by Jinkang Wang
After the audience had quieted down, the sense remained that something had changed. There seemed to be a vortex around Dickerson, demanding attention, like a magnetic field or black hole. This invisible center seemed to quietly alter the energy of the court.
Mr. Du’s attitude seemed to change as well; his eyes blazed as he began his rebuttal.
“My client does not dispute much about the prosecutor’s account, apart from one crucial point—the cold-storage box she brought back from Russia did not contain the smallpox virus. As for what it did contain, I can explain that now.”
Not smallpox? The audience had thought this point decided, and now pricked up their ears. Perhaps most apprehensive was Xue Yu. He’d had the most contact with the lab, and thought there was no doubt in this matter. Why was Du Chunming denying it?
The lawyer went on unhurriedly. “In order to present the facts, I first have to introduce Mei Yin’s adoptive father, Mr. Dickerson, from America, and the Crucifix Society of which he is the head. My client has already acknowledged that she went to Russia to carry out a task for her adoptive father. I’m curious as to why the prosecution hasn’t brought up the instigator of the purported crime? I will now help this court to do that job, though it’s a little like I’m switching teams.” A ripple of laughter spread through the audience. The prosecutor and judges had indeed chosen to keep Dickerson out of this case, partly to keep things simple, partly because he was in far-off America. But such an omission was, legally speaking, hard to explain. “I’d like to take two minutes of the court’s time to introduce some beliefs of the Crucifix Society, because these viewpoints will be significant in what I’m about to say.”
The judge said, “Please confine yourself to the facts pertinent to this case.”
“All right. I’ll bear that in mind. The Crucifix Society is a loose-knit group formed by like-minded scientists. There are nine members present here today. The note I’m about to read is jointly authored by all of them.”
He read from a piece of paper. “All living things are legal members of the circle of life on earth, and all have the right to exist. Human beings may not judge whether a species should live or die, not even if they are harmful beasts, parasites, or pathogens. When humanity tries to use the tool of science to revolutionize nature, we ought to also maintain a sense of respect for the natural world, preserving the balance of nature as far as possible, rather than wantonly interfering. Some farsighted members of the scientific world could no longer keep silent or merely sit and pontificate, but had to take practical action to stop man’s rape of nature.
“Looking specifically at the smallpox virus, we believe the current decision to completely eradicate it needs to be revisited. Although the eradication has brought a halt to more than a thousand years of suffering, which of course is an enormous step forward, it has also created an extremely dangerous vacuum, one that could be exploited at any moment—the terrorist attack on America proves this. Smallpox itself has advantages, as well: for instance, it can be used to suppress AIDS. The best strategy is to suitably lower the virulence of smallpox, and then allow it to continue to exist in the natural world.”
Du Chunming lowered the paper and continued speaking.
“Let’s now turn to the facts of the crime before the judges. As a result of the Crucifix Society’s aforementioned opinions, or should I say, beliefs, a Russian member, the distinguished virologist Stebushkin, took advantage of his position at the Vector Institute to cultivate a weakened form of smallpox. That’s right, my client subsequently leaked the smallpox virus by accident, but did you wonder why the outbreak was so mild? Why the lab workers, including Mei and Sun themselves, spent long periods in contact with it but had no signs of infection? The reason is this: the object my client transported across the border and stored for a long time in her lab wasn’t the smallpox virus, but”—he paused after every word—“a weakened smallpox antigen!”
The room grew very quiet. Everyone was working hard to digest this new interpretation of the case. Prosecutor Tong Guangwu felt as if he’d been clubbed over the head. He wasn’t a medical expert, and couldn’t describe the difference between a virus and an antigen—perhaps there was no clear dividing line—but the fact that they were called different things would have a big impact on the magnitude of Mei Yin’s guilt. Scrambling to regain his footing, he retorted, “Counsel for the defense seems to have forgotten the analyses of three august bodies? When the reports were read earlier, the defense raised no objections.”
