Li Heping, July 24, 2025
“The 709 crackdown was already one of the greatest injustices of our time.
If I am now framed by these traffic police,
I might as well smash my head against the wall and die right here.”
— Li Heping, 709 lawyer
Part One: A Five-hour Wrangling With Luhe Traffic Police Brigade
from July 11, 2025, 11:00 p.m. to July 12, 4:00 a.m.
On the evening of July 11, 2025, I was at my younger brother Li Chunfu’s home. We had played three games of Go, and though I wanted to continue, it was getting late. I said my goodbyes and set off on the drive back towards my place. While heading eastwards on the old Jingyu line (京榆旧线), the traffic ahead suddenly ground to a halt.
Flashing orange, yellow, and red lights lit up the scene in front of me—it turned out the traffic police had set up a roadblock to conduct drunk driving inspections.
On the main road, the police had blocked off one lane on the south side heading east, leaving a single lane open for vehicles to pass through for inspection. More than a dozen officers in formation lined the checkpoint for what must have been 200 meters. It was an imposing sight.
I slowed as I entered the inspection zone. An officer in a fluorescent yellow vest and a wide-brimmed cap ran over, holding a two-foot-long, glowing red device that resembled a rod of heated steel. Pointing it at me, he barked, “Drunk driving inspection. Blow into this.”
I exhaled as instructed. He glanced at the “red steel rod” and snapped, “Failed! Blow again! Closer this time—aim properly and blow longer!”
I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol that evening. I knew if I complied as instructed, there should be no issue. Yet his rapid-fire commands left me feeling coerced, humiliated, and treated like a suspect.
My experience as a lawyer told me this much: blocking a major arterial road is no small matter. It requires rigorous approval procedures, and, absent special authorization, this action is illegal. What’s more, any such authorization document must be made public.
The traffic police’s duty is to maintain road order—not disrupt it. Even drunk driving inspections must be conducted in accordance with the law.
I believed I had the right to demand that they present documentation authorizing the roadblock and checkpoint. Furthermore, if I were to submit to a breath test, the officers were obliged to identify themselves, salute, cite the specific legal grounds for their actions, and provide a factual basis for suspecting me. The law clearly stipulates that drunk driving checks target only those reasonably suspected of an offense—not every passing driver. Absent these prerequisites, ordering me to blow into the device was an unlawful act—one I had every right to resist.
I could sense that the officer was ratcheting up the pressure with his barrage of instructions. I paused for a moment, then calmly demanded he show his identification, the authorization for setting up the roadblock and checkpoint, and the legal and factual grounds for ordering me to blow into his device. His face tightened with visible irritation. He flashed a police badge, and I noticed the signal light blinking on a small recorder mounted on his shoulder.
When I took out my phone to document the encounter, he saw me aiming the camera at his badge and immediately snatched it back. “You must cooperate with my work! Cooperate with my work!” he barked.
I was fully prepared to cooperate with the police—but only if their actions were lawful. I reiterated my demand that they produce the legal justification and factual basis for carrying out his duties.
To my astonishment, the young traffic officer (badge number 006710) suddenly lost his temper. He raised his voice, his tone verging on a shout. At that moment, another officer (badge number 007464) came running over. Together, the two of them began yelling furiously at me.
I stood my ground and calmly repeated my requests. This only enraged them further. Seething with anger, they lunged to drag me out of the car by force. I reached for the door lock, but it was too late. In a single violent motion, the two furious officers wrenched the door open. Though my seatbelt briefly held them off, they still managed to pull me out, all the while shouting, “We are the People’s Police!”
Just like that, I was dragged out of my car, and escorted to a large police van parked in the middle of the road. The entire ordeal lasted three or four minutes and unfolded in full view of numerous passersby.
Still struggling to catch my breath, I was shoved into the police van and told to sit. Steadying my nerves, I instinctively checked my pocket—to my relief, my phone was still there.
I immediately called the 110 police supervision hotline, demanding that they investigate the traffic officers’ violent behaviour. The operator asked for my location and said the complaint would be forwarded to the relevant department. Next, I rang the 12345 Mayor’s Hotline, asking them to look into this unlawful drunk-driving inspection and the officers’ violent misconduct.
Finally, I opened WeChat, and uploaded the video I’d recorded moments earlier without even watching it to my Moments feed with the caption: “Shouldn’t drunk-driving checks require factual grounds? Shouldn’t they require a legal basis?”
