The Flower Net (25 page)

He did, however, worry about Hulan. In the last week, as the story of the illegal sale of the nuclear trigger components continued to come out, the political situation between the United States and China had regressed to its worst state since the Bamboo Curtain fell. Most of the dependents from the U.S. embassy as well as from its consulates in other parts of China had been sent home; the Chinese had reciprocated by doing the same with about 50 percent of its personnel stationed in the United States. The State Department—while not yet issuing an official advisory against travel to China—had announced that visitors to that country should be “careful” better yet they should postpone their trips indefinitely.

David and Hulan would go to China. They would see this thing through to the end. And then? The answer to that was out of reach, beyond anything David could imagine.

17

F
EBRUARY
10

Beijing

Y
ou’re about to see why I don’t practice law,” Hulan said as she and David took two seats in Beijing’s People’s Court. The room was large and typically cold. Several observers still wore their coats and scarves. But the air was oddly stuffy from cigarette smoke and, he presumed, fear. For David, who watched as several cases were tried and sentences meted out with amazing dispatch by a panel of three judges in military uniforms, the whole scene had a surreal quality.

The first trial of the day involved a man accused of bank robbery. The prosecutor shouted out the facts of the case while the defendant stood with his head bowed. There were no witnesses, and the defendant chose not to speak. His wife and two children, however, were present at the proceedings and listened as the lead magistrate announced the decision less than forty-five minutes later. “You are not an honest man, Gong Yuan,” the judge said. “You were trying to leapfrog to a new level of prosperity by stealing from your countrymen. This cannot be allowed. The only justice for you is immediate execution.”

The second case involved a habitual housebreaker who had come to Beijing from Shanghai. This time, after the prosecutor had itemized his accusations, the judge asked the defendant several questions. Had he known his victims? Had he come to Beijing legally? Did he understand that if he confessed he would be dealt with more leniently? The answers were no, no, and yes. Still, the defendant chose not to accept responsibility for his crimes. The judge said that twenty years at hard labor might make him see otherwise.

And on it went.

These trials, Hulan explained, were the result of the “Strike Hard” campaign that had begun a little over a year ago. Fueled by the rise in crimes for profit, the government began a crackdown that had produced tens of thousands of arrests and well over one thousand executions. “Once convicted,” she said, “the criminals are paraded through the streets, marched through sports arenas, and displayed on television. They wear placards around their necks listing their crimes. They are denounced as barbarians by their jailers and heckled by crowds. Then it’s off to labor camp or death.”

Such harsh justice had a long pedigree in China. Twice a year in days gone by, posters would be displayed in cities across the nation—not in public places where foreigners might see them, but behind walls in the neighborhoods—listing the names of those executed and their offenses.

“Families of those who are put to death have to pay for the bullet,” Hulan continued.

“But all that must be for serious crimes,” David said.

Hulan shook her head. “Even minor crimes merit tough sentences. Being fired from a job and having no other way to make a living, refusing to accept an employment assignment or housing transfer, or simply ‘making trouble’ can mean a four-year sentence to a labor camp.”

“And many of those camps,” David said, remembering articles he’d read, “provide cheap labor to American-owned factories in China.”

“That’s right. The U.S. profits from my countrymen’s transgressions.” Hulan motioned around the room. “And as you can see, justice proceeds quickly here. We have no pretrial hearings, no delays, no extensions, and rarely any defense witnesses to muddy the waters. The defendant is guilty until proven innocent. When that guilt is verified, punishment is determined and carried out promptly. An appeal is as rare as a solar eclipse.”

A door opened and Spencer Lee was brought in. His fashionably wrinkled linen suit had been exchanged for a white shirt, black slacks, and leg irons. His head was bowed, but at one point he glanced up. Then, just as quickly, a guard bopped Lee’s head with the heel of his fist and the prisoner’s head dropped back down submissively.

