Snow Falling on Cedars (44 page)

‘More hopeful than ever,’ said Hatsue. ‘He came home from his conversation with Carl Heine more hopeful and more eager than ever. He told me that he felt closer to getting the family land back than he had in a long, long time. I felt hopeful, too, at that point. I was hopeful it would all work out.’

Nels pushed himself upright again and began, slowly, to pace before the jurors, brooding in silence for a moment. In the quiet the wind pushed against the window sashes; steam hissed and boiled through the radiators. With no overhead lights the courtroom, always pallid, seemed grayer and duller than ever. The smell of snow was in the air.

‘You say, Mrs. Miyamoto, that you felt hopeful. And yet, as you well know, the deceased man’s mother and your husband over there were not on the best of terms. There had been, shall we say, words between them. So on what grounds did you hold out hope, if I might ask? What made you optimistic?’

Yes, said Hatsue, she understood this question. She’d brought it up with Kabuo herself: would such people agree to sell him the land they’d once stolen so eagerly? ‘Etta and Carl are two different people,’ Kabuo had replied to this. It was up to Carl, not his mother, this time. And Carl had been his friend long ago. Carl would do what was right.

‘Mrs. Miyamoto,’ Nels continued. ‘Your husband had his conversation with Carl Heine on the afternoon of Thursday, September 9. On the following Thursday, September 16, Carl Heine was found drowned in his fishing net out in White Sand Bay. A week intervened between the two events – six full days passed, and seven nights. A full week, or nearly a week anyway.
My question is whether during this week your husband spoke to you about Carl Heine or the seven acres in question. If he said anything to you about the seven acres or about his attempts to reacquire them. Do you recall your husband having spoken about this or having done anything pertinent to reacquiring his family’s land during the week between the ninth and the sixteenth?’

Well, explained Hatsue, Kabuo felt there was nothing to do, that the next move was Carl’s, that it was Carl who had to come forward. It was Carl who had to think about things and come to some conclusion. It was Carl’s heart that was now in question, whether he wanted to redress a wrong his own mother had perpetrated. Did Carl feel responsible for the actions of his family? Did he understand his obligations? It was dishonorable, anyway, added Kabuo, to approach Carl once again with the same tired question; he did not wish to beg, to place himself at Carl’s mercy. He did not wish to appear weak in Carl’s presence or reveal a humiliating eagerness. No, it was best to be patient in such a matter. There was nothing to be gained by putting oneself forward or revealing oneself too fully. He would wait instead. He would wait one week, he explained to Hatsue, and then he would decide what to do.

On the morning of the sixteenth, while she boiled tea water, he pushed through the door in his rubber boots and rubber bib overalls and explained how he had seen Carl out at sea, helped Carl with a dead battery in the fog, and the two of them had shaken about the matter. They’d come to an agreement about the seven acres. Eighty-four hundred dollars, eight hundred down. The Miyamotos’ land was Kabuo’s again, after all these years.

But later that day, at one o’clock in the afternoon, a clerk at Petersen’s – it was Jessica Porter – told Hatsue about the terrible accident that had befallen Carl Heine while he fished the preceding evening. He’d been found tangled in his net, dead, out in White Sand Bay.

Alvin Hooks began his cross-examination by perching himself on the edge of the prosecutor’s table and crossing his well-shined shoes in front of him as though he were relaxing on a street corner. His hands in his lap, his fingers intertwined, he cocked his head to the right for a moment and studied Hatsue Miyamoto. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘it’s been interesting hearing from you. On this matter of the morning of the sixteenth in particular. This story you’ve just told us about boiling tea water when the defendant burst through your kitchen door, just terribly excited, and told you about his conversation at sea, how he and Carl Heine came to some sort of agreement? I found this all quite interesting.’

He stopped and studied her for another moment. Then he began to nod. He scratched his head and turned his eyes toward the ceiling. ‘Mrs. Miyamoto,’ he sighed. ‘Was I fair just now in describing your husband’s state of mind as “terribly excited” on the morning of the sixteenth – the morning Carl Heine was murdered? Have I by any chance misinterpreted your testimony? Did he come home on that morning “terribly excited”?’

‘I would use that phrase, yes,’ said Hatsue. ‘He was terribly excited, certainly.’

‘He didn’t seem himself? His state of mind was – agitated? He seemed to you somehow … different?’

