Foresight

by Ian Hamilton

  Whatever Ma’s game, Uncle decided that the only way for him to react was to deny everything. There was nothing to be gained by conceding there was any truth in Peng’s accusations. He would stonewall. As far as Uncle knew, there wasn’t a single thing that directly connected him to Peng. It would be one man’s word against another’s, and since one of those men was dead, Uncle’s word should prevail as long as he stuck to his story. It was with that thought that he lay down on the cot again, trying to ignore the coil springs and the idea that the mattress must be infested with living creatures.

  He had just fallen asleep when he felt a burning sensation in his eyes. He opened them and then quickly turned his head towards the wall, away from the glare of the flashlight aiming at him from the door.

  “The captain is ready for you again.” Uncle recognized the voice as belonging to one of the guards.

  “Is the flashlight really necessary?” Uncle asked.

  “No,” the guard said, but kept it focused on his face.

  Uncle sat up with his forearm covering his eyes. “I can’t see where I’m going.”

  The guard lowered the flashlight. “Move it,” he said.

  They walked down the corridor into the same room. Captain Ma was already there, sitting behind the table with an open folder in front of him. This time there was no jug of water or cigarettes in sight. “Take a seat,” Ma said.

  Uncle did, and then noticed there were two chairs, one unoccupied, across from him.

  “Have you taken advantage of our time apart to rethink your answers to my questions?” Ma asked.

  “There was nothing to rethink.”

  Ma looked down at the file. “Peng was quite specific about the nature of your investments and how much he charged you to facilitate their approval.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “He said you put cash into his Hong Kong bank account prior to his approving your proposals.”

  “For every one of our business proposals, we filled out the appropriate documents and submitted them through the proper channels. That’s all we did. Peng never mentioned money and we certainly didn’t offer or pay him any.”

  “So he was lying?”

  “If he was claiming that we paid him anything, he most certainly was.”

  “As part of his plea agreement with us, he gave us access to his bank account and turned over all his bank records,” Ma said.

  “It couldn’t have been much of an agreement, since he ended up dead,” Uncle said.

  “It was a difficult case, with complications that went beyond his corruption.”

  “I don’t know anything about the case or his corruption.”

  “How much did you pay him?”

  “Nothing.”

  “From what we’ve been able to piece together,” Ma said, pausing to turn a page in the file, “it looks like more than two million Hong Kong dollars.”

  “We paid him nothing.”

  “According to Peng, you always deposited cash directly into his bank account, so there aren’t any cancelled cheques or copies of wire transfers for us to get our hands on,” Ma continued in a monotone. “That’s unfortunate. However, what we’ve been able to do is match the timing of your cash payments with your investment proposals.”

  “I wasn’t aware that Peng had a Hong Kong bank account.”

  Ma kept his eyes locked on the file as his right index finger traced a line across a page. “It appears that you were clever enough not to put the entire fee attached to any one proposal into his account at one time. Instead you made a series of smaller cash deposits over two- to three-week periods,” he said. “Peng told us that’s how you did it, but let me assure you that we didn’t take his word at face value. We’ve done the math and we’re satisfied that your total deposits match the fees he was charging for each proposal.”

  “I don’t doubt your math, but how could I deposit cash or cheques into a bank account that I didn’t know existed?”

  Ma frowned. Uncle began to suspect that he was getting annoyed, but before Ma could respond, the door opened and another PLA officer entered the room. He walked over to the table and sat in the chair next to Ma. He was younger than the captain, and his uniform insignia indicated he was a lieutenant. He was taller and even thinner than the lean Ma; his face was drawn, and fixed with a scowl.

  “This is Lieutenant Su. He’ll be joining us until I finish with my questions, and then he’ll be taking over for the rest of the night,” Ma said to Uncle, and then turned to Su. “Mr. Chow, or Uncle, as he is more commonly called, has been telling me that he knows nothing about Peng’s bank account or how his money happened to find its way into it.”

  The rest of the night, Uncle thought. How is that going to work?

  “I’ve reviewed the file and the facts seem clear enough,” Su said sharply to Uncle. “We have Peng’s testimony and the corroborating bank data, which together give us sufficient cause to bring charges of corrupting a public official against you.”

  Uncle was taken aback by Su’s tone. Was this just a good soldier, bad soldier routine, or was Su speaking for both himself and Ma? Uncle noted that Su showed no deference at all to Ma, his senior officer.

  “I haven’t seen the file, so I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Uncle said softly. “And I hope that if you are indeed ready to press charges against me, you will allow me to get proper legal representation — representation I should have had by now.”

  “You are denying that you paid Peng?” Su asked.

  “Absolutely. And we can talk for another forty-eight hours but that answer won’t change, because it’s the truth.”

  Su bit his lower lip and looked thoughtful. He turned to Ma. “Captain, you and I should discuss this. Why don’t you ask your men to take this man back to his cell.”

  “Yes, let’s do that,” Ma said, and motioned to the guards. “Return him to his cell.”

