Fishing for Stars

by Bryce Courtenay

It was sub-standard interrogation technique, what not to do, almost the first lesson I’d been taught in naval intelligence. The threat of certain death usually achieves nothing in an interrogation. The alternative of sweet and sour, hope and despair, is the only technique that works in the psychology involved in obtaining a confession. If no carrot exists the stick won’t do the job on its own. Hope springs eternal, remove it and the subject closes down. Individual survival is largely built on choosing one or another outcome. In interrogation, threat only works when physical or psychological punishment, not death, is the consequence. The interrogator’s mantra has always been ‘Dead men tell no tales.’

  ‘If you intend to kill me, then there is no point in my answering your questions,’ I said. I had been standing for nearly two hours, and with no sleep and the aggravation of the cuts I was in pretty poor shape, dog tired and hurting like hell. There wasn’t much more they could do to make things worse than they were. I decided to say nothing more.

  ‘Sit!’ the original bad guy commanded. I remained standing. ‘Sit!’ he shouted again. Again I refused to comply. The bad guy turned to the two policemen. ‘Make the murderer of our fathers sit,’ he instructed.

  The two uniformed officers rose from their chairs and came to stand on either side of me and the original good guy came around the table and placed the chair behind me. The two policemen then pushed me down hard onto the chair. The pain was excruciating as my lacerated buttocks crashed down onto the seat. ‘Stand!’ The cops lifted me partially from the chair. ‘Sit!’ I resisted by pushing down on the desk in front of me, making it impossible for the two small policemen to force me back down. ‘Handcuff him!’ came the order. I was handcuffed and at the same time the chair was pulled sufficiently far from the table to be out of reach. Then they crashed me down again. The command to sit or stand went on for a good twenty minutes with the result that first the dressings aggravated the wounds, then I felt the thirty or so stitches in the cheeks of my buttocks begin to tear apart. The seat of my trousers was soon soaked with blood, which ran down the back of my legs into my socks and shoes.

  The effect of lifting me and crashing me back down meant that my shoulders often met the back of the chair, which caused the large cut behind my right shoulderblade to open up, and soon I could feel my blood-soaked shirt sticking to my back. ‘Confess! You murdered the old lady! Confess!’ my tormentor shouted each time I crashed down, his face no more than an inch from my own. Up I went and then down again, the command to confess becoming a mantra screamed into my ears. I lost count of the times I was lifted and dumped – the two policemen were plainly exhausted – then suddenly the seat of my blood-soaked trousers met the blood-covered chair and I slid off it and crashed to the floor, hitting the back of my head on the edge of the chair. I rolled onto my stomach and lay on the floor with my handcuffed hands tucked under me and my eyes closed. The dozen or so stitches on the back of my forearms were the only ones that still seemed intact. I was dazed, bloody and close to passing out from sheer exhaustion, or possibly loss of blood.

  ‘Get up!’ the second plainclothes guy commanded. I lay still, eyes closed, feigning unconsciousness. ‘Lift him!’ came the command. The policemen were not big men and attempting to lift a bloodied and inert body weighing two hundred and thirty pounds was not easy. They tried rolling me over onto my back to get at my arms but the back of my shirt and trousers from shoulders to ankles was blood-soaked and the task proved well nigh impossible for the two men. They made several attempts and must have been pretty bloodied by the time I heard the command, ‘Leave him!’ Then moments later, ‘Call an ambulance!’

  I must have passed out on the way to the hospital because I came to in Emergency where two nurses were swabbing me with iodine, the sting of the antiseptic excruciating. They then set about removing the broken stitches, another very painful experience, and finally a doctor attended to me, re-stitching the wounds, all of which was done without giving me any anaesthesia. I confess I didn’t handle the process at all well. While the police were torturing me I managed to contain the agony with grunts and winces and an occasion cry of pain, but released from the need to remain stoic I sobbed and shouted and pleaded like a child for them to stop. I was finally given a blood transfusion and spent the night in a private room in the hospital with a police officer outside the door.

