writer would envy, among them the imperious local regent Sri Roso Sudarmo and a young, slick detective on the make, Edy Wuryanto, who morbidly totes a bag of Udin's blood around with him.

His colorful tableau is the heartland of Java, steeped in myths and superstitions, as the country hurtled inexorably toward Soeharto's exit from power.

But why choose Udin from all the other unsolved cases around, apart from the fact that he was a fellow journalist? "I wanted to do a crime story, first of all, and also because as I journalist I hadn't gone through the obituary-crime-police (newspaper) beats, as I had started working for Asiaweek almost immediately," said Tesoro, 31, who is currently studying law at Harvard but returned to Jakarta for the book launching.

"Secondly, I wanted the technical challenge of a crime story, which comes in both the reporting of it and the writing of it ..." Living in the cultural hub of Yogyakarta while conducting research also appealed to Tesoro, who majored in anthropology as an undergraduate at Yale.

The Filipino, who is the son of a lawyer and a leading expert on Philippine textiles, said he was seen as a "sympathetic ear" by those he interviewed (only Sri Roso and Edy refused to meet him).

"There's always a sense Asians can talk about certain things together, things that would be more embarrassing to discuss with Westerners or those who haven't lived in Asia for a while." He spent nine months in the area, but he said it was only "scratching the surface" in the effort to piece together the story of Udin's murder and its aftermath.

"I guess, naively, I thought it wouldn't be as bad for me (compared to Capote's drawnout investigative saga), not that I went through any breakdowns doing it, but the amount of material that you have to go through, the people you have to meet, as well as the writing of it -- I really wasn't prepared for all the research." The Invisible Palace is sobering in its depiction of how leaders in parts of the country off the main radar of the media could keep an iron-grip on their citizens -- and sometimes get away with murder.

The tale revolves around Udin, but he is effectively gone by page 54, and then it becomes the compelling story of all of those affected by his death.

Although he has been held up as a martyr for the press, Udin comes across as a man simply trying to earn a living for his family, reporting on the dubious wheeling and dealings in the corridors of power without realizing the risks he was taking.

What in the West would be considered the search for the real story, for truth and confirmation, Tesoro said, became an unforgivable example of impertinence in Yogyakarta at a time of heightened political sensitivity.

Yet he was heartened by how the Yogyakarta community rallied around Iwik, the poor delivery driver shanghaied into confessing to the murder but eventually freed.

Eight years on, it's no open-and-shut case, with all the loose ends tidied up at the end of the book.

"There is no closure to this case. There are some people who hope this (book) reopens things, and we're going to get closure. But the point is to read and learn," Tesoro said.

"It kind of holds up a mirror to society and says that because things aren't finished, there'll always be questions that are never answered, so you're never going to get the truth of things. And, in a sense, then, you don't really know where you stand." Life moves on: Udin's widow, Marsiyem, who attended the book launching in Jakarta, has remarried; Iwik is back to driving a minibus and Sri Roso lives quietly with his family, the cloud of suspicion shadowing him on the rare occasions he goes out in public.

The Invisible Palace may not change our preference to leave things hanging, but at the very least it acts as a nagging reminder about the guilty who still walk the streets.

"Somewhere out there is a murderer who got away with what he did," Tesoro said. "And somewhere out there is the person who paid this murderer to do it ... "

Taken from The Jakarta Post

Reporter's murder a shadow-puppet farce
By Gary LaMoshi

Persecution of the media in Indonesia remains a sadly current story. A string of damages lawsuits and criminal prosecutions against newspapers and journalists illustrates that, even in this post-Suharto age of reformasi, powerful forces still can impose their will and protect their privileges. Jose Manuel Tesoro's portrait in The Invisible Palace of the murder of journalist Faud Muhammad Syafruddin uses the slaying and the tragic, comically botched investigation as a frame to illustrate the workings of former dictator Suharto's Indonesia and its links to pre-Islamic traditions that survived the New Order.

The murdered freelance reporter, known by his nickname Udin, wrote for Yogyakarta daily Bernas about local affairs in the village of Bantul on the outskirts of Central Java's biggest city, and the keeper of Javanese cultural traditions. Many travelers find Yogya, as the locals call it, the most charming city on Java. Alone among Javanese cities, Yogya's sultan remains a respected, influential figure. The current sultan serves as governor of the province, following the footsteps of his father, and reigns in his Kraton, an impressive, if somewhat ragged, palace quarter.

But there's a darker side to Yogya. Most Yogyans and Javanese are Muslims, but their faith remains peppered with mystical beliefs. Wayang kulit - all-night shadow-puppet shows based on Hindu mythology - are a feature of cultural life. For visitors, they're a charming diversion; for Javanese, they're a moving spiritual experience and a metaphor for how a hidden master controls events, a metaphor that inspired the book's title.

