Toward Night's End (27 page)

“I don’t know,” Johnstone said. “I think he might be mixed up in what happened to Matthew Kobata and Tom, but I’m not sure how yet.”

“What made you go talkin’ to him?”

“We have it on pretty good authority that a man who was killed out here – the man found only in his underwear—” This prompted Rex to give him a double take. “We’re told that man had business at Old Man Pete’s.”

“Who was the man? Dead man? He died when my Tom did, you know.”

“U.S. Navy sailor. Man named Cody Carsteen,” Merrick explained. “Ever hear of him?”

Rex just shook his head.

“Anything else you can tell us about Peter Harkin?”

“I just don’t like him much. His drinking, gambling. He’s just no good.”

“Gambling?” Johnstone asked, surprised.

“Oh, he likes his cards. Goes over to the mainland. Been doing it off and on for years.”

“You know where he goes?”

“Just what I hear,” Rex said. “Bog Adams’ place.”

“Bog Adams?”

“Near the south-end fishery, if you know where that is.”

The Kobata family was now known throughout Manzanar, and there wasn’t one detainee who thought well of them. Quite simply, rumors that Matthew Kobata was somehow aligned with the Imperialists had been taken as absolute, irrefutable truth. And this meant one thing – it was due to people like Matthew Kobata that all Japanese-Americans suffered the indignity of incarceration.

True to her nature, Kumiko never wallowed in self-pity. Her family’s circumstances could not be changed, and there was no point in wishing things different. Since the entire camp had learned about Matthew, only two people had been kind to her. One was an older man, Daisuke, who worked in the mess hall with her. Although she should have been grateful for his nice demeanor and his assistance with the cooking, she knew he was a widower who was simply lonely. In fact, he was probably grateful Matthew had not appeared, several times offering to bunk with her family in order to provide them comfort. Such comfort she did not need, nor would she ever need.

The only other person in the camp who had befriended her was a younger woman in their barracks who had come with her aunt. The aunt had plenty of nasty words for the Kobata family, but the younger woman, though shy, had only gentle words for Kumiko. She was kind to Daniel, too, when he came home from the hospital, his nose bandaged, his face still bruised and ugly.

In fact, the woman offered to take Matthew’s waiting, empty bed away. At first, Kumiko insisted it stay. Then she realized how silly this was. Matthew was not coming. And if somehow, by some miracle, he did appear one day, she was sure the Army would provide him a cot. Once the unused bed was gone, she was surprised to find it was a relief – constantly being reminded that her son was gone was extremely stressful.

She had also let Daisuke know that there was now no room for him in their little living space. No bed. Seeing his crestfallen face, she had felt a bit sorry for him. But better he not be encouraged in any way.

Busy chopping onions that would go into a meager stew for that evening’s meal, Kumiko literally jumped when another woman came running through the mess hall’s back door, full of excitement. “Rice! Rice! We have rice!”

Kumiko couldn’t believe it, and like the others, she quickly went outside. An Army Jeep was parked at the back door. Sacks and sacks of rice were being unloaded by two privates.

There was much discussion among them as to how much rice they should prepare. It was finally decided they would make as much rice as they could with the pots and pans they had available and serve it with the staple luncheon meat of the day – hotdogs. And that evening, there would be rice to go with the stew. Not potatoes.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the entire Japanese-American mess hall staff acknowledged Kumiko, praising her for getting the rice. She glowed at the warm reception, so at odds with the usual chill she received each and every day.

When the detainees filed in to lunch that afternoon, they were thrilled beyond belief to finally taste white rice again, and word quickly spread that it was due to Kumiko’s lobbying efforts. However, her enjoyment of the people’s goodwill was extremely short lived, because some others in the camp, still embittered about Matthew, insisted that she had only been able to get the rice because she was working in cahoots with the Army. So in one afternoon, she went from being praised for obtaining the rice, to being scorned – for obtaining the rice.

And so it went.

