by Sydney Bauer
The truth was, his latest conversation with H. Edgar had made him sick to his stomach. So much so that he made up some bullshit about having a private meeting with Professor Novak so as to avoid going to a Corporate Finance tutorial with him this morning. First up, he had no idea that H. Edgar was gonna pull that “new evidence” stunt to the ADA yesterday and he was seriously pissed that his friend had not given him a heads-up in advance. Heath had no idea what H. Edgar was talking about, and now that Katz had told Simpson he wasn’t to speak of it, H. Edgar had yet another excuse to keep Heath in the dark. Finally, and worst of all, H. Edgar had sat here, across from him, mere moments ago and uttered the unimaginable—that James had done it! That he had killed Jessica Nagoshi. That he had fooled them all along. That he had used them in some pathetic attempt to try to get himself off. And that Heath had better wise up and accept the fact their best friend was a fucking Menendez brother in disguise.
But no matter which way Heath looked at it, it just didn’t make sense. Why the hell would James ask them to turn him in if he was guilty? He wouldn’t, of course. So now Heath was thinking that maybe something else had been going down from the beginning, and maybe, just maybe, James wasn’t the only one being played in this confusing little game of “piggy in the middle.” Heath shook his head, trying to clear the fog. Lately, with James out of the picture, he had got the feeling the whole university had started to look at him differently. And the view they were consuming wasn’t exactly one you’d run on the cover of a Forbes 500 issue. And so maybe it was time he started looking after his own backyard, and after James’ as well, considering he was in no position to tend it himself.
If the mountain can’t come to Mohammad, then Mohammad needs to get his fucking shoes on, he said to himself then. The operator at County lockup had told him visiting hours were Sundays at two—and so, this coming weekend, he would go and see James and find out the truth for himself.
59
It was cold out. David knew this because as he sat in Joe’s now crowded living room, the Jones kid directly across from him in front of the north-facing window, he could see the slightest trace of icicles forming at the corners of the glass outside, framing Sawyer’s head like some sort of crystal blue halo.
“Don’t be nervous,” said David, at last feeling the need to say something after Sara had left the room to get Sawyer a coffee, and Joe and Frank had formed a last minute cop-to-cop huddle in the corner of the room. “You’re a smart kid, Sawyer, and Mr. Kwon obviously trusts you.”
It was a lame attempt at reassurance, but the best he could come up with.
“Sara told me you only represent people who you think are innocent,” said Sawyer, the statement catching David by surprise.
“Ah, yeah,” said David, not knowing what else to say.
“How do you know?” asked Sawyer, his eyes now wide and inquiring, the blue light behind him now bouncing off his shiny young face.
“Well,” said David, looking directly into his big brown eyes, “I guess I trust my instincts. I weigh up what my client tells me against the prosecution’s evidence and, in the end, I go with my gut.”
“Doesn’t sound like legal logic to me,” said Sawyer, his face now relaxing into a smile.
“Me neither,” said David, smiling in return.
David knew how Sara felt about this kid, and despite Mannix’s reservations, was relieved to find himself thinking that perhaps Sara might have been right after all. Maybe Jones really was genuine in his attempt to help others, and the overconfident façade described by Joe was just that—an identity he had given himself to prevent being singled out for less appealing reasons.
David guessed that young Sawyer Jones had known he was different pretty much since he was able to communicate. And he had more than likely chosen his own “arrogant crusader” persona so as not to be labeled with some less socially acceptable moniker like “intellectual freak” or “annoying geek.” He had also noticed the way he looked at Sara, and guessed that the last time Sawyer got close to having a girlfriend was when he held hands with his cousin in his backyard sandpit.
“It’s time,” said Mannix, appearing above Sawyer with the telephone. “Just do exactly as we discussed. Keep it slow and easy. You’ll be on speaker so if Frank or I think of anything else you should ask, we’ll write the question on this pad.” Joe signaled at the notebook beside the phone.
