by Sydney Bauer
“Twelve by the looks of things,” finished McKay.
Joe knew they would have to make quick time to catch James Matheson at the boat shed, but there was something about this kid that was compelling. He had placed himself, and said box, smack in the middle of the campus courtyard, a thoroughfare for students leaving what must have been a total of six or more buildings congregated around the campus in a semicircular formation. He was loud without sounding aggressive, his tone sympathetic but forceful, so much so that Mannix found himself readjusting his hearing to tune in to the boy’s soliloquy—something about workers’ rights and Third World degradation.
“In Taiwan, children as young as six are toiling in retail factories owned by multimillion-dollar companies whose executives spend more on a tie than they do on the annual wage of their Asian workers,” said the boy. “In China, toy manufacturers who make annual profits of over forty million dollars per year are paying their staff twelve cents an hour per fourteen-hour day. In Thailand, Burmese migrant garment factory workers are being paid fifty baht—that’s less than two American dollars—per day to work in filthy, dangerous, overcrowded conditions where factory fires have killed over 1200 people in the past twelve months. And in Indonesia, a multibillion-dollar sporting goods company operates a factory where young female workers have been asked to trade sexual favors to gain employment . . . and the list goes on.”
The boy stopped to shake his mop of unruly light brown hair, his words obviously hanging heavy on the shoulders of the fine young elite who stood, cell phones pocketed and textbooks hiked, stock-still in front of him.
“The thing is,” said the boy, now scratching his head before moving on. “The only person, the only single, solitary human being who can help these workers and their families, is you.”
The boy looked up then before extending the thin arm not supporting the bulbous bullhorn toward the growing crowd of students who were now obviously mesmerized by the content and delivery of his emotive oration.
“You, and you, and you, and you,” he said pointing at individuals as he went. “Each and every one of you can impact upon these people’s downtrodden existence. A small contribution of your time, and maybe your spare change, is all it takes to raise awareness and make a difference.”
The kid lowered his speaker and raised both hands in a “that says it all” gesture before nodding the shaggy mop once again and continuing.
“As Bono says: ‘Where you live should no longer determine whether you live’ and ‘distance should not decide who is your brother and who is not.’ ”
“We all come here to feed our brains. We all come here to pad out our resumes. We all come here to fill our social calendars, but that doesn’t mean we can’t satisfy our souls at the very same time. So grab a brochure, fill in a membership form, make a donation, give whatever you can and help get the word out that it is not okay to treat workers like slaves just because they happen to be born on a continent that has fallen prey to the rampant greed of the multinationals.” The boy paused again, the silence around him deafening. “Make a difference,” he said, before smiling at the crowd in front of him. “Make a difference for them—and more importantly for yourselves. Thank you.”
“Who the hell is Bono?” asked Frank, diverting Mannix’s attention away from the boy who had jumped from his wooden podium to hand out the brochures.
“Jesus, Frank,” Joe rolled his eyes. “Where have you been for the past fifteen years? He’s Irish, the singer—U2.”
“No, Chief, not me. Can’t hold a tune to save myself, and my father was Scottish.”
“For fuck’s sake,” said Joe, realizing it wasn’t worth the effort and pulling his partner back on route toward the southern end of the campus. “Sometimes I wonder if you’ll ever come down from Planet McKay and grace us with your company in the real world.”
“Detectives . . . !”
Joe was interrupted by a voice from behind and turned to see the soapbox kid running down toward them. The kid extended that skinny arm again, and gave them both a double pump, an almost ludicrously “grown-up” greeting that surprised Joe with its intensity.
“Sawyer Jones, Solidarity Global,” he said.
“Frank McKay, Boston Municipal,” returned Frank.
Joe gave Frank a sideways glance. He could see the kid was rubbing his fellow detective the wrong way—and he had to admit, despite the kid’s obviously noble motives, he was coming off a little cocky.