  To my surprise, the following morning a police officer arrived with a full set of clothes, clean undies, shirt, trousers, socks and jacket, all obviously obtained from the hotel, including a spare pair of shoes, as the ones I’d arrived in were blood-soaked and beyond cleaning. I’d asked a nurse for a painkiller during the night but she’d refused, saying that the police had left strict instructions that I wasn’t to receive any. Then she’d smiled. ‘But they said nothing about a sedative.’ She’d returned shortly and soon afterwards I was able to sleep, although I awoke very sore, battered and doubtful that I had the fortitude to get through another chairing session. I was unable to shower, but with the help of a nurse I was washed down completely, my wounded bum and shoulder again painfully dressed.

  Clean linen always helps and I felt a little better when the police car came to fetch me. I speculated about whether I had brought sufficient shirts and trousers on the trip to last the torture sessions that possibly lay ahead. The Japanese police had found the ideal way to torment me: either they’d repeat the chair dump or simply demand that I be seated. The latter would be less painful than the former, but nevertheless it would be a very unpleasant experience.

  I had been expecting to be brought in front of the public prosecutor and formally charged. Instead my belt and shoelaces were confiscated and I was taken to a cell and left alone all day with only the mug of green tea and the bento box of fried fish and rice at noon and again in the early evening.

  I was attempting to sleep, despite the noise and the lights, when around 10 p.m. the original plainclothes bad guy arrived with two police officers in tow. ‘Get up. Put your shoes on!’ he snapped. I did as I was told, the cell was unlocked and I walked out to stand between the two policemen. ‘March!’ the bad guy ordered, giving me a hard punch on the back, right on my wounded shoulder. Pain stabbed through my shoulderblade at the unexpected punch and I reacted instinctively. Turning, I grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off the ground. A look of surprised terror flashed into his eyes.

  Before the two cops could react I lowered him to the ground, knowing he’d be wearing the bruise of my thumb for a couple of weeks. ‘Sorry, sir, you caught me by surprise,’ I said, then added, ‘I was not expecting to be attacked from the back.’ A roar of approval came from the surrounding cells and the prisoners started to clap.

  The bad guy’s hands were clasped around his throat. ‘Hand . . . cuff urrr . . . him!’ he cried, his voice squeaking and breaking.

  I held out both hands to one of the police officers, but they pulled my arms behind my back then handcuffed me, whereupon the plainclothes guy kneed me hard in the groin and I pitched to my knees in agony. The booing and shouting from my fellow prisoners became deafening. I attempted unsuccessfully to rise and was finally dragged to my feet with the help of the two policemen and frogmarched down a long passage to arrive, panting and biting back groans from the pain between my legs, at a different and much smaller room. A tall slender greying man almost my own height sat on a corner of the desk, immaculately dressed in a plain grey tailored suit, striped shirt, the starched cuffs of which sported gold monogrammed cufflinks, blue silk tie and black expensive-looking shoes polished to a military shine. He politely thanked the two cops and stood and turned to the plainclothes guy. ‘May I have your name please?’ he asked in a formal manner.

  The plainclothes guy came to attention and bowed. ‘Special Services Officer Razan.’

  ‘You are with the First Intelligence Division?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I would like to speak to my client privately, Razan-san,’ he said quietly, with only the semblance of a bow.

&n
bsp; The plainclothes guy who now had a name bowed more formally. ‘As you wish, Kinzo-san. Only five minutes is permitted, then I am authorised to return.’

  ‘That will be quite sufficient time, thank you,’ Kinzo-san said, his forefinger flicking in the direction of the door. Then suddenly he said, ‘Oh, send one of the police officers in to remove Duncan-san’s handcuffs,’ adding, ‘This is not included in the five minutes.’

  Razan hesitated, his eyes suddenly angry. ‘He is a murderer and a kidnapper. It is best that he is restrained! He has shown recent violence,’ he warned.

  ‘He is none of those things until he is formally convicted, and in my experience, men in custody seldom show violence towards their lawyers,’ Kinzo-san said without raising his voice. ‘Send in the officer, please.’ He smiled. ‘My sympathies, none of us like being called out at night after a hard day’s work. I’m sure you will be able to go home shortly.’