“Remember, you are under a legal obligation to tell Mr. Kwon the conversation is being taped, but you must stress the recording will not leave the possession of the Boston PD. In other words, you have to make sure he knows the Nagoshis will never learn of this conversation and our only aim is to protect him and his workers—and to find out who was responsible for Mr. Lim’s death.” Joe took a breath, perhaps wondering if Jones was up to this. “You got it, kid?”
“Yeah,” said Jones, now glancing up at Sara who had returned from the kitchen to place an encouraging hand on his shoulder. “I got it.”
And then Sara took a seat next to David as Sawyer dialed the number and Joe and Frank hovered above him. They heard the line ring and a man pick up and Sawyer take a long, deep breath . . . to begin.
“Mr. Kwon,” he said.
“Yes,” said the clipped, accented tone in reply.
“Thank you for agreeing to take my call. I understand how difficult this is for you, but I can assure you, I only want to help you, Mr. Kwon, you and your employees.”
Kwon said nothing so Sawyer took a breath.
“Mr. Kwon, I need to tell you something before we begin and I need you to know that what I am about to explain has been organized in your best interests—for your protection.”
“I do not understand,” said Kwon, and Sawyer could already hear the hesitancy in the Chinese manager’s voice. Sawyer knew he needed to keep him on the line, not just for the police but because this man had come to him for help. If he lost him now, after months of trying to emancipate the Nagoshi workers in Guangdong, he would never be able to forgive himself.
“The police are here, Mr. Kwon, the Boston police. I am afraid they fear that what has been occurring at your plant—and perhaps even the circumstances around Mr. Lim’s death—may also be related to the death of Mr. Nagoshi’s daughter.” Sawyer could almost feel Kwon recoil, so he pushed on, trying to keep the connection alive.
“Please, Mr. Kwon, you have to understand, if two lives have been lost, if this is the way Peter Nagoshi operates, then this is just the beginning. You owe it to your workers, to yourself and your family, Mr. Kwon, to be honest, to clear your conscience, to tell the truth as you know it. We will make sure you are safe, for as it stands, if what you began to tell me this morning is true, you have little choice.”
There was a pause.
“I . . .” began Kwon, obviously still unsure.
And so then Sawyer said the only thing he could say, the only thing that would scare Kwon enough to keep him on the line, and tell them all what they needed to know. “Peter Nagoshi may have killed his sister, Mr. Kwon, and if you do not believe me when I tell you this, I shall be happy to hand you over to Boston’s Chief of Homicide who shall spare no details in describing the grisly details of her death.
“So think, Mr. Kwon, ask yourself in all honesty, if you think Peter Nagoshi would lose one second of sleep if your blood or that of your workers were added to the smears already present on his young and ambitious hands. No, sir, I am afraid every second you procrastinate you are taking another step down the road of no return. You have come this far, Mr. Kwon, do not make the wrong decision now.”
And then there was silence, deathly silence as Sawyer closed his eyes and swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat, half of him hoping what he had just said was enough to reach the terrified Chinese foreman, and the other praying God would forgive him for using this poor man in this game of deception and lies.
“All right,” said Kwon at last, and Sawyer felt the strange sensation of relief and anticipation and guil
t wash over him all at the very same time.
“I will talk to you, Mr. Jones. I will even urge my coworkers to do the same. But you must not betray us, for Guangdong is a long way from Boston, and I fear that Peter Nagoshi is a man who lives in many places, and is ready to destroy all who stand in his way.”
While all in the room were hoping Mr. Kwon would shed some light on Peter Nagoshi’s operations in China, while all were praying the anxious Chinese overseer would help them make a link between Peter’s business activities and his sister’s death, none of them were prepared for the extent of Mr. Kwon’s revelations as to the magnitude of the Nagoshi son’s ambition, and the lengths he would go to assure his own success.
