The magistrate, p.22
The Magistrate, page 22
Upon arrival at the new facility, they are stripped, searched, hair shorn, allowed to take a shower (Lu’s first since his arrest), issued prison uniforms of dark blue with thick white stripes on the shoulders and pants, and brought to a room where they stand at attention as the warden addresses them.
Lu barely pays attention. He knows the routine. They must strive to be model inmates. Rehabilitate themselves through a sincere study of socialist principles. And so on. When his lecture is done, the warden dismisses the other inmates but tells Lu to remain behind.
“I see you were a deputy chief of a township.”
“I’m still a deputy chief. And I’m innocent.”
“That is for a trial to decide. In the meantime, I don’t want any trouble here. Don’t tell the other inmates you were a cop. That might make you a target.”
“Thanks for the sage advice,” Lu says.
“You’ll address me as Warden.”
“Yes, Warden.”
The warden nods tersely. “Dismissed.”
“I’m owed a phone call. And a lawyer.”
“Later.”
“You know I’m close personal friends with a deputy director at the Ministry of Public Security, don’t you?”
The warden stands nose to nose with Lu. He is short but has the pugnacious air of a street fighter. “I don’t give a donkey’s balls who you know, inmate”—the warden looks down at the serial numbers on the breast of Lu’s prison blouse—“Eight-nine-three-four-five. I don’t play favorites. Within my jurisdiction, justice is blind. Got it?”
“Yes, Warden.”
“Dismissed!”
* * *
Lu is placed in the four-by-four-meter cell that will serve as his bedroom, bathroom, and living area—along with nine or ten other men—for the foreseeable future. The walls are painted a sickly green. Bunk beds line the walls. A narrow window high up in back casts an anemic rectangle of sunshine across the floor. A hole in the floor serves as a toilet. A camera watches from the corner of the ceiling.
Only one of the beds is free—the one closest to the toilet. A few necessities supplied by the facility are laid out there—two thin towels, a set of sheets, a toothbrush, and an enamel cup.
The other inmates are elsewhere—perhaps in one of the reeducation classrooms enduring a lecture about “The Fourteen Principles of Xi Jinping Thought” or singing patriotic songs. Lu sits on the thin cotton mattress, smells the odor of old food, unwashed bodies, and shit. He blows on his frozen fingers; the cell is not heated.
He suddenly feels crushed beneath the weight of despair. He might never get out of this place; might never see Yanyan again. The thread of his life prematurely and unnaturally severed.
Soon he hears the tramp of feet, guards calling out orders, cell doors opening and slamming shut. A guard admits his fellow cellmates, locks the door behind them. A thickset guy comes over and jabs a thumb at his own nose. “I’m Meng Quan.” Mad Dog. “Boss of this cell. Got it?”
“Sure.”
“Say it!”
“You’re Meng Quan. Boss of this cell.”
“Don’t forget. What I say goes. Understand?”
“Understood.”
“You cause trouble, and I get in trouble. And if I get in trouble, I’m going to hurt you.”
“I’m not interested in causing trouble.”
“What’s your name?”
“Lu.”
“What’re you in for?”
“Nothing. I’m being framed.”
Meng Quan smiles, revealing a few missing teeth. “Me, too. Right, boys? We’re all being framed.”
The others respond with good-natured shouts of, “Me, too!” “I was framed!”
Meng Quan slaps Lu on the shoulder, rocking him a bit. “Keep your nose clean, do what you’re told, and we’ll get along fine, all right, Qingbai Lu?” This is the nickname by which Lu will be known for the rest of his tenure in Meng Quan’s cell: Lu the Innocent.
* * *
After a barely edible dinner, Lu is finally allowed to make his phone call. He badly wants to call Yanyan back in Raven Valley but calls Ma instead. There is no pretense of privacy—a guard stands watching a few feet away. Lu tells Ma what he knows. She says she’s doing everything she can to get him free on bail.