  Whoever this tall Japanese was, it was obvious he commanded respect. The police officer arrived, removed my handcuffs and left. It took all my resolve to prevent myself from clasping my hands to my scrotum as Kinzo-san bowed formally and introduced himself as my lawyer.

  ‘But I have yet to be permitted to request a lawyer,’ I said, puzzled.

  ‘Well then your request is granted, Duncan-san. It seems you have friends who ask to be permitted to appoint me.’

  ‘Thank you, I am grateful to them and to you,’ I replied, bowing to this exquisitely polite man who seemed to know his way around. My hopes rose that I might get through the day without having to undergo another bout of chair exercises.

  ‘This violence he talked about, when did it take place? Was it in the home of Konoe Akira?’ he asked, concerned.

  ‘Hardly,’ I said. ‘An incident occurred on our way here to see you. Razan-san unexpectedly punched me in the back on the wound to my shoulder. I reacted instinctively by turning and grabbing him one-handed around the throat, but then I released him immediately.’

  ‘That’s serious; he is a special intelligence officer.’

  ‘I’m afraid it was instinctive. My reaction to a totally unexpected punch from behind.’

  ‘Then he handcuffed you?’

  ‘Yes, then kicked me in the testicles.’

  ‘Once you were handcuffed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He grinned. ‘Ah, a cowardly gesture in public,’ he said, obviously pleased with my answer.

  ‘Are you in pain?’ he asked, suddenly solicitous.

  I tried to grin, though it came out more as a wince. ‘It all adds up.’

  ‘I’m sorry I was not available yesterday to prevent what occurred during your interrogation, but there were other aspects of your case to attend to.’

  ‘Oh, then you know what happened?’

  ‘Of course, we even have photographs of your back and . . . er . . . buttocks.’

  ‘Photographs? I don’t recall . . .’

  He indicated a fairly large brown manila envelope on the desk. ‘A conscientious ambulance attendant when you passed out on the way to hospital, then again another in hospital, these second ones in colour,’ he explained. ‘Very useful. Your harsh treatment may have saved us a great deal of trouble. Westerners still think we Japanese are barbarians, but we have been a civilised race since Emperor Jimmu ascended the Chrysanthemum Throne six hundred and sixty years before your Christ, when your people were still living in caves and painting themselves blue. This is the new Japan; our government puts great store in our justice system and they do not like photographs like these to appear in the newspapers and on the television or to be sent to a foreign embassy or distributed worldwide by Reuters International News Service.’

  This turn of events was all rather sudden and I was having difficulty comprehending that Fuchida-san, the yakuza boss, whom I had virtually written off, had stuck by me when he stood to gain handsomely by walking away and negotiating directly with Konoe Akira. I silently thanked him for his caretaker’s eyes, in this case taking photographs of my re-opened wounds.

  ‘Will they not simply say it was caused by an accident?’ I queried.

  He quickly brought his finger to his lips and I realised he was telling me the room was undoubtedly bugged. ‘Ah, “accident” is a useful word. In my experience it seldom carries its true meaning when it relates to obtaining a confession. We must thank the gods for stupid policemen. The two plainclothes men should be ashamed of their inept and brutal performance yesterday. I have in my possession a copy of the report at the time of your re-admission to the University Hospital Emergency Department shortly after the interview session, and the nurse’s and doctor’s report on your condition.’

  I was suddenly aware that Kinzo was giving me all this information in a clear and carefully enunciated manner for the benefit of the secret listening device. ‘What will happen next?’ I asked in an attempt to avoid any more leading questions.

  ‘You will be arraigned, taken before the public prosecutor who will decide whether to charge you for the four offences – kidnapping, attempted kidnapping, breaking and entering, and possessing an unlicensed gun brought into Japan without a permit.’

  I groaned. ‘I’ve really screwed up. That bastard Konoe Akira wins again.’

  ‘Ah, maybe not. I have some good news. Konoe-san has agreed to drop all the charges. His mother, who suffers from dementia, was most fortuitously found wandering in the street by the great kendo master, Saito Miro, and naturally the charge of kidnapping her has been dropped. It is a strange and remarkable coincidence. The nurse responsible for looking after the old woman took a strong sedative by mistake, thinking it was a headache tablet, and that is how the old woman was able to wander off into the night.’

