The SRC International trial was a watershed moment in Malaysian politics. It saw the conviction of former Prime Minister Najib bin Razak for seven charges of abuse of power, criminal breach of trust and money laundering in relation to over RM 42 million of SRC International’s money. The case captivated the nation, with many viewing it as a test of Malaysia’s judicial independence and commitment to fighting corruption at the highest levels.

During one of our teh tarik sessions at the mamak, around the time the SRC International trial was going on, Ahmad (not his name), a bright-eyed intern, asked me, “Encik Fahri, if Najib asked you to defend him in court, would you?”

“Yes, I would,” I replied, without skipping a beat.

There was a pause. His eyes widened, his forehead creased. He pushed his chin down. I watched him carefully phrase his next question. I had a sense of what was going to follow.

“May I ask why, Mr Fahri?” Ahmad shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I know about your public interest litigation work in freedom of religion and expression cases. You’ve acted for Sisters in Islam, Indira Gandhi, and Mohd Juzaili. You do legal aid work and take on pro bono public interest cases. I feel you always fight for the underdog. I am curious why you would represent him. I am sorry for being so direct, but I am genuinely surprised by your answer.”

I stirred my teh tarik slowly.

“I know. You were expecting me to say no outright, right?”

“Yes. Well, given the cases you take up…”

“…it follows, I would decline him,” I finished his thought. “Now, let’s go back to first principles. I am a lawyer. There’s supposed to be a cab rank rule-ish thing going on. That means, we have to take on any brief that comes our way. Rule 2 of the practice and etiquette rules. So long as we can agree on the fee, and there’s no conflict of interest, jalan. That’s the general rule: we cannot pick.”

Ahmad leaned forward. “So, if he wants to appoint you, you have to accept?”

“Generally, yes. Subject to fees and no conflict.”

“But you said it was a general rule. Are there exceptions then?” Ahmad’s brow furrowed in concentration.

“Now you are thinking like a lawyer,” I said. “As it so happens, there is. Rule 2 also says in special circumstances we can refuse a brief. What amounts to special circumstance? That’s our call. It’s at our discretion to determine. It is not open to review by the Bar Council. That’s why I said cab rank rule-ish. There’s the general rule, but there’s a backdoor around it far larger than the entrance. It raises the question of why bother with it in the first place?”

“That’s interesting. I didn’t know that,” Ahmad admitted, taking a sip.

“Isn’t it? But that doesn’t answer your question. Since it’s really up to me, how do I square this circle, right?”

“Yes. He had all this power and influence and used it to betray us. He’s part of the political elite. It just seems acting for him is so far apart from what you stand for and what you do.”

“Do you know I have acted for people with the flimsiest of moral fibre and corrupted of motives?” I asked. “On top of that I’ve acted for murderers, gang-robbers, rapists, fraudsters and drug traffickers. What is Najib amidst all these? Someone accused of corruption ultimately. That’s all. That he was the former PM and all that jazz is interesting and a curiosity. But for me, it’s just another case to make the best of.”

“He’s just another client,” Ahmad said slowly, processing the concept.

“Yes. If it’s paid work, I don’t care who you are or what you did. You came to me for legal help. If I can, I will. If I can’t, I’ll refer them to someone who can. But those people you mentioned – Indira, Juzaili – those are work I do in my ‘free time’. I could do things I enjoy. Like practising my guitar, reading more, or spending more time with the family. Instead, I do cases. I do them because I feel strongly about the causes or legal issues. So, for me, a client like Najib has no relation whatsoever with the causes I support. You get how I see things?”

“Yes. I didn’t think of it that way.”

“Because you are not yet a lawyer. You are seeing it how a layperson would. How can Fahri act for that bad person? But “bad people” have the same rights as you and I. Bad people also need legal advice. After being advised, it may well turn out they didn’t do what people say they did or are not as bad as others say.”

“But doesn’t taking such high-profile, controversial cases damage the public’s trust in lawyers?” Ahmad asked, voicing the question I’d heard many times before.

I shook my head. “No. Actually, it’s quite the opposite. Consider William Garrow, the pioneering English barrister from the late 18th century. He defended notorious highwaymen and alleged murderers at the Old Bailey when no one else would. He revolutionized the adversarial system and coined the phrase ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ Without lawyers willing to take unpopular cases, our justice system becomes nothing more than mob rule.”

Ahmad nodded. “What are your special circumstances for rejecting a client then?”

“Asking me to do something illegal. I don’t do bribes or use influence. I mean you come to me for legal help. I’m not a bag man or an influence peddler. If the potential client lies to me. Or the fella is dodgy. A client who lies to their lawyer is likely to lie about things. Best stay out, lest we get blamed for something not of our own doing. Or if they are unreasonably difficult from the get-go. The initially decent-looking legal fees deteriorate in value given the demands and added heavy psychological burden. Or we cannot agree on the fees or fails to pay. Finally, disrespect. If I feel the client does not respect me or the advice given, then best work with someone they can be respectful with.”

Ahmad pondered this momentarily, running his finger along the condensation on his glass. “I think I understand now,” he said, nodding slowly. “It’s about upholding the system itself, not just the individual.”

“Exactly. When people ask if I would represent someone like Najib, what they’re really asking is whether I think he deserves justice. But that’s not my call to make. Our legal system is built on the principle that everyone deserves legal representation – the moment we start deciding who is worthy and who isn’t, the entire foundation crumbles.”

Ahmad looked at his semi-transparent glass mug of teh tarik, which now was a shade deeper. “But doesn’t it bother you what people might think? That they might associate you with his alleged crimes?”

“That concern is precisely what separates the layperson from the lawyer. The public sees a lawyer as choosing sides in a moral battle. We see ourselves as ensuring the battle is fair in the first place. Remember, defending someone in court isn’t about declaring their innocence – it’s about making sure the prosecution properly proves their guilt. And how can they associate me with his charge? I wasn’t there when the offence supposedly took place!”

“So in a way, by representing even the most controversial clients, you’re actually protecting everyone’s rights.”

“Now you’re thinking like a lawyer,” I said, raising my glass in a small toast. “Justice isn’t served when we only defend those we deem worthy of defense. It’s served when the system works as designed – when everyone, regardless of who they are or what they’ve done, receives the full protection of the law. That’s the distinction that matters.”

As we finished our drinks and prepared to leave the mamak, I noticed a subtle shift in Ahmad’s demeanour. The discomfort and surprise that marked his initial reaction gave way to thoughtful consideration. This transformation – from moral outrage to principled understanding – was one I had witnessed many times before in young lawyers. It marked the beginning of a professional identity that sometimes stands at odds with personal feelings but remains essential to the integrity of our justice system.

In a society where public opinion often serves as judge and jury, a lawyer’s willingness to represent the unpopular or reviled isn’t just an ethical obligation – it’s the cornerstone of a functioning democracy. The question isn’t whether I would represent Najib, because we all know that is a hypothetical. The question is: what kind of legal system would we have if no one would?