Item 8: Conduct of the Defendant Following Discovery of the Body
On the evening of April 19, 2000, shortly after the defendant returned home from his job at Dreamer, he was visited by a police detective who was conducting a routine investigation of the neighborhood. Dragon, Huang, and Chen-yi were still at work and had not yet returned to the apartment. The detective asked the defendant to answer numerous questions related to his current domicile and his work, and then he left. As soon as he had departed, the defendant tried to contact the others who shared the apartment.
The defendant called Chen-yi’s cell phone and reached him while he was on the job in Dogenzaka. “The police were here,” he said. “Lots of them. They showed me the picture of a woman I didn’t know. They said they’d be back. If they find you here they’ll figure out we’re illegal.”
When Chen-yi heard the defendant’s account, he immediately called Huang at his place of work, the Mirage Café in Koenji, Suginami Ward. He planned to tell Huang not to return to the apartment. But Huang had already gotten off work and was on his way home. Chen-yi next raced to Dragon’s place of employment—Orchard Tower—in the second block of Kabuki-ch, Shinjuku Ward. When he told Dragon what had happened, they both went to stay with an acquaintance of Dragon’s.
While Huang was on his way home, unaware of the events that had transpired, he was met by a police detective and shown a photograph of the victim. Huang told the detective that he had seen the woman before. He also told him that the defendant had a key to one of the Green Villa apartments.
Around the same time, the defendant left unit 404 in the Matoya Building and stayed the night in a capsule hotel. Policemen went to question him at the Dreamer the next day, but he did not show up for work. The next day, April 21, the defendant left the hotel and went to Chen’s house in Niiza City in Saitama Prefecture. He asked Chen to cover for him by telling the police that he returned the key to Green Villa apartments, unit 103, on April 8, the day before the crime. At that time he had also delivered ¥100,000 in cash. Chen informed him that he had already spoken to the police, and he refused to adhere to the defendant’s request. Moreover, he told the defendant that the police were looking for him—since they knew he had had the key in his possession—and he ought to turn himself in. The defendant refused.
On the way back from Chen’s the defendant began to worry about money. He decided to stop by his place of employment, resign, and ask to be given his back wages. So he headed toward the Dreamer in Musashino City.
When the police detective questioned the owner of the Dreamer, he discovered that the defendant had either entered the country illegally or was working without a proper visa. The defendant was therefore apprehended later that day and held on charges of entering the country illegally and working without appropriate documentation. He was brought to trial on June 30 of the same year and found guilty of the immigration and employment crimes for which he had been charged.
Subsequently it was discovered that the fingerprints found in unit 205 Hope Heights, the scene of Yuriko Hirata’s murder, belonged to the defendant. Moreover, he was discovered to be in possession of the victim’s necklace. After a thorough police investigation, the defendant was charged with the murders of both Hirata and Sat.
• 2 •
“MY CRIMES”: THE DEFENDANT’S STATEMENT BY ZHANG ZHE-ZHONG
JUNE 10, THE TWELFTH YEAR OF HEISEI (2000)
The original was written in Chinese. One of the examining officers instructed the defendant to write the statement after he had the defendant reenact the crime using a life-sized mannequin at the police station.
Detective Takahashi said, “Tell us everything about your life up to now; every rotten thing you’ve done, down to the last detail. Don’t hide anything.” Well, I’ve been living a rough life, hand to mouth, just trying to do the best I can. I haven’t even had time to look back over the last few years of my life or pause for reflection. I can’t remember the things that happened in the distant past, and I don’t want to. They were too sad, too painful, and I’ve sealed them tightly in a forgotten chamber of my memory. I have many memories that I’ve tried to leave behind.
But Detective Takahashi has kindly given me this opportunity to tell my side of the story, and I would like to do my best to meet his request. It means, however, that I will have to think back on my pathetic life and recall all the many stupid mistakes I have made—mistakes that cannot be unmade. I have heard that I am suspected in the death of Miss Kazue Sat, but I am innocent of this crime. I hope this statement will clear my name where that is concerned.
In China, a person’s fate is determined by where he is born. This is a saying we are accustomed to hear. But for me it is more than just a saying, it is the truth. If I’d been born in a city like Shanghai or Beijing or Hong Kong, not deep in the mountains of Sichuan Province, my life would have been filled with promise. It would have been bright and happy, of that I am certain. And certainly I would not have ended up making such a mess of things in a foreign country!
It’s true that I am from Sichuan Province. Ninety percent of the total population of China lives in inland areas like Sichuan. Even so, those areas possess only 10 percent of the nation’s wealth. The rest is controlled by Shanghai and Guangzhou and other port cities. Only 10 percent of the nation’s population lives in port cities, yet those cities control 90 percent of the nation’s wealth. The economic disparity between those who live on the coast and those in the inland regions only continues to deepen.
For those of us who live inland, we can only grit our teeth in despair as we smell the scent of the paper money and watch the glitter of the gold that we will never possess. We have no choice but to satisfy ourselves with millet and coarse grains, our faces and hair streaked with the dust of the fields we tend.
