The Virgin Whore Trial: A Holly Park Legal Thriller

by Brad Chisholm

  Heather had very little in common with any of her classmates. She liked to learn for the sake of satisfying her own intellectual curiosity and found no pleasure in engaging in intellectual banter merely for the sport of it. She had graduated magna cum laude from Harvard and applied to law school because the sight of blood nauseated her, and accounting and finance were out because money didn't interest her, perhaps because she had so much of it. That there was more blood spilled in the practice of law than in any surgery didn't bother her because it was purely metaphorical.

  Heather was married. She was expected to keep an orderly house, to live life without expending unnecessary emotions and to maintain the status quo. The dutiful weekly visits to her in-laws were always the same. The content only varied with the shifting of the seasons and holidays, such as Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter which gave slight decoration to the usual conversations which had, over the years, become as ritualized as the catechism. The ritual aspect gave great comfort to both mother-in-law and daughter. The interjection of any emotional family drama would have shattered the surface calm like a crack in thin ice and the carefully constructed truce in their relationship would have been destroyed. The mother-in-law and daughter-in-law had a difficult history and it had taken them years to reach this level of polished ritual. Despite her youth, Heather was a collection of expectations and social responsibilities that weighed on her heavily.

  Could this girl be for real? Heather thought to herself. She watched Holly burst out laughing, saying, "You're so funny," as if what she had said wasn't just god's honest truth. Had she once been like this girl, too? Heather smiled uncertainly and after a moment laughed too. And in that moment she, too, wanted to feel that innocence again. So she instantly attached herself to Holly and they had been best friends ever since.

  Heather found a parking spot on Wilshire Blvd. in front of the long-shuttered site of the Ambassador Hotel which was now a public school. Cars honked as she tried to parallel park along the busy boulevard. Heather left the engine running to keep the car cool and stepped into the heat and onto the sidewalk. She walked over to the high chain link fence. She was a slender figure, tall and graceful, wearing a silk tank top, capri pants and loafers. A panhandler started to approach her but changed his mind and wandered off the other way. Holly, in her usual dark suit and black stilettos followed.

  "I used to come here with my dad," Heather said wistfully. "Bobby Kennedy was one of his heros. Now it looks like a prison."

  “It’s a school. They named it after him,” Holly said. “And yes it looks like a prison.”

  Heather pressed her lips together. Her father had been dead for five years, but still she missed him terribly. But perhaps it was for the best. He had been so happy for her to marry into the security and status of Hancock Park after her boom and bust upbringing. But maybe it was better that he didn’t know the truth: that life in Hancock Park was a corn maze dusted with gold and diamond dust, that it was inescapable. And for her it was barren and bore no fruit. Seven years into her marriage, at age 31, she was childless with no prospects except more of the same. Duty without joy and heartache without passion.

  Heather felt a hand on her arm. Holly smiled at her. “Are you okay?”

  Holly had noticed Heather’s thousand mile stare and knew that she was subject to bouts of melancholy.

  "I met someone," Heather blurted. Her voice almost a whisper and her eyes glazed.

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “At one of Gordon’s fundraisers. No, it’s not what you think.” Heather quickly added. “He’s not a donor.”

  “Then who is he? Isn’t it a bit dangerous if it’s one of Gordon’s charities?” Holly looked at her friend with concern. She knew enough about her friend to know she wouldn't trade lives with her for one second. Heather giggled, which disconcerted Holly more than if she had started crying.

  “He’s a fucking cop, Holly. He was working security.”

  Holly gulped and her eyes widened.

  “I live with bloodless old men and pinched mean old women, Holly. Can I help it if I fall for a man with blood in his veins?”

  Chapter 18

  Nara Song was not dead. In fact, she was still a great beauty, though the shimmer of youth was gone, replaced by sophistication and an intimidating poise. The scars of her hard - no, horrible - early years in America could be detected in her ice-cold eyes if you looked for them. Nara used charm to get attention. Beauty and brains to bait the hook, and the sexual prowess of a panther to get what she wanted. But trust? That had died a long time ago.

