It was the next morning. G. I. and Akemi had already left for Yukis arraignment, so Mas could take a good look at the
Los Angeles Times
. There were a few Japanese names among the obituaries, but no Haneda. It made sense. The Hanedas would have a private family ceremony, away from the talk and the spotlight.
But later that afternoon, the L.A. Japanese newspaper
The Rafu Shimpo,
came in the mail, and there it was two times, in fact. One was within the English pages, the other in the Japanese section, bordered by a thick black line.
Joji Haneda, 68, a Los Angelesborn Nisei resident of Ventura. Survived by wife Betty, son Jeff, and daughter Susan.
The next line shocked Mas, enough so that the blood rushed from his hands.
Also survived by sister Akemi Kimura, of Hiroshima.
How could they have included Akemi? But more important, why? Why make the connection so public, so clear to everyone? This was not a simple mistake. Mas knew how it worked with mortuaries; he had been through it with Chizuko. They went through the obituary, carefully selecting each word and going over the spelling of each name. You didnt want so-and-so in the obituary, fine. Leave out an
urusai
brother-in-law, ex-wife, whatever.
But on the other hand, this Betty Haneda wanted to make damn sure that everyone thought her husband was kin to Akemi. That meant only one thing: Shuji Nakane had gotten to the wife and two children.
Mas licked his lips. They were so dry that skin was peeling off of them like fish scales. He checked the date. Two days from today. Visitation at seven P.M. At Evergreen Cemetery in Los Angeles.
The phone rang around noon. Mas figured it was Stinky pumping him for more gossip, but it was another voice. Lifeless, dull, as if she were lying in a coffin herself. We lost, Akemi said. No bail.
Mas felt sick to the pit of his stomach. He shouldnt have even mentioned the funeral, but he did. It had been a mistake, because immediately afterward, Akemi hung up the phone. A few minutes later, she called right back, reciting a set of numbers.
Whatsu dis? Mas asked.
His booking number. Youre going to need it. Yuki wants to talk to you.
Finding the jail was no problem. Mas had once done a rose-pruning job for a Catholic church in Little Tokyo, just some blocks south. But visiting the jail was another matter altogether. A mini-mall was on the corner, selling bail bonds and breakfasts. Public phone booths stood like tombstones along the street. To the north were the twin towers, looking like any other kind of government building, aside from the thick windows and elevators lined with steel grids. What stayed with Mas the most was the quiet. Voices on the streets were hushed, as if everyone had a secret that was not worth celebrating.
Two lines of waiting visitors wrapped around two buildings named Los Angeles County Sheriff Mens Central Jail. Mas wasnt sure where to go, so he took a chance and picked a line with mostly men. He figured that this was the place for hard offenders, those who had killed and maimed. Judging from the visitors in line, he was right.
Nobody spoke, even those with friends. Then a man, maybe Chinese or Vietnamese, came up to Mas. He was a scrawny man, with thin hair that stood up like weeds. He asked something in a language Mas could not make out. Mas shook his head. No understand, he said. The man was looking for some kind of connection, an explanation, maybe. But Mas had no answers himself.
Once his watch read five-thirty, the line began to move. Mass stomach began to growl, but he lost his appetite. He had been in a jail only one time, back in Hiroshima.
Mas watched the others, most likely regulars. They put their belongings in lockers on one side of the waiting room and then got back in line toward a counter protected by thick glass. Two female officers wearing green uniforms and with their hair tied back in buns punched at a computer keyboard as each person passed by. Finally it was Mass turn. Yukikazu Kimura, he said. The officer asked him for the booking number, just like Akemi had said, and Mas pulled out an old receipt that he had used to jot down the number. He pushed the receipt through the glass, and in time she directed him to another officer, who stood by some sort of metal detector.
Before Mas knew it, the officer was patting him down and rummaging through his pockets. He took out Mass Marlboros and matches from a local gas station and shook his head. Well have to hang on to these for you, he said.