Ever since I was a boy my parents and my siblings always said, “Zhe-zhong is the smartest child in the village.” I am not writing this to boast but to be sure that you understand the conditions under which I was raised. I was, to be sure, brighter than the other children my age. I picked up reading and writing in no time at all. And I was able to calculate finances without any effort. To stretch myself and expand my knowledge, I wanted to continue my schooling and go on to higher-level classes. But my family was poor. They could only afford to send me to the village elementary school. When I realized that my dreams would never be realized, I suppose—like a tree whose roots are stymied and twisted and not allowed to grow—I began to nurture a dark jealousy in my heart, an ugly envy. I believed fate had determined that I would be born into this miserable existence.
Going elsewhere to seek work was the only way people like me could escape this fate. When I went to Guangzhou and Shenzhen, I worked long and hard, thinking all the while that eventually I also would be able to enjoy a wealthy life and save money just like the people from those regions. But after I came to Japan, I was overwhelmed with the feeling that my plans were utterly hopeless. Why might that be? Because the wealth of Japan was beyond compare even to that of China’s port cities.
If I had not been Chinese, if I had been born Japanese, I surely would not be experiencing these hardships now. From the minute I entered this world I would have had access to so many delicious dishes that half the food would go to waste. To get water, I would just turn a tap. I could bathe as often as I liked, and when I wanted to go to the next village or a neighboring town, I wouldn’t have to walk or wait for a bus that might or might not ever come, I could take a train that rushes through the station every three minutes. I could study what I wanted when I wanted, I could pursue the career of my choice, I could wear attractive clothing, I’d have a cell phone and a car, and I’d end my life under the care of an excellent medical staff. The difference between the life I had in China and the one I might have had in Japan was so great, just imagining it caused me nothing but grief.
For so long I dreamed of this free and miraculous country, this Japan. I envied all who lived here. And yet it is in the coun
try for which I longed so desperately that I now find myself imprisoned. How ironic! It’s pathetic, in fact. Back home in my impoverished village, my mother—suffering from illness—awaits a letter from me, each day passing as slowly as a thousand autumn nights. If she ever finds out what has become of me, I will not be able to continue living.
Investigating officers, detectives, and Your Honor, I beseech you, after I serve my term for killing Yuriko Hirata, please let me return to my home in China. Let me spend the rest of my allotted time on earth plowing the barren land of my home village and contemplating my life and the crimes I have committed. I beg of you, please show me leniency. I throw myself on the mercy of the court.
I’ve been made a fool of all my life. My family was the poorest in our impoverished village. We lived in a cave, so the others looked down on us. There were those who spread rumors that my father was cursed by the gods of poverty. Even when we were invited to a wedding celebration or a festival, my father was almost always seated in the lowest seat.
My father was a Hakka Chinese. When he was a boy, my grandfather led him all the way from Hui’an in Fujian Province to a small village in Sichuan, and they began to live in a little corner there. The local toughs were all Han Chinese. Not a single Hakka had ever lived in the village, and they told my grandfather they would not allow him to build a house. That’s how we came to live in a cave.
My grandfather was a diviner, a fortune-teller. I was told he started off with a successful business in the village but before long he lost favor because all his fortunes forecast bad luck. Eventually, he ran out of business altogether and our family slipped down to the depths of poverty. My grandfather refused to read anyone’s fortune after that, even if they asked him to, and even at home he usually refused to speak to anyone. If he ever were to open his mouth, those around him would stand on guard, worried about his ill-omened prophecies. Even though he practiced his craft with great earnestness, people hated him for it. So he decided he’d be better off saying nothing at all.
After a while my grandfather ceased moving as well. His hair and beard grew long, and he sat inside all day long like Bodhidharma himself. I can still remember seeing him sitting perfectly still in the dark shadows of the innermost room of the cave. Everyone in the family got so used to him we stopped noticing if he was even there or not. When it was dinnertime, my mother would set a bowl of food in front of him. Before long the food would be gone, so we took that as a sign that our grandfather was still alive. When Grandfather did actually die, no one noticed for some time.
Once, when no one else was in the house, my grandfather called out to me. I was in elementary school at the time. Since I’d hardly ever heard him speak, his voice caught me by surprise and I swung around to stare at him. My grandfather was sitting in the dark of the inner cave, his eyes fixed on me.
“We’ve a murderer in the family,” he said.
“Grandfather! What did you say? Who are you talking about?”
I asked my grandfather to explain, but he didn’t say anything more. I’d been spoiled by then into believing I was a clever boy, a sensible lad, so I chalked my grandfather’s comment up to the ramblings of a half-dead old fool and paid no attention. Before long I’d forgotten all about it.
Every day the members of our family cultivated fields halfway up the mountainside with the help of an emaciated old ox. Other than the ox, we had two goats. It was my older brother Gen-de’s job to take care of them. He was the second son. The family grew an assortment of crops, mostly grains. My father, mother, and older brothers would awaken early, before the sun had risen, and head out to work. They wouldn’t come home until past dark. Even so, the amount of food produced by those fields was inadequate to feed the entire family. Often we had to contend with droughts. When that happened we would go for months without ever getting enough to eat. All I could think, at those times, was how as soon as I reached adulthood I wanted to eat my fill of white rice, even if it killed me.
