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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.”