Inside the police vehicle, an officer was stationed to keep watch over me. After nearly an hour, several more uniformed officers arrived and insisted I take another breath test. This time, the traffic police instructed me to place the pointed mouthpiece of a small box into my mouth and blow.
I took one look at the device and refused outright: “Who knows what’s in that thing? What if there’s already alcohol inside? If so, how could I possibly clear myself? And who gave you the right to treat citizens this way?”
A little later, two male officers in summer uniforms arrived, identifying themselves as being from the Songzhuang Police Station (宋庄派出所). They were presumably dispatched by 110 in response to my earlier call. After exchanging a few words with the young traffic officers guarding me, they announced they were returning to their station—remarkably, without even speaking to me, the complainant.
Meanwhile, the young officer who had dragged me from my car made several phone calls. From the fragments of conversation around me, I learned his name was Zhang Dong, badge number 007464. He was also the one liaising with the Songzhuang officers.
Zhang Dong swiftly organized his team into three groups: one to take me back to the traffic police brigade in the large van; another to have my car towed; and a third—himself—to go to the Songzhuang station to file a report. When the tow truck driver asked whether they needed a receipt, Zhang Dong waved him off: “We’ll handle that later.” By the time Zhang Dong had finished giving orders, it was already past midnight, and my phone battery was nearly drained. The three groups set off separately.
At first, I thought the traffic police headquarters was very close to Songzhuang, but in reality it was quite far; the car drove for over 20 minutes. When we finally arrived, the sign at the entrance read: “Tongzhou Traffic Police Subdivision, Luhe Brigade.”
In the courtyard, I was escorted out of the van. A group of officers motioned for me to enter the western wing. I followed them into a dim corridor lined with doors labeled: “Administrative Penalty Room,” “Room 2,” “Room 3,” and so on.
By this point, I felt the situation had become utterly absurd.
I resolved then and there to endure whatever came next.
Once I sat down, they brought out yet another one of those pointed devices and told me to place it in my mouth and blow. Again, I firmly refused: “What if there’s alcohol already inside that device? If so and I blow into it, the reading will show alcohol. Even if I threw myself into the Yellow River, I wouldn’t be able to clear my name.”
I demanded to see the supervising officer on duty. The police called, saying he would arrive shortly. Half an hour later, the supervisor appeared—a man of medium build in his thirties or forties. I explained the situation to him, but he refused to acknowledge my concerns. He insisted that I must place the device fully into my mouth for the breath test; otherwise, they would proceed with a blood draw.
I responded that I had already blown into their device once. If it were a non-contact breathalyzer, I would have no objection. But the supervisor wouldn’t accept this. “Either insert the mouthpiece or submit to a blood test,” he said flatly.
More officers arrived, all of them echoing the same stance: refusal to comply with the mouthpiece test would have “serious consequences.”
By this point, I felt the situation had become utterly absurd.
I hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol, and yet I had already complied with their breathalyzer. That wasn’t enough for them. They escalated—demanding I blow closer, aim precisely, and for a longer duration. Now they were insisting I insert the mouthpiece. It seemed that no matter what I did, as long as the traffic police were dissatisfied, they would keep raising the stakes.
I resolved then and there to endure whatever came next. I had not been drinking; there was no reason they should treat me this way. Even if I had been drinking, this was no way to treat someone undergoing an inspection. How could this possibly be “the People’s Police serving the people”? This was plainly “the People’s Police tormenting the people.”
I remained in the corridor of the Luhe Traffic Police Brigade until around 2:00 a.m. on July 12. Then the officers summoned a paramedic clad in a white coat from the 999 emergency service. The officers issued a final warning: if I refused the mouthpiece test, they would proceed to draw blood.
I refused categorically. “Without proper procedures, you’re not drawing my blood! Who’s to say you won’t spike the sample with alcohol? If you fabricate a report claiming I had alcohol in my system, how could I possibly prove my innocence? How could I prove I hadn’t drunk a drop? Even if I threw myself into the Milky Way, I wouldn’t be able to clear my name!” And if—after all my efforts—I finally proved my innocence, they could just claim the machine had malfunctioned, and that would be the end of it.
As a 709 lawyer, I had seen and experienced too many wrongful convictions. I was hyper-aware of the danger: when it comes to traffic enforcement, the power to make rules, enforce them, and adjudicate disputes all rests with the traffic police. It is a dictatorial blind spot. Corruption in this domain has to be as bad as, if not worse, than anywhere else.
I protested vehemently, but the traffic police supervisor paid no attention. He barked an order, and seven or eight officers swarmed me. They pinned me to the long iron bench. One officer held my legs; another clamped his arms around my head. Two others seized my arms and wrists. Another pressed down on my feet.