“I need a lawyer,” Lu says.
“On it.”
“And I need you to call Yanyan for me.”
“I’ll will. I’ll explain everything.”
“What can Song do to help?”
“We’ve talked about it. He’s making phone calls, but we’re going to have to let this play out. We may have to go through the motions of a trial.”
“But that could take months! A year!”
“We can force it through faster than that.”
“The case is such bullshit, Xiulan. Can’t we just get it dismissed?”
“The procurator has already approved the arrest and indictment.”
“What about Gao? Hasn’t he cleared me?” There is an unnerving silence on the phone. “Well?”
“He’s made a statement that it was you who shot him,” Ma says.
“That’s ridiculous!”
The guard butts in: “Time’s up.”
“What are you talking about? I just got here!”
“Time’s up!” The guard fingers the baton holstered at his waist.
“I have to go,” Lu says into the phone. “Please call Yanyan.”
“I will. Keep your chin up.”
Lu laughs bitterly and hangs up.
FORTY-SIX
Life in the detention center follows an unvarying routine. An alarm sounds at six thirty. Meng Quan claps his hands and shouts for everyone to get up, giving those who are more difficult to rouse an encouraging kick.
Everyone makes their beds, then stands at attention, shivering in the cold, sometimes for ten minutes or more, while the guards complete a morning head count. Afterward, inmates are let out of their cells to brush their teeth and use the facilities in the cell block’s single restroom, which is outfitted with a trough sink, a similar urinal, four holes in the ground for other business, and rough showers. As there are more than a hundred inmates, this process takes a while, and is accompanied by much shoving, complaining, and urging of the inmates in front of the line to hurry up.
Morning toilet complete, the inmates shuffle in sloppy unison outside for a flag-raising ceremony and a rendition of the national anthem played over loudspeakers. This is followed by thirty minutes of physical exercise—a few half-hearted calisthenics and a lot of military-style marching.
Next comes breakfast in the cells—a watery rice gruel with bits of pork fat and bitter vegetables, fried bread, sometimes a turnip. The rest of the day is filled with menial chores and study sessions. The sessions remind Lu of his ideological and political education classes in high school and university. Long, droning affairs. Lu hasn’t slept more than an hour at a time since his arrest and fights to stay awake during these lectures, but he sees what happens to those who do not—the instructor points to the offender, and a guard, who is likewise on the verge of dozing, springs to life, strides forward, and doles out a rap with his stick.
As bad as the study sessions are, they pale in comparison to the continued interrogations. These might take place at any time. First thing in the morning, just before bedtime, in the middle of lunch, while you’re scrubbing the urinal. A team of guards arrives, calls your name, and hauls you off to a windowless room, where you are locked in a tiger chair and asked question after question for an hour, maybe two, sometimes three. In Lu’s case, it’s shouted accusations regarding Gao’s shooting. It doesn’t take Lu long to understand that the guards are essentially reading from a script. They aren’t personally acquainted with the case—for all they care, Lu might have been arrested for pissing in a corner of Mao’s mausoleum—but their job is to coerce a confession from Lu.
Lu knows better than to confess. And the guards know he knows better, so the interrogations become a pantomime in which they try to break his will, but secretly have low expectations of succeeding. Nevertheless, in his first week of his incarceration, he endures no less than eight interrogations.
One cold afternoon, two guards come to collect Lu. He expects to be taken to yet another windowless cell and interrogated, but instead they escort him into a visiting room, where Ma and a balding, bespectacled man in a rumpled suit wait on the other side of a plexiglass barrier.
There is a phone receiver on either side of the window. Ma picks hers up and motions for Lu to do the same. She smiles through the scratched glass, her voice tinny in Lu’s ear. “How are you, Brother Lu?”
“Glad to see you. Otherwise, I have one or two complaints. All right, a lot of complaints. Have you spoken to Yanyan?”
“Yes. She understands the situation. She said to tell you … to take care of yourself. And, that she loves you.”
