A Quest for Justice
by Huina Zheng
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
Yao stepped out of the hospital, squinting slightly under the glaring sunlight, and hailed a motorbike taxi. The driver, a middle-aged man sporting a straw hat and a weatherbeaten face, maneuvered through the bustling streets.
Upon reaching his destination, Yao paid the fare, dismounted the motorbike, and entered the building adorned with traffic regulation posters and several commendations.
Yao approached the reception desk and stated his purpose. Shortly after, he was escorted to Officer Wu’s office. A middle-aged man in a teal traffic police uniform was seated behind the desk, his broad forehead and sharp, single-lidded eyes focused on the documents in front of him. Although his hair was graying, it was meticulously combed.
Officer Wu stood up, and they exchanged nods in greeting. Officer Wu retrieved an envelope from a drawer and handed it to Yao, saying in Teochew dialect, “This is the 20,000 yuan. Please check it.”
Yao accepted the envelope and briefly looked it over. “I’m here concerning the traffic accident. Could you update me on any progress?” Yao responded in Teochew.
Officer Wu resumed his seat, interlacing his fingers on the desk. “We are still investigating the accident, currently in the phase of collecting evidence and witness statements. We will notify all relevant parties as soon as we have any results.”
“I understand that investigations take time, but the victims’ families are under considerable financial pressure, many of whom have had to leave the hospital prematurely because they cannot afford the medical fees. Is there any way to expedite the process, or perhaps an opportunity for some preliminary compensation?”
Officer Wu furrowed his brow. “I appreciate your concerns, Mr. Zhang. However, legal procedures follow strict steps, and we must ensure the investigation is thorough and impartial. Compensation will depend on the outcome of the investigation. I recommend maintaining patience.”
Yao stood up, thanked Officer Wu, and promised to relay the information to the victims’ families.
As he left, Yao’s spirits were low. He resolved to consult with Zhe once he returned, given his position at the local court and potential connections that could be helpful.
* * *
On a smoky Saturday afternoon inside Yao’s brick factory office, several men sat in silence.
Yao and Zhe had made three attempts to visit Officer Wu at the Traffic Police Department, but each time, Wu was absent from his office, perpetually busy with other matters. Yao had repeatedly dialed the department’s main line trying to reach Wu. On the rare occasions he did, the conversations were disheartening. Three weeks since the accident, and Wu’s bureaucratic responses persisted. “Mr. Zhang, we are still investigating and cannot provide any results yet. Please continue to wait patiently.” Each call left Yao engulfed in a profound sense of helplessness.
“Brother Zhe, do we really have no other options?” Yao said.
“Yao, I share your feelings and wish I could assist,” Zhe replied. “But you know I’ve spoken to several government friends and colleagues, and they, too, are powerless in this situation.”
Jun, seated at his desk cluttered with ledgers and documents, glanced up from his portable calculator and neatly stacked invoices. “Yao, you’ve done all you can. These government bureaucrats are beyond the influence of ordinary citizens like us.”
“If everyone thought like you, afraid to take action, they’d continue to act with impunity,” Yao retorted, struggling to keep his emotions in check to avoid lashing out at his brother.
Jun, expressionless, simply adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose with his index finger, pushing them up before resuming his meticulous scrutiny of the accounts.
Sheng, from his plastic chair, turned to Zhe. “What happened with that traffic accident earlier this year that claimed three lives? How was it resolved?”
“The official response from the Traffic Police was that the driver, hailing from an impoverished background, had no means to compensate the victims’ families, though he was detained,” Zhe recounted dispassionately, leaning back in his chair as if narrating a distant story. “Ultimately, each family received just over ten thousand yuan, far less than customary. Whether the driver faced any sentencing remains unknown.”
“Didn’t the families protest?” Sheng asked, his voice rising involuntarily.
Yao glanced at Sheng and snorted. “Protest? What good would that do? How naive can you be? Do you think making a scene would lead to a fair judgment? They could detain you in an instant for obstructing official duties.”
Sheng’s face twitched, but he held back his retort.
Suddenly, a sun-tanned man entered. “I need bricks,” he said.
Quickly composing himself, Sheng stood and approached his desk. “How many do you need?”
“Two thousand five hundred.”
After a few taps on his calculator, Sheng said, “Each brick costs 0.19 yuan, so that’s 475 yuan.”
The man pulled out a stack of hundred-yuan bills from his pocket, counting out five and handing them to Sheng.
Wen, sitting in a corner on a plastic chair, hunched slightly forward. His cigarette was half-burned, ashes falling into an old ashtray with his every move. “The victims only had minor injuries. At least they gave back the 20,000 yuan the brick factory had advanced. It’s as if they compensated the injured with this money. We’ve all come to accept that we won’t receive any further compensation,” he said, taking a deep drag on his cigarette and slowly exhaling rings of smoke. “The important thing is that no one was seriously hurt.”
“The 20,000 yuan are not enough to cover all the medical expenses for these victims. Had I known, I would have put up 50,000 yuan,” Yao added.
Zhe sighed. “The world has never been fair, Yao. Maybe... we could try again next week, find a police officer who speaks Hakka to inquire about the situation.”
