“So the one vital thing,” McLafferty concluded, “is to have judges from the islands. Because in our peculiar society here in Hawaii, the judges decide all the things that really matter.”
“What’s so wrong about that?” Carter asked.
“Congressman!” Black Jim cried, as he dodged a truck. “Hey, you! Manuelo!” he shouted at the Filipino. “You look good next time, maybe, eh?” And the little brown man yelled something back, happily, for that evening he would be able to tell his friends at the sugar plantation: “This afternoon I had a talk with Black Jim McLafferty.” All the plantations hands knew him.
“What I was saying,” the Irishman continued, “was that as long as judges from the mainland control the great trusts and the land laws, it’s easy for the rich local Republicans to control the judges. Well, not control them, because our judges have been reasonably honest men, legally speaking, but the rich Republicans get next to them, and court decisions usually follow their interests.” The more Carter heard about Hawaii, the less need he saw for change. In Texas, too, society was subtly rigged so that rich Democrats stayed fairly close to judges and legislators and got things their way. “Frankly,” Carter thought, “what’s wrong with that?”
He was therefore not too pleased with McLafferty—had him tagged as one of those radical northerners who call themselves Democrats—when the biggest blow of the day came. Black Jim had his offices on the ground floor of a building on Hotel Street, at the grubby edge of Chinatown, where Japanese and Filipino workmen were not afraid to visit him, and as he brought his car to the curb, Carter gasped: “Why these people are all slant-eyes.”
“Almost half of the people in the islands are,” McLafferty said off-handedly. “Some of the best citizens you ever saw. Only trouble I find is that most of the damned Chinese are Republicans. But I’m trying to change that.”
“Can they be trusted?” Carter asked in honest fear.
“Maybe you better meet one of them,” McLafferty laughed. “And there’s no better one to meet than my partner …”
But Carter did not hear the words, for he saw to his astonishment that McLafferty, the head of the Democratic Party in Hawaii, had as his partner a Japanese: McLafferty and Sakagawa. And when Black Jim kicked open the door, the congressman saw, from the big poster inside, that this Japanese was running for office: “Sakagawa for Senator.” And finally, beneath the poster he saw the Japanese himself, a crisp, crew-cut young man with polished manners and quiet deportment. Shigeo Sakagawa stuck out his hand and said, with a slight Boston accent, “Congressman Carter, we are proud indeed to welcome you to Hawaii.”
The next moment was an agonizing one, for Shig’s hand stayed out; the congressman, who had never before seen a Japanese face-to-face, simply could not take it. His jaw dropped as if he had been hit over the head by a falling oil derrick, and he stared at the fearsome, curious man before him. The expression on Shig’s handsome face did not change as he lowered his hand. Belatedly Carter started to accept the greeting, moving his right hand slightly, but by then he saw that Shig had dropped his. Black-browed McLafferty, whom nothing fazed, said brightly, “Young Shig’s going to be our first Democratic senator. He’s going to win the unexpired term in the Nineteenth District.”
“Good luck,” Carter said awkwardly. “We need Democrats.” He backed out of the office into the street, where the passing Orientals frightened him as he had rarely been scared in his life. Then, with a sigh of profound relief, he saw the big black automobiles of Hoxworth Hale and Hewlett Janders swing into view on Hotel Street, and he ran up to the cars as if their occupants were his brothers.
“We’ll go now,” he gasped with relief. Quickly jumping in beside Hale, and feeling himself secure at last in the Cadillac, he waved professionally at McLafferty and called, “Best of luck in the campaign.”
When the big black cars had moved away, Black Jim started laughing. Slapping his leg, he returned to his office and continued laughing. “Shig,” he cried, “hold out your hand!” And as Shig did so, his partner gave a hilarious burlesque of an American congressman, the friend of the people, desperately afraid to touch one of the people. “Shig,” he laughed, “there’s one vote for statehood we better not count on. But don’t you worry about it, son. Do you know why I hauled that fat-ass sonofabitch down here to our offices? Not to give him a pitch about statehood, because what he thinks concerns me not at all. Look at the crowds outside! They’re impressed that a United States congressman came down to Hotel Street to see you. Now get out there and walk over to the mailbox, casually, and post something.”
