‘What happened?’
‘I woke up one morning and it was like this.’
This was the most intimate moment we’d ever shared. I tried to push my fingers through the small holes of our conversation, but I couldn’t.
‘Take care of yourself, Ma. Find a husband. Make sure you eat properly.’
She just shook her head. The guard approached and suddenly she seemed to realise something.
‘Do what they say. And tell them everything.’
She was then led away. Or rather, she led them away. She was gone, along with her half-eaten bun. Just like that. She’s no real mother.
Only when the courts sent along a copy of the indictment did I realise I’d been locked up for four months.
‘We will assign you a lawyer if you don’t appoint one yourself,’ they said.
‘What if I don’t want one?’
‘Most people want one.’
‘OK,’ I said.
They asked me if I had any evidence or witnesses I wished to present. I said no. Before long the lawyer came and asked the same question. He kept taking calls during our meeting and didn’t stay long.
When the day of the trial arrived they unshackled me and led me to another cell. My feet felt light, as if I might fly up into the air. A big sign with black characters hung above the metal door, which had a window cut into it. The walls were made from greyish-white bricks. A clump of poplars grew in the yard outside, next to which an armed officer carrying an assault rifle paced, guarding his post. I looked out on the scene, the flood of morning light, the sky blue like a smashed vase. This must have been its most beautiful moment.
Ma was hiding behind the trees in the distance; I could see her peek out occasionally. As the car drove past I shouted, ‘Ma! Ma!’ She couldn’t hear me. But I saw her frightened expression. It was in her eyes; it oppressed her. It was like watching your limbs being drawn and quartered.
At the court two policemen led me into a small room and told me to sit. I swallowed. The courtroom must have been next door, because I heard the sound of footsteps come and go. Then someone started reading the court rules and asked the public prosecutor, defence counsel, presiding judge and judicial officers to take their seats.
The judge knocked his gavel. ‘Bring in the defendant.’
The metal door was pulled open and an officer took me by the arm. As if on a gust of wind, I was announced. My spirit gave way. I stood and shook my handcuffs to show my displeasure. My lawyer asked for the handcuffs to be removed, but the prosecutor objected vociferously, arguing I was a danger to the court.
Fewer than ten people were seated in the public gallery, curious spectators for the most part. One woman looked at me with poison in her eyes. She wore a black dress and a discreetly patterned scarf draped over her shoulders. She had tied a black ribbon around her arm. She looked like a lanky crow. Her skin hung loose around her face like drying noodles, the ravages of age. She pursed her lips and her nostrils flared, like a kettle ready to pop its lid. I wondered how such an ugly woman could have given birth to Kong Jie, but as Qian Zhongshu once wrote: ‘Just because you liked the egg doesn’t mean it is wise to go looking for the chicken.’ Before the hearing could begin the judge asked a series of meaningless questions, like my name, date of birth, ethnicity, previous criminal record, the date I had received the indictment. Finally he announced that it would be a closed trial, to respect the victim’s privacy. She’s dead, I thought, what privacy? He then read out a list of names and, when called, each person stood up, nodded or mmed. He then read my rights and asked if anyone should be removed from the court.
‘Yes, everyone,’ I said.
‘Your reason?’
But I couldn’t think of anything. ‘Fine, let them stay.’ The public prosecutor then read aloud the indictment, as procedure dictated. He emphasised certain key words for effect, adding spices to his pot. But all things considered, he worked in an orderly fashion. Then Kong Jie’s mother read out a civil indictment. Her hands shook and she made many mistakes. She wanted me to pay three hundred and twenty thousand yuan in damages.
Asking for money seemed a bit hypocritical, like she was trying to make money out of her daughter’s death. It muddied her calls for justice. She seemed aware of it too, and so added, ‘I want to make you bankrupt, that’s all. I won’t keep a cent of it. I’ll give it all away.’
Make me bankrupt?
The judge asked for my response.
‘I have to respond?’
‘What is your reaction to the indictments?’
‘No reaction. It’s all true.’
My lawyer tapped at his table as if to ask why I wasn’t defending myself, but he didn’t say anything. The judge then signalled to the prosecutor to begin.
He began by confirming some more basic facts. Then, ‘I have no more questions, it all seems very clear.’
The judge looked over and by mistake caught the eye of Kong Jie’s mother, who took it as permission to stand up.
‘Why did you kill my daughter?’
I kept my head high and said nothing.
She was shaking, her voice loud like a gale blowing over a sheet of metal. Then she groaned and sat back down. An awkward silence filled the court and those in uniform whispered to each other.
Someone needed to break the silence, so I raised my hand. The lawyer finally remembered he was on my side and signalled to the judge, who let me speak.
‘Can I sit?’
My question disturbed the viewing gallery, as if this was my primary sin. The judge thumped his gavel, but didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure if that was a yes, but then I thought, they’re going to kill me anyway, so I plonked by butt back down on the seat. But no one cared, because the prosecutor was busy calling in the medical examiner. She was old and dressed in a white coat, her features like dead tree roots. She should have read clinically from her appraisal, giving details about how many stab wounds Kong Jie had suffered, that she died of acute blood loss trauma and so on. But the tears pumped and she kept tainting her account with ‘the child’ this, ‘the child’ that. Everything was covered in blood, the floor, the walls, the door, the window. It was horrifying. Especially the bit where I put her in the washing machine. ‘Head first. The blood filled it half full.’ Kong Jie’s mother had been listening, wiping tears and nodding. At this point I watched her faint.
The morning’s proceedings finished there. In the afternoon people tried to stop Kong Jie’s mother from entering the courtroom, but she forced her way in and back to her seat. She sat watching me, hate radiating from her eyes. Suddenly, she spat at me. I spat back.
The first witness called in the afternoon was the policeman responsible for the case.
‘When did you arrive at the scene?’
‘The morning after.’
Kong Jie’s mother stood up and pointed. ‘When did you get the call?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Well, I am. I reported her missing the evening before.’ The gavel echoed around the court, but she merely spoke louder.
‘I must tell the court. I rang at 6.00 the same evening, but they told me to wait twenty-four hours before reporting her missing. “Ninety-nine per cent of cases are resolved by the following morning,” they said. I told them, “my daughter is a good girl, she would never run away.” “Are you done?” they said. “Do you know how many cases we have to handle every day? Do you know how many officers we have? You’re wasting our time.” Isn’t that what you said? You then said, “It’s not that we don’t want to take the call, but this is the law. We do as the law dictates.”’
She blew her nose with her fingers, wiped it on her sleeve and continued.
‘I want to ask the ladies and gentlemen present if such a law exists? You are the experts. Tell me: is there such a law?’