My source asked me to come down and visit him in Kabukicho. I went and met him at his favorite bar; he liked it because it had a good selection of bourbon. He waited until I was fairly drunk before he laid it out for me.
“Jake, you’re in a lot of trouble. Goto knows you’re writing a book. He’s not happy about it. I’d be really careful if I were you.”
I didn’t try to deny it. I shrugged. “What’s he going to do? Threaten to kill me? He’s already done that before.”
“He won’t threaten you. He’ll just do it. He’ll make it look like a suicide.”
“How? I’m not the suicidal type.”
“How do you think Juzo Itami died?”
“That was a suicide. I mean, of course, I thought he was killed the first time I heard about his death, but then I heard differently. He was depressed because the weekly magazine Friday was going to expose an extramarital affair. He jumped off a roof. If it had been suspicious, I’m sure the police would have investigated.”
“Did you see the article? Do you know he was laughing about it when the journalist approached him? He said, ‘Oh, she already knows.’ Does that sound like someone depressed and upset to you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know the details of that. He left a note, though.”
“Yes, a note written on a word processor. Anyone could have written that note.”
Suddenly my bourbon didn’t taste so good.
“Why?”
“He was planning another movie. It was going to be about the Goto-gumi and its relationship with the religious group Soka Gakkai. Goto wasn’t happy about that. A gang of five of his people grabbed Itami and made him jump off that rooftop at gunpoint. That’s how he committed suicide.”
“How do you know that’s true?”
“It’s rude to ask a question like that.” His fingers curled around his glass so hard I thought he would break it.
I quickly apologized.
“So what should I do?”
“Be careful. Write it now, if you can.”
“I know most of the story.”
“If you don’t know everything, no one will believe you. It won’t do any good. You’ll have to write about everything, the others too.”
“Yes, I’ve heard there are others. Who are they?”
“I don’t know. You should know. I can introduce you to someone who can help you with that. She doesn’t like Goto very much.”
“She?”
“One of the many. She has her reasons.”
“Isn’t that dangerous for her?”
“I don’t think she cares.”
He gave me her business card; on the back was her address. He gave me another one as well; I recognized her from the leaked police materials.
“Why these two women?”
“He confides in them, I think. You’re good with women. They’ll confide in you. They like you. I hear there’s a certain female cop you’re very friendly with.”
“I’m friendly with everyone. I’m a nice guy.”
I asked for the check and paid. As we were leaving, I asked him why Goto didn’t just have me removed right now.
“He’s waiting for something to make up his mind. I don’t know what that is. He probably doesn’t know how much you know or who you’ve shared your information with. He takes his time. He’s looking at you. He’s collecting information about you. Maybe he’ll try to discredit you before you get a chance to write anything—put drugs in your apartment and call the police. Have a woman claim you molested her on the train. There are a lot of ways to neutralize you without killing you, because killing you, well, that would bring a lot of attention. You know he’s still on trial?”
Of course I knew Goto was on trial. Here’s what had happened.
In May 2006, Goto, the president of a real estate company, and eight others were arrested on suspicion of illegally transferring the ownership of a building in Shibuya Ward. According to the police, Goto, CEO of the listed company Ryowa Life Create, and the other suspects had falsely registered the transfer of ownership of a twelve-story building, the Shinjuku Building, which was partially owned by a Goto-gumi front company. The arrest stemmed from an investigation that had begun more than a year earlier. In March 2005, Kazuoki Nozaki, a fifty-eight-year-old adviser of a building management company and partial owner of the Shinjuku Building, was stabbed to death on a street in Minato Ward, Tokyo.
The police had nabbed Goto for property law violations because they wanted to pin him for the murder of Nozaki. Everyone knew this.
The slaying had been carried out with typical Goto-gumi efficiency: small group, no witnesses, little or no trace evidence. I imagined that this was probably how I’d be taken out if the time came, stabbed to death in some back alley and left to bleed to death.
I told him that I was well aware of the trial. I was curious as to why I already hadn’t met the fate of Mr. Nozaki.
“People know you. They think you’re working for the CIA. Goto does at least. You’re a Jew, too. He thinks there might be repercussions for whacking you.”
“What does my being Jewish have to do with anything?”
“You could be Mossad.”
“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”
“I’ve given you what I can. You’re on your own. Good luck. Do not underestimate the man. He’s not underestimating you.”
I didn’t doubt that he was right.
Things went sour very quickly. I was told that Goto had decided that if he was found guilty—which in his condition would be a death sentence—he would have me killed.
I was placed under police protection on March 5, 2008. An FBI special agent accompanied me to the National Police Agency, and they discussed what measures they could take. The FBI contacted local U.S. law enforcement and had them put a watch on my house in America. At the meeting I was asked to clarify who my source was in the Goto-gumi, and I refused. I was warned that that would make it harder to justify twenty-four-hour protection on the part of the Japanese police, and all I could say was “Well, I’ll take what I can get.”
I was taken to the TMPD to meet the detectives from Organized Crime Control Investigative Division 3, which would be handling my protection. In the old days, those had been the guys I wrote about, not the guys I depended on to keep me alive.
