by Sydney Bauer
“Appointing Mr. Crookshank was an error of judgment,” Nagoshi went on, raising his voice over the customary din of honking horns and emergency vehicle sirens as he gazed out upon the sea of yellow taxis, private cars and pedestrians that negotiated the minefield that was midtown Manhattan. “But we agreed at the time that cultural sensitivities warranted us considering a local leader.”
“We were wrong,” said Peter, gazing out the opposite window at the standstill traffic, a look of pure intolerance on his smooth-skinned face.
“Yes, segare. But it bought us time. You have graduated magna cum laude. You have my support and my knowledge is yours as always. We keep no secrets, my son. That is how it should be.”
Peter said nothing, just nodded. “Consolidation has begun then,” he said a few moments later, and John Nagoshi took pride in knowing that he and his offspring breathed as one.
“Not just consolidation, segare, accountability. Crookshank was simple. One puff of wind and the dying leaf is gone to be replaced by fresh foliage. The other matter will take a greater effort. It is time for some answers, segare. Six weeks and still nothing. It is not acceptable.”
Peter nodded as their car negotiated a right-hand turn on West Fifty-ninth toward Columbus Circle.
“She was a Nagoshi—my daughter, your sister,” said the elder Nagoshi. “We cannot move forward until justice is recognized.”
“Justice,” scoffed Peter. “It is a joke, Father. Their efforts are incorrectly motivated. Mr. Katz is more concerned with individual progression than prosecuting the devils. How strange that Americans swear by the ethics of democracy, and champion the concept of teamwork, but live their lives dedicated to the benefit of the individual. They see personal ascent as a right, but it is a curse of selfishness and brings municipal downfall.”
Nagoshi nodded. His children had been raised in Tokyo under their mother’s care until her untimely death, when Nagoshi, determined to foster the international growth of his business but refusing to neglect his familial responsibilities, moved them all to New York.
Here Jessica, aged twelve at the time, attended the most exclusive international schools, all within blocks of their parkside apartment while Peter, then nineteen, began his graduate education at Deane—living under the supervision of Nagoshi’s butler, Harold Sumi, in the Nagoshi’s newly purchased estate at Wellesley during the week, and flying back to the Big Apple in the Nagoshi company jet on weekends. In other words, they were educated in a Western system but schooled in the traditions of their mother country—just as Nagoshi had always planned.
Together the two heirs to Nagoshi Inc. had made a potentially powerful team—Peter with his ambition and business sense, Jessica with her open intelligence and ability to embrace all that was American. As the children grew and Jessica graduated from high school, Nagoshi spent more and more time at their larger Wellesley estate, so that his children were not polluted by the trappings of American university dormitory life, so that he might watch over them during this important stage of their development, and they might join him on regular commutes to the company base in New York where they would sit in on conferences and meetings—quiet, observant, respectful.
Despite Peter having spent most of his adult life in America, his father knew that, unlike his sister, he was Japanese at heart—at soul. Even now his son preferred to read in Japanese rather than English, his only physical discipline came in the form of the Japanese martial art of Bujinkan and he often chose his native tongue over his adopted brogue in the confines of their private homes.
His American “friends” were acquaintances, his Tokyo connections expansive, and he showed no desire whatsoever to find a position for himself within the American societal structure. And as a result of his nationalistic attitudes, his grasp of English was almost completely “formal”—a dialogue learned from books, lectures and academic texts, rather than everyday conversation. In short, his command of the English language—or more accurately the American language—was somewhat strained.
Nagoshi was proud of his son’s respect for their heritage, but he also knew such unwavering patriotism did not come without consequence. He realized Peter’s inability—or perhaps subliminal unwillingness—to “acclimatize” to a nation that dominated the world economy had its drawbacks. And that is why he watched him so closely, guiding him every step of the way.
Jessica on the other hand had understood every nuance, every gesture, every shade of this technicolor society they call the USA. But that was not to be—she was not to be—and now was not the time to dwell on such irreversible matters.
Whatever the case, Nagoshi knew that this period in his son’s development was critical. Peter had his imperfections, but his saving grace was his hunger to foster and grow his family’s company to the best of his ability.
In the very least Nagoshi hoped his son was smart enough to understand the benefits of feigned assimilation. For it was such manufactured sincerity that had seen Nagoshi rise beyond the competition and become one of the few Japanese kinmusha to take their place on the world business stage.
“You are right about the selfish motivations of the Assistant District Attorney my son,” Nagoshi said at last. “My sources tell me Lieutenant Mannix comes with high regard, but Mr. Katz made a note of his superiority and I believe his desire to control has masked his ability to listen.”
“Mr. Katz is an egotist, Father,” said Peter. “He is a rooster who likes to plume his feathers, an unuboreya who looks to himself before others.”
John Nagoshi nodded. Perhaps his son was not so bad at reading Americans after all.
“You are right, segare. And enough is enough. I am going to set up a meeting for Wednesday,” the older Nagoshi said, “to discuss any new developments in the case. If I am correct, Mr. Katz will involve the police—if only so he can blame his lack of progress on others. We shall observe them then, and decide on a course of action.”
