The Virgin Whore Trial: A Holly Park Legal Thriller

by Brad Chisholm

  Kate's laughter rang into the night air, she was throwing blind but hitting soft spots. That was obvious.

  "Just -- shut up."

  But Kate Hong wouldn't stop. Choi was grim. He could not afford to have Holly - or anyone - snooping into his past.

  "Call Holly Park. Now." Choi said, his voice quiet. "Tell her whatever you need to, but we'll pick her up. Just follow my lead."

  It was the quiet in Choi's voice that scared Kate Hong. She opened her mouth then shut it and did as she was told. Kate was quiet all the way to Holly's place, full of trepidation. She had never seen Choi like this.

  "Where we going?" Holly asked, climbing in. Kate made the introduction, but gave no explanation except that it was urgent.

  It was an eerie ride. Choi drove stiffly and Kate, silent. They got downtown quickly. On Mission Street Choi pulled into the parking lot of a large red brick and gray stone building and spoke briefly into his cell phone then hung up. The sign in front of the building read:

  County of Los Angeles, Department of Coroner

  Holly's eyes widened and she looked at Choi with surprise, questioning. Kate sat with her arms crossed making her usual flippant observations but without her energy they fell flat. Holly could tell they'd had a fight, but about what? What was their relationship? Choi got out. Holly and Kate followed quietly into the morgue.

  The interior looked like a 1930's hotel, with an ornate staircase with art deco rails and marble floors and walls. The furniture was reproduction Mission. The architecture looked contemporaneous with the older courthouses Holly knew so well. A sign read:

  City Morgue - Quiet Please

  Choi turned to Holly. "You are here because you need to know the kind of man the Dumok really is. No one should have to witness in their lifetime what I am about to show you."

  Kate stood a little apart, with that superior look but she shot a questioning glance that Choi ignored. It was after hours. The three stood awkwardly, waiting.

  "Good evening, Choi." It was the night coroner. He was a tall very thin man with gray hair, wearing a lab coat. Choi had called in a serious favor to get them in the morgue that late.

  "Come this way," the night coroner said.

  "The coroner received the body this morning," Choi's voice clipped coolly, as he explained. The three followed the night coroner in a single file, silent. Kate filled with regret of what she had started, and warily apprehensive of the immediate unknown.

  They turned into a stark, cold room of aluminum and metal furniture with walls lined with metal drawers. The night coroner pointed to a table. Choi walked over and looked at the body and motioned for Holly. The faintest grimace crossed his face.

  Holly gingerly peered, steeling herself. But no one could prepare for what Holly was about to see.

  "Not fresh," the night coroner said. "He was gutted at least a month ago, his intestines were falling out when we received the body. Also he was strangled.”

  "Tortured?"

  "You can call it that. Alive when his intestines were cut out."

  Holly felt herself breathing hard and her knees weaken. Choi grabbed Holly's arm, steadying her. Holly wrenched herself free.

  "They called him the Enforcer. He is one of the Dumok's men. This is what the Dumok does to his own people. They say once you know too much, he gets rid of you. This is what the Dumok will do to you, and then to your family. This is how he repays loyalty. He will do this to Nara Song when he finds her. You will be next. Why do you think the Dumok came to you this time, instead of his fancy team of expensive lawyers? Because someone like you will not be missed when you disappear."

  Holly's face went white. Choking and retching, she turned and ran out of the room with her hands covering her mouth.

  "He will do this to your father and mother, too!" Choi called after Holly. "That's enough," Kate Hong cried. Kate had rarely been silenced in her life, but this time she was. The whole visit had taken less than two minutes. Choi lit a cigarette once they were outside and turned to offer one to Holly, but Holly was throwing up in the alley.

  Down the street, in a blacked out SUV, Detective Mick Chang held his camera with the long lens as steady as he could and clicked the shutter. He watched through the lens. Click. Click. Click. Click.

  The Enforcer had more visitors in death than in life, Mick Chang thought. Chasing the Dumok was like hunting a ghost in fog while wearing sunglasses. Mick Chang rummaged through the backseat for the file and studied the photo. Holly Park, yes. It was her. Now he had caught on camera the Dumok's latest attorney identifying the body, and two others he didn't yet know.

