A Perfect Crime

by A. Yi

He sucked in his cheeks and let out a long breath through his nostrils. I’d never seen anything so hilarious in my life. I patted him on the head and flew away.

  I spent a lot of time absorbed in this wrestling match. Sometimes I gave form to a man in another dimension; he’s been asleep for years. He made us. I tried using sex as a way of denying the reproductive order he created, but then I realised sex comes from dreams. Humans have sex, he said, and so it was. Sometimes I saw a world in my head in which humans had already been exterminated and a complex modern society was revealed to be nothing more than a mirage, a reflection in a mirror, created by a Song or Ming dynasty witch. Sometimes I scaled it down. I became merely one of ten thousand different mes. I saw them everywhere, at the docks, living apathetic lives as carpenters, or taking flights to São Paulo, or waiting in crowds for the executioner to arrive. There were times when I pictured my future grandson taking me up in his helicopter away from Shawshank Prison; if he doesn’t take me away, he tells me, he won’t exist in the future. He is lost in thinking, high up in his plane, until we reach our highest altitude, when he speaks.

  ‘Actually, I only need your sperm.’

  I lay like that day and night, living inside my own intricate drawings, excited to the point where I’d forget to eat and drink. If someone had come by and told me I could go free, perhaps I might have been angry to be disturbed. Where else could I find such peace? A life with no obligation to work, with free food and drink? This was the best place for me to reflect on humanity and the universe. Then, after nights of sleeplessness, my head would pound and I’d start to cry. I began to regret not considering the possibility of incarceration before committing my crime. I would have devoted myself to others, lived a healthy and harmless life. But in some ways this smugness was a product of knowing that I was soon to die – that I was locked up with nowhere to go.

  The guard eventually took pity on me and gave me a piece of newspaper. He was originally going to give me one full side, but after a brief moment of reflection he took it back and ripped off a piece the size of my palm. I could have that instead. He laughed and left happy. But it was big enough. In it, I read a brilliant story with the headline: TOGETHER MAY WE EXPLODE.

  One day, Tom lit a match to find out if there was any petrol left in the tank. Yep.

  It kept spinning in my head and I began to invent a family saga about Tom’s ancient ape-man relatives. I thanked the guard. He’d given me a perpetually bubbling spring of the sweetest water.

  On Trial

  I have on occasion asked myself, who is going to miss me? And I suppose my mother is the only possible answer. I thought she would visit me in prison, but after waiting for an eternity I figured she must have remarried, moved and forgotten me. Then one day one of the guards came to tell me she was here. I said I didn’t want to see her, but he told me it would be good to get some fresh air and I was dragged over.

  The visiting room had a high, vaulted ceiling and visitors and inmates were separated by a long, thick piece of glass. A large door at the opposite end was opened and a slow surge of free people pressed in, like a glacier, their arms outspread. Ma staggered dumbly behind, hands on the back of her thighs, her head bobbing, as if to say, ‘No, no, don’t hit me.’ I didn’t really want to see her.

  She spotted me and sat down, placing a plastic bag containing a half-eaten bun in her lap. She lowered her head and said nothing, as if she was the criminal, not me. I snorted, a sneer. It was like a railway station waiting room, the noise bubbling, popping, drifting up, turning into a collective hum. Ma almost spoke several times.

  ‘Go on, say something.’

  Trembling violently, she looked up.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say what you’re doing here?’ She lay out her palms, tilted her head and showed me her tears. Calluses, hard and dirty like a stone covered in weeds.

  ‘I’ve been burning incense and praying.’

  ‘What for?’

  She didn’t answer, but wiped her eyes with her hand. ‘That’s unhygienic,’ I said.

  She pulled at her scarf and that’s when I saw how white her hair had become. Last time I saw her, she had barely one grey hair.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I woke up one morning and it was like this.’

  This was the most intimate moment we’d ever shared. I tried to push my fingers through the small holes of our conversation, but I couldn’t.