“I’m sorry, detectives. I recognized you from your previous visits,” said Jones unfazed. “I saw you watching me. The subject of workers’ rights interest you, Detective?” he said, turning to Joe.
“A lot of things interest me, Sawyer,” said Joe, turning to move on and indicating if the kid wanted to press this, he would have to stay with them. “But ninety-nine percent of them I don’t have the time for.”
“My guess is Jess Nagoshi is in the other one percent then,” said Jones, forcing Joe to stop in his tracks.
“What do you know about Jessica Nagoshi?” asked Joe, wondering what the hell game this kid was playing. Jones obviously read the edge in his voice and attempted a smile before moving on.
“Look, I’m sorry, detective . . .”
“Lieutenant . . . Mannix,” said Joe.
“Lieutenant,” resumed Sawyer. “Jessica was a friend. We had some of the same classes last semester. I’m pre-law as well. I’m going to major in the human rights and international varieties.”
“Good for you,” said Frank who pointed at his watch, indicating to Mannix that they needed to get going. The two detectives started walking again, forcing Jones’ shorter legs to work in double time in order to keep up.
“You got something to tell us, kid?” asked Joe at last.
“I guess that depends on what you want to know,” replied Sawyer.
“Like . . .” prompted Frank.
“Like that Jess was a member of Solidarity Global, that she had a particular interest in China, that she was angered by the abuse of Third World workers and that she was willing to take a personal stand against the multinationals who perpetrated such abuse.”
“Her father owns a multinational, kid,” said Frank. “Just how angry is she supposed to get?”
Jones said nothing which, for some reason, piqued Mannix’s interest. He knew talkers like this kid and nine times out of ten, when they fell silent, that was when they usually had something to say.
“Look, Sawyer,” said Joe, stopping to turn to the boy once more. “If you’ve got something to tell us, then you owe it to your good friend Jessica to spit it out. If not, we’ve got someone to see so . . .”
Joe saw the kid hesitate, almost if he was having his own internal war with the definition of “principle.” He knows something , or in the very least suspects something, thought Joe, but even a confident kid like Sawyer was having trouble organizing his opinions on this one.
“Kid,” said Joe, his eyes locking with Sawyer’s huge brown pools before looking up briefly to see the boat shed at the near western end of the levee. “Here’s my card. I think maybe you should get your thoughts together and give me a call. Okay?”
“Ah . . . sure,” said Sawyer, taking the card before following Mannix’s eyes toward the boathouse where a group of young men were now stowing their kayaks on racks on the side wall of the freshly painted wood shingle structure.
And then Joe saw it—a fresh spark of recognition in the boy’s eyes—as if a new piece of the jigsaw puzzle had fallen into place in that bright, young, overcrowded head of his, creating a picture that did not sit well in the world of Sawyer Jones, intellectual crusader.
“You’re here to talk to James Matheson, aren’t you?” he asked at last.
“What makes you say that?” returned Frank, stealing a glance at Joe before turning to face Jones.
“He didn’t do it,” said Jones now, taking his own small, slow steps in retreat, an expression of what appeared to be disappointment now descending
upon his innocent boyish features.
Sawyer looked at them then, before turning to move slowly back up the riverbank, with one more thing to say. “James loved her, detectives,” he said, his back to them now, his voice low and resolved and filled with traces of what Joe believed to be regret.
“And Jess . . . well, Jess loved him just as much in return.”
14
Myrtle McGee’s was packed. The popular harborside cafe was abuzz with the usual lunchtime crowd of health-conscious workers all clamoring to place their order and nab a seat, or grab their fresh salad baguettes and homemade rhubarb pie as takeout, before trekking back to their offices in Government Center or Downtown Crossing or the Financial District.
There was no Myrtle. In fact, Mick McGee, the café’s Irish-born, carrot-topped proprietor and chief cook, looked more like a retired army recruit than a health-conscious homemaker. But according to Mick, his clientele liked the idea of some sweet old Irish lass working with deliciously fresh produce beyond his lime green counter and multicolored chalkboard menus—and if the myth brought in the customers, then who was he to destroy the fantasy?
