by William Poe
“You must read the transcripts,” Father said. “Take them to Los Angeles. From now on, you are the liaison between Mr. Fender and Mitsui.”
“What about the lawyers that Bozeman hired?” I asked.
Father spoke for a long time in Korean to Sergeant Choi before he translated. “Owen and Carol are Father’s liaisons with those attorneys. We hope Mr. Fender can propose ideas by helping Mitsui’s defense. We trust those ideas will have influence.”
I kept thinking that Father should be the one to approve the defense strategy, not Bozeman, and certainly not Owen or Carol. Father’s lack of authority over church affairs shocked me. I had never imagined Father subject to feelings of privilege and self-importance. But seeing him in the context of legal accusations, he was just another autocrat with delusions of grandeur—in his case, supported by a self-serving theology. A theology that inspired opposition not only from clergy, but also from members of Congress, most of whom ran on platforms professing faith in the Christian God.
It occurred to me that first-century Jews must have been just as angered when Christians appropriated their sacred literature to reverse-engineer prophesies supporting Jesus as the expected Messiah. Father’s theology did the same with Christian scriptures to support his claims.
If I had served the family up to that point because I truly believed, a desire to preserve what I had achieved provided the strongest motivation going forward. I didn’t like being defeated. Sports might not have brought that out as a child, but nothing got me going as much as a philosophical argument. The church’s integrity was at stake, and my reputation depended on supporting it.
“You have proven your faith,” Father said. “I trust that you and Maury can help.”
Father spoke something in Korean that, in turn, Sergeant Choi translated: “Nothing must jeopardize the Kingdom of Heaven.”
What he actually said was closer to “Nothing must put my kingdom at risk.”
Reverend Moon and his church had consumed the best years of my life. My standing in the organization hinged on victory for Mitsui and Reverend Moon. If Abbanim won the battle, all my years of toil would amount to nothing.
Mitsui and Kawasaki took boxes of transcripts and placed them near the door for us to load into the van. We needed to make copies to take to Maury. As we prepared to leave, Father reached across the conference table to shake my hand, trying to seem informal. When I didn’t respond, he looked puzzled. I walked around to his side of the table and bowed politely. Only then did I extend my hand. Father’s grip was very much like shaking Lenny’s rough, uncaring hand. In that moment, the two men were the same.
I wanted to believe that I was free of Father’s psychological grip, that I would proceed from that moment forward with my own interests at heart.
Breaking long-held convictions was never that simple.
CHAPTER 33
Before starting my new mission, Mitsui received documents that had been drawn up in Korea and faxed to him. A few days later, he instructed me to leave for Los Angeles. I told Mitsui that I had another idea. My obstinacy in the past had exasperated him enough, but when I said I didn’t want to go directly to Los Angeles, a vein on Mitsui’s neck began throbbing as he clenched his teeth. In the end, he accepted that fact that I had an important role to play, and therefore, I must be accommodated.
Mitsui rose from his chair and walked to the window to watch the Canadian geese gathered at the pond in his backyard. The birds honked loudly when they saw him. Mitsui put on his jacket and scooped pellets of food from a plastic bin near the back door. The geese came as close to the house as their instincts would allow. When Mitsui scattered the food, the geese pecked at the snow in noisy competition.
“Conrad Pearson should take over the San Francisco witnessing team,” I told Mitsui when he returned. “My members respect him, and he understands the dilemma with Abbanim.”
Mitsui didn’t interrupt, so I continued.
“The witnessing team needs to hear about the changes from me personally. Conrad should promote one of his captains to become the local commander. Do this, and the members will respect your leadership; you won’t have to demand respect the way you and your Japanese commanders have done up to now.”
I had crossed the line to insubordination, but given the circumstances, neither Mitsui nor Kawasaki scolded me.
“Everything can be worked out,” Mitsui said matter-of-factly. “Go to San Francisco as soon as possible.” He pointed toward a stack of recently delivered boxes. “Take the transcripts with you. Read while you are traveling.”
Mitsui left the room, returning with a manila envelope from which he took a Diners Club credit card. The card bore the imprint of my name above that of a Korean corporation.
“Don’t lose this card,” Mitsui said. “Getting a replacement could take weeks. The bills go to the company named on the card. No one in America will see the credit card statements.”
Every church member knew the name of the Korean corporation, which exported Asian spices. Father served on its board of directors. Hundreds of Korean church members found employment on its farms and in its factories and distribution centers.
“Father personally authorized this,” Mitsui explained. “Do what you must in order to accomplish your mission. Do you understand?”
“I do, Mitsui.”
“Tell Mr. Fender that he should send invoices to Seoul, not the American Church office.” Mitsui again reached into the envelope. “This is a letter of agreement from the board of directors. It authorizes hiring Mr. Fender.”
Kawasaki opened a briefcase that had been sitting beside his chair. He took out a folder and gave it to me. “This explains how Mr. Fender’s office should prepare the invoices. Also, here is a personal identification number so you can get cash from the credit card.”
