The air conditioning in the courtroom was turned up too high. Sixty-six degrees. I knew because I glanced at the temperature control panel on the wall when I came in.
The presiding judge sat above us, the sound of pages turning through the case files unnaturally crisp beneath the hum of the air conditioner. About thirty people sat in the gallery, more than I expected. It was a murder case, after all. Everyone liked to watch.
My client sat to my left. The Zhou surname, forty-seven years old, he had killed his wife. With a cleaver, in the kitchen, striking her eleven times. He was hunched in his chair now, his shoulders trembling.
Eleven strikes. I had seen the crime-scene photos. His technique was poor; the hesitation was too obvious. The first blow landed on her shoulder, off by at least twenty degrees. If it had been me—
“Defense attorney, please give your closing argument.”
I stood. Buttoned my suit jacket. It was a habit, unrelated to the content, but juries liked details like that. They thought a person who cared even about his buttons was more trustworthy.
“Your Honor, members of the jury.”
My voice filled the space exactly. Not too loud, not too soft. I had spent many years practicing that volume.
“On the day of the incident, Mr. Zhou received a call from his wife. On the phone, she told him she was going to take their daughter and leave this home. Leave forever.”
I paused. Someone in the gallery drew in a breath.
“Members of the jury, I am not here to defend violence. There is no excuse for violence. But I ask you to consider one thing—a man whose only real concern in forty-seven years of life was his daughter. And his wife told him she was going to take that one thing away.”
I glanced at the jury. The woman on the left in the third row had tears in her eyes. Too easy.
“Mr. Zhou lost control in that moment. This was not planned, not premeditated. This was a father driven to the brink, making the worst decision of his life in his moment of greatest despair.”
My client began to cry. It wasn’t loud, but the entire courtroom could hear him.
He was really crying. That much I knew. He really loved his daughter, and he truly regretted killing his wife. All of it was true. When I defended him, I used nothing but the truth.
It was only a matter of how you arranged the truth. I chose the arrangement that was most useful.
The trial ended. The presiding judge announced a recess and reserved judgment. I was eighty percent sure I could get involuntary manslaughter, with a maximum sentence of ten years. For a case involving eleven strikes, that was pretty good.
Before the bailiff took Mr. Zhou away, he looked back at me. His eyes were swollen. “Attorney Shen, thank you,” he said.
I nodded at him. Smiled. Just the right amount.
Fang was waiting for me outside the courthouse. She handed me my briefcase and told me a new client would be coming in at three that afternoon.
“Attorney Shen, I almost cried during your closing argument just now,” she said.
“Did you?”
“Really. The part about the father was so moving.”
I took the briefcase. The leather felt good. I had bought it for myself last year on my birthday.
“Come on. Let’s eat first.”
We went to a noodle shop across from the courthouse. I ordered beef noodle soup; Fang ordered dry noodles. When she ate, she tucked her hair behind her ear, always starting with the left side.
The broth was saltier than usual today. I put it down after two sips.
Fang was still talking about the trial. I listened, nodding occasionally. She didn’t know what I was thinking. No one did.
After lunch, I drove Fang back to the law office and told her I had some business to take care of at the bank. I’d be back around four.
I didn’t go to the bank.
I drove south, got off at the interchange, and entered a neighborhood I had never been to before. It was a habit of mine—not going anywhere familiar.
The neighborhood was quiet. It was one-thirty in the afternoon, and most people were at work. A row of scooters lined the roadside. An orange cat lay sprawled on the seat of one of them.
I parked beneath a banyan tree. Turned off the engine. Rolled down the window.
The air was hot, around ninety-one degrees. Cicadas called.
A man walked out of an alley. In his fifties, wearing a white undershirt and shorts, he carried a bag of garbage in one hand. He walked to the garbage collection point at the mouth of the alley and threw the bag in, then turned and started back.
His slippers slapped against the asphalt.
He passed my car without looking at me.
I got out.
The rest doesn’t need much description. I used the tire iron from the car. It was quick. He didn’t even cry out.
I rinsed the tire iron under the faucet in the alley, wiped it dry, and put it back in the trunk.
Got in. Started the engine. Drove away.
On the way back to the law office, I waited at a red light. The radio was playing an old song whose title I didn’t know. There was a bottle of mineral water Fang had bought that morning on the passenger seat. I opened it and took a sip.
I arrived at the law office at 3:05. Fang said the new client was already waiting in the conference room.
I walked in. Smiled. Held out my hand.
“Hello. I’m Attorney Shen. Please, have a seat and tell me everything.”