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Victoria Finlay

THE taxi driver slowed down and waved his hand at the colonnades of the Wan Chai Police Station. 'The British,' he said suddenly, in the middle of a conversation about something quite different, 'did two good things for Hong Kong.

 'The first is that they got rid of corruption . . .'  And the second, I prompted. 'They left,' he grinned.

 Neither of those statements are completely true, but since 1974 a new independent body to fight corruption has meant Hong Kong's history of entrenched bribery has, mostly and with high-profile exceptions, become history.

 And, thanks to an extensive education programme, it has meant that most people in the SAR believe graft is uncool.

 Compare today's situation (in which the Hong Kong Police Force can call itself 'Asia's Finest' without causing laughter; in which the public can report crime without fear of victimisation; in which the words 'Warwick Reid', 'George Tan' or 'Peter Godber' are reminders that white-collar crime does not pay) with the one in 1973.

 That year, Hong Kong publicly recognised its police - and civil service - could resist everything but temptation. And it did something about it.

 Graft is as old as Hong Kong itself - and is almost certainly as old as China, whose 'public officials' often bribed their way through examinations.

 In the 19th century, corruption was institutionalised and rampant.

 In the 1890s, for example, a law designed to make home-owners whitewash their houses regularly - to prevent plague - led to corruption among sanitation inspectors, paid to turn blind eyes.

 'We are convinced the Police Force has never been free from corruption,' pronounced the China Mail that August.

 'Gambling houses, brothels, pawnshops are the mainstays of the blackmailer; and perhaps the millennium of honesty and cleanliness will never blossom into full flame.'  Compare that with Alastair Blair-Kerr's second report of the Commission of Inquiry into corruption in 1973, after revelations that the 1966 riots had been an attempt to frame anti-graft campaigner Elsie Tu (then Elliot).

 'There are strong indications that there is a great deal of corruption in the public service, particularly in certain departments which come into daily contact with the public,' he stated.

 'Most of the allegations . . . concern the police, Immigration, Housing, Public Works, Fire Services, Commerce and Industry, Labour departments and the New Territories Administration.'  Nothing much had changed in 75 years of so-called anti-corruption laws: ambulancemen demanded 'tea money', firemen wanted 'water money', nurses demanded cash to change bed pans - and the police were obsessed with 'buses'.

 Either they jumped on the graft bus or they did not, they used to say - but what they never dared do was stand in its way.

 In 1973, a low point in the public's confidence in its constabulary was reached, with the arrest of deputy district commander Peter Fitzroy Godber. He had been riding that metaphorical bus with the enthusiasm appropriate to a former chief superintendent of traffic police: the $4 million he was intending to retire on was six times the amount he earned in 20 years. The students marched, the public protested and the ICAC was the result.

 From tea-money investigations to tea sessions with the public, the new commission headed a three-pronged attack on corruption: investigation, education of the public and prevention.

 ICAC dramas started appearing on TV, and there were many poster campaigns. After viewing one of the early anti-corruption films, Ms Tu was asked whether she had learned anything. 'Yes,' she answered mischievously, 'I learned how to force open a car door.'  This year the ICAC celebrated 25 years. It has not been an easy ride on the anti-graft bus.

 There have been serious difficulties in the past quarter-century - crises that, if not whitewashed in the Taipingshan sense, were at least glossed over in the ICAC's silver jubilee book.

 In the early years the police protested the ICAC's 'draconian' powers.

 These included, and still include, the waiving of a suspect's right to remain silent (articles 10 and 14 of the Prevention of Bribery Ordinance) when questioned about property of resources, the right to demand travel documents (article 17) and the shifting of the burden of proof to the defence. In ICAC trials, you have to prove your own innocence.

 The protests were vociferous - in October 1977 more than 2,000 police officers marched noisily to Police Headquarters to present a petition. And at ICAC headquarters there was brawling, as 40 angry police officers tried to break in, supposedly looking for case files.

 Later peace was made by a partial amnesty - most violations predating January 1977 were dropped from the case books - which was criticised by many.

 The dismissal of deputy head of operations Alex Tsui Ka-kit in late 1993 was one of the latest inside scandals. The ICAC used article 8(2) of its charter - which states the commissioner may, 'if he is satisfied that it is in the interests of the commission, terminate the appointment of an officer without assigning any reason therefor' - but media investigations revealed Tsui's connections with triad members through his interest in kick-boxing.

 Despite that setback, a review committee confirmed the need for many of ICAC's investigative powers, although recommending tighter controls on its freedom to obtain information.

 As talk of a new Bill of Rights in Hong Kong - protecting the rights of the individual - came into the public domain, many people started questioning whether the ICAC's powers were a violation of human rights and whether, if they were, it mattered.

 In 1989 academic Lo T. Wing asked two survey groups - district board members and people aged 18 to 30 - whether they believed the ICAC's ability to investigate a suspect's bank account without a court order infringed human rights.

 More than 63 per cent of the young people agreed it was, but 70 per cent said it was necessary. The district board members were more cynical - or possibly more irritated by the restrictions - and 73 per cent said it was an infringement, with only 53 per cent saying it was necessary.

 Using those methods they have certainly had some high-profile results: the Jockey Club Shanghai Syndicate, the '26 Block' construction scandals in which low-grade building materials were used by contractors, the Carrian loan conspiracy, the 1988 Stock Exchange scandals and the Warwick Reid case - in which the former deputy crown prosecutor took huge bribes.

 Corruption is not dead in Hong Kong, the ICAC officers admit: it is just monitored more closely than ever before.



Grappling with legacy of graft