by Angie Kim
“Did you immediately open the hatch?”
“No.” And it was true, he wouldn’t have done that. Pak explained what he would’ve done if he’d been there: turn off oxygen at the emergency valves in case the controls were damaged, then extra-slow depressurization to make sure the pressure changes wouldn’t cause another detonation, resulting in the delay of the hatch opening by more than a minute.
“That makes sense. Thank you,” Abe said. “Now, Pak, do you have any other proof that you never went outside by the oxygen tanks before the explosion?”
“Yes, my cell telephone record,” Pak said, as Abe handed out copies. “8:05 to 8:22 p.m., I was on the telephone. I called the power company to ask when they will fix, and also my wife, to ask her when she will return with batteries. Seventeen minutes, continuous telephone calls.”
“Okay, I see that, but so what? You could’ve been on the phone while you were outside, setting fire under the oxygen tube.”
Pak couldn’t help a little smile as he shook his head. “No. That is impossible.”
Abe frowned, pretending to be mystified. “Why?”
“There is no cell reception near oxygen tank. Yes, in front of the barn. Not in back. Inside or outside. All my patients know this. If they wish to call, they must walk to front.”
“I see. So you couldn’t be anywhere near the fire’s starting point from 8:05 until the explosion. No vicinity, no opportunity.” Abe popped the marker open and crossed out his name next to Opportunity to commit crime. “Let’s turn to ‘Special knowledge and interest,’ next to which Ms. Haug has written ‘P. YOO.’”
Pak heard tittering, and he thought of Abe’s explanation of the juvenile humor of this abbreviation. “Intentional, I’m sure. I hate that woman,” Abe had said.
“Pak, as a licensed HBOT operator, you did research HBOT fires, correct?”
“Yes. I researched to learn how to avoid fires. Improve safety.”
“Thank you.” Under the P. YOO next to Special knowledge and interest, Abe wrote (for good reason—safety) and said, “We come to the last remaining item. Motive. Let me ask straight-out: Did you set fire to your own business with your patients inside and your family nearby to get 1.3 million dollars?”
Pak didn’t have to fake laughing in incredulity at this notion. “No.” He looked at the jurors, focusing in on the older faces. “If you have any children, you know. I never, never risk my child for money. We came to America for our daughter. Her future. Everything is for my family.” The jurors nodded. “I was excited about my business. Miracle Submarine! Many parents of disabled children call, we have waiting list for patients. We are happy. There is no reason to destroy this. Why?”
“I suppose some would answer, 1.3 million dollars. That’s a lot of money.”
Pak looked down at his useless legs in the wheelchair, touched the steel—even in this hot courtroom, it remained cold. “The hospital bills. They are one-half-million dollars. My daughter was in a coma. Doctors say maybe I never walk again.” Pak looked at Mary, her cheeks wet from tears. “No. 1.3 million dollars is not a lot of money.”
Abe looked at the jurors, all twelve now looking at Pak with sympathy in their eyes, leaning forward in their seats toward him as if they wanted to reach across the railings and touch him, comfort him. Abe touched the tip of the red marker to the P in P. YOO next to Motive to commit crime. He stared and shook his head. Slowly, definitively, he put a red gash through Pak’s name.
“Pak,” Abe said, “Matt Thompson told us that you ran into the fire, into the burning chamber, multiple times, even after you were severely injured. Why?”
This was not on the script, but strangely, Pak did not feel panic at having to give an unrehearsed answer. He looked to the gallery, to Matt and Teresa, the other patients behind them. He thought of the children, Rosa in the wheelchair, TJ flapping his arms like a bird, but most of all, Henry. Shy Henry, with eyes that always floated up, as if tethered to the sky. “This is my duty. My patients. I must protect them. My harm, it does not matter.” Pak turned to Elizabeth. “I tried to save Henry, but the fire…”
Elizabeth looked down, as if in shame, and reached for her water glass. Abe said, “Thank you, Pak. I know this is difficult. One final question. Once and for all, did you have anything whatsoever to do with the cigarette, the matches, anything even remotely related to setting the fire that killed two of your patients and nearly killed you and your daughter?”
