Years later, when I asked him about the decision, Cheng told me it had not been difficult. Yes, he acknowledged, it would have been “logical” to exercise caution after Yu’s arrest. “We considered it,” he said, “but we didn’t think there was enough reason for us to sacrifice freedom of the press or compromise our values.” The Daily had been complicit in the provincial government’s first cover-up of SARS, and he didn’t want to put the paper in that position again. In addition, he said, it wasn’t clear at the time how much trouble Yu was in or whether softening the Daily’s coverage would help him. Even if the paper published eight pages of stories complimenting the police and the party bosses, Cheng argued, it might not have made a difference. Men like that, he believed, had already made up their minds about the paper.
But printing the SARS article certainly didn’t help, either. The next day, Zhang Dejiang, the provincial party chief, convened an emergency meeting to share the news of the SARS case with the province’s top officials. He was embarrassed to discover that everyone in the room had already seen the news in the morning paper, which he alone apparently had not read. He was furious, and those determined to punish the Southern Metropolis Daily now had an important new ally—the most powerful man in Guangdong, the same man the Daily angered a year earlier by reporting on SARS during the National People’s Congress. The corruption probe immediately intensified. During the first two weeks of January, prosecutors interrogated more than twenty editors and advertising executives at the newspaper. Cheng was escorted out of the newsroom by police and questioned for nearly seven hours. Then police arrested the Southern Newspaper Group official responsible for overseeing the Daily, Li Mingyi.
It was during this time that Cheng was contacted by a man who introduced himself as one of the officers assigned to guard Yu. They met at a local restaurant because Cheng was worried his office might be bugged. In the busy dining room, over a lunch of spicy cuisine from Hubei Province, the guard told Cheng that Yu was being held in a hotel outside the province that the police used as a secret detention facility. There, the guard said, police had beaten him so badly that he had tried to kill himself by slamming his head against a wall. Suddenly, Cheng felt sick. He and Yu had built the Daily together, and he considered him one of his closest friends. Now his friend was being tortured because of stories that he had decided to publish. Yu was a businessman, not a journalist, and though Cheng knew his friend shared his editorial vision for the paper and had always been willing to take risks for it, he still felt guilty that it was Yu suffering and not him. What made it worse was that he was free, a star editor running two of the nation’s best newspapers, yet apparently powerless to help his friend. “I felt I was responsible for his suffering,” Cheng told me. “The pain was like a knife twisting in my heart. It was guilt and outrage at the same time. And it intensified my hatred of the system.”
Cheng’s relationship with Yu’s wife was already strained, and when he told her what he had learned, it only got worse. She blamed him for her husband’s arrest, and she sometimes accused him of not doing enough to save him. Her anger weighed on him, but he sympathized with her. She was alone, worried, emotional, trying to help her husband while also protecting her son, a little boy who believed his father was just away on a business trip. She had hired lawyers, but neither she nor the lawyers had been allowed to see Yu. Cheng told her he was working hard to get him out, but he knew that wouldn’t be enough for her. Only when the police came for him, too, he thought, would she understand that they were all victims in this.
Cheng assumed that he was the real target of the investigation, that police were trying to force Yu to implicate him. He concluded it was only a matter of time before they arrested him as well. The focus of the investigation had shifted to the bonuses that the Daily awarded its top editors and managers every year. Prosecutors were trying to characterize the payments as embezzled funds, and they were putting pressure on people to return the money and admit wrongdoing. It was a ridiculous charge, but the authorities were threatening prison and, one by one, the senior editors and managers of the Daily gave in to save themselves. Only Cheng refused. Unlike the others, a confession was unlikely to save him. It would only be used against him, and perhaps also against his jailed colleagues. As a journalist, Cheng had never been naive about the capacity of the party’s security services for brutality, yet he still found it hard to believe they were doing this. It was just so foolish, he thought, because there was certain to be a public backlash. People would see the arrests for the politically motivated frame-up jobs they were.
At the end of January, the authorities turned the screws tighter. At a large gathering of party discipline officials, the provincial party chief, Zhang Dejiang, asked sarcastically whether the party still owned the Southern Metropolis Daily. Then he declared that the media couldn’t just monitor others; someone had to monitor them, too. One of Zhang’s deputies, the official responsible for the police and the courts, then took the microphone and accused the Daily’s executives of stealing state funds, essentially convicting Yu and Li before trial.
The remarks angered Cheng, and a few days later he delivered a defiant speech to the senior staff of the newspaper. He wrote it out in advance, because he expected it to be a farewell address. Sitting at the head of a conference table in a room with more than a hundred people, Cheng began with a nod to Yu by quoting a line of ancient poetry about a brother who is missed at a family reunion. Then he addressed what he called the “dark night” facing the newspaper. Ever since the Sun Zhigang report was published, he said, it had been an “open secret” that a few powerful individuals in Guangzhou were “sharpening their weapons” and plotting to punish the Daily. “This storm was bound to come sooner or later,” he said. “We are already prepared. For the progress of the nation, the development of society and the happiness of the people, it is worth suffering some inconvenience and misery….”