  ‘Take care of yourself, Ma. Find a husband. Make sure you eat properly.’

  She just shook her head. The guard approached and suddenly she seemed to realise something.

  ‘Do what they say. And tell them everything.’

  She was then led away. Or rather, she led them away. She was gone, along with her half-eaten bun. Just like that. She’s no real mother.

  Only when the courts sent along a copy of the indictment did I realise I’d been locked up for four months.

  ‘We will assign you a lawyer if you don’t appoint one yourself,’ they said.

  ‘What if I don’t want one?’

  ‘Most people want one.’

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  They asked me if I had any evidence or witnesses I wished to present. I said no. Before long the lawyer came and asked the same question. He kept taking calls during our meeting and didn’t stay long.

  When the day of the trial arrived they unshackled me and led me to another cell. My feet felt light, as if I might fly up into the air. A big sign with black characters hung above the metal door, which had a window cut into it. The walls were made from greyish-white bricks. A clump of poplars grew in the yard outside, next to which an armed officer carrying an assault rifle paced, guarding his post. I looked out on the scene, the flood of morning light, the sky blue like a smashed vase. This must have been its most beautiful moment.

  Ma was hiding behind the trees in the distance; I could see her peek out occasionally. As the car drove past I shouted, ‘Ma! Ma!’ She couldn’t hear me. But I saw her frightened expression. It was in her eyes; it oppressed her. It was like watching your limbs being drawn and quartered.

  At the court two policemen led me into a small room and told me to sit. I swallowed. The courtroom must have been next door, because I heard the sound of footsteps come and go. Then someone started reading the court rules and asked the public prosecutor, defence counsel, presiding judge and judicial officers to take their seats.

  The judge knocked his gavel. ‘Bring in the defendant.’

  The metal door was pulled open and an officer took me by the arm. As if on a gust of wind, I was announced. My spirit gave way. I stood and shook my handcuffs to show my displeasure. My lawyer asked for the handcuffs to be removed, but the prosecutor objected vociferously, arguing I was a danger to the court.

  Fewer than ten people were seated in the public gallery, curious spectators for the most part. One woman looked at me with poison in her eyes. She wore a black dress and a discreetly patterned scarf draped over her shoulders. She had tied a black ribbon around her arm. She looked like a lanky crow. Her skin hung loose around her face like drying noodles, the ravages of age. She pursed her lips and her nostrils flared, like a kettle ready to pop its lid. I wondered how such an ugly woman could have given birth to Kong Jie, but as Qian Zhongshu once wrote: ‘Just because you liked the egg doesn’t mean it is wise to go looking for the chicken.’ Before the hearing could begin the judge asked a series of meaningless questions, like my name, date of birth, ethnicity, previous criminal record, the date I had received the indictment. Finally he announced that it would be a closed trial, to respect the victim’s privacy. She’s dead, I thought, what privacy? He then read out a list of names and, when called, each person stood up, nodded or mmed. He then read my rights and asked if anyone should be removed from the court.

  ‘Yes, everyone,’ I said.

  ‘Your reason?’

  But I couldn’t think of anything. ‘Fine, let them stay.’ The public prosecutor then read aloud the indictment, as pro
cedure dictated. He emphasised certain key words for effect, adding spices to his pot. But all things considered, he worked in an orderly fashion. Then Kong Jie’s mother read out a civil indictment. Her hands shook and she made many mistakes. She wanted me to pay three hundred and twenty thousand yuan in damages.

  Asking for money seemed a bit hypocritical, like she was trying to make money out of her daughter’s death. It muddied her calls for justice. She seemed aware of it too, and so added, ‘I want to make you bankrupt, that’s all. I won’t keep a cent of it. I’ll give it all away.’

  Make me bankrupt?

  The judge asked for my response.

  ‘I have to respond?’

  ‘What is your reaction to the indictments?’

  ‘No reaction. It’s all true.’