That morning, assigned to KP duty again, Matthew felt oddly confident. A far cry from the terrifying fear he had felt the afternoon before when he had seen Captain Tollseller come on board the Navy destroyer. Once he had spotted Tollseller, Matthew kept expecting to be called to his CO’s office. All Tollseller had to do was tell the Navy that Matthew had never been a cook on board the
Ancient Mariner
. He could explain how Matthew had been picked up in the middle of the ocean, and the Navy would be forced to investigate.

But throughout that afternoon, then into the evening, Matthew’s confidence steadily climbed as time passed and no one summoned him. By the time he hit the sack, although sleep was fleeting, he finally convinced himself that Tollseller simply knew one of the officers and had been invited on board. Tollseller’s presence on the
North Carolina
had nothing to do with him.

But the expectation that he had avoided disaster was shattered the following morning when a young seaman informed him that he was to go to the office of Captain Hulbert. Immediately.

While Matthew desperately wanted to know the reason for the summons, he simply didn’t have the courage to ask the seaman, and he knew it was unlikely the seaman would know anyway.

They made their way past various sailors going about their business with quiet efficiency. Along an inside passageway, the seaman stopped amidships outside the captain’s stateroom. The seaman knocked on the door, and they heard a loud, “Enter,” from within. The seaman pushed open the door for Matthew, but remained in the passageway.

His heart thumping wildly in his chest, Matthew entered the office, nicely furnished and large enough for meetings with his senior staff. Captain Hulbert was a thin, short man who stood near a filing cabinet reviewing some papers. Matthew was surprised to see that the captain wasn’t even as tall as Matthew. His nerves shot, he announced, “Daniel Kobata, sir. I was told—”

“Right,” the captain said, waving him off. He didn’t look over at Matthew, but kept his attention on the papers. Finally, he filed the papers and came over to Matthew who stood stiffly at attention. “Empty your pockets.”

Matthew was taken aback. Empty his pockets? Then suddenly he knew. Yet he was frozen. He didn’t move a muscle. It was as if he was suddenly paralyzed.

“Mr. Kobata, that’s an order.”

Matthew finally managed to do as he was told. Pulling out his wallet from a rear pocket. The leather was somewhat wrinkled, hardly surprisingly considering it had somehow stayed in his pocket when his father’s trawler had been sinking and he’d had no choice but to jump overboard. He hesitated, then removed the only item from his front pockets. The small vial of penicillin.

The captain picked up the vial. He glanced at Matthew, then took off the lid and shook out the remaining capsules. Six left. He put them back in the bottle, put the bottle on his desk. Then he looked to Matthew. “You steal these, or someone help you?”

Matthew felt defeated. Utterly defeated. “I took them, sir.”

“You stole them.”

“Yes, sir. I was very ill and—”

“I don’t care.” He went around to his chair, motioning to the chair opposite. “Be seated.”

Matthew did so, his mind racing. So Tollseller learned that his stock of penicillin was missing and brought his grievance to Captain Hulbert?

“Here’s the problem. Captain Tollseller thinks it was his cook-slash-medic. That he stole them. Gave them to you.”

Matthew shook his head. “No, sir. I stole them.”

The captain studied him for a moment. “When Captain Tollseller explained what he thought happened, I was obligated to investigate. So I started by asking him questions. And you know what? Tollseller told me you were never on his crew. He picked you up off the Oregon coast. In a small skiff. Close to death.”

Somehow Matthew had the courage to look the captain in the eye even though his heart sank.

“He wanted you called into this office immediately. But I asked for 24 hours.” He picked up a small piece of paper. Handed it across the desk and Matthew took it. The typed text was very faded and the sentences very short. It read, “
Matthew Kobata, DOB 1-12-21. Bainbridge Island. WA. Japanese-American. Fisherman. Wanted for murder
.”

Matthew read it over several times as his heart thundered frantically with raw fear. Murder? Wanted for murder?

“So my original thought was that you would be tried for theft and, of course, evading Presidential Order 9066, which clearly specifies you as a prisoner of war. But now I imagine those charges are the least of your worries.”

There was a sharp knock on the door. “Enter,” Captain Hulbert commanded. The door opened and Matthew turned to see two MAs enter and stand at attention. The captain turned his attention to Matthew. “Rise, Mr. Kobata.”