Since the 709 crackdown, I had not been treated this way by police. Fear surged through me as I screamed, “The police are assaulting me!” and struggled with all my strength.
The paramedic in the white coat—well over six feet tall—approached. I shouted at him: “I didn’t drink! I didn’t drink! If you collude with them to fabricate a wrongful case, I will hold you accountable!”
He tied a rubber tourniquet around my right arm and attempted to insert a needle but couldn’t locate a vein. He gave up on the right arm and moved to the left. Meanwhile, the supervisor summoned additional officers to hold me down.
At 164 cm (5’4”) tall and weighing 65 kg (143 lbs), I was nearly crushed under the weight of close to ten traffic officers. My strength was failing. A desperate thought crossed my mind: The 709 crackdown was already one of the greatest injustices of our time. If I am now framed by these traffic police, I might as well smash my head against the wall and die right here.
Summoning every ounce of strength, I thrashed wildly and shouted for help.
The paramedic tried twice to draw blood from the crook of my left elbow but failed each time. Despite his repeated attempts, no blood could be extracted. Finally, he gave up.
The room fell silent except for the sound of heavy breathing. Everyone involved—those holding me down, the paramedic, and the officers—were gasping for air. The atmosphere was at once eerie and ludicrous.
At that moment, another supervisor arrived, a name badge hanging from his neck. He looked at me and asked, “Is it really so hard to take a breath test?”
I steadied myself and replied calmly, “I’m willing to compromise and accept a non-contact breath test. But these officers here have refused to allow it.”
The supervisor called for one of the “red steel rods” used for roadside testing. Someone brought one over, and I blew into it. He glanced at the device, exchanged looks with several others, and for a moment an inscrutable expression flickered across their faces.
Then he asked someone to bring a small box with a pointed mouthpiece. This time, he removed the mouthpiece, exposing a larger opening, and told me to blow into that. I did as instructed. Again, they exchanged glances, and the device showed no reaction.
The supervisor said, “See? If you’d agreed to blow earlier, this would’ve been over long ago. You haven’t been drinking, so why were you afraid to blow?”
I repeated my earlier words: “I’ve said all along that I would compromise on a non-contact breath test. But these officers refused and kept escalating, punishing me for not submitting to their demands. That’s how we ended up in this situation.”
Since the supervisor wore a name badge, I asked for his name. He said he was called Li Hui. At that point, one of the traffic officers turned to me and said: “You can go now.”
However, my car was parked in the lot, and they sent someone to retrieve it. I was told to wait for a while. So I waited there with the same young officer who had first tested me using the “red steel rod” (badge number 006710). He told me he had previously worked at a township government office, at Uniqlo, and for the subway company. He was only 26 years old. I found myself wondering whether he was a full traffic officer or merely an auxiliary policeman.
An hour passed—more than enough time to fetch my car and return. When I expressed my doubts, the young officer reassured me, “Don’t worry, they’ll be back any moment now.”
Just then, two uniformed officers appeared. One was holding a small police video recorder and began filming me. They introduced themselves as officers from the Songzhuang Police Station and said they were taking me there to make a written statement.
A written statement? I was shocked. Why? Weren’t they just telling me moments ago that I could leave? This whole ordeal was over—they had already determined I hadn’t been drinking. Wasn’t that the end of it?
Only then did I realize: the officer who told me I was free to go had been lying. They had already decided to take me to Songzhuang Police Station to continue hassling me. At that moment, I finally understood what the traffic police supervisor had meant earlier when he said, “If you refuse the blood test, you won’t be leaving.”
You won’t be leaving! What exactly did those words mean?
I followed the two officers out into the courtyard of the traffic brigade. Two SUV police cars were parked there with their lights on. We got into one of them. I was seated in the back while one officer drove and the other filmed me with the small video camera.
As we pulled away, a traffic officer came out of the building and casually mentioned, “That parking lot is called Yongshun Parking Lot, and its phone number is…” I jotted it down but couldn’t shake the strange feeling creeping over me.
We drove in silence for most of the way. At one point, I asked them, “Wasn’t this matter already settled? Why are we going to the Songzhuang Police Station now?”
One of the officers replied, “The traffic police reported the incident, and you also called 110. The police station has to respond to both reports.”
I nodded slowly, unsure what to believe.
After a while, the officer driving pointed to a pitch-black side street on the left. “Your car is parked at the very back of that lot,” he said. I didn’t reply.