Because that’s the kind of life we led, I was determined—from the moment I was aware of what was going on around me—to leave home as soon as I was old enough. I would head to one of the big cities—the likes of which I had yet to see—and find a job there. I assumed the family land would be passed down to the oldest son, An-ji. My older sister, Mei-hua, was sent in marriage to a neighboring village when she was fifteen. I knew that the crops from our fields and the food from our few goats was not enough to sustain my brother Gen-de, my younger sister Mei-kun, and me.
Eight years separated me from my eldest brother, An-ji. There was a three-year difference between me and my second brother, Gen-de. When I was thirteen, a catastrophe befell the family. An-ji caused Gen-de’s death. It terrified me to think that my grandfather’s prophecy had come true, and I clutched my younger sister, Mei-kun, and trembled with fear.
An-ji and Gen-de got in an argument, and An-ji hit Gen-de and knocked him down. Gen-de stuck his head on one of the crags in the cave and stopped moving. A police officer came to investigate his death, but my father concealed the circumstances, saying that Gen-de stumbled, accidentally hitting his head as he fell. If An-ji had been charged with killing his younger brother, he would have been sent to prison and there would have been no one left to tend the fields. After he got out of prison, he would have had nothing to come home to and would have needed to survive on his own.
In our village there was a surplus of men. It was so bad it was said that in a neighboring village four men had been forced to share one bride. That’s how poor we were. My brothers had been arguing about a bride; that was the reason for their fight. Gen-de had made fun of An-ji.
But after An-ji killed Gen-de, he changed. He started to act just like my grandfather, refusing to speak to anyone. An-ji still lives in the village with my parents. He never married.
Perhaps my family is cursed. As the result of being pursued by a violent passion, both my older brother and I ended up murderers. As punishment, my brother will spend the rest of his life in solitude and poverty; and I, for the crime of killing Yuriko Hirata, must be incarcerated in a foreign country. My beloved younger sister met an untimely death on her way to Japan, and now I have nothing left.
My grandfather may have been forced to leave his home in Fujian and drift along to Sichuan, but if only his predictions hadn’t been so dire, if only he hadn’t chased everyone away, then…well, that is all I can think about these days. I am sure my grandfather saw the dark collapse of the family. Surely that is why he ended his days no better than a stone, sitting wordlessly in a dark cave.
At any rate, if my grandfather had said, “The murderer in the family is you; be careful,” if he’d warned me, I could have been more cautious. I would not have come to Japan. And if I hadn’t come to Japan, I would not have killed Yuriko Hirata, my younger sister would not have died, and I would not be suspected of Kazue Sat’s murder. I could have gotten a job in a factory near the village and would have learned to content myself with one yuan a day. That’s the way my life would have ended. When I think about what might have been, I’m consumed with grief.
What I did to Miss Hirata was unforgivable. I have no way to apologize. If it were possible, I would gladly replace her life with my own miserable existence.
However, when I was thirteen, I never would have imagined that this is the way I would end up. At the time, I could not forgive An-ji for what he had done. I could not bear to watch my parents grieve or listen to the malicious gossip the villagers circulated about us. I hated An-ji. But then, a person’s emotions are a curious thing. At the very bottom of my heart, I couldn’t help but sympathize with him.
After all, what he did was not unreasonable. Even I found Gen-de’s behavior extremely offensive. He liked to fool around and was always out chasing women. He stole money from my father and spent it on booze. He was a complete good-for-nothing. Why, some of the villagers had even caught him having sex with the goats, and the gossip that ensued was a source of great shame for my father.
To be perfectly honest, Gen-de had brought so much shame to our family that I was relieved when he died and An-ji, who was to inherit my father’s fields, escaped going to prison. If An-ji had been sent to prison, I would have inherited the fields, but it would have been more a curse than a blessing. Tied to a tiny parcel of land, I would have been forced to endure a life of hardship without ever knowing the civilized world.
The impoverished masses of China’s inland people have one good thing going for them: freedom. But that’s it. With no one to take particular notice of us, we were left pretty much to our own devices. And we clung to our freedom. So long as we stayed in the country, we were free to go where we wanted, do what we wanted, and die like dogs if we wanted. But all I could think about at the time was getting out of there and going to the city.
After my brother died, I had to take his place and look after the goats. Those were my father’s wishes. But when I turned eighteen I took a job in a little factory nearby that made straw hats and wicker pillows. I was able to do that because we sold the goats when my mother started to suffer from a stomach ailment. I preferred working at the factory, making things from wheat straw, over tending the goats or working the fields. But the pay was low. I got only one yuan for every day of work. Still, even that paltry sum was a luxury in a family as financially strapped as my own.
Around that time, the second and third sons on the farm next to ours started preparing to go out to work in one of the port cities. The farm they had was not enough to feed all the mouths in the family, and the village already had too many workers. There were no jobs for young men and no marriage partners for them either. So most of them just loitered around the village like Gen-de had done—up to no good, getting into scrapes, and causing trouble.
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