Chapter Six: The Long Wait in the Detention Center

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When I finally finished the “High Mountains and Flowing Water” project, trembling all over, Big Head shouted, “Come up here, Upper Bunk!”

I sat beside him, nerves raw, and the others looked at me differently—they could tell there was something unusual about me.

I tried to copy the others, crossing my legs and resting my hands on my knees. Big Head asked, “Where did you meet Sister Guan?”

I answered, “At the big courtyard in Qingdao.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That courtyard? She’s got that kind of business too? What does she do?”

I explained, “She takes care of kids whose parents are serving time, and a few stray children too. People probably entrusted them to her.”

Big Head paused, then asked, “Is there a chubby boy?”

“What does he look like?” I asked.

“Small eyes, cleft lip, and a birthmark on his right arm.”

I laughed, “Little Chubby, the Kirin Arm! Ha!”

Big Head’s interest was piqued. “You’ve met him?”

I nodded. “Yes, we get along pretty well. I heard his parents were sentenced for illegal fundraising.”

Big Head replied, “I’m his father.”

“What? Sorry, Brother, I had no idea…”

He interrupted, “My name’s Tan Qinglong. My son is Tan Xiaoxiao—the one you called the Kirin Arm.”

Embarrassed, I scratched my head.

Tan Qinglong asked, “How’s he doing?”

I replied, “Eats a lot—four or five buns in one meal.”

He continued, “And Sister Guan, who entrusted the kids to her?”

“I don’t know. She’s got a lot of friends from all walks of life.”

He sighed, “It’s fine. In a while, I’ll be in court, and when visitation is allowed I’ll find out.”

I saw his eyes fill with tears. Maybe, no matter a person’s nature, love for a child is always genuine.

Then he asked, “How did you end up on this path?”

I said, “I thought I was smarter than everyone, that I’d make something big of myself. Turns out, I stumbled right away.”

Tan Qinglong laughed heartily. “Are you daft? Still too young. Did you think the police live on thin air?”

He added, “Do you know what kind of place Qingdao is?”

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“What kind of place?” I asked.

He replied, “A pocket—you can get in, but if you break the law, it’s nearly impossible to get out. Qingdao’s public security is the best in the country.”

“Brother, how many years do you think I’ll get?” I asked.

“Max, fifteen or sixteen years. Since you’re a minor, maybe a bit less. As for probation? Not likely.”

He went on, “Now that you’re in, with no connections, it’ll be tough to get out. You’d best focus on reforming yourself...”

At this point, Er Dao asked, “Dragon, what number should we give him?”

Tan Qinglong answered, “Bring out the one at the bottom of the trunk.”

Er Dao grinned mischievously. “Finally, it’s going to be used. This vest is about to grow mold!”

He trotted over, pulled out a yellow vest, and solemnly declared, “Liu Jian bestows upon you the imperial yellow vest. Receive the decree and express your gratitude!”

I reached out with both hands, but he stopped me.

“I’ll put it on you,” Er Dao laughed.

I was stunned—what kind of treatment was this? Why were they being so nice to me?

Once I had it on, everyone burst out laughing, nearly doubling over.

I looked down—sure enough, stitched into the vest was “Looks Like a 250.”

I was truly impressed—a rare and distinguished number.

Suddenly, the intercom crackled to life. Every cell had a system for emergencies and to contact the guards.

A guard’s voice came through, “201, quiet down! You planning a rebellion?”

Big Head jumped to the intercom. “Reporting, Officer Li, the new inmate didn’t know the rules. I’ll teach him. It won’t happen again!”

“Understood. Teach him the rules. Don’t just hand out numbers without the basics!” the guard replied.

“Rest assured, Officer Li.”

“If you act up again, see if I don’t deal with you!”

The intercom snapped off. Big Head shot us a look, and we all straightened up, facing the window and recited the cell rules and discipline.

From the cell next door, a mocking voice called out, “Tan Big Head, you’re diligent! Reform’s going well, keep it up! Hahahaha.”

