A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [61]
“One other matter has come to the attention of this commission,” said the moribund cadre who sat next to the president. “It is not within the province of this investigation since the accused is not a Party member, but it does reflect on the failure of Comrade Wang Bin to inspire his own family to live according to Party principles.” The cadre sucked, hollow-cheeked, at his tea.
“The commission has evidence that Wang Kangmei, daughter of Comrade Wang Bin, left her unit without permission, that she traveled without permission to the city of Xian, and there she engaged in sexual relations with a foreigner.”
“She was abducted,” Wang Bin blurted, and instantly regretted it.
“This commission is forwarding the relevant testimony to the Public Security Bureau for action,” the cadre intoned without expression.
That was the cue for the prosecutor. He jerked back to his feet.
“In view of the seriousness of the charges, I call for a full trial and a sentence of life imprisonment at hard labor.”
It was a formality. Still, in the calculated silence that followed the prosecutor’s demand, Wang Bin began to sweat.
“The commission agrees with the prosecutor’s request,” said the president.
Again, the old men allowed a cruel silence to build. Wang Bin braced for the sound of the door opening, the rush of air, the footsteps of the guards summoned by a buzzer beneath the table.
“However,” the president began.
At last! Wang Bin felt a sudden release.
“In view of Comrade Wang’s long service to the Party, this commission will waive a trial in exchange for Comrade Wang’s admission of guilt, a self-criticism, his removal from all state and Party posts and his reeducation through labor in …”—he consulted a printed list in front of him—“Jilin Province.”
It was a sentence of slow death. Manchuria. Backward and cold, so bitterly cold and primitive he would not survive two years there.
“Jilin,” said the second cadre.
That left the general.
“Hunan,” said the general. “And as an office worker. He is an educated man.”
Hunan was backward, too, but warmer. To work there as a bookkeeper on a commune would be dull, but not dangerous, almost like retiring. Such were the fruits of a fifty-year friendship between men who had once fought together.
The two hacks dithered for a while—Jilin was what their paper decreed—but the general proved implacable.
“Hunan.” The president surrendered. “You have twenty-four hours, Comrade, in which to inform the commission whether you wish a trial or will accept the Party’s mercy.”
Wang Bin squared his back and strode from the room.
Twenty-four hours. He had counted on that. It was time enough.
Chapter 14
STRATTON’S MAKESHIFT CHISEL splintered after only an hour. A cone-shaped pile of concrete dust and a faint groove in the mortar were all he had to show for his furious scraping. There was no way out of the cell. Stratton snapped another leg off the wooden chair and rubbed one end back and forth across the rough wall until a sharp point was formed. Then he buried the stick in a corner. Another corner was used for defecation. A third corner he reserved for sleeping.
He curled up, facing the wall, and shielded his eyes with one arm. That night, for the first time, the jailers had left the light bulb burning in the rafters; insects darted and danced around it. Stratton closed his eyes and thought of his parents. For thirty-one years his father had driven a UPS truck in Hartford, while his mother had reared five children. Now the Strattons were retired, living in a small apartment in Boca Raton, Florida, entertaining grandchildren and feeding the ducks in a man-made lake behind the high rise. Tom Stratton had visited his parents only twice