The supernatural retains a powerful hold in Indonesia and includes the legend of Nyai Roro Kidul, Yogya's Queen of the South Ocean, reigning in her own invisible palace. Many people pray at the mosque then seek the advice of a dukun - translated as "mystic" or "witch doctor" - on matters from land and business deals to impotence. Events surrounding Udin's death sent politicians and police investigators to the dukun.

Suharto hailed from a broken family not far from Yogya and won his greatest military fame with the expulsion of the Dutch colonial army from the city, headquarters for Indonesia's post-World War II independence movement. Many attributed the obscure general's rise to power and his three decades of unchallenged rule - Tesoro calls it "soft fascism" - to supernatural influences.

When Suharto tried to oust the leader in the village of Bantul outside Yogya, bupati Sri Roso Sudarmo sought the help of Suharto's half-brother Noto Suwito, the only member of the clan who stayed put. Sudarmo pledged to contribute Rp1 billion (US$428,000 at the time) to the Dharmais Foundation, a Suharto-run charity, if granted another term. Suwito was named to carry out the contribution and co-signed Sudarmo's pledge.

Udin reported that story and also wrote about Sudarmo's apparent skimming of anti-poverty funds and his grandiose redevelopment scheme for Parangtritis Beach, the realm of Nyai Roro Kidul. These stories brought complaints from the bupati, and Sudarmo ordered his staff to prepare a lawsuit against Udin and his newspaper.

But before the lawsuit could be filed, a late-night visitor knocked on the door at Udin's home behind the photo studio he owed with a partner. Udin's wife Marisyem opened the door to find a muscular young man in a red
T-shirt and bandanna. He asked for Udin, saying his motorcycle was broken and displaying a metal pipe, apparently the reason for the disabled bike. But when Udin came outside, the pipe became a murder weapon. Marisyem discovered her 33-year-old husband's body moments later, bleeding from a fatal head wound.

Yogya's most colorful detective, Edy Wuryanto, took the case. Known for his creative undercover work and his use of mystics, spells and charms in his investigations, Edy contended that 99% of all crimes were due to love or money. He steadfastly refused to consider the possibility that Udin's murder could be part of the remaining 1%, involving, say, politics, in a country where journalists still face violence and police can still be persuaded to look the other way, or even assist.

Local reporters' probes into the killing uncovered political links, including one official who claimed he'd witnessed a confession from Sudarmo. But Edy's investigation led to the arrest of Dwi "Iwik" Sumaji, a meek driver for a sign company. Edy mixed a cocktail of false business leads, beer, pills and Red Bull along with the promise of "help" for Iwik if he confessed to the murder. Edy told Iwik he'd be protecting an important figure who would show his appreciation, a figure Iwik identified at his trial as "the bupati".

The catalogue of irregularities in Edy's investigation would be funny, except that the crime was murder and there was an innocent man's freedom at stake. The investigator borrowed a bag of Udin's blood that the reporter's family had meant to bury with the body; Edy claimed he used it as a part of a sacrifice to the South Sea Queen to help with the probe. It also could have been the source or prototype for the blood found on Iwik's seized clothing. Edy borrowed a photo of Iwik's wife Sunarti from their registration documents and then claimed it was found in Udin's wallet. The photo supported a rumor Edy started that Udin carried on an affair with Sunarti, providing Iwik with a motive straight out of the detective's own book on criminal behavior.

Prosecutors eventually tired of Edy's antics and the holes in the case, which came under increasing scrutiny, nationally and internationally. After rejecting the police investigation file five times, government lawyers finally took the case to trial, perhaps not because they thought they could win, but because they wanted to get rid of it. In the end, after a year of tormenting Iwik, his family and Udin's survivors, a court acquitted the driver. But, Tesoro reminds readers, Udin's killer still walks free.

While the story of Udin, Iwik and the rest is compellingly told and instructive, the true essence of Tesoro's tale lies in one passage: "In Indonesia, as in much of the developing world, the truth is like an onion: Peeling away layers of lies, errors and misunderstandings results in little but a big stink and cloudy vision." Even today, police cannot be trusted and the elite still holds sway. Journalists still must fear martyrdom and, more important, every citizen can become a victim.

Taken from Asia Times

More troubles in paradise
By John Walsh

The murder of Fuad Muhammad Syafruddin -- known commonly as Udin -- in 1996 remains one of Indonesia's most famous and lurid mysteries. Udin had been a journalist reporting on events within his beat near to the city of Jogjakarta on Java. As a freelancer, Udin was paid on the basis on the number of stories he had published and so was keen to report on as many stories as possible. Some felt this had led him to become reckless in reporting on alleged cases of corruption by prominent individuals.

