Something had lit up in the part of Mikami that was still a detective. To submit and play scarecrow for Administrative Affairs would mean severing the few links he had left to his true self. And yet no one was foolish enough to go up against anyone with influence in personnel decisions. If he was posted to some district station in the mountains, then, far from being reinstated to Criminal Investigations, he would, in terms of the organization, become at once someone only vaguely remembered. Viewed differently, however, it had also been a rare opportunity. If the time came when the situation changed and a return to his home department seemed likely, the story of his standing up to the director of Administrative Affairs – the second-most influential man in the Prefectural HQ – would be enough to purge his ‘second offensive’ and more besides.
With the greatest care, Mikami began to resist Akama. He worked harder to present himself as a loyal subordinate, keeping his emotions at bay while he focused on being true to the cause. He listened quietly but objectively, offering tactful disagreement only when he found himself unable to stomach a particular instruction or order. He also spoke up on certain media strategies he supported, all the while quietly continuing with his plan to reform Media Relations.
He had known he was treading on thin ice. He could feel Akama’s irritability in his pulse. And yet he had persisted in making his opinion known. It was clear now that he’d been energized by the risk. For half a year he’d refused to shy away from Akama’s piercing glares. He’d felt the rush of combat. He might not have been winning, but he hadn’t been losing either.
But . . .
Ayumi’s disappearance had changed everything.
Ash tumbled from his cigarette and hit the table. He’d smoked two already. He checked the clock on the wall. Kuramae was visible, his profile a dim shadow at the edge of Mikami’s vision. Second Division had refused to share their intelligence. Did that mean their goodwill for him was spent? Kuramae was there as a representative of Mikami. The field divisions would have been well aware of that.
It had to be because he’d stopped visiting the divisions, the detectives. Because his press strategy had regressed to being whatever Akama dictated.
A sudden commotion broke out in the corridor.
Here they come. Suwa and Kuramae had enough time to exchange looks before the door swung open, without so much as a knock.
3
In an instant the room filled with press. The Asahi, Mainichi, Yomiuri, Tokyo, Sankei and the Toyo. Then the local press: the D Daily, the Zenken Times, D Television and the FM Kenmin. Their overlapping faces were all hard set. Some were openly glaring, their shoulders tense and angry in a way that suggested their more recent cooperation with Mikami was weakening, too. The majority were reporters in their twenties. It was during times like this that Mikami felt an aversion for their youth, for the way it allowed for such brash behaviour. The reporters from Kyodo News and Jiji Press filed into the room a little behind the others. The reporter from the NHK was there, too, at the back of the crowd and sticking halfway into the corridor, craning his neck to see in.
All thirteen member agencies of the Press Club were in attendance.
‘Let’s get on with it.’ A surge of disgruntled voices rose from the crowd and the two men at the front, both with the Toyo, took a step closer. As the Press Club’s representative for the month, it was the Toyo’s place to lead proceedings.
‘Director Mikami. First, we’d like to hear a proper explanation for your sudden departure yesterday.’ Tejima, who had donned a suit jacket, launched the first question.
Toyo. Assistant Chief. University H. Twenty-six. No ideological background. Deadly serious. Tends to overconfidence. Tejima’s entry in Mikami’s notebook.
‘Suwa told us you had a relative in a critical condition. Perhaps so – but does that really justify you getting up and leaving without a single word? And as we’ve heard nothing from you since, I can’t help thinking that your treatment of us is—’
‘Sorry,’ Mikami interrupted. He hated recalling the reason he had left and to have the press asking about it.
Tejima glanced at Akikawa, who was to his side.
Toyo. Chief. University K. Twenty-nine. Left-leaning. Never gives up. De facto leader of the Press Club.
Akikawa looked nonchalant, his arms folded. He preferred to act big, let the others get on with the heavy lifting.
‘Am I correct in assuming that you’re offering an apology?’
‘That’s right.’
Tejima studied Akikawa’s expression for a second time, then turned to face the others. Ready to ask their opinion, he began, ‘Are you all—’
That’ll do, let’s get on with it. He nodded at their silent gestures to carry on, then proceeded to open a photocopied sheet he’d been holding over Mikami’s desk.
Details of a Serious Car Accident in Oito City.
Mikami had no need to check the document. It was a copy of the press report the office had put up a day earlier. A housewife had been distracted while driving her car and hit an elderly man, resulting in severe, full-body injuries to the victim. While road accidents were common enough in themselves, the details of this particular case had become a cause of conflict with the press.
‘Let me ask again – why have you kept the identity of the female driver hidden? You must know you have an obligation to disclose her full details?’
Mikami locked his fingers and met Tejima’s icy stare. ‘As I explained yesterday, the woman is eight months pregnant. She has been in a state of extreme distress since causing the accident. We can’t know how she might react to the shock of seeing her name in the papers, on top of everything else. That is why we haven’t revealed her name.’
‘That is not a valid reason. You’ve even kept her address secret – all we have is “Oito City”. Mrs A, housewife, thirty-two years old. That’s all you’ve given us . . . how can we be sure she even exists?’