When the Heavens assign you a great task, they also impart great suffering and difficulties. Since we have chosen excellence, we have no reason to refuse setbacks…. Our sense of responsibility is what made us excellent. Our excellence is the source of our success and also the source of our suffering. The wind always knocks down the tallest tree in the woods….
Whatever happens, we must not give up the values and beliefs of the Southern Metropolis Daily. We have reason to be proud. The Southern Metropolis Daily is a newspaper that can endure history’s test and that deserves to survive. The values of the Southern Metropolis Daily are the values of mainstream society. The path of the Southern Metropolis Daily is the path that this nation’s newspapers should take…. People have built a monument for the Southern Metropolis Daily in their hearts, and they have high expectations of the Southern Metropolis Daily. The existence of the Southern Metropolis Daily is a sign that this society is healthier and more civilized, and it guarantees that this society is more reasonable and fair. To tolerate the Southern Metropolis Daily is the most basic attitude of an open society and democratic politics….
Colleagues and comrades-in-arms, I must tell you that the situation we face is very serious. The reality is cruel and cold. Our cause faces an unprecedented test. The Southern Metropolis Daily is going through a baptism of blood and fire. We cannot guarantee that every warrior who goes out will be able to return….
Nevertheless, Cheng said, he hoped reporters would not leave the newspaper while it was down, but instead continue fighting until it had been restored to glory. “There are no dark nights that we cannot suffer through,” he declared. “There are no dawns that we cannot wait for.”
In early March, party officials in the propaganda apparatus forced Cheng to step down as editor in chief of the Beijing News. He took that as a sign that the party’s new leaders in Beijing—the same men who ended the SARS cover-up and abolished the shourong system—were about to let their subordinates in Guangzhou go ahead and arrest him. In meetings over the next few days, he told his supervisors at the Southern Newspaper Gr
oup that no matter what happened, they should know that he had never broken the law or done anything to bring shame to the Group. In a final memo, he urged his colleagues at the Daily to stick together and defend the newspaper. He said goodbye to his son, and he went for a long walk with his wife. As they strolled through his neighborhood, away from any listening devices that might have been installed in his home, he told her what she should tell reporters after he was arrested—that he was innocent, that he had been imprisoned because the Southern Metropolis Daily had angered local officials, that he was willing to sacrifice his freedom for the progress of journalism in China, and that history would vindicate him and he would be released.
Several days later, Yu was tried, convicted, and sentenced to twelve years in prison. Li received an eleven-year sentence. The next day, police arrested Cheng. His initial reaction was relief.
IT IS ONE of the sad ironies of the Sun Zhigang story that the editor who published the exposé of the young graphic designer’s death now found he was one of the beneficiaries of the reforms it prompted. Outside Cheng’s jail cell was a poster that declared the party was conducting a “rectification campaign” and encouraged detainees to report guards and bullies who abused them. Cheng’s cellmates told him conditions in the Guangzhou No. 1 Detention Center had been far worse before his newspaper’s report on Sun’s murder. They were in a position to know. Some of them had been jailed there for as long as six years awaiting trial or sentencing. Cheng made a mental note to assign a reporter to the subject if he had the chance again.
About twenty men shared the cell with Cheng. The boss appeared to be a Hong Kong gangster, a large, muscular inmate covered with tattoos who was awaiting a death sentence. When Cheng first arrived, the man demanded that he “register” with him. But before Cheng could find out what that meant, a prison guard called the inmate over and whispered something in his ear. When he returned, the gangster was much friendlier and offered to show Cheng around the small cell. He assigned a handsome young inmate to be Cheng’s “servant,” someone who would wash his clothes, and fetch water and take away garbage for him, and then he invited Cheng to share a cup of tea and a bag of peanuts with him. Cheng never learned what the prison guard told the cell boss, but he assumed that the prison authorities wanted to make sure he was treated well in case he was released and decided to write anything about his experience. Later, as word of his identity spread in the detention center, other inmates looked out for him because they considered him an ally. Anybody who dared stand up to the police was all right by them.
Prosecutors came to interrogate Cheng every day in the beginning. They still wanted him to “confess” that the annual bonuses he accepted were illegal payments. On some days, they harangued and threatened him. On others, they tried simple persuasion. Early on, they tried to demoralize him by telling him that one of his editors, a young man he considered a protégé, had betrayed and condemned him. Later they ratcheted up the pressure by withholding food, keeping the lights on to make it hard for him to sleep, and dumping cold water over his body or pulling his hair as soon as he did fall asleep. But Cheng refused to give in. No matter what happened, he told himself, he would not confess. No matter what promises they made, he reminded himself, a confession would only result in a prison term. If he wanted to preserve any chance of getting out, he had to maintain his innocence. It was the truth, after all. Cheng told the prosecutors again and again: If the bonuses were really illegal payments, as they charged, then they didn’t really need a confession to convict him.