“What?” Shig asked.
“I don’t give a damn what. Fold up a piece of paper and stick it in the mailbox, as if you had congressmen visiting you all the time. And speak pleasantly to everybody.” So Shig walked out among his constituents and acquired great face.
In the meantime, one of the recurring miracles of Hawaii was taking place. In the Roosevelt-Truman years, from 1932 to 1952, thousands of important Democratic politicians and officials passed through the islands, but they rarely saw any Democrats. At the airport or the dock they were met by either Hoxworth Hale or Hewlett Janders or by trim little John Whipple Hoxworth, and they were whisked away to the big houses of The Fort. They were fed well, wined to perfection, and told what to believe. Sometimes when the Japanese maids, in crisp white uniforms, had withdrawn, a Roosevelt appointee would ask timorously, “These Japanese, can they be trusted?” And The Fort invariably replied, “We’ve had Sumiko for eighteen years, and we’ve never known a better or more loyal maid.”
At such parties the Roosevelt appointees met military leaders and stout island judges and cool, sharp Hoxworth Hale. Together these people created the impression of a solid citizenry, one that avoided scandal, one that honestly intended doing well, and one that was certainly content with things as they were. At public meetings the two men who could always be counted upon to give rousing speeches on behalf of statehood for Hawaii were Hoxworth Hale and John Whipple Hoxworth, and visiting statesmen were impressed by the arguments marshaled by these advocates, but in the privacy of The Fort these very men, without saying anything, always managed to convey an impression exactly the opposite of their speeches.
Hale always found occasion to comment: “There is one thing about our islands that you must not overlook. We have the finest judges in America.” He would pause and then add, “We would truly deplore the day when Oriental lawyers, untrained in American values, took over the judgeships. We fear that the American way of life would be terminated at that instant.”
“Not that the Orientals aren’t brilliant,” John Whipple Hoxworth usually interposed. “Perhaps clever’s the word I’m looking for. They’re able men, clever, but they aren’t schooled in American values.”
For nine languorous, pleasant days Congressman Clyde V. Carter of Texas got the standard Fort treatment, not knowing that every incident in his entertainment was leading up to the two climactic experiences reserved for visiting dignitaries. On the morning of the last day Hoxworth Hale observed brightly: “Congressman, we’ve been monopolizing you for more than a week, and you haven’t really seen the islands for yourself. So we’ve arranged to drop out of the picture today. We’ve got a tour car for you, and we want you to go exploring.” A long black car was waiting in the driveway, and Hoxworth introduced the driver. “This is Tom Kahuikahela, and he knows more about Hawaii than anyone you’ve met so far. Tom, this is a very important visitor, Congressman Carter. Take mighty good care of him.”
Later, as Carter climbed out of the car to enjoy the glorious Pali, he found Tom Kahuikahela at his elbow, whispering, “It’s to men like you, Congressman, that all of us look for the salvation of Hawaii.”
“What do you mean?” Carter asked.
“Don’t give us statehood, Congressman. Please.” The robust Hawaiian begged.
“I thought everybody was for statehood,” Carter gasped.
“Oh, no! The Hawaiians tremble for f
ear you’ll give us statehood.”
“Why?” Carter asked.
“The day we become a state, the Japanese will capture the islands.”
For the rest of that day an appalled Congressman Carter listened as his driver told him the truth about Hawaii: how the local Japanese had plotted to destroy Pearl Harbor; how they were trying to marry all the Hawaiian girls so as to destroy the race; how they craftily bought all the land; how they controlled the stores and refused to extend credit to, Hawaiians; how the young Japanese lawyers were planning to steal control of the islands; how truly desperate things were. “The only thing that saves us, sir, are the appointed governor and the judges.”
Several times Carter interrupted. “I thought it was the Chinese who owned the land,” he suggested.
“They buy it only for the sly Japanese,” the driver assured him.
