ALSO BY WILLIAM ANDREWS
Daughters of the Dragon: A Comfort Woman’s Story
The Dragon Queen
The Essential Truth
The Dirty Truth
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2019 by William Andrews
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542004657
ISBN-10: 1542004659
Cover design by PEPE nymi, Milano
This book is dedicated to my amazing
daughter, Elizabeth,
who got me started learning about Korea
CONTENTS
START READING
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
’Tis but thy name that is my enemy. Thou art thyself . . .
William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
ONE
I can’t say if having the comb with the two-headed dragon has been a blessing or a curse. Perhaps, like most things mystical, it’s some of both. It’s like Korea itself, the country where the comb came from, the country from where my American family adopted me. South Korea—the Miracle on the Han River; North Korea—the enigma on the Taedong River.
I’m at my bank in downtown LA to get it from my safe-deposit box. The ancient clerk looks like a ghost haunting the dark, dank basement of the seventy-year-old building. She has long white hair and wears a black skirt that reaches to her ankles. She’s slow and deliberate as she rises from her chair and comes to me. I give her my driver’s license and tell her my box number is 1257. She pulls out an index card from a wooden file drawer, verifies my ID, and then says, “Follow me, Ms. Carlson.” I push through the counter’s swinging doors and follow her into the vault.
It’s dead quiet in here, and musty. The lighting is poor. Everything is cold hard metal, even the floor. There must be thousands of boxes in long rows with impressive hinges and brass numbers on the front. As I follow the clerk, I wonder what’s hidden inside these boxes. Wills declaring who will be rewarded and who will be repudiated when the box’s owner dies. Diamond jewelry and pearls stashed away until the next wedding or high-society affair. Valuable coins, gold bars, rare bills. Journals with the owner’s confessions. Love letters. So many treasures, so many secrets, but none as precious or as significant as the one in the second row from the bottom, halfway down one of the narrow aisles, inside box 1257.
We’re at my box and I’m surprised how nervous I am. I haven’t seen the comb since I moved to LA. Back then, I put it inside the box, turned the key, and waited for the next adventure it would take me on. It came at exactly 9:55 this morning.
I was in my office reviewing a green-card petition for one of my clients. My assistant, Jon, knocked on my door and stuck his head in. “Anna,” he said, looking worried behind his trendy black glasses, “sorry to bother you, but you have a call. It’s a Detective Jackson with the LA police department.”
“Seriously?” I said. “What does he want?”
Jon stepped inside my office and closed the door behind him. He raised his palm. “He says it’s about a murder.”
“A murder? Well, I guess I better take it.”
Jon went to his desk and put the call through. I answered on the first ring. “This is Anna Carlson,” I said.
“Detective Frank Jackson of the LAPD,” a gruff voice replied. “You have a new client.”
“I see,” I said. “My assistant said you’re calling about a murder. Well I’m an international law attorney, Detective, not a criminal lawyer.”
“Yeah, I know,” Jackson grunted. “Looked you up. But hear me out.” The detective proceeded to tell me about a murder that happened early that morning at a nursing home near Koreatown. A ninety-nine-year-old woman named Suk-bo Yi apparently stabbed a hundred-and-one-year-old man in the stomach, killing him. They had the woman in custody at the police department and she said she had a story to tell. She said she would only tell it to me.
“That’s terrible,” I said, “but I’m afraid I have to decline. She probably heard about me because I represent a lot of Koreans with their immigration issues. But I’m an international lawyer. I don’t know criminal law. I’d be no help to Ms. Yi. I’m sure the county can appoint a public defender for her.”
“Yeah, she said you’d say that and that if you did, I should tell you that when you come, you should bring the comb with the two-headed dragon.”
I took a full five seconds to absorb this. Then I said, “I’ll be there in forty minutes.” After I hung up, I told Jon to cancel all my appointments, rushed to my car, and headed to the bank.
From somewhere inside her dress, the clerk produces a large brass ring with a single skeleton key on it. She unlocks the door to box 1257 and steps aside. I take the metal container to a privacy room outside the vault. Inside is a faded brown cloth package tied closed with twine. I touch it and feel the spirit of the comb inside. I pull on the string and the cloth falls open.
The comb is the size of a woman’s hand, made of tortoiseshell, gently bowed with long tines. Solid gold curves along the spine. The two-headed dragon is made of tiny pieces of ivory in the handle. I pick it up. I’m always surprised how heavy it is. I run a finger over the cool gold spine. The dragon’s two heads, curled tongues, and claws seem to reach for me.
The first time my grandmother placed it in my hand, I never dreamed where it would take me. Quests, adventures, a search of my soul, great secrets in strange places. It has taught me a lot, too—what it means to be Korean, even though American parents raised me; the lessons of history; what justice is. It’s part of me now. It’s in my soul.