Before I went to the TMPD offices, I sent a quick e-mail to the cops I knew there warning them to pretend they didn’t know me. One of the detectives quickly wrote me back, “In a time like this, when a good friend is in trouble, I don’t give a shit about how this would affect my career. Me and the others, we’re going to tell the boss right now that we know you and you’re an upright guy. We still owe you for the Soapland intel. We’ve got your back.”
I wasn’t very close to those cops; I considered them casual friends. I felt honored. I was discovering that people whom I thought were good friends weren’t very good friends at all and people whom I considered acquaintances were some of the best friends I’d ever have. It’s not often in life that we get into a situation that measures the loyalty and dedication of our friends. The results are probably never what we anticipate.
At the TMPD, we had a good talk. One of the detectives present shook my hand as I was leaving and added, “Goto’s a real prick. The guy’s been linked to more than seventeen murders and that attempted murder in Seijo. That’s the one where his thugs couldn’t find the guy Goto wanted dead, so they stabbed his wife. You’re making his life hard. You’re doing what we should be doing. Good luck.”
It felt good to hear that.
I had some paperwork to fill out and had to go back to the National Police Agency and turn it in. On my way out, an NPA officer who knew me from my days in Saitama asked me to come downstairs to the cafeteria and have a cup of coffee.
Over a fairly decent cappuccino, we caught up on old times. The head of forensics, after serving as the head of the Saitama Police Department, had gone on to become the chairman of the loca
l traffic safety association and was enjoying the job. A couple other cops who had been on the dog breeder serial killer case had retired as well.
He had some good information for me and some bad news as well: “You’re probably thinking you should go home. Don’t do it. If you go home and he knows where you live, you put your family in the cross fire. He’d probably hire some gangbanger to do it, and if your family is around, they’re collateral damage. He’ll probably go after your friends if he can’t get to you.”
That was not what I wanted to hear. I wanted to go home. He had more to say.
“The year Goto went to UCLA, the NPA tracked close to a million dollars moving through his casino accounts. He had one in Tokyo with the Japanese branch of a major casino. You wrote about the Kajiyama case, so you know how that one works. Your information is good.”
“Do you have any suggestions?”
“I’m not really supposed to be saying this, but here’s the deal: you represent a threat to his reputation and his standing. If he wipes you out, maybe he can keep it quiet. Once you get it printed, there’s less incentive to kill you. You’re a writer, right? Time to write.”
On March 7, I pissed off the NPA by going to Goto’s trial at the Tokyo District Court. According to cops working the case, the main witness had been intimidated so much that he’d refused to testify. I managed to get into the trial for a few minutes. I sat directly behind the man.
I could have reached out my hand and strangled him if I’d been so inclined, or jabbed a pencil into his larynx. I didn’t do that. But I couldn’t resist sort of bumping him with my hand, if just for a second, to make sure he was real. He didn’t appear to notice.
I had to leave halfway through the proceedings. I wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place. I waited in the hall outside.
After the not-guilty verdict was announced to the press waiting in the hall, one of the detectives working the case said to me, “You know, everyone who testified against Goto in this trial is going to vanish. And then, one by one, they’ll be dead.” He shook his head.
Something unexpected happened right after that. Goto walked out of the courtroom to the elevators with his bodyguard. Not out the back exit and not with any fanfare. And not a single reporter tried to talk to him. They looked, of course. But no one would follow him; as soon as his lawyer showed up in the hall, they ran toward him and away from Goto as fast as they could. And for a brief moment, in front of the elevators, there were only me, Goto, and his bodyguard. It was the only time I’d ever meet the man face-to-face.
For the first time, I could understand why he was so powerful. He wasn’t big or muscular or imposing, but when he looked you in the eye, it felt as if he had his hand around your throat. We recognized each other. He mouthed something to me in Japanese. He wouldn’t leave behind an audible threat. It seemed like a threat to me, but then again I’m not good at lip-reading in any language. I responded nonverbally as well—a simple one-fingered gesture. That was all we had to say to each other.
After Goto’s bodyguard gently pushed his angry boss into the elevator, I followed the throng of reporters to where his lawyer, Yoshiyuki Maki, a former prosecutor, was holding court.
He was stroking his gray-speckled chin, rattling on about the injustice of Goto’s arrest and prosecution. He was also making sure to imply that every newspaper that had written about Goto as if he were presumed guilty could be sued if the client was so inclined. It was Goto putting a muzzle on the already compliant press via Maki.
“Due to his unlawful arrest and this long trial, Goto-san has been through a personal hell. I’d like the media to reflect a little on the suffering my client has endured.”
I couldn’t really stomach that bullshit, and I raised my hand to ask a question. It turned into more of a tirade than a question, which wasn’t a very professional thing to do. You’re not supposed to bring issues of right and wrong into the courtroom. We’re not supposed to accuse the lawyers for the yakuza of being sellouts and criminals themselves. They’re just doing their jobs. However, I had a little trouble divorcing myself from the proceedings. And honestly, what he was saying was an insult to the dead. If there was anyone in the yakuza who deserved to suffer, it was this man.