  The guards lifted Uncle from his chair before he had a chance to stand. He hadn’t realized they were that close to him, and he wondered if this had been prearranged.

  “I want to contact a lawyer,” Uncle said.

  “Get him out of here,” Su said.

  The guards marched him to the door and then down the corridor. “You don’t know when to keep your mouth shut, do you,” one of the guards said to Uncle.

  “I don’t know why I should keep quiet when I haven’t committed any crime,” Uncle said.

  “It will take a lot more than your saying you haven’t done anything to convince those guys.”

  They reached the cell and Uncle braced himself, expecting the guards to throw him into it. Instead they simply unlocked the door and stepped back. Seconds later, Uncle’s world was dark again.

  He settled onto the cot, took several deep breaths, and tried to fend off the increasing sense that he was in the kind of trouble that could crush him. Ma’s file was proof that someone had done their homework, and if they believed Peng, the conclusions they’d reached weren’t unreasonable. It was true that whatever evidence they had was circumstantial, but that had never stopped a Chinese court from convicting an innocent man.

  Uncle lay down on his back. He had no idea what time it was, only that it must be late in the night. What was going on outside those walls? Had Fong contacted a lawyer? Were the Lius exerting their influence? Who would get him released? As those thoughts tossed around in his head, he felt his palms getting sweaty and the knot in his stomach tightening. “Think about something else,” he muttered to himself. But when he did, he thought of Wu and what was happening in Fanling. “Shit, I need to get out of here.”

  Normally when Uncle had trouble sleeping, he replayed horse races in his mind. It was a process that required him to recall a specific race and then focus on every detail surrounding it. As the details piled up, they took over his consci
ousness and gradually squeezed out whatever had been keeping him awake.

  His greatest success that year had been the Hong Kong Gold Cup race in March at Sha Tin. He tried remembering the day. It had been cloudy and humid but it hadn’t rained. The stands were packed with about ninety thousand people, and the lineups at the betting windows had been enormous. He had reserved a seat on the second level of the grandstand. He had spent hours upon hours handicapping the races, and focusing particularly on the Gold Cup — one of the three most important races of the year on the Jockey Club’s calendar. As usual, the Cup had a large field of very good horses, but one really stood out — Co-Tack, who had won his previous four races. He was the favourite, but as much as Uncle hated betting on favourites, he couldn’t get away from Co-Tack and his jockey, the amazing Tony Cruz.

  Uncle had got his bet down early at short odds, and it had been a large one — twenty thousand to win and place. Then he settled into his seat, surrounded by the buzz of excitement that preceded every race and was especially heightened when a major-stakes race was about to be run. He remembered watching the post parade, his eyes locked on Co-Tack. The horse looked magnificent, its head held high, its steps confident, its coat shining but without a hint of nervous sweat. Cruz sat erect, his back ramrod straight, one hand on the reins and the other gently rubbing the horse’s neck.

  The race was 1,800 metres and for the first time was being held on Sha Tin’s sand course. Uncle had binoculars that day, and he watched Cruz as the horse was loaded into the starting gate. He looked calm and in control. The horse, perhaps sensing the jockey’s mood, went into the gate without any fuss and stood patiently as the other gates were loaded. Then they were off, the horses careering forward, the jockeys scrambling for position, trying to avoid each other and not lose the race in the first few hundred metres.

  Uncle’s binoculars never left Cruz. He had Co-Tack positioned mid-pack on the outside, and Uncle smiled. There was nothing more maddening than watching a horse get boxed in on the inside, full of run but unable to get past the slower horses in front of it until it was too late. But Cruz was a smart, experienced jockey and he had Co-Tack in what Uncle thought was the ideal position. He kept a tight rein on the horse until they were about halfway around the home turn, and then Uncle saw him loosen his grip and urge the horse forward with his hands. Co-Tack went from ninth to fourth in what seemed like just a few strides.

  BOOM!

  What the hell? Uncle thought, and then looked towards the cell door, where the noise had originated. The guard stood framed in the doorway, flashlight in one hand and a wooden baton in the other.

  “Did I wake you?” the guard asked, lifting the flashlight so that it shone directly into Uncle’s eyes.

  “I’m not sure I was sleeping.”

  “They’ll want to talk to you again shortly. I just wanted to make sure you’re awake,” the guard said, taking a couple of steps towards him.

  “I am now.”

  “And one more thing,” he said, now close enough to touch Uncle. “You need to answer their questions properly. They’ve got the goods on you and you’re wasting everyone’s time by lying.”

  “I’m not going to admit to doing something I didn’t do,” Uncle said.

  “Sure, you didn’t,” the guard said as he swung the baton.

  Uncle had sat up, resting on his right elbow, when the guard entered the cell. It was that arm the baton struck, hitting it above the elbow and causing Uncle to flop onto the bed. He shouted and reached for his arm.

  “You’re getting on our nerves,” the guard said. “Think about where you are.”