“Ah . . . Davy, my boy,” said Mick as he threw an extra carrot into a swilling juice concoction that looked more like a multicolored vitamin tablet than a palatable beverage. “Want to try my latest combination? It’s carrot, celery and beetroot with a handful of wheatgrass and a smidgen of mint.”
“Geez, sounds tempting, Mick,” said David, finally reaching the crowded counter front. “But I might play it safe and go for a fresh orange and pineapple instead.”
“Same here, Mick,” said Tony Bishop who wormed his way up next to his attorney friend. “And how about two of your famous Mexican chicken rolls to go? There is no way we are bagging a seat in here today,” he said, looking around.
“Maybe we are in the wrong business after all, DC,” said Bishop, turning to David. “Seems like there could be more cash in melons than mergers. What do you say, Mick?”
Mick looked up from his juicer to survey the “thriving” enterprise before him.
“To be sure, Mr. Bishop.” He grinned. “And a lot less stress. No monkey suit and a breathtaking harbor view to boot. I am looking for a breakfast hand by the way—if you’re interested.”
“That’s a definite no, Mick.” David smiled, answering for his friend. “Unless the job comes with a six-figure bonus and a company Porsche.”
“Not this week, lad.” Mick laughed, handing them their juices and generous chicken wraps. “But I’ll keep Mr. Bishop here in mind if anything else comes up.”
David and Tony took their lunches, said good-bye to Mick and began negotiating their way back out of Myrtle’s and down toward Christopher Columbus Park at the northern end of Boston Harbor. They took a seat on the grass, enjoying the midday sunshine and the welcome lull in the recent spate of biting offshore winds.
“I don’t know how he does it,” said Tony as he unwrapped his oversized roll.
“Who?” asked David.
“Mick. The guy is up at five a.m., works through until at least six. Doesn’t have time to scratch himself and all for what? Eighty grand a year tops? I make more than that by the time I’ve brushed my teeth in the morning.”
“He’s happy,” said David who was used to his corporate lawyer friend’s somewhat materialistic outlook on life. “He built Myrtle’s from scratch. He’s got a lot to be proud of.”
“Pride didn’t pay for my three-bedroom apartment in Copley,” said Tony. “And I still feel pretty good every time I take the elevator to the penthouse floor.”
David smiled and glanced at his friend. “Whatever works, bud,” he said.
They sat in silence for a while, finishing their lunches before David turned to his friend again. He noticed Tony was looking out toward the water, an almost daydream-like expression on his strong dark features. He was also looking a little tired—gray circles framing his deep brown eyes. Tony was definitely not in his normal ten-miles-a-minute mode today. In fact, on closer examination he looked exactly like Joe Mannix had the night before—downright exhausted.
“So what’s up?” asked David, guessing he already knew. “You’ve missed two rugby games in a row and Deakin sucks in the backs. You still propping up the Nagoshi share price, or have you moved on to some other poor suffering multimillion-dollar enterprise?”
“Hmmm.” Bishop sighed. “See there’s the irony, DC. Nagoshi Inc. did suffer a moderate slump after the daughter’s death, but it has recovered with a bonus. Better still, yesterday they sacked their American president, a Texan named Bob Crookshank, and the share price went up two points.”
“Yeah, I think I read something about that,” said David, draining the rest of his juice. “But I thought high-level layoffs usually sent stock plummeting.”
“They do,” said Tony. “But I swear to God, DC, this company is invincible—or rather John Nagoshi is invincible.”
“How so?” David was curious now, if not in the least because of his recent conversation with Mannix regarding the seemingly unsolvable Jessica Nagoshi case.
“Well, Nagoshi dumps Crookshank,” Tony went on. “But at the same time announces he is stepping in as temporary US president until they find an appropriate replacement. Rumor has it he is priming his son Peter to eventually take over the company, and the American presidency would be a great place to start.”
“But isn’t the kid just out of law school?”