“It looked to me as if Black Jim McLafferty was the head of the Democratic Party here, but you say the Japanese …”
“They’re using him for a front man … just for a while … then they take over.”
“But why doesn’t a man like Hoxworth Hale … Now surely, he must know everything you’ve told me. Why hasn’t he told me these things?”
“He’s scared to,” the driver whispered ominously. “Everybody’s scared of what’s happening, and that’s why we have to depend on good men like you to save us.”
“Do all Hawaiians feel this way?” Carter asked.
“Every one,” Tom Kahuikahela replied. “We dread statehood.”
But Congressman Carter had not stayed on top of Texas politics for twenty-four years by being a fool, and he knew that you often found out what a man was really talking about only when he was done with his main pitch and had relaxed. Then you could sometimes slip in a fast question and dislodge the truth, so that it came tumbling out, and now Carter probed: “Just what kind of government would you like to see in the islands, Tom?”
“Well I’ll tell you, sir!” the big man replied, adding a dimension beyond what his employers, Janders and Hale, had paid for. “What I’m working for is the return of the monarchy.”
“What did you have in mind?” Carter asked in a confidential manner.
“Well, I’d like to see a king back on the throne, with a Hawaiian senate and the old nobles sort of running things. The big laws could be made in Washington, because we don’t really need a legislature with a lot of lawyers arguing all the time. And the king would give big parties and the palace would be restored.”
“Where would the United States come in?” Carter asked, and to his surprise Tom had a good answer.
“Well, like I said, we’d want you to pass the big laws, and coin our money for us, and you’d control all of our foreign policy. Our secretary of state would be appointed by your President, with approval of your Senate.”
“You say my President. Isn’t he yours, too?”
“To tell you the truth, sir, he isn’t. My family boycotted the annexation. We keep a Hawaiian flag at home. We pray for the day when the alii come back.”
“Were your family alii?” Carter asked.
“Yes, sir,” Tom replied.
And Carter muttered, “I think I’m beginning to understand Hawaii.”
The average people of the islands had a pretty shrewd idea of what occurred when congressmen were driven around Oahu, and they called this gambit “government by taxi driver,” but they respected the device as the most effective lobby in Hawaii. But on this day a Democratic spy at a filling station phoned Black Jim McLafferty and reported: “They’ve got Congressman Carter going around the island today. Giving him the taxi-driver needle.”
McLafferty slammed down the phone and stared at his partner. “Shig,” he confided, “they’re giving our boy the old ‘government by taxi driver’ routine. And that can hurt.”
“What can we do?” Shig asked.
The two tacticians studied the problem for a long time, and finally the Irishman snapped: “Shig, one way or another I’m going to get hold of our congressman. I’m going to bring him down here, and you’re going to take him home with you. Show him an average Japanese family. But, Shig, you run over there right now and see that your dad’s service flag is hanging on the wall in the front room. The one with two gold stars. And you get your mother’s box, the one with the glass cover and all the medals, and you see that every goddamned medal is polished and lying flat so our boy can read them. Now get going, and be back here, waiting, in half an hour. Because I’m coming back with Congressman Carter, dead or alive.”
It was in this way that Congressman Clyde V. Carter, of Texas, became one of the few Democrats ever to meet a Democratic family during a visit to Hawaii. Black Jim spotted the tour car returning to Honolulu along Nimitz Highway, and he elbowed it over to the shoulder, explaining, “Congressman, I’ve just got a damned interesting cable from Democratic Headquarters in Washington. I thought you ought to advise me as to how I should answer it.” McLafferty had peeled off the date line, trusting that Carter would fail to notice this, and his luck held, so while Carter was reading the complex message, Black Jim politely eased him out of the taxi and into the old Pontiac. “We’d better answer it at the office,” he said.
When Carter entered the door of McLafferty and Sakagawa, there stood Shigeo waiting, and the young man said bluntly, “While Mr. McLafferty’s answering the cable, I thought you might like to see a Japanese home. Just an average place.” And although this was the last wish in Carter’s mind, he could find no graceful escape, and a few minutes later he was being hauled into the Sakagawa cottage. “This whole thing’s a transparent trick,” he decided.