Peter nodded.
“Don’t worry, Peter, one way or another we will finalize this matter.”
“I know, Father,” said Peter. “I know.”
8
I am so close, thought Suffolk County Acting District Attorney Roger “The Kat” Katz after shutting his office door and telling his amoeba of a secretary that he did not want to be disturbed for the next half hour.
So goddamned close.
He felt the power within his grasp, and it wasn’t just because his boss had taken an extended leave of absence to care for her mother who, as far as he could tell, was so far down the Alzheimer’s highway to nowhere that she probably didn’t even know it was her own daughter who had taken a dive on her career to sit with the old woman day in and day out. More fool her.
No, it was more than that. This Nagoshi trial was a gift—the perfect case at the perfect time. Sometimes you just got lucky.
Fucking Mannix, came the next logical consideration in his self-motivated train of thought. If Mannix and his useless freak of a deputy would pull out their goddamned fingers and give him someone, something—hell, anything—to work with, then maybe he would be just where he was destined to be. But they had nothing—bar a couple of unidentified latent fingerprints, a partial shoe print and an extensive interview log with the girl’s family, friends, admirers, fellow students and so forth, which told them absolutely zip.
The call from Nagoshi was not unexpected. Katz had begun by phoning the CEO every day, but then had to reduce his call frequency to every second day and then every third, as there was nothing new to report. And he was furious at Mannix for putting him in such a position. In any other circumstance he would be relishing the opportunity to ingratiate himself with one of the world’s most successful businessmen, but in recent weeks he had had to avoid him.
He took a deep breath, leaned back in his dark brown leather chair, and looked around his modest but meticulously arranged office—the wood-paneled walls, high Victorian ceiling, deep green carpet and serious lack of window space. Despite its in
sufficient size, he had to admit it carried an aura of success—and not just because of the black-and-white photos that hung on the wall behind him as a reminder of the many celebrated personalities who had admired his work—attorney generals, senators, governors and even the odd movie star. No, the air of accomplishment in this twelve by twelve was largely due to the fact that Katz was the man behind the antique cedar desk, and there were very few attorneys on either side of the legal fence—State or defense—who had the balls to mess with him.
He ran his hands over his shiny dark hair and his tongue over his straight white teeth—involuntary habits that assured his good grooming in the absence of a mirror. And then he felt a slight furrow form in his smooth olive-skinned brow as he realized how patient he had been. He had been playing brides-maid to his less than competent superior, Suffolk County DA Loretta Scaturro for seven long years, which was definitely long enough. He had won her two elections by providing the balls to her banality, giving her platform the edge it lacked, promising and achieving a new high in criminal convictions and devoting his talents to kicking some serious lowlife butt. He treated every case like it was a battle—refusing the pussy plea bargains and going for broke in sensational and highly publicized trials. He fostered his reputation for intolerance and called for long sentences, most of the time nailing the maximum. And he continued to take the ultimate pleasure in watching defense attorney after defense attorney scurry from his courtroom wondering how in the hell their “surefire acquittal client” ended up with a pat on the back and life without parole.
Katz felt himself smile. The self-recognition was deserved, and definitely felt good. Of course there had been glitches—such as the horrendous Rayna Martin trial two years ago. But that was only because his moralistic boss had been afraid to commit to some unconventional but necessary interpretations of the law. Not to mention the fact that Martin’s lawyer, David Cavanaugh, was good friends with Joe Mannix—the lead investigator on the case.
Which brought him back to Mannix. There was no love lost between the two lawmen. In fact, Katz knew that Mannix hated his guts. But Katz was no stranger to animosity and most of the time he thrived on it, and so . . . It was time Mannix and McKay got their acts together. They had to deliver and they had to do it now. For the Nagoshi case was Katz’s ticket to the big time, and there was no way a couple of middle-class cops were going to ruin this for him.
No way.
9
“I swear to God, H. Edgar,” said a red-faced Heath Westinghouse as he pushed hard against the double glass doors from Tort Room B and bounded out into the parquetry floored corridor beyond. “That man is out to get us. Did you see the way he targeted us?
“ ‘Perhaps you are unfamiliar with the concept of the need for inventive approaches to capital growth, Mr. Westinghouse,’ ” mimicked Westinghouse. “I mean, what the hell was that supposed to mean?”
“He’s just jealous,” said H. Edgar.
“You bet your ass he’s jealous. He has one of those ‘short’ man, ‘poor’ man, ‘I’m a little asshole with a miniscule dick’ man complexes whereby his sole purpose in life is to persecute those more fortunate. What a freaking pig.”
They were talking about Professor Karl D. Heffer—a new member of the faculty who was teaching a recently introduced series of subjects related to corporate law and the concepts of entrepreneurial application. The aim was to teach the budding attorneys ways of “thinking out of the box”—looking for new ways for both client and attorney to make fresh capital on top of the existing billing practices.
“You have to come at it from his perspective, my friend,” said H. Edgar. “The man probably comes from some middle-class burb in Iowa. He’s small, overweight and seriously lacking in any compensatory form of charisma. He sees us sitting there and thinks we’ve had it easy—that we have sat on our proverbials for the past twenty-odd years getting Mommy and Daddy to fund our entire parasitic existence.”