Lu looks away for a moment. When he has composed himself, he turns back. “And Chief Liang?”
“He said he knows you are an idiot, but there’s no way you did what you’re accused of.”
“Sounds like him.”
“Let me introduce you to Mr. Shi—he will act as your lawyer.”
Shi takes the phone and has Lu recount the events leading up to Gao’s shooting and the shooting itself. Also, what he knows about Gao, Ling Wei, Tang Fuqiang, Chief Xu. As Lu lays it all out, Shi looks increasingly distressed. He writes furiously on a notepad and stops frequently to mop sweat from his receding hairline.
“What do you think?” Lu says, when he’s done.
“I think it’s a difficult case.”
“How so? I obviously didn’t shoot Gao. I mean, there’s really no way Xu can prove I did.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“What do you mean?” Lu is growing agitated.
“He’s presented some compelling evidence. A PSB detective witnessed you entering Gao’s building just before the shooting.”
“Yes—Han. And the shooter must have run right past him on the way out. Maybe even handed off the gun to him.”
“That will be quite impossible to prove,” Shi says.
“So he just happened to be there at that time?”
“According to Han’s statement, you disappeared that morning. Or, to be more exact, you ran away from police escorts who were provided for your convenience and safety.”
“Fei hua!”
“You didn’t run away?” Shi says.
“Yes, all right, I ran away. But those cops were there to spy on us, not keep us safe.”
“Their intent,” Shi says, “cannot be proven in court. In any case, that morning you visited Gao’s apartment. They know this because a camera was installed some weeks ago in Gao’s hallway.”
“Then they should have video of Kong shutting the door in my face when I left after speaking to Gao—and of the actual shooting later that day!”
“They have footage of your first visit. But the video feed cuts out before the shooting occurred. There is speculation that you somehow disabled it.”
“Ta ma de! That doesn’t even make any sense! Why would I have gone to see Gao, left, and then returned several hours later to murder him?”
Shi shrugs. “I’m not sure. But as their narrative goes, Han and his partner were dispatched to Gao’s apartment on the off chance that you would return because they were concerned for your safety. And thus were already on the scene when the shootings took place.”
“How convenient. And my motive?”
“You are still bitter about being transferred to Raven Valley and blame Xu. In your quest for revenge, you’ve tried to pervert this case into one about police corruption. You know of Gao from your time in Harbin, and in a desperate attempt to harm Xu you went there to try to force him to incriminate Xu in some manner. When Gao refused, you shot his health care aide, who was trying to defend him, and then Gao himself.”
“A constable third class could clearly tell from the crime scene and position of Kong’s body that the shooter fired as soon as the door was opened.”
Shi sighs unhappily. “I’m telling you what their report says.”
Lu runs a hand across his close-cropped scalp. “All right. But there’s no direct proof I shot Gao. No footage or eyewitness account.”
“They have the weapon used in the shooting. With your fingerprints.”
“I never touched that gun!”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Inspector. Perhaps they lifted the prints from something they had—a teacup, for example—and transferred them to the weapon.”
“Tian!” Lu moans. Then: “I took a GSR test at the hospital.”
“And it came back positive for gunshot residue.”
“I haven’t fired a weapon in months!”
Shi spreads his hands. “But you see what we’re dealing with? Motive. Proof you visited the victim earlier in the day. A weapon with your fingerprints. A positive GSR test. Detectives who place you at the scene immediately after the shooting. Gao says you did it. You even had his blood on your clothes. As I said, it’s a tough case.”
“Very reassuring, Lawyer Shi. When’s my execution? Next Tuesday?”
Ma takes the phone from Shi. “I’m afraid there’s more bad news.”
“How could there possibly be more?”
“Given the fact that someone has been arrested and confessed to Pang’s murder, our investigation is officially closed. And I am not allowed to directly involve myself in your case due to a conflict of interest. In fact, I’m currently under disciplinary review for bringing you aboard, given … the outcome.”