I know I’m lucky to have it, but there are times when I wonder what my life would have been like if it hadn’t found its way to me. Certainly it would have been more normal. Perhaps I’d be married by now. Maybe I’d have a child or two. I’d probably be a typical professional wife and mother, blissfully ignorant of the things the comb has taught me. But that isn’t the way my life turned out. I’m the keeper of the comb with the two-headed dragon. I must go where it leads me. I must do what it says. It terrifies me sometimes. The responsibility of it. The dangers. What I might learn.
I wrap the comb in the cloth and slip the package inside
my briefcase. I take the empty metal container to the clerk, and she locks it inside the vault. She gives me my key. As I drive to the police department, I wonder how a ninety-nine-year-old woman accused of murder in Koreatown knows about the comb.
TWO
When I arrive at the police station, there is a TV truck parked outside with an antenna on a pole pointing skyward. Another truck pulls into the parking lot and begins setting up. Technicians in jeans and reporters in suits huddle alongside the trucks. They’re probably here for the nursing home murder. The reporters study me when I get out of my car, and I feel like I’m making a stage entrance. Since I’m Asian, wearing a business suit, and holding a briefcase, I must look like someone they should talk to. As I walk to the entrance, a wolfish-looking female reporter approaches me. I push past her and march into the police station.
Detective Frank Jackson meets me in the glass-and-steel lobby. He’s an African American and is as tall and large as I am short and slender. His hair is close-cropped. He wears a gray suit that he should have donated to Goodwill years earlier, a gold badge clipped to his belt. He greets me with a look that says he thinks it’s a bad idea that I’m here, a lawyer with no criminal experience.
“I assume those TV people are here for this case,” I say.
“Yep,” Jackson mutters. “Someone at the nursing home musta tipped them off. They have all kinds of murders they can cover in this city. But this one in a nursing home . . . Don’t worry. My captain’ll take care of ’em.”
“Good.”
“You need a pass,” Jackson says, pointing a long finger at the reception desk. I sign in and the receptionist hands me a visitor’s pass, which I clip to my lapel. Jackson leads me into a meeting room with a small table and chairs. A manila folder rests on the table. He takes the chair in front of the folder. “Sit,” Jackson says, pointing to the chair across from him. His tone is cool, almost condescending. “Before you meet your client, you should know the facts of the case.”
“That would be a good idea,” I reply, wishing I knew if it really was or not.
Jackson rests his elbows on the table, and his large frame hovers over the folder. “Been a cop for twenty-five years,” he says. “Last fifteen in homicide. Seen shit regular people can’t even imagine. Then I come into work this mornin’ and there’s this. Victim was a hundred-one years old, for chrissake. Nursing home said his health was failing and he didn’t have long to live. Suspect is ninety-nine. Doesn’t make sense. ’Course, none of them do, really.”
He shakes his head wearily and opens the folder. He hands me photos of the crime scene and explains what he’s showing me. The murder happened at the Angels of Mercy nursing home, an upscale nursing facility in a nice neighborhood northeast of downtown. It happened in the morning. “About eight a.m., best as we can guess,” Jackson says. He tells me the victim’s name was George Adams. “He’s Japanese, so it’s probably not his real name.”
I nod. “Sometimes immigrants change their names when they come to the US. I do that for clients from time to time. Some do it because they want to be like Americans. Some do it because they don’t want to be found.”
“Uh-huh,” Jackson says. He hands me a photo showing an elderly Asian man sitting in a chair and leaning to one side in a nursing home room. The man’s mouth is agape and he’s clearly dead. He has thin gray hair, and his skin is blotched with age spots. He is so thin his ribs show through his shirt. A red silk scarf is tied around his head like a bandana. There’s an ugly open gash across his midsection and a pool of blood on the carpeting underneath him. I feel my stomach turn and hand the photo back to Jackson.
“Killed with this sword.” Jackson hands me a close-up photo of a short sword covered with blood. There are Japanese characters on the handle. “Never seen a sword like that used in a murder,” Jackson says. “Don’t know what it says there on the handle. We sent a photo of it out to get it translated.”
I examine the photo. “It says ‘honor,’” I say. “And it’s a knife, not a sword. It’s what it’s called—a tanto knife. It was used by samurai for seppuku.” I look at Jackson. “Seppuku is also called hara-kiri. That’s suicide, Detective.”
Jackson returns my stare. “Is that so?” he says. I can’t tell if he’s genuinely impressed or if he’s being sarcastic. “Well, Counselor, a sword like that . . . knife, whatever you call it . . . can be used for murder, too. Your client was in the room with the victim.”
I give the photo back. “Did they know each other?”
He nods. “Yep. Staff says she visits him every day. Lives about a mile away. How exactly they’re related, we don’t know. We’re looking into it.”