In this area, where the majority of the population spoke Teochew, language was not just a means of communication but also a symbol of cultural identity and a marker of community bonds. Finding a Hakka-speaking officer might make them more approachable, potentially garnering more sympathy and assistance.
Yao inhaled from his cigarette, his actions slow and deliberate. The smoke curled in his mouth before drifting from his nostrils and lips, obscuring his face. Eventually, he nodded.
* * *
A few days later, on a scorching afternoon, Yao and Zhe made yet another trip to the Traffic Police Department. The sun baked the ground, and the air was thick with heat. They navigated through the bustling streets and entered the office building. Yao’s shirt was drenched with sweat. They headed straight to Officer Wu’s office, only to find it empty once more.
Zhe led Yao to another office at the end of the hallway, where they found the only traffic officer who spoke Hakka, also with a surname of Zhang. He was an older man distinguished by his upright posture and high cheekbones.
Yao approached him, speaking in Hakka and offering a cigarette in an attempt to establish a rapport.
The officer accepted the cigarette. “I recognize the difficulties you’re facing, but this case is under Officer Wu’s jurisdiction. The rest of us don’t have the authority to intervene, and I’m not informed of its current status.”
Yao and Zhe exchanged glances, their disappointment mirrored in each other’s expressions.
“What should we do then?” Yao inquired.
The officer shook his head. “I’m sorry, but you’ll need to wait for Officer Wu’s return. However, I’m curious, why do you keep inquiring about this case if you aren’t family members? Typically, it’s the families who follow up on such matters.”
Caught off guard by the comment, Yao was momentarily at a loss for words; they were not family and lacked any formal standing to contest the case. They stood there in silence.
Yao glanced around the waiting area and noticed a man in a worn straw hat, clutching a black plastic bag. The man’s indignant, desperate expression held Yao’s gaze. His dark skin, slightly hunched back, and rough hands marked him as a laborer, perhaps a farmer, fruit picker, or construction worker, someone who toiled under the scorching sun.
The man lifted his head, glaring with intense hatred at the uniformed traffic officers. A female officer was calling out numbers through a loudspeaker, directing those with queue numbers to the appropriate service windows.
“Bring Officer Huang out here!”
Before Yao could react, the man with the straw hat drew a sharp cleaver from the plastic bag and held it to the neck of the female officer. His other hand gripped her arm, pulling her close. The loudspeaker fell to the ground with a dull thud, echoing in the suddenly silent hall.
Though not tall, the man was very strong. Again, he roared, “Bring Officer Huang out here!” His stance reminded Yao of when he slaughtered chickens, one hand holding the struggling bird, the other raising the knife. Yao watched, fascinated.
The crowd snapped out of their shock, screaming and scattering, searching for safe corners. Some people ran a certain distance before stopping and looking back, standing at what they considered safe spots, eyes fixed on the scene.
A traffic officer spoke to the man, “We are contacting Officer Huang, but you need to calm down. This won’t help anyone.” A burly young officer moved to the man’s side.
The man wavered, eyes darting between the talking officer and the crowd. The young officer lunged, grabbing the man’s wrist with one hand and securing his knife-wielding hand with the other.
Almost simultaneously, several other officers rushed in, some holding the man’s shoulders, others seizing the cleaver. The man’s arms were twisted behind his back, and the cleaver was kicked away. The female officer was pulled to safety.
People in the crowd began whispering, some returning to their seats, resuming their wait. The staff continued their work.
“Just a troublemaker, nothing to worry about,” said Officer Zhang.
Yao’s voice was sarcastic: “The officers here are elusive. He’s probably just like us, trying to find the officer in charge of his case but to no avail.”
Yao and Zhe walked through the crowd and exited the hall. Outside, a crowd had gathered to watch, with police car lights flashing red and blue, sirens blaring, and voices clamoring. Yao looked back and saw the man being escorted by the police. He hadn’t harmed anyone and would likely face detention and fines, Yao thought.
When the man brandished the cleaver and cried out, Yao had been thrilled; he understood the man’s desperation. Yao had seen too many injustices and silences. Too many people chose to endure. He should have become used to it by now. Yet, he still wanted to do something, just as he was helping the victims of the traffic accident.
He remained calm throughout. While the crowd screamed and fled or watched, Yao had observed the man. The man’s determined eyes, flaring nostrils, how he clenched the cleaver, and how he shouted. How he had a fleeting look of panic in his eyes when he glanced at the crowd. And how Yao almost wanted to approach him and say, “Brother, stay calm. Don’t panic.” To help him notice the encircling officers. Seeking justice through violence? It wouldn’t work.
Yao suddenly felt a tightness in his chest, struggling to breathe. He stared ahead, walking alongside Zhe. “How can they give you justice just because you have a knife?” Yao muttered. “Too naive!”
* * *
A month later, they visited the Traffic Police Department again, hopeful for some progress. However, they were informed that Officer Wu had been reassigned elsewhere.
Yao stood in silence, motionless and overwhelmed. He knew, despite his resistance, that this issue would likely remain unresolved. Life was filled with countless challenges that one must accept, despite feeling utterly powerless.
“Let’s head back, Brother Zhe,” Yao eventually said, his voice tinged with hoarseness.
In quiet resignation, they exited the Traffic Police Department, their long shadows trailing behind them in the intense sunlight.
Copyright © 2024 by Huina Zheng
