A few months later, the pretty Guatemalan girl turned up dead at one of his crime scenes. A shoot-out between the rival drug dealers. It was a stray bullet. Mick Chang had seen dead girls before, in Afghanistan. Once, he had been in a tank when a civilian car in front of him hit a land mine and blew up. A girl was injured, but not dead, her leg blown off. He saw the locals dump her in the river and drive off. After that, he thought nothing could upset him.
Mick Chang knelt down beside the body and realized who it was. When no one was looking he took the pink ribbon from her hair and hid it in the palm of his hand. He didn't look in her purse to find out her name. He didn't want to know her name. He didn't want to say that he knew where she lived, because he didn't know her. He didn't know jack.
Later, he tied the pink ribbon to the belt loop of his favorite old jeans. It stayed there for a long time.
Chapter 15
Choi knew the real reason the Dumok was looking for Nara Song. The Dumok wanted the truth about what had happened to his child. And if the Dumok ever found Nara, Choi would be blamed because he had been part it. It was certain and simple.
Choi also knew that the Dumok was no longer the same easygoing person he was when they were classmates and rivals at Seoul National University. He didn't want to think about what the Dumok would do to him if he found out the truth. For that reason alone, Holly Park must never find Nara Song.
Choi remembered the Dumok very well. They had been classmates and rivals at a time everyone called the Dumok by a made-up Korean name because and no one could pronounce his true French name. Choi also knew the true reason that the Dumok left South Korea was because he had killed a man in a fit of rage over Nara Song. The rivalry that had consumed him for so many years seemed insignificant now. That was a long time ago. Today Choi felt every minute of his age.
When the Dumok returned to Seoul, he reported for duty only to discover his wife and child had died in childbirth and he had been terminated from his position. Choi knew because was assigned to deliver the news. Choi did, but while doing so he couldn’t help but add a lie. A small lie meant to be merely malicious and inconsequential, but it had ended up causing the death of an innocent man. The Dumok was thirty-five years old and suddenly found himself at the end of his career. As inevitably as the tides, the Dumok took the news hard and was ruined overnight, numbing his pain with alcohol and in the arms of women, the only solace of which he found himself worthy. A few weeks of debauchery makes a man feel invincible, but one day too many and he wonders if he will make it to the next hour. In the end, broken and friendless, he headed for America. It was the dark history of corruption and crime that drew him to the City of Angels. The Dumok wanted to disappear into it.
The year was 1992. Spring had brought trouble to the City of Angels when white police officers had been acquitted by in the beating of a black man named Rodney King by an all-white jury. It became a turning point in history and resentment turned to violence. The mob mentality is a strange thing. It only took one act of violence to whip the crowd into a frenzy. A single bottle was thrown high into the air and came tumbling down with a crash. A roaring shout went up, a chanting war cry, and suddenly, the mob outside the courthouse metamorphosed into a single violent force - one voice that was heard for the next six days and nights causing the largest riot in the United States since the New York draft riots of 1863. The rioters had no purpose, no plan, only rage. It was pure heat, stoked by years of resentment.
For six days the streets of Koreatown burned, as the Koreans were trapped geographically between the black and white neighborhoods. Then, it ended just as it had begun. There was no official intervention. No resolution. The fire had simply run out of fuel.
The Dumok arrived in Los Angeles only to discover that everything west of Vermont and east of Western Avenue had burned into the ground. He got out of the car on 8th Street and Western Avenue, and silently made his way through the streets, taking in the ruins. He felt like the streets inside, once energized and now ashes, torn, broken, and discarded. While pacing the streets, he saw opportunity and a vision came to him. He knew what to do. The town was full of frustrated men, caught up in their cultural and financial obligations with nowhere to go to relieve the pressure. He knew the formula to bring the town back to life. All he had to do was plant the seeds.