Time seemed to stop in the Guangzhou No. 1 Detention Center. There were no windows, no sunsets or sunrises. There was no passing of the seasons. None of his family and friends were allowed to visit him. At times, Cheng looked forward to the visits from the prosecutors, because at least he could look at their clothing and try to figure out what the weather was like outside. He could only imagine what else was happening out there. He could only hope that people were fighting for his release. If there was a public outcry over his arrest, he thought, then perhaps party leaders were having second thoughts about imprisoning him. If that were the case, then it would be critical that he refuse to give in to the prosecutors’ demands. A confession could be just what his enemies needed to win permission to convict him.
The prosecutors wore uniforms and worked in shifts, and the interrogations usually stretched overnight. But one morning they showed up refreshed, with new haircuts and in plainclothes. They told Cheng to relax. It was sunny out, they said, and they were going to take him to their offices. Cheng was wary. It was his birthday, and he suspected the prosecutors were going to try to use that against him. They escorted him out of the detention center and drove him to their headquarters, where he was taken to a conference room. Today, the prosecutors said, there would be no talk of his crimes. Instead, they had arranged for him to chat with several of their recent hires, young graduates of Peking University who were fans of his newspaper. Several young men and women entered the room. The women were especially pretty, Cheng noted, and they sat next to him and began asking him questions about life and literature and idealism. They said they worshipped him, and one of them read him poetry. Cheng played along, answering their questions and drinking tea. At lunchtime, waitresses brought in baskets of dishes from his native Anhui Province—crispy wok fish, Yellow Mountain stone chicken—and served bowls of noodles. After Cheng finished eating, one of the prosecutors made a signal, and then a woman brought in the biggest birthday cake he had ever seen.
“Editor Cheng, today is your thirty-ninth birthday,” the prosecutor said. “It is still uncertain where you will be on your fortieth birthday. We hope the road to your fortieth birthday will be a pleasant one.”
Then they gave Cheng a knife and asked him to make a wish and serve the cake. Some of the men and women in the room had taken out cameras. For a moment Cheng thought of his family and was on the verge of tears. And then he realized that was what they wanted. They wanted him to break down and then capture it on film, for the documentaries with the corrupt officials crying and confessing their crimes that state television often broadcast.
One of the prosecutors spoke again. He pointed out that the headquarters of the Southern Metropolis Daily was just across the street. He asked Cheng to imagine what a great birthday celebration he could be having over there. There was no need for him to stay in prison, he said. It was just stupid for him to be so stubborn. While others celebrated their birthdays with their families, he was alone and his wife and son were living in shame. The man asked Cheng if he understood what it meant for an eight-year-old boy to be without his father. He asked if he knew how much his family missed him. And then he asked if he wanted to see them. They were right in the next room, he said. Cheng could go see them, and maybe even go home with them that night. It was entirely up to him. Then the prosecutor showed him a bag of clothes. He said Cheng’s wife and son had brought it that morning. They had been kneeling outside the gate, begging the guard to let them see him. The prosecutor took out a snapshot of Cheng’s family and waved it in front of him. He looked at Cheng, anticipating a reaction. But Cheng had had enough. He stood up and said he didn’t want to see his family. He wanted to go back to his cell.
It was nearly dark out when Cheng boarded the police sedan that would take him back to the detention center. The car pulled out and stopped at a red light. Through the window, he looked up at the headquarters of his newspaper. He could see the window of his office on the fifth floor. Then, suddenly, there was a flicker and five large characters appeared in red neon on the roof of the building. Southern Metropolis Daily. While he was in jail, his staff had finally managed to put up the sign he wanted. Cheng began to tear up. He realized that he might never work at the newspaper again. Then the light changed, and the car pulled away.
WHILE CHENG SAT in prison, his colleagues at the Southern Metropolis Daily launched a campaign to win his freedom. They appealed to the party leadership, and then to the public on the Internet
. Some of them, like the reporter Chen Feng, issued open letters on the editor’s behalf. Others quietly contacted me and other foreign journalists and fed us information. News of the arrests at the Daily spread quickly, and soon journalists across the country were signing petitions. Many of those who had campaigned against the shourong system now took up the cause of the three jailed newspaper executives. Xu Zhiyong, one of the young scholars who had requested the constitutional review of shourong, volunteered to help with their legal defense and called a news conference in Beijing. Behind the scenes, the Southern Newspaper Group mobilized the party’s liberal faction, and several influential figures, including three retired provincial party chiefs, called for a review of the case. Cheng never found out exactly what turned the tide, but the public outcry had an impact. About five months after his arrest, party leaders in Guangdong reversed themselves and released him. Yu and Li remained in prison, though their sentences were reduced and Li was later released, too.
I last saw Cheng in late 2007. We had lunch in a private room at an upscale Shanghainese restaurant in Beijing, and he spoke proudly, even defiantly, of his experiences. Yu was scheduled to complete his four-year sentence in a few months’ time, and Cheng planned to be there to greet him when he walked out of prison. He said he was still struggling with survivor’s guilt. “It makes no sense that he’s in prison and not me,” he told me. “The prosecutors said I was the chief culprit and he was the accomplice. So how could they release me but keep him in prison?”
Out of Mao's Shadow Page 32