Lee’s trial, like the others before it, was perfunctory at best. A woman prosecutor stood. Her hair was short and permed. She wore severe wire-rim glasses. Her voice was loud and strident as she gestured to Spencer Lee and introduced him by his Chinese name, Li Zhongguo. (“‘New China’ Lee,” Hulan whispered.) “Li Zhongguo has not only brought disgrace on his name but on his entire country,” the prosecutor proclaimed. She then enumerated Lee’s crimes against the people. He was involved with a gang that was trying to reach its tentacles into China. This gang was known to be involved in the worst of all trades—that of human life. The exit and entry dates from his passport and the fact that he fled—she didn’t say where from—added to evidence that he was also involved in several murders.

The case was over in ninety minutes. The lead judge said, “You have been found guilty of various corrupt and vile acts. You have taken many lives in many forms. For this you should pay with your life. Your execution will be held tomorrow at noon.” A murmur filtered through the courtroom. The judges gave the crowd a dour look and polite silence was instantly restored. “Until then,” the judge continued, “you will be held at Municipal Jail Number Five.” Spencer Lee was led away.

Municipal Jail Number Five was located on the far northwestern edge of Beijing near the Summer Palace, where the old imperial court used to retreat during the hottest months. Peter drove with loquacious vehemence, but in the backseat, David and Hulan seemed relaxed. They had all lost a day crossing the international date line. On their arrival in Beijing, a car had dropped David off at the Sheraton Great Wall. (For propriety’s sake, Hulan said.) As a result, they had all gotten a good night’s sleep. They would be grateful for it today. Hulan had arranged interviews with Dr. Du and Ambassador Watson after their visit with Spencer Lee.

This was the first time David had been away from the center of the city, and he took in these sights with much the same awe and excitement as Peter had shown in his travels across Los Angeles. With surprising speed the scene might change from a walled
hutong
neighborhood to a spate of brand-new cast-concrete high-rises of shoddy design and even shoddier construction. The balconies on the new buildings had been enclosed with glass to create extra rooms. Looking up into them, David could see laundry hanging on lines, plants growing bravely, lovers kissing. No matter where they drove, they couldn’t escape the
life
of these neighborhoods. On a street corner, a man hunkered down with a tin pan of water, washing his hands and feet. Outside the Beijing Zoo, budding merchants sold balloons, miniature stuffed panda bears, and cans of Pepsi and Orange Crush. In fact, everywhere David looked he saw something for sale—kitchen-wares, candles, incense to light in temples, bottled water, CDs, low-slung rattan chairs. Wherever there was a vacant stretch of sidewalk or asphalt, old women—dressed in thick padded jackets and wearing white kerchiefs over their hair—swept in long fluid motions with bamboo brooms. At some intersections, using exaggerated arm movements and high-pitched trills on their whistles, other women instructed the pedestrian traffic when to cross.

Along the periphery of one intersection—actually an old crossroads where several streets met in a large circle—a free market had been set up where peasants sold fruit, vegetables, meat, live poultry, eggs, and raw herbs and spices for cooking and medicine. A block from there Peter drove through high gates and into the jail’s courtyard.

Inside the Administration Building, David and Hulan were met by the woman prosecutor. Away from the courtroom, Madame Huang was friendly and gregarious. David learned that she and Hulan had worked on many cases together over the years. “Inspector Liu finds the criminals and brings them to us,” the prosecutor explained to David, then waggishly told him that Municipal Jail Number Five catered to VIPs. They passed several offices and a Nautilus gym for staff use; then she escorted them into an interrogation room. A tea girl came in with a thermos and poured cups of the steaming liquid for the visitors. To David, this didn’t look like a place that Amnesty International would target, but by now he knew that his preconceptions were almost universally wrong when it came to China.

A pair of guards seated Spencer Lee across from David and Hulan. Lee wore an army coat to stave off the cold of the room.

“How are your new accommodations?” David asked.

“They seem all right.”

“Are you being treated well?” Spencer Lee jutted his chin, then David said, “You’re in a difficult position.”

The young man looked around the interrogation room. He was a long way from his easy life in Los Angeles.

“The inspector and I don’t believe you were involved with the deaths of those boys…”

“The judges said I was responsible. I guess I was,” Lee said at last.

