by Glen Robins
“What is it, Jin Sook? What is wrong? You guys should be on the plane,” she blurted all at once.
Her fourteen-month-old baby, Matthew, sat in his highchair and played happily with his food. She glanced at him to make sure he was OK. He was blissfully ignorant, busy trying to get kernels of rice from his tray into his mouth with his chubby little fingers. Sophia, her three-year-old daughter, had finished her lunch moments before. The familiar sound of her footsteps skipping down the hallway upstairs echoed softly against the walls and floors, giving away her location as she headed to play with toys in her room.
Jin Sook hesitated. She could tell he wasn’t ready for so many questions right off the bat, and she’d thrown him off his prepared script. “Ah, I called to say there is a problem,” he said gingerly. He was inexperienced in the ways of the world, sheltered by hovering parents. A great Tae Kwon Do coach, Jin Sook lacked the interpersonal skills required to build a successful gym, or Do Jang, the way JT had. He was, however, exceedingly proud and grateful for the opportunity to work with her husband, a renowned champion. “Our flight has been delayed. There is a problem at the airport. The police have to investigate.”
Jin Sook was being careful with his words. Stephanie knew that. She also heard cars honking and people clamoring in the background. An announcement blared loud enough for her to hear. It said it was now safe to re-enter the terminal. She scurried around the corner of the kitchen counter into the family room and lunged at the remote on the end table next to the couch. Her hands were already shaking. She gripped the remote tightly, knowing she would drop it otherwise, as she switched on the TV and found one of the morning news channels. “Is it serious, Jin Sook? Are you in danger? Where is Jeong Tae? Why didn’t he call me?”
Again, Jin Sook hesitated. “There is no danger. Everyone is OK. Our flight was delayed while the police checked out a hoax.” Ordinarily, Stephanie thought Jin Sook’s careful cadence was adorable. Right now, she wanted information and his obvious caution was hindering that.
“Where’s JT? Why hasn’t he called me?”
“Mr. Noh had to leave,” he said. “He told me he was attending to something very important and he didn’t know how long it would take.”
She tried to make sense of what he was saying, but it didn’t compute. Something about his tone gave away his angst. He was unhappy but was trying to hide it with a forced calmness in his voice. Besides, there was nothing more important to JT than those kids and the world championship in Seoul. It was all he talked about for the past two months. “What do you mean he had something more important to attend to? What could possibly be more important to him than getting those kids on that plane for the World Championship?”
Jin Sook hesitated before responding. “I don’t know what to say. He told me that something came up, but he didn’t explain in detail, only that he would call later. He said, ‘Don’t worry, it will be OK.’”
Stephanie looked up at the ceiling trying to work out the meaning—not of the words, but the implications of what Jin Sook was saying. “When will we know something more?”
Jin Sook sucked in air through his teeth. “Honestly, I don’t know. Our conversation was very short, but he promised me that he is OK and that he will call as soon as he can.” Jin Sook paused. “They just announced that our flight is boarding. The students are anxious. I need to be with them and keep them calm. Can I text you from the plane?”
“Of course,” she said, and ended the call. She turned up the volume on the TV and flipped through the channels until she found one reporting from LAX. At the same time, she speed-dialed her husband’s number. As expected, it went straight to voice mail. She hung up and gave the story on the news her full attention. The reporter, a dashing young man with perfectly combed hair and a stylish zip-up jacket displaying the station’s logo, stood in front of the Tom Bradley International terminal at Los Angeles International Airport with crowds of people, mainly foreigners, tussling and moving about behind him.
“. . . for nearly two hours. The police are being tight-lipped so far, but the indication from the passengers in the terminal was that someone had gotten past security and approached the underside of a plane as the luggage was being loaded into the plane’s cargo hold. We don’t know the details or why the airport has been closed to all arrivals and departures since roughly 10:30, but one man tells me he saw something unusual.” The reporter paused while the camera zoomed out to a young Asian man wearing a UCLA sweatshirt. “Can you tell us what you saw?” asked the reporter.
“Yeah, it was weird,” said the young man. “Two men, Asian dudes, wearing hoodies and gloves, opened this door that I didn’t even know was there, behind one of the food places there near the waiting area, you know. Then another guy, he was Asian, too—probably Korean, like me—followed them like a minute later.”
The earnest reporter continued retrieving any salient information from the younger man. “Did you see anything else?”
“Well, there are windows, you know, over to the side, that look out at the planes all lined up there. I went over there to see what was going on, you know. But it was really foggy. Plus, the view is really limited. It was hard to see anything. But after a while, a bunch of cop cars came racing up with their lights on, so I watched for a long time to see what was happening. Then I heard the security announcement over the loudspeakers in the terminal telling us all to exit the building and go to the curb, but I stayed until the security guys came and made us leave.”
“Before you left, what did you see out there by the plane?” the reporter urged.
“I couldn’t see much with the fog. Just a group of people moving around, you know. Then the cop car took off again with its lights going.”
“What did the third man who entered that hallway look like?”
“I don’t really know. I didn’t see his face, just his Dodger’s jacket. But I think I saw the cops put him in the cop car.”