Were the Nagoshi workers underpaid? Yes. Were they overworked? Without question. Were they intimidated, downtrodden, abused even? Most certainly. Mr. Kwon told Sawyer how the Guangdong operation had been Peter’s “offspring” from the very beginning, how he had built the plant under his father’s directive but then, left to his own devices, cut costs, extended working hours, demanded significant lifts in production and set harsh, unreasonable deadlines regarding the production of the new Nagoshi “Dream.” He then told them of the death of Mr. Lim, following rumors he had started to complain, first to his fellow workers and then to outside groups such as Solidarity Global.
“Late one night, not long before Mr. Lim’s death, Peter Nagoshi asked me about Mr. Lim,” Mr. Kwon had told Sawyer. “He asked if he was a bèi pàn—a traitor. I told him he was one of the older workers, a respected elder who had expressed some concern for the tiredness of his comrades.” Days later, Kwon explained, Mr. Lim’s brother, Mr. Lim the younger, concerned his older sibling had not yet returned from work, went back to the plant late, to find his brother dead, in the corner of the plant’s extensive pit—electrocuted by the main switch of the generator.
“There is a cleaning tub in the back workroom, where the men wash parts to remove grease and residue,” Kwon had said. “Mr. Lim often worked at the tub, cleaning parts for the mechanics. The pit itself contains many electrical devices, on shelves in and around the main floor. But the safety switch on the main generator was always in place to prevent any accident from occurring.”
Mr. Kwon went on to explain that when Mr. Lim was found, literally fried by the massive surge of voltage, his tarred body slumped over the water tank, a drill was discovered at the base of the large oval-shaped tub.
“The drill was connected to the main power source,” Kwon had continued. “And the source was operational, as the safety switch on the main generator had been disabled.”
“Is it easy to disable the switch?” Sawyer had asked.
“Yes and no. You would have to walk out to the main power board to accomplish this task,” Kwon had answered. “But once there, it is literally a flick. You see?”
“Yes,” Sawyer had said, looking up at the four stunned faces above him. “We see.”
And so, Kwon had explained, the rumors had begun. The tales of a yao or devil in their midst, the same yao who was working them to the bone and robbing their children of the food they were promised when they left their paddy fields to toil for the Westerner with the Asian face.
Finally Sawyer had asked Mr. Kwon—why now? Why had Mr. Kwon made the decision to step forward and tell what he knew? And Mr. Kwon told him how Peter Nagoshi’s worst fears had been realized, that the “Dream” was no longer a much anticipated industry secret but a victim of technological theft.
“He believes one of my workers sold the specifications for the ‘Dream’ to a competitor, and—to be truthful with you Mr. Jones—he is mostly likely correct. But that is what you get when you treat men like dogs.
“And so now we are out of time, Mr. Jones,” Kwon continued, his voice low and resolute. “We cannot save this plant and, deep down, I believe Peter Nagoshi knows this also. He is not a man to discriminate, Mr. Jones. If he does not discover who sabotaged his ‘Dream,’ figuratively and literally, he will not hesitate to act on the principles of widespread retribution.”
Kwon had paused there, before taking a breath to share one final observation.
“And so, Mr. Jones, if you tell me Peter Nagoshi’s sister stood in his way, and that he killed her as punishment for the inconvenience, then in all honesty, my eyes do not blink. I will help you if I can, Mr. Jones, but I ask that you move quickly, for I fear that time is not on our side and the darkness of reprisal continues to creep across our souls, slowly, surely, each and every second of each and every day.”
The air in the room was thick, heavy, stifling. Joe moved to the window, raising it just a notch—the gap wide enough to cool the tension with a welcome icy breeze but narrow enough to prevent the whipping November sleet from entering the cluttered space that was the Mannix family living room.
“One thing’s for sure,” said Joe as soon as Sawyer had agreed to leave the room. “That kid is one for the books.
“I told you he was on our side, Joe,” said Sara.
“Well, I wouldn’t want him as an enemy,” said Frank.
“So what next?” said David, bringing them back on course. “I know we should be grateful, having two viable suspects instead of one but . . .”