  My lawyer tapped at his table as if to ask why I wasn’t defending myself, but he didn’t say anything. The judge then signalled to the prosecutor to begin.

  He began by confirming some more basic facts. Then, ‘I have no more questions, it all seems very clear.’

  The judge looked over and by mistake caught the eye of Kong Jie’s mother, who took it as permission to stand up.

  ‘Why did you kill my daughter?’

  I kept my head high and said nothing.

  She was shaking, her voice loud like a gale blowing over a sheet of metal. Then she groaned and sat back down. An awkward silence filled the court and those in uniform whispered to each other.

  Someone needed to break the silence, so I raised my hand. The lawyer finally remembered he was on my side and signalled to the judge, who let me speak.

  ‘Can I sit?’

  My question disturbed the viewing gallery, as if this was my primary sin. The judge thumped his gavel, but didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure if that was a yes, but then I thought, they’re going to kill me anyway, so I plonked by butt back down on the seat. But no one cared, because the prosecutor was busy calling in the medical examiner. She was old and dressed in a white coat, her features like dead tree roots. She should have read clinically from her appraisal, giving details about how many stab wounds Kong Jie had suffered, that she died of acute blood loss trauma and so on. But the tears pumped and she kept tainting her account with ‘the child’ this, ‘the child’ that. Everything was covered in blood, the floor, the walls, the door, the window. It was horrifying. Especially the bit where I put her in the washing machine. ‘Head first. The blood filled it half full.’ Kong Jie’s mother had been listening, wiping tears and nodding. At this point I watched her faint.

  The morning’s proceedings finished there. In the afternoon people tried to stop Kong Jie’s mother from entering the courtroom, but she forced her way in and back to her seat. She sat watching me, hate radiating from her eyes. Suddenly, she spat at me. I spat back.

  The first witness called in the afternoon was the policeman responsible for the case.

  ‘When did you arrive at the scene?’

  ‘The morning after.’

  Kong Jie’s mother stood up and pointed. ‘When did you get the call?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Well, I am. I reported her missing the evening before.’ The gavel echoed around the court, but she merely spoke louder.

  ‘I must tell the court. I rang at 6.00 the same evening, but they told me to wait twenty-four hours before reporting her missing. “Ninety-nine per cent of cases are resolved by the following morning,” they said. I told them, “my daughter is a good girl, she would never run away.” “Are you done?” they said. “Do you know how many cases we have to handle every day? Do you know how many officers we have? You’re wasting our time.” Isn’t that what you said? You then said, “It’s not that we don’t want to take the call, but this is the law. We do as the law dictates.”’

  She blew her nose with her fingers, wiped it on her sleeve and continued.

  ‘I want to ask the ladies and gentlemen present if such a law exists? You are the experts. Tell me: is there such a law?’

  The judge indicated to the prosecutor to continue. But she broke in.

  ‘I trusted you. But I went to the law school and asked them. The teachers there are better than you lot. One of the professors helped me call some of my daughter’s classmates. There was a boy named Su. He liked my girl. His phone was switched off. We spent the night looking for him, but by the time we found him the next day the sun was coming up. Him. My daughter’s murderer.’ She was pointing at me. ‘His aunt got home that morning and as soon as she saw the blood she called the police. But she was already dead.’

  She looked stunned by the reality of what she’d just said, as if this was the first time she was hearing the terrible news. She began wailing. People looked around the court, not knowing what to do, until her relatives pulled her back to her seat. But she started screaming.

  ‘This isn’t over! I will never give up! I’ll write to the mayor! There must be justice!’

  The judge pummelled his gavel. The whole scene shocked me, it was playing out as if the fault lay with the police, not me. I was upset and even thought of standing up and shouting at them myself. The prosecutor desperately resumed his questioning so that the policeman could make a quick and gloomy exit. My lawyer had no intention of putting any questions to him.

