The Duties

By Chen Zhang

In a world where duty transcends borders and love defies political divides, "The Duties" unfolds a captivating narrative that entwines the past with the present. Against a backdrop of international intrigue and a complex tapestry of historical and contemporary events, this novel explores the enduring significance of responsibility, honor, and th

• Language: English
• Publisher: Washington Trade Counsel LLC
• Release date: Mar 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798989813223

Book preview

Chapter 1 The Meeting On The Internet

Washington, D.C., present day

The drudgery of daily life in the early 21st century took up the bulk of newly-minted lawyer Mike Nolan’s waking hours. Work was as bland as flour to bread, and leisure was a controlled escape. He lived a predictable life built on stability, and made choices based on what he believed was best at the time. But the perfect and comfortable lives he yearned for would eventually change, leaving him to question how he got there.

When Mike got back to his D.C. office after a business trip to China, he immediately began to prepare and organize the final legal brief for his client, Yan Chemical, the Chinese respondent represented by Williamson & Grey, where he was employed as an attorney. He needed to do it before the U.S. Department of Commerce issued the final antidumping duty order in their antidumping investigation against Chinese soda powder exporters, one of which was Yan Chemical.

Antidumping duties were placed on foreign exports to U.S. when the government considered that goods were being dumped. In other words, they were priced lower than similar domestic products. The antidumping duties were designed to protect American manufacturers from unfair pricing by foreign exports. The duties were assessed on the US importers of these exported goods. Each foreign exporter could have its own antidumping duty rate. Thanks partly to Mike’s hard work, Yan had gotten a zero antidumping duty rate while most Chinese exporters were hit with the U.S. trade barriers.

As Mike examined his computer files, notes, and legal papers, he came across the name Wang Ping. He came to a sudden halt and his heart sank a bit. He had met Wang Ping on this latest trip to China. He’d felt sorry for the man. Ping was the former accountant with Yan Chemical, and had been let go due to a falling out with management. He’d then gone to work for another soda powder exporter in China, only to lose that job too. Ping wanted his old job back and asked Mike to help him, somehow believing that Mike had quite some clout over Yan Chemical’s management.

But Mike merely worked for the law firm that represented Yan Chemical in the U.S. He might have some influence, but he didn’t have the power to help Ping in any way except to provide moral support and encouragement.

There had been another twist to Wang Ping’s request. His tone and expression seemed to indicate as much of a favor as a threat when Ping said he knew Yan Chemical had used fraudulent accounting records in their antidumping investigation, and that Ping had been fired after the fallout with that company. Mike hadn’t noticed anything fishy in Yan Chemical’s submissions—law firms merely received accounting data provided by clients. But then, Ping could be just bluffing. He really just seemed to be a disgruntled employee…even if he was a nice guy. Mike simply wanted this annoyance to go away smoothly in the natural course of things, and not get out of hand. In particular, not out of his hand so it affected his own job. He still had a big student loan from law school that he had to pay off.

He grimaced and closed the file.

The TV was on in the background, and suddenly it caught his attention. The news was on, and anchor was talking about Taiwan and China.

The U.S. President announced yesterday that the United States plans to proceed with arms sales to Taiwan to the tune of $4.5 billion. The promised sales include conventional defensive weapons manufactured by Swift Industries. The Chinese government is expected to react fiercely about the potential sales amid the already tense economic relationship between the U.S. and China, soured by Chinese exporters’ dumping practices and the so-called trade protectionism claimed by the Chinese against the U.S.

Mike watched hoping for more, but that was all the clip said. He returned his attention to his computer when a ding sounded, and he saw that Wang Ping was inviting him to a video chat. He hesitated, but accepted out of curiosity.

Wang Ping’s face appeared on the screen. He was wearing a headset, and from the background he appeared to be at home, his face lit only by his computer screen. The rest of the room was dark.

Mike said, Hello Ping. How are you?

There was no audible answer even though Ping’s lips were moving.

Ping, can you hear me?

No answer again.

Ping, since the sound doesn’t seem to be working, let’s just type.

Mike pointed down to the keyboard and started typing. Before he finished, Ping had typed a greeting.

Wang Ping: Hi Mike.

Mike smiled and answered.

Mike: Hello Ping, how are you?

Ping must have come prepared. His next message came fast and furious.

Wang Ping: Thank you. I am fine, and I hope you are, too. I just wanted to tell you that Yan Chemical still did not resolve my issue. I am planning to write to the U.S. Department of Commerce and tell them about Yan Chemical’s lies and fraud accounting practices. Everyone should know how dishonest that company is and how badly they treat loyal employees. They only want to get ahead by cheating and making up numbers. That is not right, Mike. They should be held responsible for what they have done and promised.

Mike quickly typed back.