“Father trusts you,” Mitsui interjected and then left the room without glancing in my direction. I heard him hollering from the back door, taking out his frustration on the incessantly honking geese. It had to have galled him to set me up with so much freedom and fathomless resources, all predicated on trust.
“You must succeed,” Kawasaki emphasized, pausing as if to search for the words to express what he truly wanted to say. “We have been friends a long time, Simon-san. Satan will try to defeat you. Fight hard when attack comes.”
Kawasaki was not prone to foreboding statements. The warning struck a nerve.
“Why not visit Masako this evening?” Kawasaki suggested, naturally assuming I would find inspiration being with my fiancée. At least I knew Kawasaki cared about me as a person, not just as an operative in some vast strategy to take over the world in the name of God.
In fact, I did consider it a pleasure to spend time with Masako. Her visits to San Francisco had brought happiness, even if an element of playacting diminished the emotional intensity. I simply refused to let my mind wander to the day when Masako and I would live as husband and wife. For now, the Dobie Gillis world of innocent smooching was enough.
I took Masako to see the new Star Wars film. Exhausted from a twelve-hour shift, she fell asleep on my shoulder. As we walked to the New Yorker through heavy snowfall, I kept trying to imagine what it would be like sitting together with our children, gazing at a Christmas tree surrounded by presents. A part of me wanted to reenact fond memories—Vivian caressing my ear as I lay on her lap in church, the times we sat together after decorating the Christmas tree. But those were dim memories. Lenny was no sage parent from Father Knows Best. He stood up for me when neighbors called me a Communist, and defended me when Principal Klinghoffer nearly beat me to death. But short of those extremes, I never knew what Lenny thought of me. The church claimed to be preparing us for ideal marriage, but how could a dishonest life of sexual suppression possibly make me a better father than Lenny had been?
“I kiss so you not forget me,” Masako said affectionately when I told her about my new mission. We embraced in the hallway and kissed as she shut her door.
Filled with reminiscences about Stanley and the remarkable experiences we had shared over the years, I lost another night’s sleep. I got my things together and left by taxi for the airport. Conrad was aware of the changes by the time my plane landed. He had been commander in San Francisco for over four years and was ready for something different. Becoming the leader of the witnessing team was a welcome challenge.
Saying good-bye to Dorrit, Brenda, and the other members reminded me how much I meant to them. Foster Welch, a spiritual son who had just joined, wept at the news that I was leaving for a new mission. Mitchell Resnick, a brother witnessed to by Dorrit, gave a long testimony, explaining how my faith had made him strong. Other members who had recently joined testified about how the family had saved them from despair and given them reason to live.
If I were to leave the family one day, I would be forever haunted by the faces of these brothers and sisters who looked to me as their guide to understanding the loving heart of God. As young as I was, they saw me as a father figure.
I called Maury’s office to plan my arrival from San Francisco. Sandra Banks, the firm’s secretary, answered the phone. She had been with Maury for years, following him to Los Angeles from New Orleans when he decided to relocate.
“Galloway, Paige, and Fender,” Sandra cooed in her typically sultry voice.
“Hello, Sandra. This is Simon, with the Unification Church. Can I speak to Maury?”
“Not before you speak to me, dear,” Sandra replied. “It’s always such a pleasure to hear your voice.”
Sandra had flirted with me in a friendly way since the first time we spoke on the phone, but we had never met in person. Maury usually flew out to meet me when we worked on court cases, and the few times I had gone to New Orleans as an MFT commander to attend regional meetings, he’d meet me at the hotel to take me out to eat. There had never been occasion to visit his office.
“I have an urgent matter to discuss with Maury. Is he in?”
“Well, darling, Maury’s with a client. Maybe I can help you.”
“Perhaps you can. I’ll soon be coming to your office to—”
“Out here?” Sandra interrupted. “You’re going to be the new Joseph, aren’t you? How exciting!”
“What happened to Joseph?” I asked, point-blank, suspecting her of culpability in some way based on the inflection when she voiced his name.
Sandra hesitated for a moment. “Don’t you know where he is?”
“I’ve heard some things,” I lied, “but nothing definite. Do you have any information?”
“Well,” Sandra said, applying more caution, “I’m not sure what I know, really.”
“You can be frank,” I said. “If I am going to be taking over for Joseph, it will help to understand what happened.”
“Well,” Sandra hesitated again, “he met a girl.”
“You?” I interrupted.
“Heavens no!” Sandra exclaimed.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” I said. The last thing I needed was to alienate Maury’s secretary.
“You are always so serious,” Sandra said. “Joseph hung out with Scott and me. You know, Scott Mansfield. He’s the paralegal that started working for our firm last year. Anyway, Joseph stopped inviting us to dinner. That hurt. The three of us had been partying together every night for weeks.”
I couldn’t believe she’d said “partying.”
“Joseph met a woman at a dance club. Scott and I saw her once when he took us out. Then Joseph called from New York to say that he planned to leave the church. I haven’t heard from him since. He called Maury, but he didn’t talk to Scott or me.”
“Thanks for telling me.” I presumed that call was the one in which Joseph had asked Maury to announce his separation from the church.
“Let’s have some fun when you get out here,” Sandra said.
