A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [64]
“The choice is yours. Would you prefer to be admired for your valor? Or would you instead care for some warm food, and cold water? And perhaps some medical treatment for your leg? Clean clothes? A bath?”
Zhou did not smile. The jailer waited for another signal.
“One man lasted six days with me,” Zhou said. “His was a political crime, truly insignificant compared to yours. I was prepared to send him to one of the far provinces for two years. Farm labor on a rural commune. It would have been a fair sentence, had he confessed. But he, too, spoke of honor. Even after three days, when we boarded the windows. It was summer, very hot and still. He was old and sick. We took away all the food, of course. By the fifth day, he was drinking his own urine. On the sixth day, I threw a live river rat into the cell and he ate it raw, tail and all. So much for honor, Mr. Stratton.”
Stratton could not think for the pain; each idea seemed to sting the inside of his brain. Cowering on his knees, never had he been so helpless. His captors did not have a gun, nor did they need one. Stratton was the weakest man in the cell, and all three of them knew it. All he could do was drag it out, and hope for the pain to pass.
“Do you see why you are unworthy to stand? After hearing the list of your crimes, do you now understand?”
“What if I were to confess to some of the charges?” Stratton asked in a raspy voice.
“No!” Zhou barked. “Not good enough. The crimes are related. One leads to another. It is impossible to be innocent of some and guilty of others. It is either day or night. Justice must be distinct, and clear, and indisputable. Otherwise there would be no respect for laws. So if you confess, you will confess to all of it. You will be truthful.”
“How long have you worked for Wang Bin?”
“Shut up!”
“Are you paid well?” Stratton’s tone was soft, boylike.
“I work for the state.”
“Then where is your uniform?”
“Quiet!” Zhou snapped. The jailer did not understand the words, but he listened tautly, in expectation.
“Have I been convicted by the state?”
“Yes. The deputy minister pronounced—”
“No, I said by the state.” Stratton was breathing easier, although his throat felt bruised and swollen. “If this is a state prison, then where is the PLA?”
Zhou smiled darkly. “You would feel more at home with soldiers? It would bring back old memories for you, I’m sure. That is too bad. There are no PLA here. And this is not a trial, Stratton. The trial is over. All that remains is for you to accept your conviction and acknowledge your crimes. We expect no more from you than we would from a Chinese criminal. The truth is, the deputy minister has more patience with you than I.”
Zhou stood up. He spoke to the jailer, who left the cell immediately. “The smell in here is very bad. I am not certain if it is the pigs or you, Mr. Stratton. I am going outdoors for a few minutes for some fresh air, and perhaps a cold beer. In the meantime, the other comrade will give you something to think about. Then we will resume.”
Zhou hitched his trousers and walked out. Stratton sagged back on his heels. He glanced longingly at the corner where he had concealed his makeshift weapon, but within seconds the jailer had returned, flinging the door open. He spoke sharply in Chinese to someone else in the corridor. Stratton rose to his knees and looked up. There, in the doorway, stood Kangmei.
NOT FOR THE first time, the old professor wondered at the futility of man. He had dedicated his life to the proposition that all mankind’s creations should be appraised not just for their beauty or ingenuity, but for what they revealed about the mystery of the human mind. And now, so late in his life, to face the mystery of true evil. No Chinese artist could ever express such a horror—the betrayal