Mike: No, Ping, I would give a second thought. That’s not the right way to do business. As a lawyer, I need to tell you that when you accuse someone of something that is against the law, you must have some kind of evidence they did indeed commit the crime. It has to be about facts and not just an opinion. Do you have any evidence that Yan Chemical lied or committed fraud?

Ping looked at Mike and nodded.

Wang Ping: Yes.

As Ping was typing, Mike saw a shadow of a figure stealthily approaching Ping from behind. The person wasn’t behaving like a wife or a family member. More like…an intruder.

Mike frowned.

Mike: Ping, are you home alone?

Ping was still typing as the shadow came closer then stopped directly behind him. A man wearing a black ski mask looked into the computer camera. He focused on Mike, and they locked eyes. Ping didn’t notice anything, but his fingers typing on the keyboard. The masked man lifted his arm to the right of Ping, holding an ice pick in his hand. The man looked from Mike to the ice pick and back to Mike, smiling broadly.

Forgetting to type, Mike yelled at Ping, Get out of there, Ping! Look out!

Ping must have noticed his panicked expression, but still couldn’t hear him. He looked confused.

Wang Ping: What are you saying, Mike?

Mike quickly hit a few keys to record the unbelievable scene playing out on his laptop’s screen.

The attacker jabbed the sharp pick into the side of Ping’s neck. Ping’s eyelids fluttered a thousand miles an hour, his mouth involuntarily swinging open as blood poured out across his bottom lip like a waterfall. One gloved hand pulled Ping’s head back by his hair and the assailant stabbed him once more with the other. And again. Ping’s eyes were no longer moving. The man let his limp body crumple to the floor.

The killer looked into the camera directly at Mike, sneering as he wiped Ping’s blood off the ice pick with a scrap of paper from the desk. He tossed the paper onto the floor before neatly placing the murder weapon into a sheath on his belt. He then took out a cellphone, snapped a picture of Ping’s screen, and gave Mike a penetrating stare. Then he winked, and calmly pushed the screen down to close Ping’s laptop.

Mike sat there for a moment, completely numb and horrified. He turned off the recorder, got up, and stumbled to the window to open it for some fresh air. With shaking hands, he got out his cellphone and punched in 911. Then he jerkily erased the number, thought for a moment, and dialed another number instead. While it was still ringing, he again thought better of it and hung up. He shut the window, went over to grab a Coke from the fridge, then came back and sat uneasily in front of his computer.

Holy crap. I just witnessed a murder.

A brutal murder, obviously committed by an assassin who loved his grizzly job and clearly had a great deal of experience.

But why was Ping killed?

And who could Mike trust enough to tell?

He pulled out a yellow legal tablet and wrote the heading Ping. Below it he drew a line down the center of the page. On the left he jotted down things he knew that Ping had done which might have angered someone, and on the right he wrote down the people and the companies who might be angry enough about them to want him dead.

What Mike had seen was no practical joke. If it had happened in the United States, he would have to immediately report the murder to the police. If he waited too long they would naturally wonder why he didn’t report it right away, and even that small doubt in their minds might make his life a bit inconvenient…or possibly very inconvenient. Not to mention that as a witness, he would somehow have to protect himself from ending up sharing the same fate as Ping.

Thankfully, this whole crazy thing had happened half a globe away in Beijing, one of the largest cities in the world, at a residence for which Mike had no address. For the moment, the vast distance made him less concerned about his own security. But he was baffled by the more perplexing issue of how to report it, and to whom. Why would the DCPD care about a murder in Beijing? Would a police officer at the local station even bother to take down information about a murder so far beyond their jurisdiction? It would be a joke for a D.C. cop to accept a report on a crime that occurred in neighboring Maryland, let alone Beijing. He could just imagine the blank stares of the local cops if he tried. No doubt there were no official guidelines on how to deal with such things.

Attempting to pull his thoughts together, he started to write something on the left side of the legal tablet, then crossed it out and angrily threw the tablet across the room. He realized he actually knew nothing about Wang Ping except that he had been fired and he couldn’t get his job back at Yan Chemical. Tonight Ping had said he had proof that Yan Chemical was lying and had committed fraud in the antidumping case Mike’s firm was involved in. But Mike had never seen any of that evidence, nor had he seen what Ping was trying to type during their video call after confirming he had proof…before being rudely interrupted by his untimely murder. Everything that Mike knew in connection to Wang Ping added up to a big fat zero. If he reported to the police that Ping said he had evidence against a multibillion dollar international company, but had not said where or what that evidence was, Mike would be laughed out the door. No way could he bring anything to the authorities that wasn’t even substantial enough to warrant an investigation.

After realizing all of this, he pushed out a sigh and took a calming sip of his Coke. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and hoped that when he opened them again this horrible nightmare would simply be a bad dream he could barely remember.