‘Of course she’s real, and that’s exactly why we must consider the effect this might have on her unborn baby. Tell me what’s wrong with that.’
They seemed to take Mikami’s counter-argument as arrogance. Tejima’s expression darkened and the room bustled angrily. ‘Since when has that been something the police have to think about? It’s an unnecessary consideration.’
‘The woman is not under arrest. The man had stepped on to the road in a place with no pedestrian crossing. And he’d been drinking.’
‘The fact remains that the driver wasn’t watching the road. And here, you describe the man’s condition as “serious”, where it should say “critical”. The old man, Meikawa, he’s in a coma, after all.’
Mikami glanced at Akikawa from the corner of his eye. How long was he planning to let Tejima rant for?
‘Director Mikami, you need to level with us. This isn’t something we can just turn a blind eye to; the potential consequences are too big. We have a duty to question the driver’s responsibility in this instance.’
Mikami returned his gaze to Tejima, who was still doggedly persevering. ‘So, you want to pass sentence on her by bandying her name around in the papers?’
‘Come on, there’s no need to put it like that. That’s not what we’re saying. What we’re saying is that it’s wrong for the police to make a unilateral decision to withhold a person’s name and address. Whether we print the driver’s name or not should be up to us, after we’ve had the chance to weigh it against the public good.’
‘Why exactly can’t we make that decision for you?’
‘Because the facts of the case become obscured. Without the details of the people involved – their names, addresses – we have no means of verifying that the information you provide is correct, or if the cases are properly closed. Also, if the Prefectural HQ gets into a routine of issuing anonymous reports, who’s to say the district stations won’t start cutting corners in their own statements? Thinking of the worst-case scenario, withholding information like this could be used to bend the truth, even as p
art of a police cover-up.’
‘A police cover-up . . .’
‘Listen, all we’re saying . . .’ Yamashina’s lanky frame shouldered in from the side. Zenken Times. Provisional Chief. University F. Twenty-eight. Third son of a secretary to a member of the Diet. Charmer. Loser. ‘. . . is that when someone seems desperate to hide something, well, you start to wonder. Maybe she’s the daughter of someone important. Maybe they’re going easy because the old man was a drunk.’
‘You’re being ridiculous,’ Mikami said, his voice unwittingly loud.
Yamashina just shrugged, while other voices boiled over. You’re the ridiculous one! Of course we’re suspicious when you insist on hiding everything! Were the names of pregnant women withheld before? No. We demand a proper explanation! Mikami ignored the jeering. If he opened his mouth he would end up shouting, too.
‘Let’s see, Mikami,’ Akikawa said finally. He took his time, unfolding his arms. It stank of drama, as though to suggest that their star performer was about to take the stage. ‘What you’re afraid of is . . . the police coming under public censure if something were to happen to the woman or her unborn child because her name had come out in the press.’
‘That’s not it. There are simply some circumstances in which a person involved has the right to privacy.’
‘The right to privacy?’ Akikawa scoffed. ‘Let me get this right . . . you think we should be discussing the rights of the guilty party?’
‘Yes.’
Again the room descended into commotion.
Come on! As if you understand that! Isn’t disregarding human rights a particular forte of the police? Who are you to lecture us on that?
‘I don’t understand why you’re so worked up. You know the trend in reporting is increasingly heading towards anonymity. You employ it all the time – on TV, in the papers. Why are you so against us making the decision?’
That’s just arrogance. The police don’t have the right. Don’t you understand anything about press freedom? Anonymous police reports infringe on the public’s right to know.
‘Come on, Mikami, just give us her name. We’re not going to print it if she really is in bad shape.’ Yamashina spoke over them again. This time his tone was conciliatory. ‘It’s not as if it makes any difference in the end. We’d still do our research, get her name and address, even if you were to withhold her details. I imagine it would be harder on her, too – as we know she’s pregnant – if we had to find out from her directly.’
‘Director Mikami, let’s just get this clear,’ Tejima implored, speaking up the moment Akikawa refolded his arms. His forehead was oiled with sweat. ‘Are you willing to consider giving us the woman’s identity?’
‘No.’ Mikami’s answer was immediate. Tejima’s eyes grew wide.
‘Why not?’
‘You know, she was in tears when she pleaded with the officer in charge, asking him not to talk to the press.’
‘Hey! Don’t make us out to be the bad guys.’
‘That’s how scary it is. To face having your name in the papers.’
‘That’s unwarranted. You’re just trying to shift the blame.’
‘You can say what you want. We’re not giving you her name. The decision has already been made.’
The room fell silent. Mikami stood ready for an angry backlash. But . . .
‘You’ve changed, Mikami.’ Akikawa had switched tack. He placed his hands on Mikami’s desk and leaned forwards, his expression grave. ‘We expected things from you. You weren’t like your predecessor, Funaki. You never tried to ingratiate yourself with us, nor did you ever suck up to your superiors. Honestly . . . we were impressed with you after your transfer in. But then you seemed to give up, become indifferent. Now you tow the party line. What happened?’