Part Two: Surreal 14 Hours at Songzhuang Police Station
July 12, 2025, 4:30 a.m. – 6:51 p.m.
When we arrived at Songzhuang Police Station, an even more surreal chapter of this ordeal began.
The moment I entered, they asked to register my name and mobile number. I followed the two officers through the station’s main gate, where a young man dressed in black came forward to meet us. He led us into the case-handling area on the left.
The area was sealed off tightly. After they unlocked the door and we stepped inside, the officers handed me over to the man in black.
He proceeded to search me. I was wearing very little—just a pair of loose floral shorts and a blue-striped polo shirt. From the pockets of my shorts, he retrieved my car keys and house keys. He also took my phone and charging cable from my hands and placed them in a drawer atop a metal cabinet.
Then he escorted me deeper into the building, stopping in front of a door marked “Interrogation Waiting Room.” He gestured for me to step inside. The moment I did, he locked the door behind me.
The waiting room was divided into two sections: an inner chamber roughly ten square meters in size and a smaller outer room about five or six square meters. A transparent glass partition separated the two. The glass door had a latch mechanism that could lock it into the adjoining glass wall, and it could only be opened from the outside. Beyond the partition, several security guards stood watch.
As I sat in this confined space, a wave of helplessness washed over me. I demanded they show me the proper legal documentation for holding me there. They replied curtly that this was an “oral summons.”
But an oral summons applies only when police encounter a suspected offender on the scene of a violation. Officers must first present their credentials and then issue the summons verbally, but it must be properly recorded in the interrogation transcript.
After so many years as a lawyer, I couldn’t help but think: Could this possibly qualify as an oral summons? I had been quietly sitting in the traffic police brigade earlier—what violation could they possibly suspect me of? But I had seen enough of this kind of police nonsense to know that arguing was pointless. In moments like this, resistance is futile. I resolved to endure it.
After being harassed all night, I overheard someone mention that it was already past 4 a.m. Exhaustion hit me like a wave. Along one wall of the room were narrow benches barely a foot and a half wide. I sat cross-legged for a while, then eventually lay down fully clothed and, despite myself, drifted into sleep.
Early the next morning, I heard voices outside as security guards changed shifts. Faint light filtered in from the southern side of the waiting room. I glanced toward the glass partition but couldn’t tell if it was day or night, or if the glow came from sunlight or electric lamps. Time felt meaningless, and I slipped back into a half-dreaming state.
In that haze, I heard someone ask, “How’s the mood of the person who came in last night? No issues, right?”
A guard replied, “Very calm. No problems.”
“Let him sleep,” the voice said.
Much later, someone came in and woke me up, asking if I wanted to have breakfast. It was a small piece of scallion pancake. I didn’t feel like eating but thanked him politely. I asked to use the restroom. Stepping inside, I finally saw natural light and guessed it was around 9 a.m.
Later, two officers came in—one introduced himself as Wang Tao, and I forgot the name of the other. They told me they needed to take my statement.
They escorted me out of the waiting room and into an interrogation room. Inside was a long table with two chairs set up behind it. But in front of the table, in the space reserved for me, stood a heavy iron interrogation chair, complete with metal loops to restrain a person’s feet.
They gestured for me to sit.
Anger surged through me. “Are you conducting an administrative inquiry or handling a criminal case?” I demanded. “You don’t have the proper paperwork for a criminal case—so why are you treating me like a criminal suspect?”
They tried to pressure me, saying it would only take a moment and once the statement was done, that would be the end of it. One officer even tried to press me into the chair. I stepped back sharply and told them flatly I would not sit in a chair meant for criminal suspects. “I’d rather stand,” I said.
Eventually, one of them seemed to think better of it. He stepped outside and returned with a regular chair, placing it in front of the iron one. Only then did I agree to sit down.
As they began taking my statement, they displayed their police IDs and wrote down their names. Wherever I requested corrections, they grudgingly agreed and amended the record. At the end, I signed and pressed my fingerprint.
Not long after, two more officers arrived, saying they needed to take another statement—this time for identity verification. Again, I signed and pressed my fingerprint.
Later still, two additional officers entered: one was Jin Honglin (金红林), the other Wang Tao (王韬) again. They asked me the same questions the first group had asked. It became clear they were trying to steer me toward admitting fault, framing the narrative as if I had obstructed the traffic police in the course of their duties. Meanwhile, they suggested reprinting my first statement and having me sign it again.