He was opening his mouth to answer when he saw Elizabeth’s hand shake slightly bringing the water to her mouth. It came to him then, the familiar image that too often wormed its way out of the recesses of his mind to invade his dreams: a cigarette between gloved fingers, shaking slightly, moving toward a matchbook beneath the oxygen tube.
Pak blinked. He took in deep breaths to calm his racing heart. He reminded himself to forget that moment, just roll it into a tight ball and smother it away. He looked at Abe and shook his head. He said, “No, nothing. Nothing at all.”
YOUNG
WHEN ELIZABETH’S LAWYER SAID, “Good afternoon, Mr. Yoo,” the memory that rushed to Young was, strangely, of Mary’s birth. It must have been the look on Pak’s face: every muscle in his face clenched still into the emotionless mask of a man bracing himself to hide his fear. It was the same look he’d had nearly eighteen years ago (no, exactly eighteen years ago—Mary’s birthday was tomorrow, but it was already tomorrow in Seoul, where she’d been born) when the doctor came in with a grave look and walked the length of Young’s recovery room without a word. They’d had to do an emergency hysterectomy, the doctor said. At least the baby’s fine, he said. The baby was a girl. They were sorry. (Or was it, The baby was a girl—they were sorry?)
Like most Korean men, Pak had wanted a son, expected one. He’d tried to hide his disappointment; when his family bemoaned his misfortune in his only child being a girl, he said, “She’s as good as ten sons.” But a little too firmly, as if trying to convince them of something he didn’t quite believe. Young heard the strain in his voice, the false brightness he’d tried to inject, making his voice higher-pitched than usual.
Which was exactly how he sounded now, saying, “Good afternoon.”
Elizabeth’s lawyer didn’t spend any time buttering him up, like she had with the others. “You said you’ve never been to a 7-Eleven around here, is that correct?”
“Yes. I never saw. I do not know the locations,” Pak said, and Young smiled. Abe had told him not to simply say “yes,” that that’s what she needed to trap him. Elaborate, explain, he’d said, and Pak was doing just that.
Shannon lowered her chin, smiled, and stepped toward Pak like a hunter with prey. “Do you have an ATM card?”
“Yes.” Pak frowned, probably mystified by the sudden change in topic.
“Does your wife use that card?”
Pak’s frown deepened. “No. My wife has separate card.”
Shannon handed him a document. “Recognize this?”
Pak flipped through. “It is my bank account statement.”
“Please read for us the highlighted lines under ‘ATM cash withdrawals.’”
“June 22, 2008—ten dollars. July 6, 2008—ten dollars. July 24, 2008—ten dollars. August 10, 2008—ten dollars.”
“What’s the location for those four entries?”
“It is 108 Prince Street, Pine Edge, Virginia.”
“Mr. Yoo, do you remember what’s at that location, 108 Prince Street in Pine Edge?”
Pak looked up, his face scrunched in concentration, and shook his head. “No.”
“Let’s see if we can refresh your recollection.” Shannon placed a poster on the easel: a picture of a 7-Eleven with an ATM under its orange-green-red-striped awning. Clearly visible on the glass door was the address—108 Prince Street, Pine Edge, VA. Young felt something drop in her stomach and grind against her bowels.
Pak held still, but his face paled into the weathered gray of a gravestone.
“Mr. Yoo,
what is next to the ATM at this location?”
“7-Eleven is there.”
“You testified that you’ve never been to or even seen a 7-Eleven nearby, and yet there’s one at the ATM you used four times last summer. Do I have that right?”
“I do not remember this ATM. I never go there,” Pak said. His face looked resolute, but there was doubt in his voice. Could the jury hear it, too?
“Is there any reason to think your bank statement might be wrong? Was your card lost or stolen at all last summer?”
Something came to Pak then. A thought that excited him and caused him to open his mouth. But just as suddenly, he closed his mouth and lowered his eyes. “No. No stolen.”
“So you admit that your bank records prove you went to this 7-Eleven multiple times, but you claim you don’t remember being there, is that right?”
Pak said, still looking down, “I do not remember.”
“Much like you can’t remember buying cigarettes last summer?”
“Objection, badgering the witness,” Abe said.
“Withdrawn,” Shannon said, and continued. “Didn’t you go to 7-Eleven on August 26, mere hours before the explosion?”
