It became our main story. We dug and we wrote, getting angrier by the day, getting drunk and having heated conversations at the Bulldog, waking up with blistering hangovers, but pushing, constantly and consistently, the boundaries of whatever little press freedom we had.

On 13 November, the last day of the trial, foreign press packed the High Court. The UN Special Rapporteur for Malaysia, Param Cumarasamy, was not allowed in. Furious, he vented at the press. This is an obvious and blatant miscarriage of justice! He had sat in courts for trials on Cambodia, El Salvador, Haiti and Rwanda, and here he was, denied entry to the delivery of the verdict of the most watched trial in the world.

By 8am we were all there at the courthouse, waiting for the verdict, along with the foreign press. It was humid from the rain earlier, the sky a stark, cloudless blue. And then it came, first like a hushed whisper between illicit lovers, then a barbaric yawp. A tearful press secretary came out and softly mouthed the verdict. Anwar was sentenced to six years in prison. Screams of dismay.

What? No! No! NO!

Fairman, Imran, Sumi and I were all there. Wan Azizah, Anwar’s wife, came out of the courthouse in tears, surrounded by her two elder daughters, weeping openly. Then an angry horde.

Reformasi!

Reformasi!

Anwar emerged, face drawn, herded into a Black Maria like a common criminal. The crowd surged forward. It was a farce, a mockery of justice.

Six fucking years! For what? Six fucking years! Six fucking years!

Imran repeated it again and again like a bad mantra in the Range Rover until Fairman told him to shut up. We sat in silence as we drove past the police cars, past the frenzy of the screaming, weeping supporters, past miles and miles of traffic, cars honking, drivers white with shock. We got to the Bulldog and started drinking. We drank shots. After one bottle, Fairman ordered another. More vodka! Drink up guys, tomorrow we start again. Imran wept openly, Fairman took his glasses off and buried his face in his hands. Sumi and I smoked cigarette after cigarette, staring at two guys playing pool, until it was time to leave. We had drunk two bottles of vodka. I got home and threw up, passing out on the toilet floor.

The next day, with heads pounding, we sat numb at our computers, staring into black screens, not knowing what to write. We were devastated, gutted.

Two days later, The Review was shut down, for reasons that were undisclosed. I remember Fairman coming out of his office, his eyes wild. Guys, we’ve been shut down.

Fucking wankers! Imran threw his coffee mug at the wall. Always wanted to do that! He smiled, then started throwing papers into a box.