For his first career in international relations he had been trained to handle politicians. He would use all of that experience, he knew how they operated, only this time he would use it for himself. He would meet with the local politicians and convince them to loosen building codes and regulations in order to stimulate real estate development and businesses. He imagined the freedom and tolerance of the red light district of Amsterdam. The filtered grey luminescence of the Dutch sky reflecting off the clouds, the light complimenting the ancient stones of buildings compressed together as they hovered over the canals, the girls in the windows peddling their wares.
The Dumok began to feel a certain freedom. As the protegé of a senior Ambassador he had learned and followed every rule without question. Now, having been thrown to the wolves, he no longer felt any obligation to play their game. The plan was simple. He would build and they would come. Walking the scorched streets, he noticed two young men, their eyes hard. They were from a hard-scrabble existence and two different breeds. One, called Mix, was a rottweiler, big and mean. The other, Mick Chang, was a doberman pinscher, skinny and mean. It was a delicate matter. If channeled wrong, they would wind up in prison or dead in an alley fight, having never understood that their fate was not fixed, but as malleable as clay in the right hands.
"I'll buy you a bowl of noodles," the Dumok called out. It didn't take much beyond free food to gain their loyalty. The young men looked at each other, shrugged, and followed. The stores on either side of the noodle shop had been looted, the broken windows boarded up with plywood. Mix and Mick stood awkwardly. The owner showed them to a booth. They sat and ate quietly. In the shared food a bond was formed.
In the basement of the first building he purchased, the Dumok trained the boys through boxing and martial arts to channel their adrenaline and surging testosterone into a tool, to be aggressive on the attack and tenacious on the defense, and at all times to go for the throat.
A web begins with a single thread. It was this chance meeting with the boys where the Dumok released the first length of thread, attaching the two other points of the Y structure. Mix and Mick found themselves at the center of the web and eventually, what happened during those years came to change their friendship forever.
It was Mix and Mick who first brought in the girls who crossed the borders through Seattle, Arizona, Texas and Niagara Falls for the promise of work in nightclubs, karaoke bars and private room salons. The girls rotated from club to club, so there would always be a variety of fresh faces and never a shortage of men willing to pay for a few hours of distraction. The ban on smoking in public places presented the next opportunity. Expensive citations were being issued to establishments that allowed smoking.
Next, the Dumok paid a visit to the Councilman of the Fifth District, an old-timer named Willy McClellan. The next day Mix showed up at the Councilman's office with an envelope containing five thousand dollars in cash, an honorarium, Korean style.
“Damn, their money smells like kimchee,” the Councilman chuckled. Suddenly, liquor licenses were issued, raids stopped, moratorium were put in place against excessive regulation, and rules were bent and permission given with the Councilman's hand firmly on the rudder. Over time, the money stopped exciting him and his attention naturally turned to the doehmes. Temptation. It was everywhere and those young Oriental girls were so damn fine. Gradually, the lines began to blur and fade, graying until the lines washed away like the white chalk on a football field after a heavy rain. It was in this way, Koreatown rose, like a Phoenix, from the ashes. Two decades later, Koreatown was booming and Mix was still with him. Mick, the Dumok lost, first to the military and then to the badge.
Holly Park was too young to know this history and Choi was not about to let her go snooping around and find out. Anyway, it had nothing to do with finding Nara Song. But if Holly found Nara Song, she would find out where the Dumok's story really started. From there the Dumok would find out about the lie.
Choi shuddered. One thing was certain. The Dumok must continue to believe Nara Song was dead - or at least never find her. Choi really didn't want to hurt Holly, but if the morgue visit didn't scare her off he would have to do something worse.
Chapter 16
"I lost the trial," Holly told Mi Rae. She was back from court pulling a rolling briefcase behind her.
"I hated your client, and I'm sure the jury did, too," Mi Rae sniffed.
"I didn't get paid to lose, Mi Rae.” The case weighed on Holly heavily. Holly sat in her office nursing a styro-foam cup of instant coffee. She watched the chunks of creamer floating on top, distracted.
Over her objections, the judge had admitted into evidence photos from the crime scene of blood-stains of the victim, the left shoe and broken eye glasses scattered on the highway. The life of Stanley Gunderson, a college student, had ended in the terrible crash. Holly imagined Stanley's body lying on a shelf above the mutilated body of the Enforcer and shuddered.