Matthew abruptly stood, and a moment later his hands were cuffed behind his back.

When the news reached Johnstone and Merrick that Matthew Kobata had been found, Merrick had been able to secure a ride on a Navy cargo plane leaving that night from Seattle to Long Beach, California. They had arrived at four in the morning, and a Navy ensign had driven them to the Wilmington jail.

They had been expected and were given coffee and offered some sort of jelly rolls, which both men declined. Then they were shown into an interrogation room. A few minutes later Matthew had been brought in still wearing his Navy uniform, his hands cuffed in front of him. The duty officer directed Matthew to a chair and then his handcuffs were attached to a ring bolted to the desk.

“Sir, this won’t do,” Merrick announced. “Please find some civilian clothes for this prisoner,” When the officer simply stood there, Merrick got angry. “He is not fit to wear the uniform of the United States Navy.”

With that, the officer nodded and quickly left. And Matthew silently seethed, glaring at Merrick. A moment later the officer returned with a pair of soiled, gray coveralls.

Merrick held out his hand to the officer. “Key.”

The officer hesitated, then gave him the key. Merrick removed the cuffs and said to Matthew, “Change.”

Matthew stood and did as he was told. Then he sat down again and Merrick clipped the handcuffs back on to his wrists, then attached them to the ring. He then picked up the Navy uniform and handed it to the guard. “I’ll take that when we leave.”

The officer nodded and left them, closing the door behind him.

Detective Johnstone introduced himself and Merrick, then read Matthew his rights and explained that he was under arrest for the murder of Petty Officer Cody Carsteen. For some reason, Johnstone had expected the young man to promptly defend his actions. Or deny the charge completely. Instead, Matthew stared at the cinder block wall in front of him, ignoring them altogether.

“The knife used to kill Petty Officer Carsteen is identical to a knife found on your boat,” Johnstone explained as he paced in front of Matthew. “You stabbed him in the neck, then stripped him. Care to tell me why you undressed him?” But Matthew just stared at the wall. “That’s Carsteen. As for Tom Bollgen, your supposed best friend, we’re still working on that.” Matthew still didn’t say a word, so Johnstone added, “His father insists you didn’t do it. The rest of the island is split probably 50-50.” Johnstone was simply trying to get a rise out of Matthew. In truth, he had no idea how the residents of Bainbridge Island felt about anything.

But it failed to have any effect whatsoever. So Johnstone continued, “As for your family, well that’s quite a mess. They’re in an internment camp. Unfortunately for them, word got out that you were missing, that your best friend was dead, and they have been, well I guess the proper term is shunned.” He looked to Merrick. “That’s right, isn’t it? Shunned?”

Merrick nodded. “Yep.”

Matthew kept his cool, staring at the wall in front of him.

“To the point that your mother is scorned,” Johnstone explained. “She works in a mess hall, and instead of cooking, which I imagine is what she thought she was signing up for, she’s been given the worst tasks. Simply to demean her.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “Your little brother? He was horribly beaten.”

“Beaten to a pulp,” Merrick put in.

Clearly upset, Matthew looked expectantly to Johnstone.

“What is it called in the Japanese culture? Saving face?” Johnstone asked. “Your family will never save face now that you disgraced them and—”

“What happened to Daniel?” Matthew interrupted. “What happened to my brother?”

“Concussion. Broken nose. Two black eyes. Vision off, I guess. Doctor holds up some fingers, your brother can’t tell him how many fingers.”

“Not to worry,” Merrick told him. “There’s a hospital at the camp.”

“Yeah, but you know what?” Johnstone said to Merrick. “He’s been released by now.” Then he looked to Matthew. “So chances are, he’ll take another pounding for you.”

Matthew tried to simply stare at the wall again. But Johnstone could tell it wasn’t with the same defiance.

“So for whatever reason you had to do what you did, your family is paying the price. Every moment of every day.” Again Johnstone waited a moment before going on. “So what I have to wonder is, was it worth it? Fighting for Imperialist Japan—”