But it wasn’t a dream. Eyes closed, he was swamped with the memory of a sinister masked killer, spurting blood, and the terrified last look on Ping’s face as the ice pick sank deep into his neck. Mike’s eyes jerked open and his mind raced with a hundred jumbled thoughts, each one trying to cling to something stable and safe and give him a feeling of security. Staring nervously at his computer screen, he came to a terrifying realization.

Just because Mike didn’t know anything about Yan Chemical acting fraudulently, and that Ping had never told him what or where he’d hidden the evidence against them, didn’t mean the people who’d hired the assassin were aware of that. They might very well believe that Mike also knew everything Wang Ping knew.

Which meant that Mike might be the next target for whoever had silenced Ping.

Shit. He might be in immediate and lethal danger!

He picked up his phone and thought about whom to call. He would have to call the police soon, just in case, but he needed to talk about the whole thing with someone else first and get some advice. If he’d had a lawyer, he would call that person. Of course, he saw the irony in his position. He was a lawyer and had friends and colleagues who were lawyers. He even worked at a law firm. But he did not have a personal lawyer he could turn to or trust implicitly.

His friend, Heather Hanson, was a lawyer, but he intuitively sensed that he couldn’t, or rather, shouldn’t involve her. She worked for the opposing law firm on the dumping case and would no doubt feel obligated to tell the lead attorney about Wang Ping and his evidence. That would not only put her in jeopardy, too, but could ruin the big win Mike had recently chalked up for Yan Chemical.

He thought about calling his old boss, Neil Kreschmar, who managed a nonprofit company. But even though Mike respected him, Neil didn’t really have the expertise that Mike needed.

He looked at his watch. He was running out of time. Every moment he wasted not having a second person be aware of the whole incident would seem suspicious down the road. Without much thought he dialed the phone number of his current boss, Patrick Steiner.

Patrick answered, Hello.

Hello, this is Mike Nolan. I just witnessed a murder.

There was a pause on the other end. Then Patrick said in a low voice, Damn, Mike. Tell me what happened.

Mike told him everything he could remember about the video call, giving him a description of the murder and the assailant.

Have you called the police yet? Patrick asked.

No, I wanted to ask your advice first.

Good. Very good. Did Wang Ping give you any details about the fraud that Yan Chemical allegedly perpetrated?

No. Nothing. That is, he was typing information on the video call because we couldn’t get the audio to work. He was killed as he was typing, and the message never reached me. He never hit send.

Okay. So his typed words could still be on his computer.

Right, said Mike. Which means they could be retrieved by anyone who has his password or his laptop. And I’ll bet that that guy with the ice pick took the laptop with him.

Let’s talk at the office, Patrick said. You may still need to inform the FBI or DCPD.

Mike hung up the phone. He gazed at the framed photo on his desk, a picture of his grandfather, Tim Nolan. Gramps was dressed in a black leather jacket and a brown WWII peaked cap, standing before a yellow tiger-printed fighter plane, his face wearing a humble smile and exuding calmness. Mike tried to channel Gramps as best he could.

He leaned back in his chair, deep in thought, wishing everything could be undone, starting from this morning going straight from the plane to Williamson & Grey. Could he have changed something that might have prevented the terrible event from happening? He tried to recall what had happened between his flight landing and now, but couldn’t find anything worth second-guessing. He also thought about rolling time back a month, to before he went to China and hadn’t yet met Wang Ping. Five months before that, he wouldn’t even have known any of the people involved, including Wang Ping, Patrick Steiner, or Mei, the woman whom he’d spent so much time with in China. Not Williamson & Grey, Yan Chemical, or even Heather from his last class in international trade law at Georgetown University.

He let his memory rewind as far back as possible, wishing to erase all connections to Wang Ping and start fresh…

Chapter 2 Law School Was Finally Over

Washington, D.C., one year earlier

A dove swooped over Capitol Hill, flying low around the various federal buildings in Washington, D.C. It fluttered over the gargoyle on top of an edifice overlooking 24th Street Northwest before it slowly landed and settled. Its body was pure white, its head bobbing over the busy street, its eyes gazing upon the flowing traffic, pedestrians, and everything else. Seemingly unaffected by the noise and gusty chills that permeated the April air, it now and then danced with mincing steps to adjust its position, as if trying to gain a better view of the world below.

Mike Nolan was among the pedestrians on the downtown street, a Georgetown University law student in his early thirties walking hurriedly to work.