At the front door he met old and bent Mrs. Sakagawa, who knew little English and who wore funny Japanese sandals with things between the toes. Shig did the interpreting and said, “Mom, this is a famous United States congressman.” Mrs. Sakagawa sucked in her breath audibly, and bowed. “And this,” Shig said proudly, “is my bowlegged, tough-minded little father, Kamejiro Sakagawa.” The old man sucked in his breath and bowed.
“Is he an American citizen?” Carter asked.
“Not allowed become citizen,” Kamejiro said belligerently.
“That’s right,” Shigeo explained. “I am, because I was born here. But people like my father and mother, they were born in Japan.”
“And they can’t become citizens?” Carter asked in surprise. “Mexicans can.”
Little Kamejiro stuck out his jaw and wagged his finger at the congressman: “Mexicans okay. Colored people okay. Anybody okay but not Japanese. How do you like dat?”
Congressman Carter, looking away from the argumentative little man, saw the service flag, with two blue stars and two gold. As a professional politician he automatically grew reverent and asked quietly, “Were you in service Mr.—” He couldn’t recall the name.
“I and my three brothers,” Shig said.
“And two gave their lives for America?” Carter asked.
In Japanese Shigeo asked, “Mom, where’s that picture of the four of us in football uniforms?” His mother, who prized this picture above all others, found it and jabbed it into Carter’s hands.
“This one is Tadao,” Shigeo said of the fleet young halfback. “He died in Italy. This one is Minoru,” he added. “He died in France. This is my brother Goro, a labor-union man …” And the spell was broken. That was all Congressman Carter required to hear, and he drew away from the picture of four average American boys. He had voted against the Norris-La Guardia Act and all of its successors, and he felt that to be a labor-union man was worse, in many respects, than being a Russian communist, because the Russians, God forgive them, didn’t know any better, whereas a decent, God-fearing American who … The speech was running in his mind, and Shigeo knew it. The two men drew apart.
And then, by one of those lucky flukes that save some meetings and wreck others, Mrs. Sakagawa thrust into the congressman’s hand her glass box of medals, and in Japanese said, “These are Minoru’s. The
se are Tadao’s. These are Goro’s. And these five are Shigeo’s.” As she said the latter, she patted her son on his arm, and communion was reestablished.
Carter studied the medals and said, “Your family accomplished a great deal.”
“Congressman,” Shig began quietly, “each of us boys had to fight his way to get into uniform. We had to be better soldiers than anyone else in the world.” He felt words coming into his mouth that he would be ashamed of later, but he could no longer hold them back. “We performed as perhaps no other family of boys did in the last war. We accumulated wounds and glory, and by God, sir, when you refused to shake my hand the other day I almost wept. Because whether you know it or not, Congressman, I’m one of your constituents, and by God I will never again accept such treatment from you.”
“Constituent?” Carter gasped.
“Yes, sir. Congressman, have you heard of the Lost Battalion?”
Carter had not only heard of it, he had orated about it; and in relief the words came back to him: “It was one of the highwater marks of Texas bravery, sir.”
“How many of your men died there, Congressman?” Shigeo pressed.
“Too many,” Carter replied sorrowfully. “The scars upon Texas are great.”
“Do you know why any escaped?” There was a pause, and Shig asked harshly, “Well, do you?”
“I supposed that the gallant fighters of Texas …”
“Horse manure!” Shig snapped. “Your men of Texas live today, sir, because my dead brother Minoru, one of the finest men who ever touched earth, and Goro and I led a gang of Japanese boys to their rescue. We lost eight hundred men rescuing three hundred Texans!” He cried bitterly, “I want you to read this.” And from his wallet he produced a treasured card, and Carter took it and read it, and he saw that it had been signed by a friend of his, a governor of Texas, and it stated that in gratitude for heroism beyond the call of duty, Shigeo Sakagawa was forever an honorary citizen of the State of Texas. Said the card: “On our day of desperate need, you succored us.”
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