  My aunt was supposed to have been called in, but instead the prosecutor read out a transcript of a formal interview. Next came the two guards from the military academy. Their cheeks were puffy and red, but as soon as they saw me their eyes turned cold, like wolves. They were angry. How were they supposed to know? ‘Isn’t it your job to keep watch, not just stand around?’ their boss would have roared back, thumping the table.

  The first guard admitted to having seen a girl entering the compound, the second wasn’t sure.

  ‘You swap shifts at 3.00, correct?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘I believe this was a premeditated murder,’ the prosecutor said, pointing at me.

  ‘I never said it wasn’t,’ I said, standing up.

  My lawyer silenced me and, with a feigned look of pain, sat back down.

  The day’s session finished with the identification of the switchblade and other pieces of evidence. As the officers led me away, Kong Jie’s mother rushed over and scratched at my face. Her relatives followed behind and pinched me too. The officer grabbed my arm and dragged me off to stop me from charging back. I looked away as we left and saw Kong Jie’s mother kicking out like a naughty child, before collapsing in tears.

  ‘My girl, my girl!’

  Everyone was trying to help her, but this worsened her tantrum.

  It felt so ritualised. Maybe she felt she had to perform like this to prove she was a real mother. But I knew this wasn’t real suffering. Real suffering would break through in the moments she spent alone while looking at photos of her daughter. Even then, the grief wouldn’t produce tears, only a hollow feeling, as if her organs had been spooned out of her body.

  The trial was over in a matter of days. My lawyer argued that the case should be treated as a matter of legal technicality, while the prosecutor contended this was premeditated murder in the first degree from which I had tried to abscond. It was straightforward logic. The judge agreed. He asked if I had anything to add; I said no.

  A few days later I was led back into court. Everyone stood along with the judge as he relayed decision in his beautifully modulated voice. I was swimming in unfamiliar words; I could barely understand any of it. Just as I thought we were nearing a conclusion, he licked his finger and turned to a new page.

  ‘Just read the last sentence,’ I said.

  He stopped and his glasses slid down his nose. The officer beside me kicked me in the shin.

  Finally, the judge came to the verdict: the defendant was guilty of murder in the first degree.

  Sentence: the death penalty.

  Grievous bodily harm, fixed prison term of ten years.

  Rape, eight years.

  The judge had barely finished when I
felt another sharp kick to the shin. I bent over in pain.

  At least it was all finished. But then he started reading again. Now we came to the civil action brought by the victim’s family. The court had taken into account my economic circumstances and decided I was unable to pay compensation, so none was to be granted.

  A thud sounded behind me as someone fell to their seat. In this instance the court had judged her rather than me. I did regret killing her daughter in some ways, but if I hadn’t committed a murder so intolerable to our hypocritical society, what would have been the point?

  The Appeal

  Two days later Ma came. She was still avoiding people and when they bumped into her she would say, ‘My son’s going to be dead soon too. I don’t owe anyone anything.’

  She looked at me and placed a selection of different drinks and a large bag of roasted chicken wings before me.

  ‘Son, you were right. If you don’t eat well, there’s no point in making money.’ But there was a screen between us. She gestured at a guard as if he was a waiter. ‘These are for my son.’

  ‘I’m afraid all gifts must be registered.’

  ‘Then please register these for me.’

  ‘You have to do it yourself.’

  Displeased, she put them back in her bag. ‘Son, if you want a bird’s nest or bear paw, Mama can get them for you. My money is worthless without you.’

  ‘Save it. You need it to start a new family.’

  Yes, I was being cruel, but what else could I say? Ma’s tears burst forth like a fountain. It was the first time I’d ever seen her cry like that.

  She cocked her head and said, ‘Mama is going to get you out.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  I didn’t say anything. In one short month she’d become a stubborn ox. Maybe this was the first time in her life she really had something worth fighting for.

  ‘Wait,’ she said, grabbing her bag and striding out of the visitors’ room. After fifty metres she stopped, turned and called back, ‘You’ve lost so much weight.’