  ( 26 )

  Uncle could barely move his arm. It was painful but he didn’t think it was broken. That fact gave him little comfort, because obviously the rules governing his confinement had changed. How to respond? He shook his head. It was all or nothing. If he gave an inch, they’d want more. He had to stay the course.

  Despite being in the sub-basement, it was warm in the cell. Uncle slipped off his jacket, groaning, as even that slight effort caused his arm to radiate pain. He lay down and put the jacket under his head as a pillow. He tried to retrieve his memories of the Hong Kong Gold Cup race, but they were gone. Instead he took deep breaths and then expelled the air in long, slow, lung-emptying whooshes. He had taken about twenty such breaths when he began to feel light-headed, and then he slept.

  He was sure he had slept but didn’t know for how long when the door burst open, a flashlight found his eyes, and a guard screamed at him. Uncle turned his back to the door. He didn’t hear the guard approach, but he did feel the baton as it struck his right shoulder blade.

  “Look at me,” the guard yelled.

  Uncle twisted his body towards him, the entire right side of his torso throbbing.

  “I want you to stay awake until the lieutenant sends for you. I’m going to check on you every half-hour. If you’re sleeping, I’ll wake you with these,” the guard said, brandishing the flashlight and baton.

  Uncle nodded, slowly pulled himself into a sitting position, and leaned his back against the wall.

  “That’s a good start,” the guard said as he left the cell.

  Time passed incredibly slowly in the pitch dark. It was a phenomenon Uncle hadn’t noticed before, but with nothing to look at, not even a crack in the wall or a grain of rice on the floor, there were no distractions. It was just him and his imagination, and the longer he sat, the more active it became. Maybe I could spin them a story, he thought at one point. It might buy me some time until help comes. But as he tried to concoct one that wouldn’t implicate anyone but Peng, he realized it was futile. Any story would only generate questions about details, and he wasn’t sharp enough to invent clever answers. Besides, if they thought he was lying, that would only increase their certainty that he was guilty. His only chance was to maintain complete denial. Maybe they wouldn’t believe him, but neither could they be certain that Peng had told them the truth.

  The door opened. The guard passed the beam from the flashlight over the bed and into Uncle’s eyes, then lowered it. Uncle thought he looked disappointed.

  “When will the lieutenant want to see me?” Uncle asked.

  “When he says,” the guard replied.

  Back in darkness, Uncle tried to calculate the time. It had to be midnight or later. He yawned and felt his eyes closing. Without thinking, he stretched his arm and flexed his right shoulder. The pain made him cry out, but it kept him awake, and that was his priority. He wanted no more to do with the baton.

  The night dragged on, the door opening, the flashlight probing, and the guard’s appearance providing a sense of time passing. Several times Uncle almost dozed off, but a quick stretch and flex brought him back. Eight visits later — four hours, if the guard hadn’t lied to him — the flap at the bottom of the door opened and a tray was pushed through.

  “Breakfast,” a voice said.

  Uncle slid from the cot and walked to the door. He started to reach for the tray with his right hand, but his arm and shoulder wouldn’t obey. He picked it up with his left hand, moved carefully to the cot, and sat down. Breakfast, like dinner the night before, was a bowl of white rice and a mug of water. He suspected lunch would be the same. Overwhelmingly right-handed, he was so awkward eating with his left that several times rice fell off his spoon. When he had finished, he put the tray on the floor and felt the urge to have a cigarette. During the night he hadn’t thought once about smoking, but a return to something as familiar as eating had triggered the need. If they offer me a cigarette the next time they interview me, I’m going to take it, he thought.

  The door swung open and Uncle saw two new guards standing just outside. “You’re wanted. Let’s go,” one said.

  Uncle struggled to get his jacket on, and when he finally did, he noticed it was badly wrinkled. That bothered him, and he ran his left hand up and down the jacket front
. He believed a man’s appearance was a reflection of his character, and his image of being crisp and clean was something he valued.

  “No one gives a shit about your suit,” a guard said.

  “I do,” said Uncle.

  “Don’t make me come in there to get you,” the guard said.

  Uncle took one last tug at the bottom of his jacket. “What’s the time?” he asked.

  “Six-fifteen,” a guard said.

  He stumbled as he entered the corridor, and pain shot up and down his right side. He grimaced and struggled to regain his balance. The guards watched, not offering any assistance. When he finally righted himself, Uncle began to walk carefully and slowly, trying not to use too much of his upper body.

  One guard went ahead to open the door to the interview room. Uncle entered to see Lieutenant Su sitting at the far side of the table.

  Su nodded and then motioned at the water jug sitting on a separate table. “You can have some if you want.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  “Take a seat. The guard can get it for you.”

  Uncle sat down gingerly. Su showed no indication that he saw his discomfort.

  A guard put a full glass of water in front of Uncle. He took a sip, suddenly felt a thirst he hadn’t been aware of, and drained the glass.

  Su stared down at the file folder, ignoring him. Uncle saw that his passport was now on top of the stack of paper. Su opened it, glanced at Uncle, and then returned to the passport.