Mikami was silent. He stared into empty space, loath for them to notice his hesitation. Akikawa continued.
‘You were the one to call Media Relations a “window”. It’s a hard pill to swallow when the same press director chooses to follow official policy blindly, like all the other officers. Without someone willing to listen to us in the outside world, someone who has the nerve to be objective and make a stand, the police will never be anything more than a closed-off black box. Are you happy with that?’
‘The window’s still there. It’s just not as big as you thought.’
Disappointment flashed over Akikawa’s face. Mikami realized that, rather than seeking to attack or condemn, Akikawa had been making a genuine appeal. His eyes were dispassionate when he returned his gaze to Mikami.
‘Okay. I want to know one more thing.’
‘What?’
‘Your personal opinion on anonymous reporting.’
‘Personal, official – the distinction’s irrelevant. The answer’s the same.’
‘You really believe that?’
Mikami was silent again. Akikawa said nothing. Each probed the other’s eyes. Five, ten seconds. Time seemed to slow down. Finally, Akikawa gave a deep nod.
‘Your position is clear enough.’ He looked around the reporters behind him for a while before turning back to face Mikami. ‘Then I formally request, representing the consensus of the Press Club, that you reveal the identity of the woman. We ask this not of you but of the Prefectural HQ.’
Mikami’s eyes provided his answer: you know the decision.
Akikawa nodded again.
‘“Give them the woman’s name and they’ll run it in the papers.” Meaning you, the police, have no trust in us whatsoever. Yes?’
The words came out sounding like an ultimatum. Akikawa turned his back on Mikami. The reporters began to file out of the room, their heels loud.
Don’t think we’re going to stand for this.
A brooding disquiet was all that remained in the cramped room.
4
Had they meant to threaten him?
Mikami let out a heavy sigh; he took the copy of the press report from the desk, scrunched it up and tossed it into the bin. The confrontation had been unlike anything that had come before. Their attacks had been personal. It was the first time he’d seen them seem so thirsty for blood, and he felt all the more irritated for it. Nobody had died; it was just a car accident. News they would hardly have paid attention to if it hadn’t become embroiled in the question of anonymous reporting. It was small fry, the kind of news even local papers might not even cover these days.
The office went back to having enough room for its occupants. Suwa’s eyes were scouring the paper. He looked as if he wanted to say something but made no attempt at eye contact. Kuramae and Mikumo were both busy finishing work on the bulletin, their deadline looming. They seemed to be waiting for Mikami’s mood to settle. Or perhaps they simply felt sorry for him. All three had heard Akikawa’s words.
You’ve changed, Mikami.
Mikami lit a cigarette, crushing it after a couple of drags then drinking down the rest of his cold tea. They’d finally put it in words. For a while now, he’d had the strong suspicion that the press would eventually give up on him. Back to square one. He felt indignant as the realization took hold. But perhaps that was nothing more than the result of having overestimated their relationship from the beginning. It was as though he’d hallucinated an oasis in the desert. He hadn’t forged enough of a relationship to claim it was broken. The trust between them had been frail enough for a gust of wind to sweep it away. And he would still struggle to answer if someone asked whether his built-in animosity for the press had faded during his time reforming Media Relations.
He had been unlucky, too. Anonymous reporting was tricky. It had become an issue for the police on a national basis. That his turn had come now, when the faith the press had in him had begun to erode, was particularly unfortunate. The woman’s name was in a drawer in his desk: Hanako Kikunishi. District had included it when faxing in their report, but a call had come in from the station’s second-captain within half an hour of it arriving. Sorry to bother you. The woman’s pregnant, could y
ou keep her anonymous this time?
Mikami called for Suwa to come over. ‘How do you think that went?’
Suwa knotted his eyebrows. ‘They did get a little worked up.’
‘Because of me?’
‘Not at all. I think you did all you could. Win or lose, nothing goes to plan when anonymity is on the agenda.’
His view of the job was similar to Director Akama’s. The only difference, Mikami supposed, was that Suwa employed the carrot as well as the stick. A ball of candy, wrapped in the expertise, skill and pride of a natural spin doctor.
Mikami relaxed back into his chair. He watched Suwa move briskly off to answer a call. Reinvigorated, Mikami found himself thinking, uncharitably. Perhaps Mikami’s arrival had transformed the office into a place difficult for Suwa to do his job. His raison d’être had been threatened by a press director with a background as a detective, inexperienced in Media Relations. Mikami wondered if that was how Suwa felt.
Okay, let’s see what you can do.
Mikami changed tack. He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on the failure of trust and do nothing about the current situation. Whatever action they ended up taking, if they discontinued their relations with the press, it would be equivalent to a detective refusing to investigate a case.
‘Everyone, listen up.’
Having just finished his call, Suwa got to his feet at the same time as Kuramae. Mikumo was on the edge of her chair, looking unsure whether she was included. Gesturing that she didn’t need to join them, Mikami waved Suwa and Kuramae over.
‘See if you can soften the blow next door. And see if you can’t work out who is really pushing this.’
‘No problem.’
Six Four Page 3