By SHAI OSTER
HANGZHOU, China -- When a wealthy street-car racer knocked down and killed a young man from modest origins last May, it ignited the flames of class conflict in this prosperous city in eastern China.
The 20-year-old driver, Hu Bin, grew up the pampered son of a merchant family rich enough to own multiple cars and apartments along Hangzhou's tree-lined boulevards. The victim, Tan Zhuo, a 25-year-old telecom engineer, came from a gritty rural town where his laid-off parents struggled to pay tuition to fulfill their son's dream of a college education in Hangzhou, one of China's richest cities.
"Rich Boys in Luxurious Racing Cars Turn City Roads into F1 Race Track," blared the headline of a local tabloid a day after the fatal accident, kicking off a wave of public outrage. Photos of the driver in his flashy red Mitsubishi racer near the crumpled body of the victim went viral on the Internet, transforming just another of China's 70,000 annual traffic fatalities into a parable about class injustice that resonated among millions of Chinese.
On the eve of the 60th anniversary Oct. 1 of Communist rule that was supposed to create a classless utopia, China is instead gripped with a renewed sense of anger toward a new elite. The Mandarin phrase, "fen fu," or to hate the rich, has been coined in recent months to capture the public's bitter resentment.
Three decades ago, then-leader Deng Xiaoping launched China's economic miracle under the slogan, "to get rich is glorious." He added a caveat, however: "Let some people get rich first." They did -- but not everyone else followed.
China hasn't recreated its old class system, and even in Mao Zedong's day people resented abusers of power. Mr. Deng's reforms enabled hundreds of millions of people to lift themselves out of poverty. Yet today's richer China is also a more divided China. It is split between poor rural areas and richer cities; between developed coastal regions and poorer inland areas; between the educated and the uneducated. And these growing gaps, widely believed to be at the root of social unrest, are only part of the problem.
Incidents like the traffic accident in Hangzhou expose an equally profound grievance: a feeling that the newly rich, by virtue of their money and political connections, are solidifying their status in Chinese society and blocking the aspirations of those less well off.
With information now flowing instantaneously to more than 300 million Internet users, the foibles of the rich are quick fodder for an angry public. "There is more communication of all kinds," says David Goodman, author of "The New Rich in China." "Alongside the politically powerful, you now have the wealthy, and they're also politically powerful. There's a lot of suspicion against them."
Increasingly, public animosity is focusing on the sons and daughters of the generation of workers who launched Deng's economic reforms, unleashing the country's pent-up capitalist energy. Mr. Hu, the drag-car racer, has become a symbol of the "fu er dai," or rich second-generation. Now mostly in their 20s, they grew up as "little emperors" and are perceived to live in a protected cocoon, subject to different standards of justice than others.
On May 7 at around 8 p.m., Mr. Hu's souped-up Mitsubishi plowed into Mr. Tan on a zebra-striped pedestrian crosswalk near Hangzhou's scenic lake. The impact sent Mr. Tan's body flying some 20 yards. Bystanders and reporters quickly converged on the scene, watching as a half dozen of Mr. Hu's friends gathered to console him. While Mr. Hu sat in the car with his face buried in his hands, his friends smoked cigarettes and joked around as police and ambulance crews arrived.
Photos soon circulated online, sparking a furor of angry comments by Chinese readers outraged at the callous behavior depicted in the pictures.
Under public pressure, Hangzhou police held a news conference the following day, where they estimated the speed of the car was only about 43 miles per hour. They denied allegations that Mr. Hu's car had been illegally modified to give the vehicle more zip -- despite eyewitness accounts that he was traveling at high speed, which would trigger tougher criminal penalties.
The Chinese public smelled a cover-up: Internet blogs buzzed with angry posts. "See how rich parents are going to resolve this for their son!" wrote one.
Some 14,000 comments were left on one blog post alone, analyzing the speed and arc of Mr. Tan's body after he was hit by the car. Others suggested Mr. Hu's family was using connections to lighten the crime. In an unusually brazen challenge, Zhejiang University students issued an open letter to the mayor, demanding a new investigation into their alum's death.
Later that night, hundreds of students and residents gathered for a candlelight vigil at the scene of the accident, where they lay wreaths and lighted candles along the sidewalk. The next morning, police detained the young driver pending further investigation.
On May 11, the day of Mr. Tan's funeral, more than 1,000 mourners lined the streets in a rare public display of solidarity as his hearse passed by. After the outpouring of grief, that evening local police issued a statement promising to thoroughly investigate the accident.
Then, a week after the accident, local police held a second news conference. This time, police admitted their initial speed estimate was wrong, doubled the number and acknowledged that the car engine was retrofitted. Those admissions only further raised suspicions that the driver's parents were using connections to get their son off the hook.
In the face of public indignation, Mr. Hu's family agreed to give Mr. Tan's parents a financial settlement of about $165,000.
Still, public fury was reignited in mid-July after a court sentenced Mr. Hu to three years in prison, widely considered a lenient punishment. In an unusual twist, Mr. Hu appeared much heavier at his sentencing than in photos from the accident scene, prompting Internet rumors that Mr. Hu's family had paid for a stand-in. Chinese authorities have strongly denied this.
The victim's father, Tan Yue, has been outspoken in his criticism of the court's sentencing. He is among those who doubt whether the convicted felon now serving jail time is really Mr. Hu. Mr. Hu's family, through an attorney, declined to comment.