When Udin is found beaten to death, whispers surround his supposed over-zealous exposure of powerful people. His former colleagues and some idealistic young lawyers start an energetic campaign to have his killer (and shadowy backers) brought to justice. But the police have other ideas and arrest Iwik, a mostly inadequate individual whom they may believe they can coerce into a confession. A photograph of Iwik's wife is found in Udin's wallet and some of Udin's blood may be found on Iwik's clothes and a length of pipe claimed to be the murder weapon. Yet the photo may have been submitted by the wife in a formal registration and the blood may have originated from Udin's supporters, who had kept some from the murder scene. In any case, why was it necessary for the police to engage in a masquerade involving a trip to the beach, beer, prostitutes and a fake offshore oil drilling project to cause Iwik to make a confession?

In states where, like Indonesia, corruption is rife and involves all institutions, including the police, the judiciary and the government, it often appears hopeless to protest. Powerful elements seem to have so many resources to get their own way, using small people as pawns to be disposed of when they have no more value. Yet this story shows that, even if justice is not always served, then the weak can still have their voices heard. Technology such as the Internet and mobile phones have been vital in this. It is increasingly difficult to keep things quiet. Although Udin's murderer remains at large, at least Iwik has been cleared of the false accusation. Although many of the police officers concerned have since received promotions, at least their actions have become subject to public scrutiny. This is at least a positive development.

JOSE MANUEL TESORO's book is full of fascinating details about life on Java. He is particularly entertaining on the role of magic and folk beliefs in modern life. Islam may overlay these beliefs but they are still a vital part of everyday life and are especially likely to be consulted in times of need. As a Filipino, Tesoro has been obliged to conduct his interviews and his research in the national language, which he can speak, rather than Javanese, which is more commonly used on the island. This has enabled him to converse directly with the involved people but with a slight loss of subtlety. Nevertheless, he gives the impression of understanding the island and its people. His awareness of the shadow of colonialism on the legal system and on habits in court is of considerable importance in understanding the case.

This is a fine book which tells its tale well. There are occasional lapses -- at the final trial, the audience suddenly changes from one supportive of Iwik to one antagonistic without explanation. Not every sentence is elegantly constructed and, unlike many other trial-based books, there is not much of a sense of tension about the ultimate outcome of events. However, the research supporting the book seems solid and there is a reassuring depth of detail. It is perhaps a pity that more is not made of a conclusion that might bring out some of the wider ramifications of the case. Still, this is a book that is recommended for anyone with an interest in modern Indonesia or in the law.

Taken from Asian Review of Books

A journalist murdered in Java
By Jeremy Blachman

Most 2Ls are lucky to have written a coherent resume. Two-L Jose Manuel Tesoro wrote a book. A real one, in bookstores, and on Amazon.com. The book takes place in Java, and I'll admit it took an Internet search for me to figure out where exactly that is, and whether it's a country, a region, an island, or something else entirely. According to LonelyPlanet.com, Java is "[t]he most developed island in the Indonesian archipelago," and "exhibits all the characteristics of an Asian society experiencing rapid transition: great wealth and equal squalor; beautiful open country and filthy cities; tranquil rural scenes and streets choked with traffic." And that description does okay, but if you really want to learn how life unfolds in a land most of us have probably never thought much about, you should read Tesoro's book.

On its face, the book is the story of the unsolved murder of an investigative journalist for one of Java's top newspapers. One night, as Fuad Muhammed Syafruddin (Udin) played computer chess at home while his wife finished ironing the laundry, a stranger knocked on the door, asked for Udin, and beat him to death right in the doorway. The assailant escaped, and an investigation began, ending up with a man who'd never before met the victim being brought to trial... and you'll have to read the book to find out how it turns out.. But even though the book is ostensibly about the murder and the ensuing investigation, where it works best is when it's describing life in Java, and how the society works. By the end of the book, you'll know the streets of Jogjakarta, you'll envision life on Parangtritis Road, and you'll have a rich sense of the world where the crime took place. You'll know some Javanese mythology, and understand the Javanese calendar, and get a feel for a government that treats freedom of the press a whole lot differently from how we do. Plus, you'll be taken through a murder investigation. Along the way, you'll get a solid - and fascinating - education in the more mundane aspects of life in Java. It's not often we get a chance - at least not for class - to learn about a culture very different from our own, and Tesoro writes as a true expert in Javanese society. It's more interesting than it sounds.

Tesoro paints nice pictures. I felt like I could see the story unfolding. The book's worth reading for an escape to a world (and, incidentally, a legal system, in case that gets you interested) very different from our own. Check it out. Even if you have no idea where Java is.

Taken from Harvard Law School Record