“Excuse me, what exactly do you mean by his suffering? This is a man whose organization kills people, sells drugs, distributes child pornography, and sexually exploits foreign women. The amount of suffering the Goto-gumi and therefore Goto have inflicted on innocent people is immense. Why should anyone give a damn about his suffering? As a former prosecutor, how can you even say those things?”
Maki was taken aback, either by the question or by my rage. He flinched visibly. The other reporters all moved away from me as if I were a rabid dog. Maki cleared his throat and said, “It’s my job to defend my client, and there is no question that Goto-san has not committed any illegal act, that this …”
As he droned on, I turned my back and walked away. A few seconds later, I heard a titter from the assembled reporters. I suppose that Maki had made a joke about me, and I guess I felt a little like a joke myself. But I’d seen him flinch, and that felt good.
The day after Goto’s trial, I went back to work. I gathered all my notes and I gave them to reporters I knew and trusted. Some I knew and didn’t trust. I didn’t want the scoop; and I wanted the story out there; I didn’t care who got credit for it.
While I was doing this, I ran into a serious problem.
Some people from the NPA came over to the house for drinks. I’d known one of them, Akira-kun, since his days in the Gunma police. Sometimes I’d show up at the place where he trained at kenjutsu (sword fighting) and join the practice. I had no aptitude for that martial art either, but it was always a good way to hang out with the cops and forget that reporter–police officer division for a few sweaty hours. In a stroke of luck, Alien Cop had been transferred to the NPA for a year, and he was now in the Organized Crime Control Bureau. He brought with him a giant bottle of Otokoyama (Man Mountain) sake. A good friend from college and part-time research assistant, Asako, was also there, pouring drinks, flirting with the cops, and cracking jokes. We sat in the tatami room, cross-legged around an antique fold-up table, a chabu-dai.
We were talking about the Goto trial and its unhappy ending and how we thought Goto’s lawyer, Maki, was a sellout shyster, and I slightly defended Maki, pointing out that he’d started out with good intentions once upon a time. He’d written an excellent book about the Japanese legal system a decade or so before.
In the midst of the festivities, Alien Cop put down his sake glass and nodded at the other three guys next to him, as if to say, “Hey, let’s do this.” He cleared his throat.
“Jake, there’s a guy in the police force who’s in Goto’s pocket, Lieutenant K. He’s been asking about you. We know he’s corrupt but he brings in good intel about non-Goto-related stuff, so he’s kind of allowed to do his thing.”
I put down my glass and filled it again.
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means that Goto knows everything about you. Where you live, where your family lives, everything we have about you on file. And it’s possible, actually pretty likely, that he also has your phone records. Because you have your cell phone number printed on your business cards, it probably was pretty easy for him.”
Nodding, Akira-kun added, “The word is he’s hired the G Detective Agency to do a full due diligence on you. Goto owns at least two private detective agencies. Blackmail and extortion are his speciality. If you’ve got skeletons in the closet, they’re going to be out pretty soon.”
Apparently the Kokusui-kai wasn’t the only yakuza group with its own private eyes.
Alien Cop asked me to show him my cell phone. I pulled it out of my pocket and handed it over. He looked at the directory for a second and handed it back.
“You need to figure out who you have been talking to the most in the last two months. Because if Goto feels he can’t get a
t you or wants to know where you are, those are the people he’ll go after. Lieutenant K. is Goto’s proxy. If K. has a phone number, he can find the address; he just has to make a few calls. Even if he can’t, G Detective Agency has the resources. You should warn the people you’re close to to be very careful.”
Alien Cop poured me another glass of sake. “Drink up. I doubt the old man will do anything at all, but we thought you should know this much—not all policemen are your friends.”
“Well,” I said, “here’s to good friends—kanpai!”
“And by the way,” Alien Cop said while pouring rounds for everyone, including Asako, “apparently K. is looking for a good picture of you. There aren’t many. He knows that I know you and asked me if I had any. I said no. He may try to meet you. Don’t take that meeting.”
“Why not?”
“Lieutenant K. is a sketch artist with a photographic memory. Sketches are actually better for identifying people than photos sometimes. You meet the guy once, and there’s going to be a nice portrait of you hanging up in Goto-gumi headquarters. And maybe a wallet-size copy with the guys that are sent to take you out.”
“Great. What should I do now?”
“Write the fucking article and stop pissing around. Remove the incentive to shut you up. Pretty simple. And then you can take me out to that strip bar with all the white chicks with ushipai [cow breasts]. You owe me, Adelstein.”
Asako laughed at that. “Jake, I didn’t know you frequented such places.”
Alien Cop chuckled. “You don’t know him very well at all then.”
Alien and I sneaked outside for a smoke once during the evening, and he asked me how I was doing.
“Pretty good.” It was all I could say.
“I checked around on that friend of yours.”
“And?”
“Nothing. The place she was working got raided, maybe in February 2006. They reopened without gaijin babes. I tried to locate her. I called in a favor with Immigration. There’s no record of anyone named Helena leaving the country. Maybe she had a different name? Dual citizenship?”
“Don’t think so.”
Tokyo Vice Page 35