First-Class Lawyer - Chapter 181

“What is this?” Zhao Zemu looked at the scroll on the table, perplexed.

The scroll was exquisite. Gilt bronze lined its edges and a brocade ribbon girdled its waist. Zhao Zemu touched it and saw that a cherry sprig was embroidered on one end of the ribbon. “A Cherry Estate wine certificate?”

Joe pulled the ribbon, spread the scroll, and turned it over, pushing it before Zhao Zemu.

“Do you remember this? From last year,” said Joe.

Exactly a year ago, he, Zhao Zemu, and George Manson had drinks together at Cherry Estate, for no particular reason other than that they happened to cross paths and all happened to be free. And so the three of them had drank the night away at Cherry Estate, the first in years, unaccompanied by anyone else.

Actually, none of them were really up to it, because there weren’t any new topics that they could chat about. Most of their conversation would just be rehashing the past.

But alcohol could always put one in the mood. And once they got going, it was actually difficult to stop.

It was bright by the time they left. The rosy dawn shone upon the cherry orchard, and early morning dew clung to the branches and leaves. The buttons at the collar of their dress shirts were loosened, and they didn’t look as stiff and immaculate as usual. Their expensive suit jackets were taken off and slung over their shoulders, casual and unrestrained.

From time to time, they’d burst out laughing at some line or other, and for a moment, it even reminded them of their youth.

Without parting of ways nor polite obsequiousness.

George Manson drank the most; he was also the cheeriest.

Before they left, he called over a waiter and said that he’d like to place an order. Pick the best cherries in season to ferment a beautiful bottle of wine, and have it stored in the estate. On this day the next year, they’d be back to drink the night away.

The waiter said, “Yes, sir.” Then, he passed them a wine certificate.

One year had passed, and the appointed date was today. The certificate was spread open on the long table in the detention centre’s visiting room.

Above it was a line of cursive writing.

A toast to my dear old friends and the good old days.

Signed: George Manson

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Joe quietly said, “I had Cherry Estate expedite delivery of the wine and its certificate. I initially wanted to have a drink with you, and have alcohol loosen your tongue. But after I received the wine, I changed my mind. Do you know why?”

Zhao Zemu’s head didn’t raise. “Why?”

“Because the bottle had already been opened. The waiter said that George had made a trip down to Cherry Estate this morning and had a few glasses alone. But he didn’t polish it off; he even left us a good half.” Joe was quiet for a moment. “I think that it’s a bit of a waste to casually drink what is left behind. What about you?”

Zhao Zemu didn’t speak. He was silent for a very long spell, before he eventually said, hoarsely, “Yeah, a bit.”

Joe said, “For many years, I’d always thought that George was a man of weak emotion. One day he’d be loafing around with those guys, and the next day he’d be clowning around with another bunch, none of them he really got close to. But recently I realised that I was wrong. He’s the most sentimental of the three of us.

“Lately, I keep thinking a lot about the days that he was hospitalised. No matter how many people went to see him, he was always spacing out, unwilling to speak. It was depressing. He didn’t show the slightest surprise when he heard that you were named as the suspect. I’ve got this feeling that when he was lying drunk in the bathtub and being injected with those powerful hypnotics, maybe he wasn’t as drunk and out cold to the world as he had described in court.”

Maybe George Manson, at that time, still had a sliver of awareness remaining despite his heavy drinking.

Maybe his eyes weren’t actually tightly lidded.

Maybe in his heavy stupor, he had personally witnessed a man standing before him, bending over to inject those powerful hypnotics into his veins, and maybe he remembered who that man was…

Zhao Zemu shut his eyes.

“But he still went to Cherry Estate today. He took out this bottle of wine, and he didn’t finish it.” Joe finally raised his eyes, looking at Zhao Zemu. “I’m someone who trusts intuition. I know George is the same. See, we still trust you in our guts, trust that you don’t actually hope to see him dead.”

“You said just earlier that at this juncture; there’s no meaning in saying anything.” Joe shook his head. “I don’t think so. What you know, the evidence you hold in your hands, and the secrets you hide in your heart—it means something to those killed in cold blood by the Manson brothers, to the victims on the brink of death in the hospitals, to the blamelessly implicated ones, unable to rest easy for decades. It means something to my family and to yours. At the very, very least… it means something to George.”

“You owe him an explanation, or you don’t deserve the half-bottle of wine he left behind.”

The visiting room was submerged in silence.