“No!” Outrage powered Pak’s voice and brought color back to his face. “I never go to 7-Eleven. Never, and not day of explosion. I never leave my business all day.”
Shannon raised her brows. “So you didn’t leave your property at all that day?”
Pak opened his mouth eagerly, and Young expected him to say “Yes!” but instead, his mouth closed and his body slumped like a punctured blow-up toy, losing air fast. Shannon said, “Mr. Yoo?” and Pak looked up. “I remember now, I went shopping. We needed baby powder.” He looked at the jurors. “We use it on oxygen helmet seal. For sweat. To keep dry.”
Young remembered Pak saying they needed more powder but he couldn’t leave with the protesters on-site. And later, before the last dive, he’d grabbed cornstarch from the kitchen as an alternative to powder. So why was he lying?
“Where did you go?” Shannon said.
“Walgreen to get baby powder. Then ATM near there.”
“Mr. Yoo, please read the line dated August 26, 2008, on your bank statement.”
Pak nodded. “‘ATM cash. One hundred dollars. 12:48 p.m. Creekside Plaza, Miracle Creek, Virginia.’”
“That’s the ATM you went to, after Walgreens?”
“Yes.” Young thought back. 12:48, during lunch break. He’d asked her to prepare lunch while he went to reason with the protesters once more. He’d returned twenty minutes later, saying he’d tried and they wouldn’t listen. Had he gone out to town instead? But why? Shannon put another picture on the easel. “Is this the Creekside Plaza ATM?”
“Yes.” The picture showed the entire “plaza,” which sounded grand but was actually just three stores and four empty storefronts with “For Lease” signs. The ATM was in the center, next to Party Central.
“What I find interesting is this 7-Eleven, right behind this plaza. You see it, right?” Shannon pointed at the unmistakable stripes in the corner.
Pak didn’t look at the picture, just said, “Yes.”
“I also find it interesting that you went to this ATM, miles away from Walgreens, even though there’s an ATM inside Walgreens, which you seem to use regularly, based on your bank statement. Do I have that right?”
“I did not remember I need cash until after Walgreen.”
“It’s strange how you didn’t remember you needed cash while paying for powder, with your wallet out, at Walgreens,” Shannon said, then smiled and started walking back to her table.
Pak looked up and said, “Walgreen sell cigarettes.”
Shannon turned. “I’m sorry?”
“You think I use Plaza ATM because I go to 7-Eleven for cigarettes. But if I want cigarettes, why I would not buy at Walgreen?” Of course. Shannon’s argument didn’t hold up. Young felt a thrill of triumph at Pak’s logic, at his look of pride, at the jurors’ nods at him.
Shannon said, “Because I don’t think you went to Walgreens that day. I think you went to 7-Eleven to get Camels and went to the ATM nearby, and Walgreens is something you came up with today to explain why you left your business.” If Shannon had shouted this or said it in a gotcha! way, Young could’ve dismissed it as the rantings of a biased enemy. But Shannon said it gently, with the regretful tone of a teacher telling a kindergartner his answer was wrong—not wanting to, but forced to by duty—and Young found herself agreeing, knowing that Shannon was right. Pak hadn’t gone to Walgreens. Of course he hadn’t. But where had he gone, to do what, that he’d hidden from her, his wife?
Abe objected, and the judge told the jury to disregard the last exchange. Shannon said, “Mr. Yoo, isn’t it true that you smoked daily for about twenty years before last summer?”
Young could almost hear the whirs inside his brain trying to figure out how to avoid the resigned “Yes” he eventually muttered.
“How did you quit?” Shannon said.
Pak frowned, seemed puzzled. “I just … not smoke.”
“Really? You must have used gum or patches, surely.” There was an incredulity in Shannon’s voice, but it wasn’t hostile. It was gentle—admiring, even—and again, Young found herself sympathizing with Shannon, questioning, how did he manage to cut off a twenty-year habit so easily? She could see the same question in the jurors’ faces.
“No. I just stop.”
“You just stopped.”
“Yes.”