“The fuck they did. If I recall correctly, it wasn’t my dad scoring top one percent in the SATs or touchdowns on the football field.”
“Exactly, but the chip on his less-than-substantial shoulders tells him otherwise.”
Heath stopped then, right in the middle of the main building front doors, to turn to his all-too-sensible friend. Right now he was simply wishing he had chosen the “Regulation of Financial Institutions” elective like his other law school friend James Matheson, rather than stupidly corralling himself in Heffer’s stable and being forced to listen to the likes of some big assed, miniature brained professorial impostor.
“How the hell can you be so calm about this?” he said at last. “Heffer is not just slandering us, but our parents.”
H. Edgar said nothing, just paused for a moment as if trying to decide the best way to explain things to his obviously frustrated friend. Then he took Heath’s arm, guiding him beyond the door and out of earshot of the river of students flowing in and out of the building on their way to their next class.
“Don’t you see, Westinghouse?” he said at last. “Heffer is ripe for the picking. These sorts of Epsilons can’t be told the truth of things, they need to be shown.” H. Edgar loved calling those he considered inferior “Epsilons,” after the lowest of the intellectual low in Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World.
“What do you mean shown?” asked Heath.
“He insinuates we have no entrepreneurial skills because we are from families of privilege. He thinks we lack the ability to do anything inspirational simply because our parents are successful. It is a case of blatant ‘wealthism.’ ” H. Edgar had once assured him this was a valid term coined by some dude with a PhD in social justice.
“So what do you suggest we do?” asked Westinghouse.
“We use his ludicrous assignment,” said H. Edgar, his pale blue eyes now shining with the glow of what had to be a brilliant idea taking form in the recesses of his highly inventive brain. “And show him just how entrepreneurial we are.”
Heffer had just given them a project whereby they had to work in pairs to come up with new and unusual ways to make money independent of a typical law firm’s usual means of income. While just hypothetical, the students had to outline their ideas in detail—showing concept, aims, execution and results, listing all outlays and incomings as if their schemes actually existed.
The pair realizing the highest profit at the end of their imaginary strategy would gain a distinction and course credits as well as a sign-off from the professor to “make” law review. Becoming a law review member was the be-all and end-all at Deane, and most other prestigious law schools around the country. More important, it was a huge asset on your applications to blue-chip law firms, and a must-have for the hallowed Top Ten. James Matheson had already scored himself a front-page article on the Montgomery case and the entire student body had been talking about it for weeks.
“You want to come up with something spectacular for his banal assignment?” asked Westinghouse. “Somehow I don’t think that’s gonna change his mind about us being spoiled little . . .”
“It will if we come up with the money for real.”
“What?” said Westinghouse with a half-smile, wondering what the hell was the scheme his conniving friend had come up with now. “You want us to work in imaginary law firms and realize an actual profit.”
“If you remember, Westinghouse,” said H. Edgar, now pulling his friend farther down the walkway toward Building C and their next lecture on corporate finance and taxation, “the professor’s hypothesis did not specify that we had to work in an existing firm, just that we operated within the legal fraternity to make legitimately acquired funds.”
“And how do you suppose we . . . ?”
“Jesus, Westinghouse,” said H. Edgar, looking at his watch, quickening his step and urging his friend to speed up alongside him. “I’m not a fucking computer. I need a little time to think about it.”
“Well,” said Heath, his sour mood now eased by his friend’s uncanny
ability to whip intellectual ass, “think away, my friend, because whatever you are proposing, you can count me in.”
10
“Been a while since you dragged me here,” said David Cavanaugh, as he approached his friend Joe Mannix at the end of the bar of one of Joe’s preferred drinking spots, a small, smoky Irish pub in South Boston known as The Idle Hour.
“Not that I’m complaining, but what’s wrong with Bris tow’s?” he asked, running his hand through his sleet-soaked, sandy-colored hair. “At least it’s close, and the clientele are . . . um,” he paused to look around, “. . . still breathing.”
“Very funny,” said Joe, already on his second beer and shifting slightly in his seat to allow his attorney friend to slide onto the other well-worn green velvet stool beside him.
David knew Joe liked it here—the cozy, dark wood-grain ceilings, the stained glass windows, the 1950s jukebox, the regular clientele, and the thirty-odd clocks fixed on 6 p.m., which allowed happy hour to run forever. He also knew this was the kind of place Joe suggested when he needed to talk—in private.
David took off his scarf, gloves and coat before ordering two Heinekens, which prompted a strange look from the pepper-haired barman who spent the next three minutes trying to find the icy green bottles way at the back of the cooler. They sat in silence, enjoying the first few sips of the freshly opened brew—David knowing that if Joe had called him here to tell him something, he would need to do it in his own time.
“Late October and already as cold as hell,” said David.
“Yeah. Apparently they’re predicting another blizzard, like the one in ’78. All I remember from that seven-day snowstorm was not being able to leave the house for a week.”