At that point, Mas wanted to head back home. He felt trapped, off balance. Why had that stupid Yuki Kimura come to America? He should have stayed in the new, improved Hiroshima. Very few had the guts to make it here, and the young ones were only fooling themselves to think they could.
After going up the concrete steps, there was more waiting. What had the sign said visitation only until six forty-five P.M.? There was only twenty minutes to go. Finally an officer directed him to a room separated from the other side by a thick glass window. There was a line of prisoners on the other side, seated next to red phones. Two chairs to the left, wearing an orange jumpsuit, was Yuki Kimura.
Mas lifted the telephone receiver. It smelled funny, but he had no choice. Hallo, he said, looking at the boy through the bulletproof glass.
Hello, Yuki answered. The boy looked terrible. His red hair was parted in the middle and lay completely flat. His eyes were rimmed with dark, puffy bags. You werent at the court-house.
No. Had
yoji,
Mas lied.
Doesnt look good, Yuki said.
Mas couldnt say anything to make it better.
I have a request,
Ojisan
. A serious request.
Whatsu?
Send my grandmother back to Japan. I dont care how you do it. Go with her, if you have to.
Mas almost felt like laughing. How could anyone force Akemi Haneda to do anything?
I have a bad feeling about this. Real bad feeling. The police need someone to blame. They might cut a deal with the Japanese government, and I may be tried over there. I dont know which place will be worse.
Mas had heard about the high conviction rate in Japan, the aggressive questioning by police. More often than not, the suspect ended up confessing.
All I know is that I cant put my grandmother through this. Better yet, take her to Hawaii, or even Guam. Some-where safe and quiet. Away from all of this.
You knowsu she not goin anywhere.
You dont understand. You cant mess around with these people.
Mas was confused. Whatsu people? As he stared at Yukis face, the table between them began to shake. Down the line of jailed suspects, a man in an orange suit banged the telephone receiver against the Plexiglas at a visitor, a woman. In a split second, two guards had grabbed the prisoner and were dragging him toward a back door.
Mas and Yuki watched, saying nothing. The skin underneath the boys left eye began to twitch.
A bell sounded, and then a voice announced over the intercom, Visiting hours will end in five minutes.
I must go, Mas said, relieved that his own time was limited.
But Yuki would not let him go so easily. Come tomorrow,
Ojisan,
Yuki said. And then I will tell you.
As Mas got back into the Jeep, he began thinking about Riki again. Riki had been plenty sick, but the timing of his death seemed too convenient. With him out of the way and Yuki arrested, anyone could create a new history for Joji Haneda, U.S.A.
The traffic on the Ventura Freeway was light, so Mas knew that he was meant to go to the Oxnard City Hospital again. He went straight to the third floor and wandered around until he found the same Filipino nurse he had talked to the first time.
Excuse, excuse, he said.
Yes? The nurse was holding a clipboard and seemed like she was in a hurry to go someplace else.
I talksu to you a few days ago.
The nurse wrinkled her forehead and then had a moment of recognition. Oh, yes, I remember. You were visiting
Joji Haneda.
Yes, yes. The nurses voice took on a strange tone, and she looked at Mas nervously. How can I help you?
Well, I just wonderin. I meansu, he looked bad, but still seemed to die all of a sudden.
The nurse glanced down the hall and then pulled Mas into an empty hospital room. Who told you? she asked. What did you hear?
Nobody tellsu me anytin. Riki Joji, I meansu an ole friend. I dont wanna cause any trouble. Just cant rest unless I knowsu the truth.
The nurse ran her hand through her straight black hair.
Mas tried again. Just sumptin funny, I think.
Thats what I thought. The nurse lowered her voice. I told the doctors that it was very strange. The oxygen mask had been in place, at least when I saw him last. He wasnt strong enough to take it off by himself at that point. But after his monitors indicated that his vitals were taking a nosedive, I ran into his room, and his mask had been removed.
Mas bit down on his lip. He remembered Rikis gulping down air from the oxygen machine during their last meeting. Wheres mask?
Here. The nurse pointed to the vinyl chair in the corner, as it was set up in every room. Now, you tell me how did that mask get there?