Du Chunming said calmly, “And I still raise no objections—a weakened smallpox antigen is, in the broadest sense, still a smallpox virus, not white pox or chickenpox. But the main distinction between an antigen and the original virus is that an antigen is not infectious. When you provided these institutions with samples to analyze, you instructed them to identify either smallpox or white pox, and all three organizations came up with the right answer. But if you’d asked them to test for a live virus versus an antigen, I’m sure their reports would have said something different. Viruses become antigens after being weakened, and can be differentiated by their DNA structure. Many viruses, including rabies and polio, are treated by using their attenuated antigens. In the past, the treatment for smallpox didn’t use antigens, because of a coincidence in the natural world: the cowpox virus, very similar to smallpox, is relatively nonpathogenic while inducing immunity to smallpox. Thus, research into smallpox antigens has been completely neglected—until now. Stebushkin and Mei Yin successfully developed the smallpox antigen, using a combination of the West African, Asian, and South American strains.
“I’d like to respectfully inform the court that we’ve commissioned a second analysis, and the results arrived two days ago: Mei Yin’s lab was producing a smallpox antigen, not the virus itself.”
The prosecutor smiled coldly. “Yet the antigens you speak of infected a thousand people with smallpox, killing one and disfiguring many others.”
Du Chunming replied levelly, “In fact, far more than a thousand people were infected. My client estimates the true figure to be over ten thousand, most of whom experienced such mild symptoms that they weren’t included in the tally—but they too will have quietly acquired immunity to smallpox. Do you think there were no victims with cowpox? Let me give you a figure. When America was using cowpox inoculations nationwide, seventy-five thousand people died each year as a result, and one in a few hundred thousand patients suffered from gangrenous vaccinia, allergic purpura, encephalitis, and other complications. Seventy-five thousand!
“As for my client’s antigen, it was not completely attenuated, so it remained somewhat virulent and lead to one death and several disfigurements. My client expresses deep guilt over this. But I have to cite another figure: even if we accept the official count, this leak has resulted in at least one thousand people having immunity for life. The outbreak in America, even with access to the best medical treatment in the world, still resulted in 143 deaths, and left tens of thousands disfigured.”
The prosecutor found this line of attack hard to rebut. It would seem the defendant had indeed weakened the smallpox virus, and as to whether the result counted as smallpox or an antigen—that was a linguistic problem. Yet it could lead to a large gulf in sentencing—it was a crime to disseminate viruses and bacteria, but not antigens! And with this little space for maneuver, Du could keep muddying the waters, until the accused was cleared of the main charge. Heaven knew if the virus she’d smuggled in from Russia had been weakened. Stebushkin was dead, and the dead give no evidence.
All eyes were focused on the prosecutor. With little time to think, he could only say, “Counsel for the defense, you claim what the defendant brought in from Russia wasn’t smallpox, but a weakened antigen. Please produce your evidence for this.”
Smiling breezily, Du said, “Oh, I don’t know. Everything I’ve just said is only a hypothesis. As for whether the cold-storage box that was brought across the border contained smallpox, antigens, or a man’
s sperm—for all we know, my client planned to have a baby with her Russian lover through artificial insemination—I have no idea at all. As the prosecutor has charged my client with the criminal act of ‘illegally transporting an infectious pathogen,’ please let him produce his evidence.”
The prosecutor blushed from ear to ear. In his panic he’d committed a major error—the burden of proof was indeed on him. Yet this wouldn’t be easy. The smuggling case was already weak, relying on the presence of smallpox in the lab for the chain of circumstantial evidence to be convincing. But now, with the contents of the lab shown to be antigens, the whole chain came crashing down. He conferred tersely with his assistants, for the moment unable to answer.
In the audience, Xue Yu was delighted. His understanding was that Ms. Mei had been cultivating an attenuated version of the virus for all these years. That was beyond question. Why hadn’t he thought of that himself, to help Ms. Mei prove her innocence? Du really was a clever lawyer. He looked set to help Ms. Mei escape the net of the law altogether. The only thing that made him uneasy was something Las Casas had said: “Wasn’t it too much of a coincidence that the Chinese epidemic took place right after the American outbreak?” This doubt, however, was no more than a tiny cloud on the horizon, and Xue Yu didn’t pay it much attention. It would be a few days later that he’d realize the small cloud had expanded into a full-blown storm.