“Three,” interrupted Joe, knowing it had to be said. “I’m sorry, David, but you can’t overlook the fact that Matheson is still top of the suspect list, at least in the eyes of the law. We may know what we know, or at least what we think we know, but we can’t forget the evidence against your client was enough to convince a judge of probable cause, and a grand jury of voting in favor of issuing an indictment.”
Joe saw the disappointment on his friend’s face, a disappointment tinged with the knowledge that what he said was true. “I’m not saying these new theories don’t make sense,” he went on. “But at this stage that is all they are—theories. Whereas your client is the one with his name on the rap sheet and the ADA is determined to make it stick.”
David nodded, the cool air now whipping across the room, lifting his sandy-colored hair off his hot, shiny brow.
“You’re right, Joe, but in the very least you have to admit that after today we have a whole new field to play on. No matter which way you look at it, Simpson is a bona fide suspect, with an intellect superior enough to pull it off.
“And then we have Peter Nagoshi, who . . .” David paused, a recent memory now forcing its way into his consciousness. “It was some form of martial arts,” he said at last.
“Come again?” said Sara.
“The night of the Halloween Ball, when Nagoshi attacked James.” David stood to lift his two arms in the air. “Whoosh,” he said. “Whoosh, whoosh,” he repeated, this time bringing his two arms down simultaneously at forty-five degree angles. “Remember?” he asked the group in front of him. “One blow to James’ shoulder, the other to his cheek?”
“Two blows from different arms at opposite angles with equal force,” Frank began, “in the shape of an ‘X,’ just like the indentations on Jessica Nagoshi’s head. The guy has a temper, Chief. You remember what he was like when we told him about his sister’s pregnancy. Burst out of his seat, yelled something in Japanese . . .”
“What was it he yelled again?” asked Joe, now wondering if this small detail might tell them something.
“Um . . . ,” said Frank, now pulling at his forehead as if trying to draw the memory into his consciousness. “It was . . . Bita, Bato or . . .”
But Joe was already on his feet, grabbing the phone to call work and ask for a Japanese-American officer named Karl Sumi—who was on the line within seconds.
“Are you sure?” Joe asked after a pause, having inquired what the word might mean—before thanking Sumi and signing off and facing his friends once again.
“Baita,” he said then. “When we told him his sister was pregnant, Peter Nagoshi got to his feet and yelled ‘Baita.’ ”
“So what does it mean?” asked Sara. “Is it some form of Japanese expletive?”
“N
ot exactly,” said Joe. “Baita means prostitute—in other words, Peter Nagoshi was calling his sister a whore.”
Joe lifted his head and turned to Frank. “We need to find out if Peter Nagoshi practices some sort of kick-ass karate, Frank. And we need to do it now.”
Frank nodded, making a note in his notebook before looking up again.
“Okay,” said David at last. “This is all progress but we cannot afford to get ahead of ourselves. None of this means anything without proof. Katz is a man on a mission and once he has his eye on the prize . . .”
“So if we are in this, we are in this together,” said Joe, looking directly at David, needing to make the point. “You, me, Frank, Sara and even young POTUS-in-waiting out there,” he added, gesturing toward the kitchen where Sawyer had been banished to make a fresh pot of coffee. “That means we take this slowly, carefully and keep each other informed.”
“I know what you are saying, Joe,” said David. “And I appreciate your offer to help. But as far as the ADA is concerned, this case is closed and any investigation you undertake will put your job in jeopardy. I was the one who lit this fire in the first place and . . .”
“No, David,” interrupted Mannix, knowing where this was going. “All you did was identify the kid in a sketch,” he said, trying to alleviate his friend’s misplaced feelings of guilt. “Me and Frank, we’re the ones who built the case against Matheson—his lies set the ball rolling and then all the little things started to add up. We did what we had to do, but that doesn’t mean we sign out just because our report is filed and stamped.
“Simpson, Nagoshi . . . none of this stuff was ever meant to be discovered. But you and Sara and Jones out there found it. I will help you, David, because I could not live with myself if I didn’t. And because this is our job,” he said, gesturing at Frank. “This is what we do.”