This immediately set off alarm bells. I had already signed the original version—why did they need me to sign a fresh one? Given their manipulative questioning, my suspicions deepened: were they preparing to escalate this into an administrative detention case, or worse, a criminal matter?
So I went back over my previous, more casual statements and reworded them, taking a firmly defensive stance.
Jin and Wang became visibly irritated. They accused me of “wasting paper” and “disrespecting their hard work.” (A bizarre accusation—since when have police been concerned about wasting paper?) They warned: “If you refuse to sign, we’ll just note: Li Heping refuses to sign.”
I stood my ground. “I must review every word, and it must reflect my intended meaning,” I said. In the end, they relented and allowed the changes I demanded.
When the record reached the part about the injuries on my hand and the tearing of my T-shirt, we clashed over the details. They pressed me: Who caused these injuries? Was the T-shirt “ripped open” or “torn to shreds”? Both sides debated fiercely over the wording.
I stated clearly: the injury to my hand and the tearing of my clothes were caused by traffic officer Zhang Dong (badge number 007464) and his colleagues. In fact, I only mentioned my injuries after Jin and Wang raised the issue: “Zhang Dong has an injury on his hand too—doesn’t that suggest you, Li Heping, were at fault?” It was only then that I disclosed the harm I’d sustained; previously, I hadn’t brought it up at all.
Once the edits were finalized, they told me the printer in the interrogation room wasn’t working properly and that part of the document would have to be printed elsewhere. This raised my suspicions—was something irregular going on?
While reviewing the document, I noticed the officers’ names were missing from the top of the record. I pointed this out. At first, I hadn’t thought much of it. But at that moment, I began scrutinizing every detail with heightened vigilance.
“Oh, I forgot to add them,” Jin Honglin said nonchalantly. “The printer just went ‘whizz’ and spat it out before I made corrections.”
In the afternoon, Jin and Wang came back. This time, they stood entirely on the side of the traffic police as they interrogated me.
Their basic line of questioning was this: “You knew full well that police officers have the authority to check for drunk driving. The officers identified themselves and presented the relevant legal justification. Therefore, your challenges to the traffic police’s actions amounted to obstructing them in the course of their duties.”
They asked me to amend my statement. Seeing the way things were going, I realized it was impossible—those recording the statement were completely biased in favor of the traffic police.
“Now it all depends on your attitude.
If you admit fault and show some contrition,
you can go home immediately.”
I recognized the tactic instantly.
I refused to change my statement. I told them: “If you insist on altering it, then I won’t sign.”
This angered them. “Then you’re refusing to sign!” they snapped.
Throughout this session, it was painfully obvious how heavily the station officers were leaning toward the traffic police’s position. The entire charade had become both absurd and laughable.
With biting sarcasm, I turned to Jin and Wang and said: “The injuries on my body? Those were caused by the wind. The rips in my clothes? Also the wind—maybe a falling leaf tore them open.”
They shot back: “Don’t be ridiculous!”
I replied evenly: “This whole situation is ridiculous. A man who hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol has been tormented by you for over a dozen hours. Is failing to satisfy your arbitrary breath test demands such a grave crime? Does that justify illegally restricting my personal freedom? Does it warrant detention, confinement, and punishment?”
They smirked and said: “Earlier, you said the injuries on your arm were caused by Zhang Dong grabbing you. Now you’re saying they were caused by the wind and falling leaves. How exactly should we record that?”
I said, “Do what you like to place the responsibility—Zhang Dong and his fellow traffic police officers, or wind and falling leaves, whatever.”
At one point, two more men entered. One introduced himself as Liu something, deputy captain of the Luhe Traffic Police Brigade. They were carrying a thick legal reference book and claimed they wanted to verify the legal basis for their enforcement actions.
I told them bluntly: “Looking it up now is meaningless. You had neither the factual basis nor the legal grounds to set up a roadblock and check for drunk driving in the first place. Screening every passing driver one by one violates the legal principle that drunk driving checks must target individuals under suspicion. You cannot arbitrarily expand the definition of ‘suspects’ to mean every single person driving through a road at a given time. Treating all unspecified individuals as potential drunk drivers is arbitrary enforcement.”
I then added: “If you’re going to conduct drunk driving checks, you should at least erect a sign at the checkpoint, clearly displaying the operation’s start and end times, the authorizing agency, and the identification of personnel on duty.”
Jin Honglin scoffed,“If we did that, all the people who’ve been drinking would scatter before we could stop them. What’s the point of even setting up the checkpoint then?”