The prosecuting team still hadn’t thought of an effective comeback, and Jin Mingcheng was becoming embarrassed for them, so much so that he turned to study the audience instead. The most prominent members were, of course, the seven foreigners—particularly the old man in the middle, with his weathered features and upright spine, his silvery hair and beard, looking like a biblical prophet. The seven individuals sat in silence, not even talking among themselves. Their mere presence, though, was an imperceptible threat. After years of acquaintance, Jin was well aware of how much Mei Yin respected, even worshiped, her adoptive father, which gave him an enigmatic air. Jin had never seen a picture of the man, and here he was, stepping out of mystery into reality.
Mei Yin, in the defendant’s seat, actually hadn’t paid much attention to the discussion in court. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed on her adoptive father. He was sitting bolt upright in the back row, like a statue, reminding her of a trip they’d taken to Africa almost forty years ago, during the Ebola outbreak in Zaire. The day he’d finished dealing with the epidemic, her father had sat just like this, bolt upright beneath an acacia tree, all through the night.
Jin Mingcheng had noticed Mei Yin’s focus on her father. A short time later, he also noticed Mei Yin’s expression change, then she whispered something to her lawyer. He swiftly glanced into the crowd, then wrote a note to the judge. The judge looked in the same direction, then summoned a bailiff and murmured an instruction. The bailiff hurried to the back row of the audience, and spoke to the outermost of the seven foreigners. That person leaped up in shock, then leaned over to Walt Dickerson, in the center of the row, prodding him and calling his name. Dickerson didn’t move. All six foreigners were now flustered, screaming in English, “Quick, call an ambulance!”
Susan Sotomayor, his companion, stroked the old man’s hand, checked his nose for breath, then pulled up his eyelids. She shook her head. “No use.”
Jin Mingcheng’s English wasn’t good enough to follow what they were saying, but it was obvious what had happened. Mr. Dickerson had passed away. Like a Buddhist monk, he’d died while seated. Judging by rigor mortis, he’d been dead some time already, but maintained his upright posture, so even his colleagues sitting beside him didn’t notice. Jin walked to the entrance and called an ambulance from his cell phone. After a moment’s thought, he summoned a hearse too.
Mei Yin knew her fears had been realized. She moved to stand, then looked imploringly at the chief judge. He hesitated, then conferred with both his colleagues before standing to announce, “Due to an unfortunate incident, we’ll end here today. Court is adjourned.”
He nodded at the defendant. “Go ahead.” Mei Yin and her lawyer rushed into the audience. By this time, most people were aware of what had happened, and the courtroom was in chaos, the bailiffs vainly trying to restore order, shepherding the onlookers out as quickly as possible. Those being forced out kept twisting round, standing on tiptoe as they looked back, some reporters holding cameras over their heads in an attempt to get a shot.
Fewer than twenty people were left in the room. Apart from the six foreigners, there were Mei Yin, her husband, and their lawyers; the two bailiffs; Deputy Mayor Jin, Las Casas, and Xue Yu. Walt Dickerson remained seated, his expression peaceful, his body still not completely stiff, though his hands and feet were already cold. His eyes were halfway shut, and still seemed to be squinting at the world. Mei Yin gazed sorrowfully at her adoptive father, her eyes red, but holding back the tears. Sun Jingshuan came over and embraced his wife. The bailiffs moved toward them, hesitated, then finally decided to leave them alone.
The ambulance and hearse arrived together. The paramedics ran over with their stretcher, then saw the posture of the deceased, and looked to Mei Yin for how to proceed. She sighed and said, “Let’s take him directly to the crematorium.” She turned to the six foreigners. “I’ll have to trouble you to deal with his remains. The ashes can be scattered anywhere you like. My father didn’t believe in concepts like nationality or territory. Jin, I may have to leave this to you . . .”