Shannon looked at Pak for a long moment, both their eyes unblinking like in a staring contest. Shannon broke the stare, blinked, and said, “Okay. You just stopped.” The way she smiled, she may as well have been a mother, patting her three-year-old’s head, saying, You saw a purple elephant dancing in your room? Okay. Of course you did, sweetheart. “Now, before you”—she paused—“quit smoking, was Camel your favorite?”
Pak shook his head. “In Korea, I smoke Esse, but they do not sell here. In Baltimore, I smoke many brands.”
Shannon smiled. “If I were to ask the delivery guys you took smoking breaks with—say, a Mr. Frank Fishel—would they say you had no favorite American brand?” Frank Fishel, the name they hadn’t recognized on the defense witness list Abe showed them. They’d known the delivery guy as Frankie, had never known his full name.
Abe stood. “Objection. If Ms. Haug wants to know about other people, she should ask them, not Pak.”
“Oh, I plan to. Frank Fishel is ready to drive down from Baltimore. But you’re right, I withdraw my question.” Shannon turned to Pak. “Mr. Yoo, what brand did you tell others was your favorite American cigarette?”
Pak shut his mouth and glared, looking like a recalcitrant boy refusing to accept responsibility for some naughty deed despite obvious proof.
“Your Honor,” Shannon said, “please direct the witness to answer—”
“Camel,” Pak spat out.
“Camels.” Shannon looked satisfied. “Thank you.”
Young looked at the jurors. They were frowning at Pak, shaking their heads. If Pak had admitted it right away, they might have believed it was a coincidence, but Pak’s near refusal had transformed it into something of significance in their eyes and hers as well. Could the cigarette under the oxygen tube be Pak’s, one he’d bought earlier that day? But why?
As if in answer, Shannon said, “You were angry with the protesters, weren’t you?”
“Maybe not angry. I did not like them bothering my patients,” Pak said.
Shannon picked up a file from her desk. “According to a police report, the day after the explosion, you accused the protesters of setting the fire and you stated, quote, ‘They threatened to do whatever it took to shut down HBOT.’” Shannon looked up. “Is the report correct?”
Pak looked away for a moment. “Yes.”
“And you believed their threats, right? After all, they caused the power outage, disrupting your business, and even as the police were taking them aw
ay, they promised to return and keep at it until they shut you down for good, right?”
Pak shrugged. “It does not matter. My patients believe in HBOT.”
“Mr. Yoo, isn’t your patients’ belief in you based on your experience working at an HBOT facility in Seoul for over four years?”
Pak shook his head. “My patients see results. The children improve.”
“Isn’t it true,” Shannon continued, “that the protesters threatened to dig up anything they could on you, and said they’d contact the center in Seoul where you worked?”
Pak didn’t say anything. His jaw clenched.
“Mr. Yoo, if the explosion hadn’t happened and they had, in fact, contacted the center’s owner, what would Mr. Byeong-ryoon Kim have told them?”
Abe objected and the judge sustained. Pak didn’t move, didn’t blink.
“The fact is,” Shannon said, “you were fired for incompetence less than a year into your job, more than three years prior to coming to America, isn’t that right? And if the protesters discovered that and exposed your lies to your patients, your business could go down the tubes, leaving you with nothing. And you couldn’t let that happen, isn’t that so?”
No, that couldn’t be. But Young saw Pak’s face, deep purple with fury—no, shame, the way his eyes were cast downward, unable to meet Young’s gaze—and remembered Pak telling her not to use his work e-mail anymore, that there was a new rule forbidding personal e-mails. As Abe objected and Pak shouted that he never harmed his patients and the judge pounded the gavel, Young had to look away. Her eyes whirled around the courtroom and stopped on the picture on the easel, the glare of sunlight gleaming off something shiny in the Party Central window. She’d passed it on their way to court yesterday, and if she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend it was still yesterday, back when she knew nothing of her husband’s secrets and lies and she’d been wondering how much it would cost to get streamers and balloons for Mary’s birthday.
Balloons. Young’s eyes snapped open at the thought, zoomed to the easel. In the picture, you couldn’t make out what in the display was giving off the glare. But yesterday, driving by, Young had seen them, floating lazily inside, next to the ATM: shiny, metallic Mylar balloons with stars and rainbows. Just like the ones that blew out the power lines on the day of the explosion.