Jackson points to the photo of the dead man. “He’s got that scarf on his head. Nursing home staff say they never saw it before.”
“When Japanese samurai committed honor-suicide, they would wear ceremonial clothing. It’s strange that the scarf is Korean, though. I can tell by the design in it.”
“Well, that is interesting,” Jackson says. This time, I can tell he’s sincere.
“Where’s Ms. Yi now?” I ask, pushing away from the table. “I want to talk to her.”
The detective stays seated and eyes me. “What’s this thing about a dragon comb?” he asks. “What does a comb have to do with this?” I can see in Jackson’s glare that he’s good at his game and that he likes to win. He’s been a homicide detective for fifteen years, he said, and I’ve never done this before. If I’m not careful, I could blow my client’s case.
“Honestly, I don’t know what it has to do with this,” I answer. “But whatever it is, it’s between me and my client.”
“Okay,” Jackson shrugs. He still doesn’t move. After a few seconds he says, “Ms. Carlson, we don’t want your client to claim she wasn’t properly represented. So I gotta ask. Now that you’ve seen all this, doesn’t it concern you that you’re not a criminal lawyer?”
“It does concern me, Detective,” I say, facing him straight on. “But Ms. Yi requested me and that makes me her lawyer for the time being. I assure you that when I need help with the criminal aspects of this case, I’ll see that Ms. Yi gets proper representation. Now please, take me to my client.”
Finally, Detective Jackson gets up and opens the door for me. “She’s in the interrogation room. Can’t exactly put an old woman like that in a holding cell. She asked for some sort of special tea. One of our counter clerks—she’s Korean—happened to have some. Follow me.”
She sits straight-backed at a metal table in a small windowless room. The fluorescent lights bathe her in white. She wears a buttonless purple blouse and plain gray slacks. Her gnarled hands curl around a teacup as if she’s trying to keep them warm. Deep wrinkles crease her face, and her hair is pure white held in place with an elegant silver hairpin.
She lifts her chin when she sees me. “Hello, Anna,” she says as if she knows me and knew I would come. With her contented expression, she looks like she could be at her great-granddaughter’s birthday party.
I give her a polite bow and say in Korean, “Anyohaseyo, Ms. Yi. Have we met before?”
“I do not think so,” she replies in Korean. “No.” Her voice cracks with age, but her words are clear and direct.
“I’m pleased to meet you, ma’am,” I say, keeping the conversation in Korean. “But I must ask, why do you want me here now? You should have a criminal lawyer.”
“I do not want a criminal lawyer,” she replies. “You are the one who must hear my story.” She looks at me directly. Her eyes are watery but keen.
I remember that Detective Jackson followed me into the room and is standing behind me. I turn to him. “Detective, I’d like to be alone with my client.”
“No,” Ms. Yi says in English before Jackson can leave. “He should stay. I want to be on record.”
“Ma’am,” I say, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“That depends on what my objective is,” Ms. Yi says. She speaks English well, but has an
accent. “I am not concerned about their criminal charges. No. I want my story on record. He should stay.”
“You know, Ms. Yi, they want to charge you with murder.”
“Maybe they are right!” she says with a lilt in her voice. “Or maybe they will change their minds once they hear my story. Either way, I am ninety-nine years old.” She gives an almost girlish smile. “What can they do to me?”
Without saying a word, Jackson goes to a cabinet and takes out a recording device. He sets it on the table and turns it on. The “record” light glows red. He sits in a chair off to the side and folds his arms across his chest. I shoot a disapproving glance at him but he doesn’t move.
With Detective Jackson in the room and the recorder on, this is where I should call a criminal lawyer. Ms. Yi, my client, wants to talk on the record. I don’t need to be a criminal lawyer to know it’s a terrible idea. But when I look at her now, she seems lucid, intelligent, and perfectly capable of making her own decisions. She has a story to tell and somehow it has something to do with the comb with the two-headed dragon. My lawyer’s instincts tell me I should back out. But as the protector of the comb, I must stay.
I sit alongside Ms. Yi. I make sure to sit straight and proper like a good Korean woman should. “Tell me, ma’am, what happened at the nursing home,” I say, taking a notepad from my briefcase.
“You must hear my story to know what happened there,” she replies. “May I have more tea, please?”
“Bori cha?” I ask.
She gives me a nod. “Of course!”
“Detective?” I say over my shoulder. “I’ll have some, too.” Without getting up from his chair, Jackson opens the door and says something to someone behind it. “It’ll be here in a sec,” he says.
“Thank you,” Ms. Yi says. She points at the recorder. “Your recording device, Detective, how long does it go?”
“Two hours, I think.”
“Two hours?” Ms. Yi says. “That is not long enough.”
Jackson gives me a look. “We’ll take care of it if necessary,” he says.
The Spirit of the Dragon Page 1