  Click.

  Click.

  How do you connect dots when there aren't any? Finally, he had connected a dot with perhaps more to come. The detective watched as the car pulled away. He put down his camera and looked at the time. Miller time. He wanted to call Mix, but no. It was something he hadn’t done in years.

  "Are you ready to call it off?" Choi asked into the back seat where Holly was sitting. He was parked outside of Holly's apartment. There was no answer. The shock had been too much. Holly had fainted.

  "Honestly. You really take things too far," Kate said.

  "Take her inside," Choi said. "Tell her it was for her own sake.”

  "I don't think you need to worry about Holly now," Kate said as she got out of the car and opened the back door to rouse Holly. Holly suddenly came awake. She was drained and holding on with the last bit of strength. While Kate helped Holly into her apartment, Choi brooded over what had happened. Stupid Kate, her eyes were always bigger than her stomach. And he had burned a big favor to scare off Holly.

  Choi and Kate were simply jackals, following the lion at a safe distance hoping for scraps from its jaws. But Choi was much smarter than Kate Hong. He knew it was better to be the hunter than the prey.

  Chapter 14

  Detective Mick Chang walked into a bar off Alvarado street. He was in his early thirties, tall, lean and muscular with a cowlick of thick black hair that fell over his eye. It was always during these times when he was alone at a bar that his thoughts turned to how the Dumok had cheated him and stolen his best friend.

  The only lighting in the dive bar were cheesy red hot-pepper shaped lights that had been once put up for a cinquo de mayo party and never taken down. Bad country music groaned from a 1970's vintage jukebox in the corner. The bar didn't even offer draft. In the far corner of the bar was an electronic poker machine.

  The only décor were promotional posters for various American beers and a Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition calendar still showing August 1986.

  Mick Chang sat. He'd seen worse bars on military bases in Afghanistan. He looked down at his arm and rubbed his tattoo. USMC - The United States Marine Corp. The few. The proud. The brave. Mick Chang laughed ruefully. U-Signed-the-Mother-Fucking-Contract is what it really stood for. His humor turned sour. Yes, he had signed on impulse. He was pissed when his father ran out on the family leaving him to take care of his mother and sick sister then the Dumok had pissed him off. Then there was Mix. Fucking Mix. Mix usually went along with whatever he wanted, something Mick had gotten used to, until the Dumok came along. That was when everything changed.

  Mick drank his beer and his thoughts wander back to when he had first met Mix, saved his ass from a beating, and given him his nick-name. All in one day. Didn’t that count for anything?

  How many years ago was it now since Mick had decided to cut through that high school football field? He didn't want to be late getting home. It was quicker than waiting for the crowded bus. He jogged easily through the school yard. He was fifteen years old and tall for his age. He was not particularly big but he was wiry and quick and his child's body was fast maturing into a man. He turned a corner and saw three boys huddled over a shape, as he got closer it looked like a huddled boy, deflecting punches and struggling beneath blows.

  The boy on the ground was Michah Jones. School for him was the same everyday. He had no friends. Every
day, he took out the lunch his mama had made him so carefully and sat by himself away from the other kids. His lunch was sticky rice flecked with flakes of spam and carrot wrapped with seaweed, sticky anchovies, and sesame seed crackers. He took out his chopsticks and began to eat when several Korean boys came up behind him, laughing.

  "Ever see a nigger use chopsticks before?" The first one said in Korean. Micah lowered his head even more, and hunched his shoulders hoping they would walk away.

  "See, he understands, everything," another boy said, eyeing Micah with curiosity.

  "He's confused." The ringleader said in English, then flipped Micah's lunch box upside down, the food rolling across the table.

  "I never saw a nigger who can't speak English," one taunted.

  Micah kept his head down, and stared at the floor.

  "A yellah- nigg-ah - go figure - hey, that rhymes!" the third boy laughed. They all high fived each other, and took turns taking an airslap to his head. Now, off the school grounds, the attack turned physical.