‘Excited,’ answered Hatsue. ‘Not agitated. He was excited about getting his family’s land back.’

‘All right, so he was “excited”,’ Alvin Hooks said. ‘And he told you this story about stopping at sea to help Carl
Heine with a … dead battery or something. Is that correct, Mrs. Miyamoto?’

That’s correct.’

‘He said that he tied up to Carl Heine’s boat and came aboard to loan Carl a battery?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And that in the course of this charitable maneuver on his part he and Carl discussed the seven acres they’d been arguing about until that point? Is that right? And that somehow Carl agreed to sell it to him? For eighty-four hundred dollars or something? Is that all correct? Do I have it right?’

‘You do,’ said Hatsue. ‘That’s what happened.’

‘Mrs. Miyamoto,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘Did you, by any chance, repeat this story to anyone? Did you, for example, call a friend or a relative to deliver the happy news? Did you let your friends and family know that your husband had come to terms with Carl Heine in the middle of the night on his fishing boat – that you would soon be moving to seven acres of strawberry land, starting a new life, anything like that?’

‘No,’ said Hatsue. ‘I didn’t.’

‘Why not?’ asked Alvin Hooks. ‘Why didn’t you tell anyone? It seems like the sort of thing that would constitute news. It would seem you might tell your mother, for example, or your sisters, perhaps – someone.’

Hatsue adjusted herself in her chair and brushed uneasily at her blouse front. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘We heard about how Carl Heine had … passed away just a few hours after Kabuo came home. Carl’s accident – that changed how we thought. It meant there was nothing to tell anyone. Everything was up in the air again.’

‘Everything was up in the air,’ said Alvin Hooks, settling his arms across his chest. ‘When you heard that Carl Heine had died, you decided not to talk about the matter? Is that what you’re saying, am I correct?’

‘You’re misinterpreting,’ complained Hatsue. ‘We just – ’

‘I’m not interpreting or misinterpreting,’ Alvin Hooks cut
in. ‘I merely want to know what the facts are – we all want to know what the facts are, Mrs. Miyamoto, that’s what we’re doing here. You’re under oath to give us the facts, so please, ma’am, if I might ask again, did you decide not to talk about your husband’s night at sea, his encounter with Carl Heine? Did you decide not to talk about this matter?’

‘There was nothing to talk about,’ said Hatsue. ‘What news could I announce to my family? Everything was up in the air.’

‘Worse than up in the air,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘On top of your husband’s real estate deal going sour, a man, we might note, had died. A man had died, let us understand, the side of his skull bashed in. Did it occur to you, Mrs. Miyamoto, to come forward with the information you had about this and notify the sheriff? Did you ever think it might be proper to share what you knew, your husband’s night at sea, this battery business, and so on and so forth, with the sheriff of Island County?’

‘We thought about it, yes,’ said Hatsue. ‘We talked about it all afternoon that day, if we should go to the sheriff and tell him, if we should talk about things. But in the end we decided not to, you see – it looked very bad, it looked like murder, Kabuo and I understood that. We understood that he could end up here, on trial, and that’s exactly what has happened. That’s exactly how it has turned out, you see. You’ve charged my husband with murder.’

‘Well, of course,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘I can see how you felt. I can see how you might be very concerned that your husband would be charged with murder. But if, as you imply, the truth was on your side, what in the world were you worried about? Why, if the truth was really with you – why on earth, Mrs. Miyamoto – why not go immediately to the sheriff and tell him everything you know?’

‘We were afraid,’ said Hatsue. ‘Silence seemed better. To come forward seemed like a mistake.’

‘Well,’ said Alvin Hooks, ‘that’s an irony. Because the mistake, it seems to me, was in
not
coming forward. The
mistake was in your having been deceitful. In having deliberately concealed information during the course of a sheriff’s investigation.’

‘Maybe,’ said Hatsue. ‘I don’t know.’

‘But it
was
a mistake,’ said Alvin Hooks, pointing a forefinger at her. ‘A very serious error in judgment, don’t you think, in retrospect? Here we have a death under suspicious circumstances, the sheriff is out and about gathering information, and you’re not coming forward to help. You’re in a position to be of assistance and you’re not coming forth or being honest. Frankly, it makes you suspect, Mrs. Miyamoto, I’m sorry to say it but it’s true. If you can’t be trusted to come forward at such a time with what you know, with vital information, how can we trust you now – you see? How on earth can we trust you?’