The camera shot tightened, showing only the reporter as the witness stepped away. “As you can see, we don’t have the details of who was arrested or what exactly happened, only that three men were able to gain access to the loading area of the plane, causing airport officials to lock down the runways and evacuate the International terminal while they evaluate this potential threat. After confirming with airport authorities, we do know that one man has been placed under arrest and that the apparent threat, whatever it might have been, has passed. One airport official told me moments ago that the ‘All Clear’ has gone out and they will return to normal operations just as quickly as possible. We will bring you more information as this story unfolds. Reporting live from LAX . . .”
Stephanie switched the TV off and let out a deep sigh. JT was involved, she knew from the eyewitness description. A Korean guy wearing a Dodger’s jacket, while not that uncommon, fit him. To satisfy her curiosity, she dashed up the stairs and checked his side of the closet. Yep, his Dodger’s jacket was gone.
Her insides started to sink as the implications and complications began to manifest themselves. Had he gotten himself into trouble? Not likely. Had he tried to stop something he thought was not proper? Quite possible. After five years of marriage, she knew his sense of duty would never allow him to let something untoward go unnoticed.
What would this mean for her and their family? How long until she could talk to him and sort out what was going on?
Matthew started squawking as she reentered the kitchen. What remained of his lunch was now spread all over the tray, on his hands, in his hair, and on the floor. She had to push the big question mark about Jeong Tae out of her mind and take care of the kids. After taking them to her mom, she would walk to the office behind the house and ask her dad for his advice. He would know what to do.
As she washed Matthew’s face at the kitchen sink, she thought about the hurt look on JT’s face when she confronted him again that morning about not taking her and the kids with him to Korea. “If you’re still too ashamed of me to be seen together i
n your hometown, fine. We don’t have to go anywhere near your family or friends. I would just like to check out the places you liked growing up.”
“It’s not that,” JT said.
“Then what?”
“We can’t afford it,” he muttered.
“We have the money. You’re just making excuses.”
“Maybe we do, but we need to be careful. You never know what could happen. The business isn’t growing like we need it to.”
“Then work harder,” she said, a stern rebuke in her voice.
“I’ve tried.” His tone was softer, and he wouldn’t look her in the eye. “It’s no use.”
“Then advertise or go to the schools to recruit like you used to do. Ask the other merchants in town for referrals. Just do more marketing.”
JT shook his head and looked at the floor. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.” The look of dejection and uncertainty had given Stephanie pause, but she was too disappointed to try to pull the truth out of her husband. He was upset and in a hurry. It was not a good time to have the difficult conversation they needed to have. “I’ve got to go. The shuttle guy will be at the Do Jang soon.”
“Wait and I’ll drive you down.”
“No time for that.” He checked his phone. “An Uber will be here in less than a minute.”
With that, he had walked out the door, hanging his head. She knew she had bruised his pride.
Matthew put his arms up in the air and tried to squirm free, bringing her back to the present. Stephanie finished drying his hands and face, then set him down to walk. She had been a jerk to her husband, and she felt sorry. She knew JT needed her help now. She knew it was him who’d gone into that doorway and been put in the cop car, but she had no idea what kind of trouble he was in. The only thing she knew was that her children’s father could not go to prison. They could not afford the cost of an attorney, nor the damage to his reputation and standing in the community. Something like this could ruin them and their business and everything he had built. There had to be a way to fix this situation quickly and quietly.
She hated to do it, but Stephanie Noh could think of only one option to solve what would likely be a complex legal problem with potential federal charges. JT wouldn’t like it. That much she knew, but she also knew her idea would be supremely effective in getting him out of whatever mess he had gotten himself into. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and opened up her contacts, searching for the right number.
Chapter 6
Los Angeles International Airport
June 6, 12:42 p.m.
Two uniformed officers stood at the entrance to my cell and ordered me to stand and place my hands through the slot in the bars. I did, and the second officer clamped cuffs on them. I stepped back, the door slid open, and the three of us marched single file down the hall, with me in the middle.
I was escorted into an interrogation room within the airport police station. It was not so different from other interrogation rooms I had been in. Except for one other time, I wasn’t the one being interrogated before. Plus, this was a new country and it would be in my second language, so this was a new experience.
The guard who had cuffed my hands led me by the elbow around a scuffed up wooden table with dark mottled stains on its surface. As in most interrogation rooms, a mirrored window dominated the wall to my right. The room behind it was probably filled with people and video recording equipment. They were most likely watching my every move, looking for signs, clues, anything that would tell them what they wanted to know about me.
Despite the scrutiny, I imposed calm on my countenance. I knew everything about the process was designed to instill fear, or at least, uneasiness. The accused should feel hopeless and helpless, to the point of despair, unless they chose to cooperate. That was always the golden carrot dangled before the desperate and discouraged: cooperation.
Despite knowing this, desperation was beginning to creep in. When you believe a bomb has been planted on a plane and no one is taking you seriously, it’s natural to start feeling anxious and desperate.