  Mick came closer. He recognized the tallest kid. It was Sam Kim, he had seen him at karate tournaments. Sam could fight, but Mick was not afraid.

  "Hey, Sam, did you miss math class? Three on one ain't fair."

  The boys turned and looked at Mick, keen on fresh meat. The turtled shape on the ground looked up. Through the blood on his face and cut lip, Mick saw mongoloid features -- and almost negroid skin.

  Sam Kim turned, his arms loose at his sides and looked Mick over.

  "You train at Blackbelt USA, I saw you at the Orange County tournament."

  "Sure," Mick let his backpack slide easily to the ground. He was still warm from his workout. He would be fine. The boy on the ground sat up. He wasn't small, but against three he had taken a beating.

  "You like Master Lee?"

  "Sure. He teaches us to fight hard, but fair," Mick had added the ‘fair’ part deliberately.

  Sam Kim thought for a minute, then jerked his chin towards the street. "Let's get some noodles," he said to his buddies. '"We were done anyways." The bullies walked away, laughing, they never looked back. Three on two wasn't as much fun as three on one.

  The boy on the ground wiped his face on the tail of his shirt and sat up. Under the blood and mud he was still half black and half Korean.

  Mick pulled a bottle of water from his backpack and a small workout towel and tossed it. The boy drank from it gratefully, and wiped his face with the towel.

  "Anything broken?" Mick asked in English.

  "No," the boy answered in Korean. I fight regular enough. I can take two but not three."

  "Bro, what's your name?"

  "Micah Jones."

  "Dude, you talk like an F.O.B. Do you know what that means? Fresh off the boat."

  "The Korean kids don't like me much and the brothers don't like me neither."

  "Hey, I've seen you around school." Mick said, bouncing on his toes, making shadow boxing moves. "I'm gonna call you Mix. Cuz you're all mixed up, man," Mick joked. "I was thinking of calling you Mixed-Up Jones but that's too long."

  "Mix" smiled hesitantly, peering out of the corner of his eyes.

  "And you'd best follow me around at school and stay out of trouble." Mick said, doing upper cuts and jabs in the air. "Where the fuck are you from anyways? Are you really Korean, dude?"

  Mix answered in Korean. "I came from Korea. But I don't speak English good yet."

  Mick paused, not knowing what to say next. "Dude, when you speak Korean you sound like my grandma, but your English sucks. I'll look for you, dude. Shit, gotta go. I have to meet my mom," Mick jogged away. "See you."

  "See you." Mix raised his arm and waved and stood there watching until Mick disappeared into the distance. He carefully pulled from his backpack the sesame crackers he had saved from lunch. He looked inside the ziplock bag. The crackers were only slightly broken.

  The noise of the bar broke into Mick’s thoughts. He ordered another beer. The bar was full of men milling around, noisy, loud, frustrated with nowhere to displace their energy and frustrations. A hoot of laughter came from behind and Mick looked up to see a Mexican, standing, hands on hips and legs apart, clad in a saggy jeans and a close fitting white tank top that partially covered his tattooed skin. The man was staring at him.

  "You say something, man?" Mick Chang challenged.

  "I said there's a gook in here."

  Chang slid off the bar stool slowly.

  “I’m not Gook. Gooks were in Vietnam. You don’t look old enough to have been in Vietnam, in fact you would have peed your pants in Vietnam, because those little gooks are tougher than any Mexican.”

  The Mexican swung. Mick jigged his head to one side to make him miss. Now the Mexican was off balance and Mick drilled his ribs with a left and followed up with a right to the jaw. The Mexican's head snapped back before he dropped like a sack. Of course one of his friends jumped forward. It was simply the wrong day.

  Mick Chang had long ago discovered the pain he carried was only released when his fists flew out and he heard the cracking sound of contact against skin. It was only the sight, taste and smell of blood that could rid him of the heated rage inside. It was only when his fists flew and the punches meted out in mutual combat he felt like an equal and his fists became his ticket to social superiority.