Blake LeBlanc, the prosecutor was seasoned, relentless and uncompromising. It was Holly's sheer bad luck to have such a formidable adversary. Blake LeBlanc painted her client, Jane Lim, as a Koreatown barfly, and the life of Stanley Gunderson cut short over her client's irresponsible decision to get behind the wheel, drunk.
Holly watched as the jurors' eyes rested on the broken eye glasses. She found her eyes kept going back to the glasses, too. How did they break? Was it at the point of impact or did the glasses fall off after the impact? Could he see as he waved down for help? Did Stanley see the third car coming towards him at full speed? Were Stanley's last moments inexplicable terror or a merciful blur? Holly wondered, too, about the body she had seen at the morgue. She couldn't get the image of the body out of her head. Who deserved to die like that? What were the Enforcer’s last moments before he was tortured and his body gutted? Were his last moments inexplicable terror or was it a merciful, quick death?
The parents of the victim sat on the front bench of the courtroom each day, their faces pained and aging with each day. Theirs was a sorrow that would never heal. Did the Enforcer leave behind grieving parents, too? Holly wondered.
When Blake LeBlanc played the tape-recorded confession for the jury Holly knew it was over. Her client's high-pitched giggling voice filled the courtroom, words slurred as she repeatedly asked when she could go to the impound lot to get her car back.
So Holly knew. Of course she knew. Even so, it was difficult to hear when the verdict was read:
"We the jury find the defendant guilty of gross vehicular manslaughter while intoxicated..."
Jane Lim’s shrieks filled the courtroom.
The case, which had originally been filed as a single count of driving under the influence with great bodily injury, had been amended to vehicular manslaughter because the victim had died of head injuries. Jane Lim didn't help her cause. She had a prior driving under the influence conviction. No witness was more unsympathetic and Jane Lim found herself sentenced to ten years in state prison. A decade would be paid in exchange for a life.
Crime.
Judgment.
Punishment.
Justice.
"Oma! Oma!" (Mama! Mama!) Jane's screams rang out as she threw her head down on the table, weeping. The cries continued as she removed her jewelry and handed it to Holly as the bailiff handcuffed the screaming girl and escorted her out the backdoor.
"You lousy lawyer."
It was the boyfriend, his eyes hard, full of menace. He had been no help to Jane, as he sat glaring at the jurors, trying to intimidate them dressed in camouflage and combat regalia. He brushed past Holly, shoving her hard with his shoulder. Holly rubbed her arm as she watched him leave the courtroom. Her shoulder hurt a lot.
"Attorney Park!"
It was the client's mother, Mrs. Lim, a tiny woman, skinny as a steel rod, eyes blazing, summoning her. Holly walked and stood before her. The mother stared, angrily, then lunged at Holly to strike her.
"I trusted you! I trusted you!" she screamed. Fortunately, the bailiff, who was close, jumped up, and restrained the angry woman. "You'll hear from my lawyer! You'll lose your license, and I'll sue you!" The shrill words rang in Holly's ears. Then it was over.
Crime.
Judgment.
Punishment.
Justice.
Blame.
It was a case that should never have gone to trial. Irrespective of the bad facts, the unsympathetic client, and the relentless prosecution, the truth was that Holly had been preoccupied, lost her focus - and Jane Lim had gone down in flames. Now two families destroyed instead of just one. Holly's mood worsened. What if Choi was right? Would the Dumok put a hit on Nara? And her? Then the tears started. She would go away. Somewhere. Anywhere where the Dumok could not find her and where she would be safe.
She had traveled to Paris alone last year. She would go back, and stand on the bridge between the Seine and the Ile St. Louis, the bridge with hundreds of padlocks, each padlock carrying a story. Shouldn't the weight of those stories plunge the bridge into the river? Were Holly to go back there, surely adding the weight of her heart would be the final straw, and she would suddenly be in the Seine's swift cold current. Holly looked up from these stormy thoughts to find Kate Hong standing in the doorway, watching her, and then turned away.