“Not to worry. The two of you will be able to attend the funeral, I’ll talk to the detention center and make it happen.”
“Thank you.”
She looked at Xue Yu but said nothing. He knew she wanted to ask about his search for Xiaoxue. It had been three months since she’d disappeared, and he’d done his best, even getting the police to put out a bulletin, but hadn’t turned up a single clue. “Ms. Mei, I’m still trying my best to look for Xiaoxue,” he said, guiltily. “I’ll find her no matter what. Don’t let it trouble you.”
“Thank you.”
Walt Dickerson was hefted onto the stretcher, and carefully carried to the hearse. The back doors slammed shut, separating him forever from the world of the living. Mei Yin and the others watched the hearse until it was gone, then she got into the patrol car with Sun Jingshuan.
The couple got special treatment at the detention center, where they had their own rooms. Like the other cells, these contained a large bed frame, wide enough for seventeen or eighteen people, with a space all around the bed about the width of a single person. Normal inmates were forced to squat in that space in an orderly line anytime they weren’t sleeping. The ceiling was very high, and a dull yellow lightbulb hung from it, like the murky eye of an old man, staring at Mei Yin all night. Attached to this room was a balcony half open to the sky, to provide some fresh air. A sturdy steel net covered the opening. Against the wall were a sink, a faucet, and a toilet bowl. There was nothing else. No tables, no chairs, no lamps.
Conditions might be basic here, but Mei Yin didn’t mind. She’d been used to deprivation since childhood, even after Walt brought her to the States. He’d often taken her traveling to the poorest countries in the world as part of his work. They’d been places where a bed frame as large as this would have been a luxury. He’d hoped to train her in his profession, which meant getting used to these conditions.
She was allowed one other special privilege: the door between the cell and the balcony was never locked, so she could go in and out as she pleased. That night, after tossing and turning, unable to sleep, she pulled on her clothes and went into the open-air section, sitting cross-legged on the icy cement floor, looking up at the night sky through the wire mesh. She remembered the trip to Africa, the day of her adoptive father’s “enlightenment.” He’d done this too, sat cross-legged outside the tent, looking up through the sparse acacia leaves, staring for a long time at the profound dome above him.
She seemed to hear footsteps from the neighboring cell. Was her husband also suffering from in
somnia? Although the couple had been right next door to each other these past three months, they might as well have been separated by an entire galaxy. She walked to the wall, intending to knock on it, but then noticed the surveillance camera in a corner of the ceiling, smiled at it, and gave up the idea. She was being treated very well here, and didn’t want to abuse the privileges she’d been given. Jingshuan loved her a lot, but it wasn’t clear if their marriage would survive. She would have to harden her heart to spread the teachings of her father—how else could she deal with the unavoidable suffering and death, including Dr. Ma’s misfortune, Xiaoxue’s ruined face, the passing away of Granny Sun and her adoptive father? And there was no avoiding attaining noble goals through despicable means, but Sun Jingshuan’s heart was too soft, too conventional, especially since Granny’s death had all but crushed him. He was sunk deep in guilt. She couldn’t put her husband through such torture.
So she’d tell him to go away, to leave her. To come down off this cross.
The security panel in the door slid open. Nighttime inspection. A female guard saw her sitting on the balcony, and knowing she must be devastated at the loss of her father, said softly, “It’s late, you should rest. My condolences.”
Mei Yin replied quietly, “Thank you. I’ll go to bed now.”
She returned to the bed frame, but sleep continued to evade her. Her mind kept churning back to Xiaoxue. Where was the girl now? Mei Yin herself had grown up in an orphanage too, and she was more than ten when her adoptive father took her away, all the way to America. She understood Xiaoxue’s thirst for a family, for parents. And now her wishes had been destroyed, and her face ruined. These blows might have been too much to take. Mei Yin worried if she’d survive.
Hopefully Xue Yu would find her very soon. Hopefully.