  Nara was free to do what she wanted. It wasn't so much who she was that she wanted to leave behind, or even that she couldn't live with what she had done. She had already justified all that to herself. She didn't think about her early days often, and gradually distanced herself from almost everyone who had known who she was in the early years. Especially Choi. As far as Nara was concerned, she blamed Choi the most for what had happened to her other daughter who she didn’t like to think about.

  It had been a busy morning at the international terminal all those years ago. Four flights had come in at the same time. Greeks, Italians, Indians and others were all speaking in languages foreign to Choi. He was late and hurriedly pushed the door open and walked through without regard to anyone behind him and pushed his way through the crowd. He wore a blue suit with a Republic of Korea pin proudly pinned on the label.

  Choi bumped into a woman but kept walking without turning around, and soon took his place with the other drivers waiting to pick up passengers. He was on official duty by order of the Ambassador of Korea to pick up his colleague he most envied and admired.

  Choi pulled a makeshift placard out written in the Korean language. He was embarrassed that he carried the only foreign sign and looked around self-consciously but nobody cared. It was too late to get back into the diplomatic clearance area. He tapped his foot nervously and waited. He expected the Dumok to appear at any moment, strolling out in that way he had, with that confident, devil-may-care smile. His easy charm had carried him through life, gained him every privilege and excused him from every trouble in school. He got away with everything, damn him!

  What would he say to him? Could he conceal the jealousy from his eyes or would his friend see right through him and just dismissively laugh in that way he had, as if there was nothing grandiose at all about becoming the trusted senior aide to the great Ambassador of Korea?

  Choi glanced at his watch tapping his foot with impatience. Something wasn't right. They should be out by now. His stomach growled. He didn't care much for crowds. He eyed some Koreans standing together and casually made his way over, careful not to make it look deliberate and absently listened to their conversation. Someone's brother was coming in on the same flight. At least he knew all the passengers hadn't cleared and others were waiting, too.

  Choi held a package in his hand. It had arrived from Korea and he had been told to pass it on to the arriving party. Why couldn't his colleague bring such a small package himself? Choi fumed.

  Finally the delay and curiosity got the better of him and Choi carefully opened the package. Two passports fell out, and a fat envelope. He quickly thumbed through it, glancing furtively about. It was ten thousand dollars. The passports were of two young girls. At first Choi was confused. Why fake passports? It made no sense. He looked again at the passport of the girl called Sae Rin. And suddenly Choi knew. Knew with the certainty and dread of the damned. He had been tricked. The Ambassador, that wily old goat, had tricked him. Young Chun (who would become the Dumok) was not on the flight. It was the Ambassador's disgraced daughter and those damn twin girls. The money made sense too, for the daughter, Nara Song, to start her life in America - in exile, shame and disgrace.

  Choi shoved the passports back into the envelope. His eyes changed from deferential to implacable, his disdain outweighing his conscience. Choi was old-school. Mere exile and dishonor was inadequate punishment. For all the family wea
lth and social position, it did not buy propriety for the only daughter of the great Ambassador who couldn't keep her legs closed before marriage and had dishonored the great family.

  Choi clicked the bathroom stall door shut and leaned his back against it. Choi's fingers felt thick as sausages as he divided the bills into two stacks. Folding one stack in half he stuffed five thousand down his pants pocket. He would give her half, only. Nobody would know. Nobody would come searching for her. Of that he was certain.

  Both his stomach and his mind raged. But as he washed his hands he found he was getting even angrier. He shuffled back into the same stall and pulled out the second five thousand he had decided to give the daughter. She needed to be punished, and having to survive in America on nothing would do the trick. He stuffed all the money back in his pockets and shoved the envelope with the passports in his messenger bag. Choi straightened his shoulders and hurried out of the airport.

  The terminal was crowded and hot on the day Nara Song arrived in America. Several flights had arrived at once. Nara Song wore no makeup. Her long hair was loosely tied in a ponytail. She was too tired to notice or care about the unfamiliar sounds and sights around her. Hunger gnawed at her stomach. She hadn't slept or eaten well on the plane. A group of ajeossis (older Korean men) were speaking so loudly throughout the flight she couldn't sleep.