‘But,’ said Hatsue, leaning forward in her chair, ‘there wasn’t time to come forward. We heard about Carl’s accident in the afternoon. Within hours of that, my husband was arrested. There just wasn’t very much time.’

‘But Mrs. Miyamoto,’ Alvin Hooks replied. ‘If in fact you felt it was an accident, why not come forward immediately? Why not come forward that very afternoon and tell the good sheriff what you know about this
accident?
Why not help him with the details of his investigation? Why not lend him a hand? Why not tell him your husband had boarded Carl Heine’s boat to help him with – what was it now? – a dead battery, was that it? I hope you can understand how I just have to say that I just don’t understand this at all. I’m stumped, I’m confused, I’m completely at a loss. I don’t know what to believe and what not to believe. I’m at a loss with all of this, I really am.’

Alvin Hooks tugged at the seams of his pants, rose and swiveled around the edge of the table, then settled in his chair and pressed his palms together. ‘No more questions, Your Honor,’ he said abruptly. ‘The witness is through. She may step down.’

‘Wait a minute,’ answered Hatsue Miyamoto. ‘I – ’

‘That’s enough, you’ll stop right there,’ Judge Fielding cut in
sternly. He glared without wavering at the wife of the accused man, and she glared at him in return. ‘You’ve answered the questions put to you, Mrs. Miyamoto. I understand that you must be upset, but your state of mind, your emotional condition, these are not considerations I can legally contemplate under the rules governing these proceedings. The fact that you wish to speak, that you would like to give Mr. Hooks over there a piece of your mind just now – I don’t blame you for having strong feelings – this just isn’t allowed. You’ve answered the questions put to you and now, I’m afraid, you must step down. I’m afraid you have no other choice.’

Hatsue turned toward her husband. He nodded at her, and she nodded back, and in the next moment she composed herself deliberately. She stood up without saying another word and went to her seat at the rear of the courthouse where, adjusting her hat, she sat down. A few citizens in the gallery – including Ishmael Chambers – turned impulsively to look at her, but she made no move to acknowledge them. She stared straight ahead and said nothing.

Nels Gudmundsson called Josiah Gillanders, the president of the San Piedro Gill-Netters Association, a man of forty-nine with a walrus mustache and the watery, dull eyes of an alcoholic. Short, broad, and powerful, Josiah had fished alone for thirty years from the cockpit of his boat, the
Cape Eliza.
Islanders knew him as a nautical sot who affected the gait and mannerisms of a sea captain: he tipped his captain’s hard-billed blue cap wherever he went on San Piedro. He wore wool dungarees and Shetland sweaters and often got
dead mucked –
his term – with Captain Jon Soderland at the San Piedro Tavern. The two of them would trade stories in voices that grew louder with each pint of beer they hoisted. Captain Soderland would stroke his beard; Josiah would wipe the froth from his mustache and clap the captain on the shoulder blade.

Now, on the witness stand, he held his hard-billed captain’s hat between his fingers, crossed his arms over his barrel chest,
and pointed his cleft chin at Nels Gudmundsson, who wavered unsteadily before him, blinking.

‘Mr. Gillanders,’ Nels said. ‘How long have you been president of the San Piedro Gill-Netters Association?’

‘Eleven years,’ Josiah answered. ‘Been fishing thirty, though.’

‘Fishing for salmon?’

‘Yes. Mostly.’

‘On board a gill-netter, Mr. Gillanders? Thirty years an island gill-netter?’

That’s correct. Thirty years.’

‘Your boat,’ said Nels. ‘The
Cape Eliza.
Ever had a hand aboard?’

Josiah shook his head. ‘Never,’ he said. ‘I work alone. Always have, always will. I fish by myself, like it. ’

‘Mr. Gillanders,’ Nels said. ‘In your thirty years of fishing have you ever had occasion to board another man’s boat, sir? Have you ever, while at sea, tied up to another gill-netter and come aboard for any reason?’

‘Just about never,’ said Josiah Gillanders, primping his mustache as he spoke. ‘Maybe, at best, a half-dozen times in all my years – half-dozen times, no more ‘n that. Five or six – that’s all.’

‘Five or six times,’ Nels said. ‘Can you recall for us, Mr. Gillanders, what occasioned these at-sea boardings? Do you remember what your purpose might have been, on each of these occasions, for tying up to another man’s boat? Can you recollect for the benefit of the court?’