“Cao,” Lu mutters.
“Of course, Deputy Director Song and I believe you are innocent. We’ll do what we can behind the scenes. But…” It’s not necessary for her to finish her sentence—Lu gets the point.
“What about the guy who says he killed Pang?” Lu asks. “No doubt he’s just some patsy Xu and company have drummed up. Maybe he’s got a gambling debt he can’t repay or they’re threatening to kill his family. If we can get to him and force him to tell the truth…” Lu sees the expression on Ma’s face. “What?”
“The suspect committed suicide in his cell several nights ago.”
“You mean someone murdered him!”
“Probably. But we have no way of proving it.”
“That odious prick Xu has me pinned to a wall like a butterfly.”
“I wish I had better news.”
“That makes two of us.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Days bleed into weeks. Lu’s despair deepens. Some nights, it’s all he can do to keep from dashing his brains out against a wall.
Meng Quan runs the cell like a petty king, distributing chores, mediating conflict, extracting tribute. Lu does as he’s told without complaint. His fellow inmates keep digging for the reason why Lu is incarcerated, and he finally tells them he was arrested for murder but is innocent. Most of them are there for far less serious crimes—theft, gang activity, attempted rape, extortion. Lu’s murder rap earns him a touch of deference, as if it’s assumed he did it and is lying about it after the fact.
When asked what he did “on the outside” for work, Lu says he was in sales for a beer distributor. It’s an odd enough gig that he’s unlikely to encounter anyone in the same industry, and he knows enough about beer to lend himself an air of credibility.
Three afternoons a week, weather permitting, inmates are let into a yard for some exercise. Lu usually takes a brisk walk, stretches, moves around, but avoids practicing any martial arts—he doesn’t want to make himself a target for any tough guys looking to scrap. Most of the other inmates are attached to some group or another, generally whatever gang they belonged to on the outside. Lu skirts around the edges of these affiliations, not wishing to be part of any particular crew, but also aware that loners are easy pickings for abuse.
Before long, Lu notices he’s getting some unwanted attention from a couple guys from another cell on the block. Both are sizable customers, one bald and missing half an ear, the other with a huge Buddha tattooed across his ample belly. They circle him during yard time like sharks. One pass, then another; then a third. They don’t say anything, they don’t make a move to touch him, but their dark looks communicate a palpable sense of menace. Lu doesn’t call them out—he’s not looking for a confrontation—but later he asks Meng Quan if he knows who they are.
“The bald one’s called Ha and the one with the Buddha on his stomach is called Heng.”
Lu recognizes these names as having been borrowed from the two guardian statues usually found outside Buddhist temples—fierce-looking warriors who, despite the pacifism of the Buddhist faith, are vested with the authority to use violence to combat evil. Ha is depicted with his mouth open, and Heng, mouth closed.
“I guess Ha does all the talking,” Lu says.
Meng Quan laughs. “You got that right.”
“They’ve been giving me the eye.”
“Oh? Best watch out. They are a pair of real bastards.”
“What do they have against me?”
“Not sure. Maybe they think you’re pretty. I’ll ask around.”
Two days later, Lu wakes in the night, sensing movement in the dark. Before he can react, rough hands grip his wrists and ankles, drag him to the floor, press him down, cover his mouth. Lu struggles, but there are too many to fight. He feels a sharp point jabbing into his throat.
“Be still!” Meng Quan hisses. “Or I’ll slit your throat.”
Lu stops struggling.
“I heard a rumor,” Meng Quang whispers. “That you’re a cop.”
Ta ma de.
“Is that true?”
Lu considers. Will saying yes make Meng Quan more or less inclined to murder him? He finally gives a short nod.
Someone says: “A fucking cop!” Another says: “Kill him!”
“Shut up!” Meng Quan growls.
“I can explain,” Lu whispers.
“Good,” Meng Quan says. “Quietly.”