  Nara felt faint as she looked up at the great gold and blue seal of the United States looming high above. She stood slightly apart from the crowd. She had a slight, indefinable sense of entitlement as she stood waiting in line to clear immigration. Two little girls clung tightly to her. As the line inched forward Nara clutched so tightly to her passport it dented the cover. She felt nauseous. Nara covered her mouth with her hand and swallowed hard, tasting the bile in her throat. She rubbed the palm of her hands on her skirt to dry off the sweat and looked straight ahead, bravely. This was America. Everyone was brave in America.

  "Daughters, come!" Nara loosened the ponytail and let her hair fall over her shoulders as she lifted one of the girls and quickly opened her blouse as her baby hungrily latched onto her breast as she tried to modestly place a blanket to cover the child’s face. The other child Nara fashioned to her back with a large blanket. She noticed the uncomfortable gazes and corners working on the tight mouths of those nearby. She ignored them and focused on the strange voices and noises around her.

  Even the smells were different. The warmth of the little bodies was comforting. As Nara moved closer to the front of the line, her hand clutched the strap of her handbag tightly. The immigration inspector spoke in English, a language Nara pretended not to understand, though in fact she spoke at the university level with very little accent and had read western literature extensively during her long and expensive schooling. The inspector held an open palm gesturing impatiently for their travel documents. The public breast-feeding annoyed him. The child was too old to be sucking on his mama’s titties. He wished he could yell at her to do stuff like that in her own country but he didn't speak any Chinesey language. He eyed the travelers. Nara’s lip trembled as the immigration officer inspected the passports. Hopefully, he wouldn't notice the biographical information page had been altered and both passports of the girls' had the same photo.

  "Twins," Nara explained, pointing to the bundle latched to her breast, a bead of sweat forming. The immigration officer eyed Nara. There was something about her he didn't like. He would send her to secondary inspections where they would deny her entry and send her home on the first flight back. It was just his gut. As he was about to speak, a staffer with a clipboard from diplomatic services rushed over.

  "Diplomatic clearance for Nara Song. Follow me."

  Nara followed. Her eyes smarted with tears. It had been a close call. It would be the last time Nara Song would receive a benefit by virtue of her family lineage.

  Nara waited for two hours but Choi never showed up. Finally, she walked out and hailed a cab. Nara carefully adjusted herself on the worn vinyl seat. The potholes and trashed suspension of the cab hurt her back but soon she was distracted by the skyline of the mountains and the blue sky, after the grey and white skies of the cold Seoul winter, this was a reprieve.

  It was a little after four in the afternoon, and the dry hot California air had a hypnotic effect. She felt herself relaxing as she looked out the window. Kissing the girls, she thought, gracious, gentle, forgiving America! She would buy American toys for the girls, they would sing jazz, pop, and take dance. They would be free from prejudices of the old country. They would enjoy the privileges of American children. Nara curled her toes, excited at the thought. When the cab pulled off the freeway Nara glimpsed signs in the Korean language.

  Koreatown at last! The cab driver pulled into the parking lot of a church and grunted impatiently. They all stopped here. The cabbie knew the route. The little church on the border of Koreatown was the portal for the immigrants, the first stop from the airport. Nara tentatively held out all the American money she had on her, about a thousand dollars. The cabbie grabbed it all and motioned for Nara to get out.

  Welcome to America, lady. It had happened to him, too. There was no Lady Liberty welcoming Nara and the little girls that day. The only sign of America was the Golden Arches half a block from the church.

  Chapter 19

  While beauty is celebrated among the affluent, it is like a disease to the poor. Nara felt like a weed trying to grow in a sidewalk crack stifled by the beating hot sun. In the summer, everything was stained a permanent ugly brown. The stench of raw meat was inescapable. She rented one room in an illegally constructed boarding house. The cockroaches went in and out of the walls in a steady stream.