Mike had a tall, lean build, with broad shoulders that gave him a commanding presence. A defined nose and forehead gave him an air of intelligence and determination. His facial expressions were quite reserved, often appearing contemplative or focused. He had a habit of furrowing his brow when deep in thought, and his eyes held a hint of intensity. Despite his serious demeanor, there were moments when a small smile would flicker across his face, showing his appreciation for a well-made argument or a clever joke. Mike stood straight and confident, with a posture that exuded a sense of self-assuredness. He moved with purpose and determination, and when he spoke his voice was clear and steady. He gave the impression of discipline and determination, someone who strove to make a positive impact in the world through his studies and future legal career.

But this last year of law school was killing him, to say the least. He was taking six classes in the jurist doctor program at Georgetown, had a full-time job with a nonprofit organization on 24th Street, and was starting to prepare for the bar exam in July. He felt that during any given day the only time his mind was not occupied by civil procedures, contracts, and other legal subjects was when he was entering and exiting elevators, classrooms, and conference rooms, and when he slept at night. Therefore, the only time he was consciously aware of his surroundings was when entering and exiting the buildings, not before or after, as if his mere existence was real solely during those moments. All other times were filled with contracts, jurisprudence, torts, security regulations, and the like. Law school was prima facie and ipso facto tortuous and expensive. Finishing classes and receiving decent grades wasn’t easy, and he struggled to maintain a GPA of 3.32, falling just short of the B+—which was 3.33—that the big law firms claimed to need for recruiting purposes. But he really had tried his best. He did not want to end up finishing law school with a six-figure loan amortized over thirty years, and that was why he maintained an 80-hour job-and-study schedule. But it seemed however hard he tried, the debt was not going to end up any smaller.

Anyway, it was all relative. The worst-case scenario would be to have a student loan debt of $150,000 without any job offer after graduation, but hopefully not forever. Like all other students, except some real lucky ones who had already landed big firm offers by now, he had to maintain a cool face and a positive career outlook. He was already fortunate enough to go to law school in the first place.

The day job at the nonprofit paid all right. He had been doing their database marketing for fundraising for a while, and his job was to target the best possible donors for the organization. He zeroed in on specific zip codes in the United States, then mailed requests for donations to those residents most likely to contribute to the cause of the nonprofit, which was protecting wildlife resources. The nonprofit had a lot of past donors, and Mike conducted a specific statistical model through a sophisticated computer algorithm to find out who was likely to respond to the donation campaign and then order the direct mail to target whichever zip codes were of interest. Among his regular morning chores was to run standard as well as customized reports using the statistical software.

Hey, Neil, I saved the next month’s mailout file under the M drive. Their probability of making a donation is in the top ten percent, given the last run of the scoring algorithms.

Great, Mike, good job! Are they sorted by zip code?

Yes, sir, every record.

How many total addresses?

About 100,000.

Nice. Please send the encrypted file to the marketing firm to do the mailing.

Will do. I saw the mailer design with a giant panda on it. Cute. Mike paused for a moment. Hey, Neil, I never got to ask… How much does the direct mail company charge us for 100,000 pieces, including design, printing, and postage?

Around $100,000—about one dollar per piece. They do everything, so it’s not too bad. Why? Neil suddenly started to cough very hard and couldn’t stop.

No reason. They did such a nice job, I just wondered if they were expensive.

Neil kept coughing.

Neil, are you okay?

Yes, I am just allergic, I think. Neil finally stopped coughing.

Hey, I heard a way to deal with that when I was in summer school in China last time. You buy some pears, peel them and cut them into pieces, boil them in water for a couple of minutes, then eat the pear and drink the soup.

Really? I’ll give it a try.

Mike zigzagged his way through the office and glanced at his watch. He had to hurry. It was 5:45 p.m., just an hour before his next class started, and he had to take the metro from Foggy Bottom to Union Station and walk the ten minutes to Georgetown University Law Center.

When he arrived, he strode up the steps of the law center, which was backdropped against the stillness and grandeur of the Capitol Hill dome immersed in the golden glow of sunset. One or two of the dome’s windows reflected sunbeams of piercing light as he turned, squinting in that direction. However many times he saw the Hill, it always invoked a sense of awe. Today was no exception as he made his way to the final International Trade Regulations class of the semester.

* * * *

It looked like class was about to end when Professor Stuart started to summarize several international trade cases between China and the U.S., particularly those that were appealed to the World Trade Organization.

As we discussed, under the Byrd Amendment proposed by Senator Byrd, antidumping duties assessed against dumped imports are then redistributed to our domestic manufacturers in order to correct the financial damage done by their foreign competition. The WTO ruled against the U.S. in its practice of antidumping duty redistribution. As a signatory to the WTO agreements, now the U.S. will have to comply with international law. Will the United States rescind the Byrd Amendment? If yes, when? If not, is that okay? Also, after the three years during which you took public and private international law classes, what do you think about international law? Professor Stuart glanced around the room, then asked the whole class, "Specifically, what is international law? Does it exist? If yes, who is enforcing it?"

A young lady in the front