As I entered the room, I contemplated the role reversal. It wasn’t so many years ago that I was on the other side. Therefore, I was able to anticipate every move and comprehend the purpose behind each element of my surroundings and the theatrics that would soon play out.
I felt an urgency to hurry the process along but knew I had to let things work their way out in the prescribed manner. Any deviation would ruin my credibility and place me at a disadvantage. I didn’t want that. The passengers on that plane needed me to be strong. Maintaining kibun would be vital to gaining a positive outcome. There is no direct translation for the concept of kibun. The closest description is “face” or “dignity” or “pride.” I had to keep up a certain appearance, a certain mystique, until they realized that I was an asset, not a liability.
While this wasn’t the first time I had been on the wrong side of an interrogation, I vowed to myself that I would use the lessons I learned last time and create the necessary result. Words, gestures, body language, and confidence would need to combine in just the right way to earn my freedom and gain the cooperation needed to save hundreds of lives.
Walking to my appointed chair, the one bolted to the bare concrete floor, I focused on my facial expressions and my breathing. I wanted to radiate calm. No reason I shouldn’t be at peace. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I drew in a deep breath and followed it with a long, patient exhale. No twitching. No movement. Koreans were good at the stone face thing. It was part of our culture, part of being a man in my home country. Of course, the hooded eyes probably helped me appear more nonchalant than I felt. I had learned to show my opponent nothing. Displaying emotions was a sign of weakness. And one should never show weakness in front of an adversary.
A long time passed. If my internal clock was still working as it should, I had been seated for thirty-five minutes. Following my training, I had mentally cocooned myself so as to shield my emotions and override physical discomfort. I was semi-catatonic.
Finally, I heard the clicking of shoes in the hallway and the turn of the knob, which woke me from my trance. A tall man in dark blue slacks, well-worn lace-up dress shoes, and a light blue shirt stepped in and closed the door behind him. I noticed his sleeves were rolled, top button undone, and his red-striped tie had been loosened. His expression showed that it had already been a long day for him. “Director Alan Robinson from the Transportation Safety Administration,” he said. He flashed a badge, then held me in his steely gaze as he walked slowly in a half circle to the far side of the chair opposite me, across the meter-wide table. He dropped a thick manila folder on the edge of the wooden slab, then stood back, staring.
Alan Robinson had thick dark brown hair with steel blue eyes and stood about six foot two. I would place him somewhere in his late thirties, maybe early forties. An athletic Caucasian with a dark complexion and large hands. A serious man with a stern face.
“Your file,” he said, shooting a glance at it. “Impressive. We’ve learned a lot about you in the past hour.” He kept looking at me, those steel eyes boring through me, like he expected that single statement to act as some kind of lever to pop open the can. Maybe he was expecting the contents to come spilling out spontaneously. “Four years at the American High School in Seoul. Graduated top of your class. Graduated from Yeonsei University, one of Korea’s top schools, again with Honors, in just three years, while simultaneously going through special forces training. Eight years of distinguished service in an elite border patrol unit, the last three of which you were the commander of said unit. Promoted at the earliest possible opportunity in every case. Stellar marks all around—education, leadership, physical fitness, IQ tests, language capability, marksmanship, martial arts master, proven combat skills, medals for valor, sacrifice, and merit. Did I leave anything out?”
I gave a slight shake of my head without looking up.
I wanted to mention that my colleagues and s
uperiors always said I had more noonchi than anyone else they knew. Noonchi is the ability to read people by listening to them and watching their movements so you can discern their moods. I was good at it, but I kept that to myself.
Robinson continued. “Plus, it looks like you worked closely with American troops in several capacities during that time. So, I assume you don’t need an interpreter. That seems pretty obvious.” He waited for me to acknowledge, which I did with a slight head movement. “Anything you’d like to tell me?”
“Beyond what I told the LAPD Interrogators?” I asked.
“Yeah. Any points you want to elaborate on? Any details you may have forgotten to share?”
I gave him a similar once-over. I thought about asking for a lawyer but decided to find out what Director Robinson had in mind first, see how things went before adding a new dimension that would cause delays. I wanted to use what time we had to save the people on that plane, not to protect my legal rights. These guys wanted information, not an arrest. Robinson and the others whose job it was to keep their airport safe had at least as much to lose as I did. They needed to get their collective heads around this problem, and fast. I needed the same thing. Asking for a lawyer would slow things down, further complicating an already complicated situation. Cooperation would likely be the best strategy, but I didn’t want to play my best card first. I decided to ask the question just to see his reaction. “Will I need legal representation?” I asked in the humblest tone I could conjure.
Alan’s face softened. “No, Mr. Noh. No need for a lawyer.”
“But you have me in handcuffs. That must mean you intend to indict me.” When I spoke English, I could still detect an accent. Some of my consonants still sounded harder than when Americans use them. Same with the “oh” and “ah” sounds. Too harsh to be considered a native speaker, but not too far off. Twelve years of studying English in primary and high school, plus evenings and weekends with tutors, eight years working closely with American soldiers, and six years in this country had helped with my pronunciation and usage. It needed more work still. I noticed it more than ever in this setting.