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“Madame Yee, Song Wenhui, Hulan, and I were at the Red Soil Farm,” Nixon continued. “The others, as I said, were either too young or somewhere else. But yes, we are all from the law firm. Chou Bingan over there only came back from Los Angeles last year. We like to meet and make connections. But”—Nixon’s face crinkled in mock disappointment—“we never see our Liu Hulan.”
“I never imagined…” David said.
“That those scared students Phillips, MacKenzie took a chance on would amount to anything?”
“No, that there were so many of you.”
“Today, in Beijing, we look back and think with great fondness on Phillips, MacKenzie. Every year since 1973 they’ve taken one or two law students as summer associates or full associates. When did you start, Hulan?”
“I started working as a summer clerk my first year in law school.”
“In 1980,” David said.
“Yes, that’s right, because when I came three years later, Hulan was already working full-time as an associate,” Nixon said. “She had already been in America for eleven years. She was absolutely fluent in English. She had no accent. She was no longer Liu Hulan, model revolutionary. She was Liu Hulan, almost American! She looked at us like we were fresh off the boat—and we were! Madame Yee came the year after me. Oh, do you remember how she missed her children? It was terrible!”
“Your children,” David said, remembering. “How are they?”
“They’re all married and working. I’m a grandmother already. One grandson.”
“I tell you this”—Nixon reflected—“Phillips, MacKenzie was very smart. The partners thought ahead to changing times and changing business. We came home, and some of us kept our American names and our American ways. Whenever we can, we send work back to them.”
“And what do you all do now?” David asked.
Madame Yee was general counsel for a beer company that sold its products worldwide. Mr. Ing worked for Armani’s Beijing branch. Two other attorneys were employed by American law firms with branches in Beijing. But none was as successful as Nixon Chen.
“I have sixty lawyers in my office,” he announced. “You know what we charge? Three hundred and fifty dollars U.S. an hour. But enough about us. How can we help our old friend?”
“We are looking into the murders of two boys,” Hulan said.
“Yes, yes, yes. We know that. They come in here all the time, isn’t that so?” he asked the table. His friends nodded. “We are always thinking—no, everyone in this restaurant is thinking—these are young boys. What do they want with a lot of old farts like us? But do we care? Billy has good connections to America. Guang Henglai…” Nixon shrugged. “We all need to keep up our fee schedules. We all need to pay salaries. So we are all friendly.”
“Did any of you actually do business with them?” When no one answered, Hulan asked, “Do you know what they were into?”
“No,” Madame Yee responded.
“Hulan tells me that people from the triads often come here,” David said. “Did the boys meet with them?”
“Everyone comes here sometime. The president, Deng’s daughter, the American ambassador, your boss,” Nixon said, pointing to Hulan, “even the great Guang Mingyun. But the triads? Who knows? We are all honest people here. How do we know what goes on behind closed doors?”
“Everything Nixon says is true,” Madame Yee added. “But I saw Billy and Henglai with Cao Hua many times.”
The others murmured their agreement.
“I don’t know him,” Hulan said.
“He’s not one of us,” Madame Yee continued. “He’s our age, but two years ago he owned a stall on Silk Road. Today he has millions.”
“How did he make his money?”
“I know your business. You know my business,” said Nixon Chen. “This is how China has always been. But today things are different, and Cao Hua was very good at keeping secrets.”
“You must know something,” Hulan said.
“Is this a friend asking or the ministry?”
“A friend.”
“Cao Hua is doing business with the Guang family,” Madame Yee said at last. “What it is I truly don’t know, but he is traveling a lot. To the United States, to Korea, to Japan. He is very arrogant, very rich. You know the type.”