A long time passed, and Zhao Zemu moved his lips. “When I took over Zhao Company, it was already too late…”

Joe looked at him, neither interrupting nor pressing. He only waited quietly for him to speak.

“Brewer and Miller Manson had penetrated too deeply. My father… you know him. He fell far short of others in terms of cunning, and was impulsive and rash at times. By the time I found out, he was so completely pulled into their web that the whole Zhao family couldn’t be washed clean—couldn’t ever be. I tried everything, only to discover in the end that I still had to take the most circuitous path, maintaining relations with the two brothers on the surface but slowly untangling our interconnected interests in private.”

When Zhao Zemu spoke of these, his deep exhaustion was exposed in his voice. “This was actually a long and difficult process. I couldn’t directly topple the Mansons, because the brothers aren’t the only ones involved. Other influential families too, including the Cliffs, the Josephs, and so on. The Zhaos can’t stand against them alone. I had to choose the safest path for self-preservation. But Brewer and Miller Manson aren’t fools. They can sense my irresolution. I used to be heavily involved at first, but I’ve been cast out by them in the last two years.”

He exhaled softly, like a sigh borne of a certain sense of helplessness. “I was actually the last to know that they were going to do their own brother in, and it was also through someone else that I found out. By that time, he had already left for Yaba Island, all the preparations were in place; even the hitman was arranged.”

Under such circumstances, Zhao Zemu was actually incapable of stopping anything. Because with Brewer and Miller Manson’s characters, if it didn’t work the first time, there’d be a second, and they’d be even more ruthless the next time.

“The best compromise I could think of was to transfer the initiative to myself,” said Zhao Zemu.

He wanted to make things blow up and get more media attention, such that there would be more eyes on the Manson brothers; only then would he have room to breathe and turn the tables.

Zhao Zemu, “If I was the one who did it, at least I would be able to make sure that George doesn’t die. And it would also serve as a reminder to him not to trust anyone…”

Hearing this, Joe suddenly thought back to what the doctor had said.

The doctor had said—George Manson was lucky. The hypnotics injected into his body were just short of the fatal dosage. Further, with the timely rescue, his life was saved. With rest, there would be no lasting harm.

And back then, during the party on Yaba Island, it was incidentally Zhao Zemu who had reminded everyone to call George Manson over.

A long time later, Joe nodded. “Do you mind if I tell George this?”

Zhao Zemu was hesitant. “Given his personality, it won’t do him any good to know. He can’t hide things. Not only would he not keep away, but it’d even aggravate his brothers.”

“Shove it, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Joe looked at him, and after a moment’s deliberation, he said, “Actually, I wasn’t lying about what I said before. We do have a large amount of evidence in our hands. We have the leading research team in genetic tech, and are backed by a family with roots deeper than the Mansons—mine, as well as the best lawyers in the alliance to clear the way.”

He stood up, and his face turned solemn. He said, “I’ll ask you one last time. Will you join us? The evidence you hold in your hands proving the ties between those families would be icing on the cake.”

An age passed.

And then Zhao Zemu spoke. “You know what? Jumping ships so quickly will make me look indecisive and unassertive, like I’ve no backbone.”

He laughed derisively at himself, and he said grimly, “But I’ll make you a promise: If needed, I’ll take the witness stand again.”

Joe smiled gratefully.

It was one of the few heartfelt smiles he had had in recent days. “That would be very nice.”

The bottle of wine that Cherry Estate had delivered was brought into the visiting room in the end.

It was all very simple.

There were no elaborate ice buckets or wine racks, no fancy waiters, no fragrance dispersed from sweet cherries and flowering sprigs. Just an opened wine bottle and two glass cups.

Joe poured himself a half-glass of wine.

He suddenly flashed back to the first time, in a faraway past, when three young friends dug out the wine for their family elders at Cherry Estate. They postured as gentlemen, clinking their glasses, then tilted their heads and downed the drink with merry laughter.

A breeze drifted through the foliage, and his recollection always seemed coloured by dazzling sunlight, dancing on a cluster of flowers…

In the blink of an eye, so many years had passed.

Joe clinked his glass against the empty glass, then he tipped his glass to Manson. “Actually, I quite miss it. I think you do, too.”

A toast to my dear old friends and the good old days.

“I’ll order another bottle of wine at Cherry Estate. And then we shall drink again, the three of us.”

“Yeah.”

When the dust settles, let’s get completely wasted.