A tall thin man with his son's eyes, Tan Yue says that the accident has drawn so much attention because of the government's mishandling of the investigation. Hangzhou citizens were "angry at these rich second-generation kids drag-racing on their streets," he says. "The government couldn't guarantee their safety to even cross the street. Then, trying to control the media made people angrier."
Before his death, Tan Zhuo was a modern Chinese success story, an example of how someone from a relatively poor family can rise up through hard work and study to win a coveted white-collar job.
He was born in a small town an hour's drive through bamboo forests from Changsha, the capital of central Hunan province, and grew up in a simple three-story cement home built by his parents. His father worked as a manager at a state-run transportation and logistics firm and his mother with a state-run caterer. Both were laid off several years ago and had to scramble to find work doing everything from selling food and underwear to working at a school doing odd jobs.
Tan Zhuo was a promising student, winning third place in a province-level math Olympiad when he was in middle school.
"You have to rely on yourself because I don't have the connections or resources to help you," Tan Yue recalled telling his son, standing in Tan Zhuo's bedroom where his college graduation picture hangs over a wooden bed. "But in this society you don't need money or social standing to make it. You can succeed on your own."
At Zhejiang University, Tan Zhuo majored in telecommunications. His family struggled to pay the annual $1,464 fees for tuition, food and board. But when he graduated in 2006, the family's financial problems melted away. He was recruited by ECI Telecom Ltd., an Israeli telecom firm with research and development facilities in the city, earning about $14,640, or seven times the average annual income in China. He sent money home and planned to buy a house for his parents.
Mr. Hu's life was a marked contrast. He grew up near Hangzhou's West Lake, which is ringed by designer stores, restaurants serving expensive seafood and car showrooms -- including two Ferrari showrooms. His parents were merchants who owned a clothing business. At the time of the accident, Mr. Hu was a sophomore at a teachers college in the city where he majored in physical education.
Apparently, his main love was cars. He mixed with a group of young kids who raced illegally modified sports cars, the kind known as tuners in the U.S., according to local authorities. Mr. Hu's photograph still hangs at the F2 International Racing Club, where he won first place in a go-kart race last winter. His family bought him a red second-hand Mitsubishi sports car, which was covered in car club decals.
At the Hangzhou Motoring Club, a popular hangout for the drag-racing crowd decorated with tires and chrome-plated wheel rims, owner Wang Ke recalls fixing the clutch on Mr. Hu's car. His customers are typically the sons of private business owners and overseas Chinese who have picked up a fascination with refitted cars.
Still, Mr. Wang thinks that the media hasn't been fair to Mr. Hu. "If Hu Bin is rich, then lots of people are rich," he says.
In China, class is a concept loaded with decades of bloody conflict and political turmoil. China's Communist Party rose to power 60 years ago promising a classless workers' utopia.
In the early years after the Communists' rise to power in 1949, as many as a million landlords were killed in what would be the first of many class struggles led by Chairman Mao Zedong as he tried to purge China of its capitalists. The campaigns peaked in the 1966 to 1976 Cultural Revolution when anyone with a wealthy background could be denounced as a counterrevolutionary, bringing China to the brink of civil war.
These days, government propaganda campaigns call for the construction of a "Harmonious Society." Billions of dollars are being promised for health care and education reform in an effort to level the playing field, but criticism of rising corruption and cronyism has proved harder to stamp out.
So far, China's crime rate is lower than in other rapidly developing countries such as Brazil. And the country is more stable than India. But if left unattended, some Chinese commentators fear, the mounting sense of powerlessness could change from focused grievances against corrupt local officials and the nouveau riche to broader complaints about the entire regime.
China's legal system is often part of the problem. Before handing down a sentence, judges in criminal cases typically take into account how much compensation is paid to victims and their families, creating the impression that the rich can literally get away with murder.
In southwestern China's Chongqing municipality in August, a hotel manager accused of beating to death a mother whose young child had picked a plastic flower from the lobby paid 285,000 yuan, or $41,720, to the dead woman's family. In widely reported comments, the unrepentant manager allegedly told a witness after the beating, "at the worst, I would spend two million yuan to buy this person's life." He awaits trial and could face jail time, according to local police.
In Hangzhou, authorities promised to crack down on drag-racing, and even painted big hearts on city crosswalks to encourage safer driving. But just a few weeks after Mr. Hu was sentenced, on a crosswalk not far from the accident scene, a young migrant working as a waitress was struck and killed by a 28-year-old driver in a Porsche SUV.
"Why do you think the children of rich parents act this way?" asked Dai Wangchao, the victim's 21-year-old boyfriend. "Because they think they won't be punished." He added: "If it was the other way around, I would have to spend a long time in prison."
After Mr. Hu's trial, Tan Yue returned to his hometown, carrying a black suitcase containing a handful of his son's academic awards, his driver's license, Communist Party membership card and a few photos. Every time they open the suitcase, both parents start to cry, even holding on to a lint remover, still in its paper box. In line with tradition, Tan Yue was planning on burning these objects, but now thinks he wants to keep them to build a memorial to his son.
He plans to use the compensation money to move into a new home and buy health insurance for himself and his wife. "Everything was that son. Now, we don't have anything," Mr. Tan says.
—Jeremy Chan and Sue Feng contributed to this article.Write to Shai Oster at shai.oster@wsj.com
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