"Wait," Holly said, her eyes glistening. “Do you know what happened to the Enforcer? Did Choi ever tell you why he was targeted and who was behind his slaying?” Her voice faltered. “Was it really the Dumok?” She could barely say those words. Of course Kate Hong knew it was not the Dumok behind it.
The Enforcer drove up to a cheap, faux Hawaiian motel just off the 405 freeway on Sepulveda away from Koreatown. He was on time. A Korean girl opened the door wearing pink high fashion sweat pants and a white ribbed tank top and no bra. She didn't need one. She was young and beautiful as eye candy but too scrawny for his taste. Not that he had any ambition.
The T.V. in the corner was on, but muted. There were cop cars and choppers, yellow tape and chaos, some big car wreck.
Welcome to L.A., he laughed to himself. Cops.
Too little.
Too late.
Always.
By tonight he would be in Tijuana with a girl with a proper ass, not scrawny like this little bitch. The girl was counting out the money on the dresser. His eyes flicked between watching her count and watching the T.V. so he didn't see the other coming in from the adjoining room. A doehme, who was scantily clad and barefoot.
“We meet again.” It was a soft voice, which he recognized. His face registered surprise. It was Cinnamon. She was dressed so he could see the scars on her hands and knees which she held up as she walked towards him, as a large man came from behind and wrapped a black cord around the Enforcer’s throat.
"You fucked up my girl." They were the last words he ever heard.
Kate Hong knew it was the Korean gangtsers behind the slaying of the Enforcer, not the Dumok. But Holly was too stupid to figure it out and Kate was not about to tell Holly otherwise.
"I decided to drop the case. I will give the Dumok a refund when he gets back.” Holly cried. It was all simply too much. Tears streamed down Holly's face. Kate came rushing over and put a reassuring arm around Holly. They talked for a long time and Holly poured out her heart. But somewhere during their talk, Holly caught a glint of pleasure in Kate's eyes, like victory. Holly didn't like it so she ended the conversation. A little voice had started to whisper in the back of Holly's head.
Chapter 17
Every Tuesday afternoon for the past three years, Holly had lunch with her best friend, Heather Hart. Driving back from lunch at the Biltmore Hotel, the road through Koreatown br
ought back memories for Heather. She pressed the window open and a gust of hot air blasted into the air conditioned sedan.
"Heather! It's hot out!" Holly complained.
Heather hung a toned arm out the window and slowed. "We're cruising! We have a minute." She looked reproachfully at Holly, who, in her opinion, didn't nearly have enough fun. Heather glanced over at Holly and smiled, thinking about their first year in law school. Her dearest friend was exactly the same as the first day they met.
A bright light flashed and bounced off the glass as the doors to the law library swung open. Holly watched as an exquisitely dressed young woman came in carrying an armload of books. Heather Hart didn't walk, she "swept," so Heather Hart swept through the doors.
"Did you see that flash of light?" Holly asked, looking around the lobby. Heather smiled graciously and held out her hand.
"Maybe it was from this?" Heather said, holding out her hand and displaying a ring.
"That's the biggest and most beautiful diamond I've ever seen," Holly gushed.
"Six carats," Heather shrugged, then matter of factly studied her hand. "Some people get a little over-excited when it comes to these things." She sounded as if she were trying to understand the fascination.
"It's so pretty," Holly sighed happily. "I hope I get one just like that some day," she added wistfully.
"You'll have to marry well then."
"I don't even have a boyfriend so maybe once I'm an actual lawyer I'll buy myself one," Holly replied, giggling.
"A law degree will never get you this kind of jewelry, my dear. You'll either have to inherit it - or marry it, like I did."
The strangely glamorous classmate was unlike any woman Holly had ever seen. Neither said anything for a moment unsure how to react to the other. Holly found herself instantly intrigued. She had never known anyone like Heather Hart. Heather seemed so strange, so different, her manner of speech, the indifference with which she spoke.
The Virgin Whore Trial: A Holly Park Legal Thriller Page 7