  At first, Nara wrote home dutifully every week but her letters were not answered. Through a church member, Nara found a job in a grocery store, a tiny little market in South Central Los Angeles.

  The shelves were cramped with merchandise stacked high on the walls. There was barely room for a stool behind the register. Candy, snacks, gum, condoms, cigarettes, disposable diapers, mouthwash, dried foods filled the small shelves. Nara found a daycare. The cheapest one was an unlicensed rundown converted house off Arlington Avenue. It was dirty, crowded and full of dirty, crying babies but it was close to the church.

  "They must be potty trained," the owner said. Her lips disappeared in a thin line. A child cried in the corner. "No exceptions."

  "Wake up, my daughters," Nara whispered the first morning. "You must wake up for school," she said, hurriedly, stuffing two pink second-hand backpacks from Goodwill with the girls' modest belongings. Nara put her things in a plastic grocery bag and sat up straight on the bus. She wore dark clothing and her hair pulled back in a ponytail. At the end of the day, Nara walked back to the bus stop. Her feet and back ached. She was the last to pick up the girls at day care and argued with the headmaster who charged double as a late fee.

  "But they are twins," Nara protested.

  "Yes. Twins is two. I charge two."

  On the bus ride home she smelled a putrid odor and sniffed.

  "You didn't go in your pants, did you?" she asked sternly. But a check came up clean. That evening, as Nara mechanically went through their backpacks the bad odor became stronger. On the bottom of one of the backpacks was a tightly wrapped bundle. Poo. Nara sighed.

  "Girls, you must use the toilet!" She was strict, so afraid the girls would get kicked of the school. With her little earnings she bought rice cakes and took them to the day care, to bribe the owner to be a little more patient. She took a switch to the girls' behinds until the backpacks came home clean.

  At night Nara daydreamed about happier times. She thought of Him, the young man who had introduced her to the joys of love.

  "Look," he said, eyes twinkling as he casually pulled two loose diamonds from his trouser pocket and dropped them in Nara's hand. Nara was eighteen. He was the son of a diplomat from South Africa. "Take me to the library and I'll show you where they came from on a map."

  In th
e quiet seclusion of the library he showed her the origins of the diamonds and more. His hands were gentle and exploratory of her body as he explored the regions of the map moments before.

  On his last night in Seoul, Nara slipped out of her bedroom window to meet her lover for one last time. They met behind the servants' quarters and holding hands they ran into the guesthouse.

  Just inside the door, he pulled Nara to him with a force that shocked and excited her. Suddenly, his mouth was on her and she felt her body arched towards him. His large hands tore open her blouse. He pulled her to the ground and he was on top of her, tasting and gently stroking her.

  "This," he said stroking Nara's face softly with his forefinger, "is nothing without this." He pulled her skirt up and placed his hand in her center and squeezed, finding the moistness between her legs. "I have the key to your jewelry box," he murmured into her ear. His voice was hoarse. "Nara, let me see your jewels."

  He was beautiful, barbaric, savage and numbing. He took her from sublime to shrieking ecstasy as he thrilled her to unimagined heights. She kissed her lover for the last time as dawn was breaking and left, clothes disheveled.

  Nara stared at herself in front of the mirror and barely recognized the face that had gracefully greeted so many dignitaries and diplomats in Seoul. The face that stared back was unrecognizable. The eyes once mischievous and full of life were now beady and mistrustful. Her eyes burned with tears and shame. She had been the subject of enraged turmoil, secrecy and plans for her exile had been made while her babes were still suckling her breasts. Life as she knew it had abruptly ended when she was handed a one-way ticket to America. She needed to do something. Fast. In the end, it was Mr. Choi who gave her an out.

  It was a chance encounter. Nara saw him first. Choi saw her, too, his fingers tightened on the handle of the grocery cart. His mouth tried to move but nothing came out. He was a mere five feet away from her. He shuffled his feet nervously. Choi nodded, and barely gestured with his chin to the food court outside the grocery store. They left their carts with their modest freight standing in the aisle. The girls followed quietly and Choi bought them noodles. He carried the tray to the table.