“Yeah, but so what? Look at the Murdoch kids. They are young, but super-smart. Age isn’t such an issue anymore, DC. In fact, youth can be an asset, especially when Dad is a fit fifty and bound to be around doling out sound advice for the next thirty years.”
“So this Peter is being primed to . . .”
“Peter and Jessica were both being primed to be future company leaders. In fact, together they made a pretty hot team. Both smart, hardworking, and from what I hear, Jessica’s approach-ability took the edge off Peter’s arrogance.”
Tony looked up, as if sensing he had said too much. No matter how mercenary Tony might be, he never betrayed a client’s confidence—and David respected him for that.
But then Tony smiled, and David knew his friend was aware that anything he said remained between the two of them. They had acted as sounding boards for each other since college and neither had ever come close to taking advantage of their friendship. In fact just last year David had helped Tony’s nephew beat a drug rap that saw Tony’s congressman brother’s political career at risk. David had gone out on a limb for his high-powered friend and knew that when it came down to it, Tony would do the same for him.
“So,” David went on, guessing his friend needed to talk about this, “is the son up to the job—minus the less intimidating daughter?”
“Yes and no,” said Tony, shaking his head. “It’s hard to say. Peter is very, ah . . . Japanese for want of a better description, and that’s not a racially based criticism by the way, more a corporate observation.”
“How so?” said David, genuinely intrigued.
“Well,” Tony began, now removing his jacket as the sun slid west and hit their backs with a new intensity. “It’s like this.”
Tony went on to explain that when his firm took on the Nagoshi account a couple of years ago, the firm’s senior partner and Nagoshi’s personal lawyer Gareth Coolidge arranged for the legal team working on the account to take a course in American-Japanese business relations. They worked with a Japanese localization analyst who taught them the intricacies of Japanese-American cultural differences in an effort to reduce any confusion and prevent any embarrassing and potentially financially damaging miscommunications.
“So give me an example,” said David. “What kind of stuff did you learn?”
“Well, first up,” Tony explained, “you have to remember that our two cultures are diametrically opposed. America, thanks to its colonial beginnings, grew as a loosely knit society on a vast land where people moved to new frontiers to avoid
being stepped on. They came from all different ethnic backgrounds and did not know what to expect of one another. So, they stayed out of one another’s business and in this relative isolation, individualism became paramount. Independence and self-determination were the keys to survival and became the backbone of our ethos.
“Japanese society, on the other hand,” Tony went on, “is traditionally close-knit, with crowded living conditions requiring inhabitants who are attentive, responsive and reserved, just to avoid stepping on one another’s toes. In other words, in Japan, your problem is my problem. You follow?”
“I think so.”
“So then, just after World War II, we missed an opportunity. A post-Pearl Harbor/Hiroshima Japan was in the mood for reform—for reconciliation and rebirth—and we were more than happy to tell them just how great democracy can be. The Japanese saw the US in a phase of prosperity and embraced democracy in the hope they could rebuild themselves to find similar fortune. But they embraced their version of democracy—the textbook version—which once again . . .”
“Is a culturally different one from our own.”
“Right again.”
Tony went on to explain how the Japanese defined “democracy” at its base meaning—as a system that gives everyone equal rights to participate in the decision-making process—but soon discovered that American democracy is more about the right to individual advancement. He told David how Americans often point out that the Japanese do not know what democracy really is, while the Japanese find it strange to see the authoritarian nature of American society.
“I get you,” said David. “A communication gaffe from the get-go—but how does all this affect your approach to someone like Nagoshi?”
“Good question,” said Tony, now adjusting his position on the grass to face his friend front-on. “In fact, that was exactly what I was wondering as I was sitting in some conference room with a ‘localization analyst’ instead of billing three-figure hours at my desk. But what I soon discovered was that disregarding these cultural anomalies was tantamount to career suicide. The value of our legal advice depends on us understanding their motives, and they understanding ours—which can so easily be misread by both sides.