I countered: “The point of drunk driving checks isn’t simply to catch offenders; it’s to deter people from drinking and driving in the first place. If drivers avoid drinking because they fear being stopped, then you’ve already achieved your goal. Only stop those under suspicion—don’t treat everyone like a suspect. That way, you’ll need fewer officers on duty and create less traffic congestion.”
When I saw that Jin Honglin had drafted a heavily biased statement—one clearly slanted in favor of the traffic police—I refused to sign it and was sent back to wait in the holding room. But the longer I sat there, the more uneasy I became. So I asked the guard outside to call in Jin Honglin and Wang Tao; I wanted to speak with them directly.
In the end, only Jin came, this time without his video camera. From a defense lawyer’s perspective, I dictated a version of the statement I could accept. Jin flatly refused, snapping:“The law should punish people like you. You treat your own opinions as facts—how could that possibly be allowed?”
When I heard this, I thought: So anyone who dares question the police deserves to be “cracked down” on? That kind of remark was so brazen it didn’t even bother with a fig leaf of legality.
Much later, Liu arrived with another officer whose demeanor was surprisingly kind. “We’ve reported the situation to our superiors,” Liu said. “Now it all depends on your attitude. If you admit fault and show some contrition, you can go home immediately.”
I recognized the tactic instantly. How I’m familiar with this trick of theirs.
Choosing my words carefully, I replied, “I’m not very experienced in dealing with such situations. Perhaps I’ve acted in ways that weren’t ideal. But I’ve done nothing wrong.”
When they saw I wasn’t falling into their trap, they pressed again: “Just state this clearly for the record: if you encounter another drunk-driving checkpoint in the future, will you cooperate?”
I looked them straight in the eye and said solemnly, “I will cooperate with all lawful actions by the police.”
Then they raised another demand: I should delete the videos and photos from my phone, as well as the footage I’d posted to WeChat.
I refused.
“If you don’t agree, you’re not leaving,” they threatened. “That’s what the leadership has ordered. There’s no room for compromise.”
No room for compromise? So be it. I’ve seen too many wrongful convictions to know that, whenever the police say something is “for your own good,” that’s precisely when you need to be most on guard.
I turned and walked back into the holding room. Whatever happens next, let them do as they please. I suppose that their power won’t exceed that of Fu Zhenghua (傅政华) or Sun Lijun (孙力军) during the 709 Crackdown.1 I lay down on the narrow bench, closed my eyes, or sat cross-legged in silence, thinking: Let them be.
At last, after what felt like hours, someone came to fetch me. It was Liu and Wang Tao again, now all smiles. “We’ve spoken to our superiors,” Liu said. “They agreed that because you’ve shown a good attitude, there will be no punishment.”
A good attitude? From the moment the traffic police stopped my car until now, nearly 19 hours had passed. At every stage—whether it was the traffic police or the officers at the station—they’d tried to break me, to force me into submission. They kept escalating, layer after layer, just to subdue me.
The officers at Songzhuang Police Station handed me two documents to sign: Administrative Summons Certificate and a Decision of No Punishment. (In reality, the entire ordeal was an unlawful, excessive punishment.) I signed them.
They retrieved my belongings from the metal cabinet and handed them back to me. To my surprise, my phone’s battery was now fully charged—despite it being nearly dead when they’d confiscated it. And yet, my charging cable was nowhere to be seen.
At last, they were releasing me.
As I stepped out of the station, I saw two familiar faces waiting at the entrance: lawyer Wang Quanhang (王全璋) and my younger brother, lawyer Chunfu (李春富). I shook their hands. Chunfu told me, “My sister-in-law is waiting outside.”
Only then did I learn that the police had refused to let my wife enter the station. She had rushed here via high-speech train from Henan province where she had been visiting family as soon as she heard what had happened.
My friends and family, worried that I’d been up all night and wouldn’t be fit to drive, arranged for Chunfu to go with Officer Liu Yongxing to retrieve my car from Yongshun Parking Lot.
Ten minutes later, they returned with my car. Chunfu said they hadn’t charged me any towing fee.
Hehheh, how generous of them!
— Li Heping, July 14, 2025, on the tail of the 10th anniversary of 709.
- Fu Zhenghua and Sun Lijun, top leadership of the Minister of Public Security in 2015, led the 709 Crackdown on human rights lawyers. In September 2022, both were sentenced to death with a two-year reprieve for unspecified “political conspiracy” and corruption. ↩︎
Related:
‘My Name is Li Heping, and I Love Being a Lawyer’, Li Heping, Ai Weiwei, August 21, 2016.
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