  Realising that I was required to play the game of stating our case before I went in front of the public prosecutor, I merely said, ‘That is a great relief to me,’ then added charitably, ‘To think of one’s mother wandering the streets alone at night would bring any son to despair.’ I immediately regretted this last statement – it was clumsily phrased and I hoped it didn’t indicate that I was aware we were being taped.

  Kinzo-san grinned, acknowledging with a damping movement of his palm that I understood the game we were playing but should keep it simple. ‘I have requested the public prosecutor grant permission to hear the other charges in private here at police headquarters and not in a public court. I am happy to say that he accepts that discretion is required in this particular hearing. I regret the two police officers and the two plainclothes officers who interviewed you yesterday are required to be present, along with the arresting officers.’ He paused and pointed at me, perhaps to emphasise what he was about to say. ‘You must understand that it is the public prosecutor alone who has absolute discretion to decide if you will be charged with any crime. If he finds there is a case to answer, then it is extremely unlikely that a judge will overrule this finding. I ask only that you allow me to do the talking, and if you are personally addressed, you are permitted to bow deeply and then to say, “I ask permission to consult my lawyer before answering your question, your honour.” Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied for the benefit of the bugging device.

  My lawyer glanced at his watch. ‘Time’s up, Duncan-san. Try to get some sleep. I will be present tomorrow afternoon when you will go before the public prosecutor.’

  He bowed and I did the same. ‘Thank you, Kinzo-san, I am honoured to know you. Will you please thank those friends who have greatly honoured me by appointing you to my case?’

  He laughed. ‘Ah, we lawyers are like butterflies, we like to land where the nectar is,’ he said, confirming that Fuchida-san was my benefactor.

  I was taken back to my cell, this time without the handcuffs, and without plainclothes First Intelligence Division Officer Razan. The two police officers showed a new measure of respect by instructing me politely to move and being careful not to touch me. Most of the prisoners were asleep when I returned but some nut still aw
ake shouted, ‘The gaijin has returned!’ Moments later those awake started to clap, waking all the others, and soon the cops on duty were shouting for silence. It seemed that, like the yakuza experience at the Imperial Hotel, I had once again acquired respect for all the wrong reasons.

  I guess hope springs eternal, and despite nursing a new frontal area of pain that now made it difficult for me to lie on my stomach, I finally managed to get some sleep.

  The following afternoon, no doubt after the public prosecutor had duly listened to the recording of my interview with my lawyer, I was led down a long corridor punctuated with doors, all of them closed. I was surprised to see Kinzo-san waiting for me a little further along. As I approached him, he said, ‘I have requested three minutes with you before we go into the hearing.’ Turning to my two police escorts he asked them politely to stand three doors further down the corridor on either side of where we stood and out of earshot.

  ‘We are going into your examination by the public prosecutor. It is like a court hearing, with many of the powers to compel witnesses to attend, but it is not a sentencing court,’ Kinzo-san explained. ‘You will not be placed in the dock, in fact there isn’t one; you are simply required to sit beside me.’

  ‘Sitting might be a problem,’ I grinned.

  ‘Better still; standing beside me will do nicely. Now this is important. I don’t want you to respond to the prosecutor’s questions as I instructed you to do yesterday for the benefit of the tape recorder. This is because it may appear uncooperative. So, this is what we will do. I will have my hands resting on my lap. If I raise my forefinger a fraction on the hand nearest to you, this means you must answer the question directly. If my finger does not move, leave me to answer or to object on your behalf.’

  Walking together with a policeman front and back we entered a small court-like area with twenty or so fixed seats facing a platform that occupied most of the width of the room. A stenographer sat at a small table at one end. Three men sat at a desk in the middle of the platform, the one in the centre a small man in the ubiquitous blue serge suit, white shirt and plain blue tie. He seemed to have no distinguishing features except perhaps for his slightly broader, flatter face and the fact that his greying hair was cut very short but seemed to grow in several directions, which was probably why it was kept so short. The two others were roughly the same age as the prosecutor, undistinguished-looking, although well dressed, both sporting expensive silk ties of the kind usually worn by politicians or lawyers.