They order hamburgers, coffee, and for Fang a McFlurry with Butterfingers. Then Fang sits down, touches his hat. Still wet. He picks up his Big Mac with both hands and says, before taking a bite, “I’m all ears.”
James sits opposite, and begins. “That children’s book, The Five Chinese Brothers. You said the book is about the consequences of an unfortunate death. You said there was a cover-up attempted by the other brothers. But it wasn’t a cover-up, was it? The brothers don’t try to hide the murder, but they sub in for each other’s punishments. The one with an iron neck can’t be beheaded. The one with the stretchy rubber legs can’t be drowned under the sea, and so on. No one can tell the difference between the brothers, and so they think the First Brother is immortal, and they give up.”
Fang puts down his half-eaten burger and wipes his mouth. “The key is that the story itself assumes no one can tell the difference. The story only works if the reader believes the brothers look exactly alike. And, of course, there are the pictures.”
“Right, fine. So what if the world at large doesn’t care which brother they get, as long as it’s one of them?”
Fang takes a long sip from his McFlurry. “You’re going to claim it’s you? No one will buy it. You can’t hide your innocence to save your life.”
“It might as well be me,” James says.
Last night, as he and Alice lay together in his childhood room, their hearts easing, breath slowing into sleep, James jerked awake, certain it was early Christmas morning. He lay next to Alice, his heart pounding, convinced that they were together half a mile across town in Dagou’s bed, up above the restaurant. Hearing the thumping from below. “I remember now,” James said. Drowsily, Alice took his hand, but James didn’t sleep. The thumping from below—why hadn’t he remembered it? He’d been present, almost on the very spot where his father had died. He hadn’t told Fang about this. He hadn’t told his brothers. The thumping, a plea for help. In that moment, it had been in his power to prevent any of this from happening. What had he done? Turned over, gone back to sleep—in short, nothing.
An image appears in James’s mind. It’s a memory he has tried, for months, to push away. It comes only when he’s least expecting it: The face of his father’s corpse as he discovered it in the freezer room. The staring eyes frosted over with the gaze of a stone or marble statue. The expression of surprise, of sudden consternation.
He is not, and can never be, innocent.
After hamburgers and coffee, Fang and James climb the hill. As they reach the courthouse, they see a crowd of people around and under the bus station, holding red and navy signs: justice for alf! A small group of reporters and photographers disengage themselves from the crowd and rush toward them, into the rain. “Hiiii-ya!” Fang yells, bringing his hand down in a chopping motion. The reporters scatter. Fang grins at James and they enter the courthouse, go through security. The upstairs lobby is crowded with scores of wet umbrellas. James looks into the courtroom at a sea of red and navy buttons. He can only glance inside; he’s not allowed to enter until it’s time for him to testify. He’s required to wait for the bailiff in the now-familiar room off of the lobby.
The night before, while lying awake, James came up with a Plan B. Now he sends a text to Dagou: Meet me in the bathroom. After checking all of the stalls to make sure the room is empty, he climbs onto one of the toilet seats. Hopefully the bailiff escorting Dagou will only peek under the stalls before letting Dagou into the room. He crouches on the toilet, straightening his tie and waiting for his brother to enter. He hears the door open. “Okay,” someone says, and Dagou, monumental in a notquite-charcoal suit, appears. James gets down, leaves the stall. For many days, Dagou has been wearing an expression James has never seen on him before: careful, frightened.
“You wanted to see me, Snaggle?”
“You still planning to testify?”
“Yeah. I need to tell everyone what really happened.”
James squares his shoulders. “Listen, Dagou. I’ve been thinking. Real quick: If I tell Strycker I can’t remember—that I’m having trouble remembering whether the key was really on the shelf, at the end of the party—then no one could say how long it was gone. And that means anyone could have done it, or it was an accident. You won’t have to testify. Their case is cooked.”
Dagou listens, frowning slightly. “No,” he says. “You tell them what you saw. You tell the truth. You don’t want to perjure yourself.”
“I don’t care, Dagou.” James can hear the calm in his voice. He knows he’s capable of lying. “You’re more important to me than that.”
“Snaggle. Listen to me.” Dagou puts his hands on James’s shoulders and brings his face close enough that James can see the wide pupils in his shining, deep brown eyes. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to me, Snaggle, and neither do you. But no matter what, it’s most important for me to hold on to my idea of you. I need to think about you the way you’ve always been. No matter where I end up, I’ll know you’re still you. Tell the truth. Promise me.”
James swallows hard. “I promise.”
Dagou puts his arms around James. James leans into his brother’s warm, mountainous chest. Dagou chuckles, clasps him in his big arms and rubs his back briefly, then releases him with something of his old lightness.
“And don’t worry about my testimony,” he says. “I’ve got this!”
The door flashes open and he’s gone, leaving James to stare at his own face in the mirror.
A Look of Surprise
When the bailiff finally escorts James into the courtroom, the place is crowded to capacity, stuffed with observers, umbrellas, walking canes, and sweaters. The air is close, smelling of sweat and damp. Still, there’s an echoing quality to each chair scrape, each cough, as they turn to watch him coming. The jurors turn. Alf’s supporters turn, their chairs straining. The community members turn their rows of black heads and balding heads and salt-and-pepper heads. Several nuns in their brown robes swivel in their seats; An, with her wax-blond crew cut, is among them. Ming is not in the room.
To the community, James has always been the least troubled of the Chao sons. Protected by his older brothers, he’s the reticent product of his mother’s generosity and his father’s tyranny. Studious and agreeable, a future physician. But as he walks into the room, everyone begins to understand that he will always struggle against his family’s shadows.