Tan Qinglong stuck his face to the window bars and replied, “I leave you with these words: The farther you can get lost, the better!”

Finally, it was mealtime. The kitchen staff banged a ladle on the iron door—clang, clang, clang—food time!

But the cellmate responsible for distributing meals didn’t move. I sat there, watching the frosty window outside, stomach growling with hunger.

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The meal distributor walked from one end to the other, leaving a bucket of food at each door. On the way back, he knocked on each door for someone to collect the portions.

Our designated cellmate was Old Third, whom we nicknamed “Triple Take”—taking food, goods, and ladles.

Basically, he was in charge of distributing food, sharing out the “foreign goods” (treats sent by relatives), and handing out utensils. It was a cushy job—cross him and you’d get nothing, not even a steamed bun or porridge. You’d go hungry.

Triple Take placed a plastic basin under the door slot, which was opened from outside. Then someone handed in a rusty iron ladle and, scoop by scoop, filled the basin. I was shocked at what I saw.

Inside, from top to bottom, it was just water, with a layer of sand floating on top. That huge basin of soup had at most a handful of shredded radish and nothing else. Through the slot came about twenty steamed buns, maybe a little pile of pickles, and nothing more.

Triple Take set the food on the bunk. First, he gave Big Head some “foreign goods”—treats bought with money sent by relatives, like instant noodles, sausages, salted duck eggs, or preserved eggs. Every time these treats arrived, it was called “going foreign.”

He then portioned out the steamed buns, treats, porridge, and pickles for Big Head, carefully arranging them in small bowls.

After that, he distributed the rest to everyone else. Not everyone got food—there was a strict hierarchy. Those close to Big Head, those with connections, or those favored by the guards got one or two buns. Newcomers like me got half a bun at most—just enough to take the edge off. If you wanted to fill up, you had to drink more soup. If Big Head or Er Dao didn’t like you, you might not get anything all day. That was the rule here.

Once Triple Take finished his rounds, everyone sat in order, eyes on Big Head. He went to the bathroom, washed his hands, sat down, and called out, “Begin!”

Only then could everyone pick up their chopsticks and bowls to eat.

Looking at the contents of my bowl, I almost couldn’t bring myself to eat. But beggars can’t be choosers.

Luckily, Big Head took care of me—really took care of me. I usually got one and a half steamed buns, which was a lot. You can’t starve everyone else for one person’s sake. Still, there were always a couple of pitiful souls who missed out and could only watch.

Just as we finished eating, the iron door clanged again. Everyone perked up—it meant a new arrival. In here, a new inmate was the day’s entertainment. When the newcomer walked in, we realized he was different—beaten badly, not by the police, but by the victims who caught him before he was brought in.

At first, no one wanted to accept him, but what could you do? His injuries were all superficial, no internal damage, so by procedure he was admitted.

Triple Take hurried to clear away the bowls and basins, moving with lightning speed—eager to see the show.

Big Head shifted over, and the newcomer, knowing the drill, squatted down right away. Big Head leaned in, his face nearly touching the man’s, and asked chillingly, “What are you in for?”

The man replied, “Rape of a minor.”

Big Head gritted his teeth. “You bastard, I’ll—”

With a swift move, he flipped off the bunk and started beating the newcomer mercilessly, cursing all the while. Seeing this, the rest of the inmates jumped down too; I followed suit. Everyone joined in the beating. Child rapist! Unforgivable!

There were so many of us, the newcomer was left in a far worse state than a pig. Soon, the guards arrived, shut off the locks, and opened the iron door. Seven or eight armed police with guns, riot shields, batons, and forks burst into 201. They’d seen the scene on the monitors and thought we were rioting.

They pinned all of us to the floor, one by one, everyone got their share of rubber batons and even the electrified ones that sparked with every hit. At the door, more armed police stood with guns pointed at the cell, ready for battle. But none of us dared do anything—after all, they had the guns and numbers, and there was no way out of those high walls.

This incident was a big deal. Three or four of us were thrown into solitary for half a month—the strictest control, a living hell where you couldn’t live or die. And thus, it began…