I let her offer pass without comment. Joseph had clearly left the wrong impression about our life in the family. I would have to repair that image.
Sandra noticed that Maury’s meeting had ended and put me on hold. A few moments later, Maury picked up in his office.
Maury’s firm had several cases under way, including one on track for the Supreme Court. Despite the workload, he promised to devote resources to Mitsui’s defense.
“Sandra can get you a room,” Maury offered when I explained that I was coming to Los Angeles.
I knew nothing about the city, so I agreed.
“We’ll put you up at the Beverly Hills Hotel. It’s nearby. You’ll be comfortable there.”
Despite Kawasaki’s example of staying in nice lodgings and my own habit of treating the team captains to a room with a sauna, when traveling alone, I generally stayed in cheap hotels. Though my faith in Father’s status had diminished and my overall belief in God was shaky, life in the church had implanted an ethic of austerity. And yet, Maury meant well. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.
“Sounds fine,” I agreed. “See you tomorrow.”
Sandra arranged with the Beverly Hills Hotel for me to stay in a quaint bungalow at the end of a cobblestone path that led from the lobby. The bungalow had a separate bedroom with a king-sized bed. The kitchen alone was larger than some rooms I had stayed in over the years. A brochure sitting on a side table offered services provided by the hotel that included gourmet chefs and waiters. While sitting on the bed reading about the amenities, I lay back and fell asleep.
Late in the afternoon, the telephone woke me up.
“The desk said you’d checked in.” It was Sandra. “I was beginning to wonder if you were okay. The phone rang forever.”
“What time is it?”
Sandra giggled. “It’s three in the afternoon, silly. I thought you religious types woke at the crack of dawn.”
“Yeah, I suppose.” The thick curtains had kept the room as dark as midnight.
“Honey, you sound awful. Get something to eat. Drink some coffee. The hotel has a fabulous restaurant near the lobby. Or call room service. Maury wants to introduce you to Scott when you’re ready. He’ll be working full-time on the case doing research.”
“Let me call you back,” I said. My brain was unable to process what she was saying.
I took the path from my bungalow to the lobby, walked through the atrium, and found a seat near one of the restaurant’s windows that had a view of terraced flowerbeds. Close by was a koi pond. On the far side of the water, manzanita trees angled their limbs through a grove of bougainvillea. Sunlight filtered lazily through tall eucalyptus trees lining the roadway to Sunset Boulevard.
The breakfast of boiled eggs came nestled in a basket beside a plate of apple crepes. The eggs were the same brown color as the ones Mandy used to buy from a farmer down the road from the mansion. The owner of the farm was the only blacksmith left in the area. Sitting among the well-coifed, surgery-enhanced women at the restaurant of the Beverly Hills Hotel, I felt exposed, as if someone might spot a quality in my demeanor that identified me as a misplaced Arkansan.
Following the example of the other patrons, I asked the waiter to bring me a telephone. I wanted to check with Maury’s office to see if I should come by so late in the afternoon. Sandra answered. She informed me that everyone would be working late on a brief that was due in court the next morning and that I should come to the office because, as she said, “I have to see what you look like before I go to sleep tonight.”
The concierge arranged a taxi. “Don’t let them drive you all over Beverly Hills,” he cautioned. “You could almost walk there if you didn’t have those boxes.”
His comments made me wonder why he thought I wa
s the type to walk if I were able, and not take private transportation. It had to be my shoes. They were the best I owned, but the heels sloped and deep creases ate into the leather. The concierge helped me load the transcripts when the cab drove up. I tipped him two dollars. His weak smile told me that I had not given him enough.
The offices of Galloway, Paige & Fender occupied the top floor of a two-story stucco building painted light pink. When I arrived, after hauling the boxes of transcripts up the steep stairs, I leaned through the reception window. A woman who I assumed to be Sandra typed busily on a Wang word processor. She smiled hugely when I announced myself, reaching under her desk to buzz me in.
Maury stepped from his office down a hall and motioned for me to join him.
“See you later, sweetie,” Sandra said as I passed her desk. She ran the eraser end of a pencil across her lower lip, all the while grinning seductively.
Maury had gained weight since the last time I saw him. He had also begun to comb long strands of hair from one side of his domed head to the other. When Maury traveled, he always wore dark suits. It was surprising to see him in linen slacks and a cotton shirt with open collar.
“Guess my tie is out of place here in California,” I said, greeting Maury.
“Unless you’re attending a funeral. Even then, death is handled differently out here.”
“You mean, they actually put people belowground instead of placing them in concrete chests of drawers?”
“I miss our macabre customs,” Maury mused. “Out here, people get cremated and put into urns.”
“They hardly need cremation,” I noted. “The people I’ve seen so far are as brown as toast.” Maury was a good example.
“Salons,” Maury said. “Who has time to actually lie in the sun? Well, maybe Sandra. She takes off work regularly enough.”
“I’m sure you get your money’s worth from her,” I said.
Maury looked at me as though wondering if I knew something I shouldn’t, but I was referring to her typing speed. Maury quickly changed the subject.
