Ming’s seat is still empty.
Around them, the community listens to the testimony. There’s the police officer who responded to the incident at the 7-Eleven. There’s the woman Dagou knocked over, pointing a surly finger to identify him. Most significant to everyone is the testimony of Officer Carly Bucek, a petite, sandy-haired woman. Officer Bucek’s testimony lasts more than an hour. First she’s asked to confirm all of the observations she made in her notebook while investigating the restaurant. She’s shown a dozen exhibits, and she identifies each of the photographs she took. The bare shelf on the wall; the sign. The scratches on the metal plate around the lock. The frozen meat the victim placed over the air vent in the wall in an attempt to block the cold. The body. Strewn nearby on the concrete floor are the victim’s shirt and trousers, underwear, and socks. Even the watch has been removed and is lying facedown near the left hand. Shivering. Disorientation. A final flash of uncomfortable heat as the body made one final, desperate effort to warm itself. The strewn clothes indicating hypothermia as the cause of death.
No, she did not find a key to the door.
No, there were no recent fingerprints from William Chao on the door.
Officer Bucek’s notes taken during her questioning of Dagou are quoted at length by the prosecution, and she affirms them all: specifically, that Dagou said, on Christmas Day when the officers apprehended him at Brenda’s house, that he had a motive to kill his father, he had the right to kill his father, and the method to kill his father. He said he had planned to kill his father; at this, it was decided to take him to the station. Officer Bucek is questioned about the impounded Ford. When was the car impounded? When was it searched? Was it possible a bag could have been removed between the afternoon of December 21 and the week after Christmas, when the car was impounded and searched?
In the cross-examination, Officer Bucek is grilled by Jerry Stern about the way Dagou had been treated before he was brought in for questioning. He had been physically restrained. He had been handcuffed. He had been threatened with a gun. Some are encouraged by Jerry Stern’s indignant and thorough questioning of exactly when, and why, additional units had been requested for a simple discussion with Dagou; why such extreme measures had been used; in what way and how long Dagou had been questioned at the station; whether his exact words were that he “would” kill his father; whether the subjective tense warranted a person of interest being taken in for questioning. Jerry wants to hear exactly how Dagou had been Mirandized, how he had refused his right to a lawyer, and how he had been persuaded to sign the paper. Was his mother mentioned; had the officers actually mentioned his estranged parents, implied Winnie was a suspect in the killing, and did they know this was not appropriate, it amounted to threatening; and had he, Dagou, agreed to sign the document because of veiled threats against his mother?
After this long afternoon of questioning, the court is adjourned.
Ming’s Third Visit to O-Lan
Later that evening, across town, it’s nearly closing time at Skaer’s Diner. Ming Chao sits in his booth drinking black coffee and staring at coverage of the trial on his laptop. His barely touched fish sandwich has been pushed aside. His small suitcase is next to him. He came straight from the airport, midafternoon, and has been waiting in the diner ever since.
Ming scans the local newspapers; he lurks on Twitter; he studies Lynn’s blog about the testimony of James, Alice, the police. Several times, he takes out his phone and starts texting his brothers, Katherine, Sara Stojkovic, or Jerry Stern. But each time, he puts his phone away before sending. At ten o’clock, he pays his bill. No one points out he hasn’t eaten or asks if the food was all right. They’re used to him now. Since Leo’s death, the Skaers’ animosity has ceased; trips to the diner are no longer forays into enemy territory. Ming gets into his rental car and drives to O-Lan’s apartment.
He’s told no one about his visits to O-Lan. But during his time in Phoenix, he couldn’t stop remembering. Thinking, blinking into the relentless sun. Some enormous question running like a complex program in his mind, taking up space there, yet invisible to him, blotting his ability to sleep. It’s taking over his mind, like the bleeding from a cerebrovascular accident.
The rickety stairs seem to narrow as he climbs. There’s a slit of light under the door. The knob, as before, turns easily in his hand. He stumbles into the room. The bare bulb, suspended over the table, lights the two cold dishes waiting there: a lotus-root salad and a plate of little radishes, lightly dressed. He sniffs: the scent of sesame oil.
O-Lan stands near the stove, calmly transferring vegetables into a small bowl. In another small bowl, dried mushrooms soak in water. Her cleaver lies on the counter.
Ming feels a sudden shift in the air. Is he standing in an empty room in another place and time? No, all is as usual, and yet, as he examines the place, it seems to him there’s an ephemeral quality to every detail, down to the greasy sneakers next to the door.
After some time (has it been minutes? half an hour?), he speaks.
“Let me tell you what I think,” he says, in English. “You came to this country searching for my father. You had some kind of hint about where he was—”
She replies, also in English, “He doesn’t hide himself.”
So, he was right. “No,” he says. “But there are other Leo Chaos. You might’ve found a dozen before you figured out who he was. Tell me: How many did you try? You came to our restaurant searching for him, and when you found him—” His mouth is dry.
She gives him an almost pitying look. “Yes, it’s true. I tried other restaurants in other towns.”
“—you took a job at the restaurant. You pretended you couldn’t speak English. But of course you could! How else would you know what my brother said, on the radio? Pretending you had no English was a way of hiding, hiding your secret—”
She laughs, frightening him. He speaks into his fear. “Not at first! At first your lack of English was simply caution, a way of limiting exposure to others. But at some point, in your private explorations of the restaurant, you began to realize that not speaking English would be your protection, your alibi—” It’s a struggle to think. “You trained yourself not to understand the language. You unlearned it. But you knew a person could be locked into the freezer room and in order to escape they would need to know how to read the sign. You knew if the key disappeared, you wouldn’t be taken seriously as the criminal.
“And so you finished him off! You waited for the exact moment, knowing for months, even years, that you must wait for the perfect moment, the perfect opportunity! You settled in, you waited—” He breaks off. “How come you’re still in town?”
“I live here.”
“You’ll be deported!”