  "Bring it on! Bring it on! Who's next? Who's next?!" Mick Chang was braying, pacing, clenched fists, his eyes shining, bright.

  "I never saw a wild thing feel sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself." Mick Chang thought about the quote from his old gunnery sergeant. Mick Chang always thought about this quote when he started feeling that way. Like right now. Fucking Mix.

  If Mix had been with him, this never would have happened. They had been best friends and had each other’s backs until the Dumok had shown up. Some best friend. Now, Mix was loyal as a dog to the Dumok, something that royally pissed him off. Mick Chang would still be there, too, if he had been treated right. But Mick Chang felt cheated. He had helped the Dumok from the ground up, sneaking the doehmes over the borders in the middle of the night, and dropping money off to the crooked politicians. One day the Dumok and Mick Chang argued. That very day, he stormed off and signed up for the Marines. He was reactive, that Mick Chang, and carried a chip on his shoulder the size of California.

  Fuck everybody, Mick Chang thought. He moistened his lip. He could taste blood. He looked at the time. Now, all he wanted was some hot chow and his bed. He hit the drive-thru and ordered a dozen tacos. Driving home, his thoughts again wandered to the Dumok, the man who had taken his best friend away and his resentment grew. He drove passed the parking lot of a bar and noticed a pretty latina in a tight peach colored dress fumbling with her keys. She dropped them, then wobbled in her high heels as she tried to bend down, she stood up again to hike up her skirt. It was just too tight.

  "Let me," Mick Chang deftly bent down and scooped up her keys and handed them to her. She was prettier than he expected, with a ripe body, but young.

  "If you get in your car I'll have to pull you over," He glanced at her tired Civic. "You've had too much to drink."

  The girl smiled nervously.

  "If it's not far, I'll drop you. You can get your car tomorrow."

  "Thank you. It's not far."

  They got into Mick Chang’s undercover SUV. "Why are you partying on a Tuesday?” he asked. “Shouldn't you be home?"

  "I just needed to get out of the house. My stepfather is a trucker. He just came home. The walls are thin. You know the drill," she shrugged, her resignation sadder than anger would have been.

  "How'd you get the split lip?" the Latina asked. There was concern in her eyes. Mick Chang smiled and tentatively reached over for her hand. She didn't stop him. He stroked her hand as they drove in silence. She let him until they pulled into a dark parking spot in front of a rundown, lo-rise apartment building. The girl unsnapped her seat belt and leaned over
and kissed him. She didn't want to go inside, yet. She looked up and they made eye contact.

  "Thanks," she said.

  "Don't mention it."

  She pulled her hand away and casually moved it to his lap. Mick Chang didn't stop her. She got him hard with her hand, then reached into her small purse and pulled out a pink ribbon. She tied her long hair back in a ponytail and then unzipped him.

  "I liked your hair down, it's sexy," Mick Chang complained.

  "Don't you want to watch me?" She smiled provocatively.

  "Sure," Mick Chang said, but instead just stared into his rear-view mirror and watched the blur of passing headlights. He watched them for a long time. Later, as he zipped up, the girl leaned back against the door and rooted in her bag for cigarettes.

  "Don't get pregnant," Chang said. "You're too young."

  She lit a Marlboro light, not asking permission if she could smoke in his car, but then offered him one. He shook his head and took out one of his own, regular Marlboro.

  "Don't worry. Guys these days aren't so interested in screwing. Just want their candle lit.”

  "Stay in school, too," Mick Chang admonished her, only half joking.

  "I work. I'm saving my money to open a hair salon. I'll get out of this town, you'll see. I'm not like most girls, I just like to party sometimes."

  She smoothed the front of her dress, and popped an orange tic-tac as she opened the door. "Thanks for the ride."

  She got out of his car. He watched her until she was safely through the front door of the apartment. He almost wished he had screwed her. But then he would have had to ask her name, it would have gotten complicated. Better to keep it cool. Mick Chang gazed longingly at her ass until she walked inside. She turned and waved. He shook his head. These girls never got out of anywhere. Mick Chang drove home in a more somber mood than usual, chewing on turkey jerky and drinking gas station coffee.