“You’ll be executed,” Hulan said.

But Spencer Lee didn’t seem concerned. He said, “Do you think I came back to China to escape from you? Do you think I was so
infantile
that I would not know the MPS would be waiting for me when I landed in Beijing? You two are really very naive.”

Hulan was about to say something, but David put a hand on her arm. She stood and quietly left the room.

“There is a plan,” Lee continued. “There has always been a plan.”

“Tell me about it.”

“That would take the fun out of it. Besides, I’m guilty.”

“Then let me ask you this,” David said amiably. “If you are guilty, then why did you tell Zhao that Cao Hua would contact him when he returned to Beijing?”

A flash of doubt crossed Spencer Lee’s flawless features, then he once again professed his guilt.

David looked at his watch, then up at Lee. “You have twenty-four hours left. We want to help you.” He tried to sound reassuring as he said, “If Guang Mingyun is behind these crimes, let him be executed, not you.”

“There will be no execution,” Lee said, his confidence restored. “I told you before. I have protection. I have friends.”

Hulan returned with a phone, which she plugged into a jack. “I am going to call the ministry,” she said. “I want you to hear my conversation.”

She dialed and asked for Section Chief Zai. When she had him on the line, she explained where she was and what the situation was vis-à-vis Spencer Lee. Then she said, “Let us put through a petition to postpone Lee’s execution. I am sure that given time we will get to the truth.” She listened, then said, “Yes, he is reluctant to help us. But please, let us not lose our only lead.” She nodded a few times, said good-bye, then hung up the phone.

“Spencer,” Hulan said softly, “the people you’re dealing with have no further use for you.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “I am trying to save your life. My superior says he will file the petition, but you have to help me.”

The young man was unmoved. “You are Chinese, Inspector Liu. You should understand that family is everything. I am protected. Now, may I go back to my cell?”

“If we can get the court to agree to the petition, then I’m sure we can stop the execution,” Hulan said as they drove back into town. “Meanwhile, we have to try to find evidence, a witness, anything. If we can accomplish that, maybe Lee will believe us and maybe then he’ll tell us who’s really behind these crimes.”

“Is it possible he’s right? That he won’t be executed anyway?”

“Who would have that kind of protection?” she shot back. “David, you said it yourself. He’s the patsy.”

Now David worried about the importance of keeping their appointment with Dr. Du. “Shouldn’t we be going straight to Watson and Guang?”

“We will, David. But the bear bile is at the heart of this.” When he grudgingly agreed, she said, “We don’t know anything about that business. Dr. Du’s the only person I know who can help us.”

While David and Hulan went inside the Beijing Chinese Herbal Medicine Institute, Peter sped off to Cao Hua’s apartment to look for the Panda Brand products that Hulan had seen in the refrigerator. The institute’s elevator still wasn’t working, so they walked up the six flights of stairs to Dr. Du’s office. He greeted them warmly, ordered tea, and asked, “How can I help you?”

As Hulan and David quickly ran through their recent discoveries, Dr. Du shook his head in sympathy. When they were done, he said, “You want to know about bear bile, and I will tell you. But you have to understand about our medicine first.”

Hulan glanced at David. They were in a hurry, but they needed this information. “Whatever you think best, Doctor.”

“Good,” Dr. Du said. In his grave, scholarly way, he told them that Chinese herbal medicine could be traced to 3494
B.C.
, making it the longest continuously used medical tradition in the world. “To this day, every person gets the same prescriptions, but the skill is in how you create the proper dose. If you can master that, then you can become the best doctor in all of China. You look at me. I have practiced for thirty years and seen thousands and thousands of patients, but never the same dose.”

“Forgive me, Doctor, for not knowing more,” Hulan interrupted, “but I remember something about medicines to cool or heat the body.”

“Oh, yes. We think of the four essences—cold, hot, warm, and cool. But I also consider the four directions of action for a medicine—ascending, descending, floating, and sinking. I use the five flavors—pungent, sweet, sour, bitter, and salty.”