Dedicated to—
Detective Sekiguchi,
who taught me what it was to be an honorable man. I’m trying.
My father,
who has always been my hero and who taught me to stand up
for what’s right.
The Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department and the
Federal Bureau of Investigation,
for protecting me and my friends and family, and for their constant
efforts to keep the forces of darkness in check.
Those whom I loved and who have left and will not return.
You are missed and remembered.
Meeting is merely the beginning of separation.
—Japanese proverb
CONTENTS
Prelude: Ten Thousand Cigarettes
Part 1 The Morning Sun
Fate Will Be on Your Side
It’s Not About Learning—It’s About Unlearning
All Right, Punks, Grab Your Notebooks
Blackmail, a Budding Reporter’s Best Friend
It’s the New Year, Let’s Fight
The Perfect Manual of Suicide
The Chichibu Snack-mama Murder Case
Bury Me in a Shallow Grave: When the Yakuza Come Calling
The Saitama Dog Lover Serial Disappearances, Part One: So You’re Asking Me to Trust You?
The Saitama Dog Lover Serial Disappearances, Part Two: Out of Bed, Yakuza Are Worthless Leeches
Part 2 The Working Day
Welcome to Kabukicho!
My Night as a Host(ess)
Whatever Happened to Lucie Blackman?
ATMs and Jackhammers: A Day in the Life of a Shakaibu Reporter
Evening Flowers
The Emperor of Loan Sharks
Part 3 Dusk
The Empire of Human Trafficking
Ten Thousand and One Cigarettes
Back on the Beat
Yakuza Confessions
Two Poisons
Epilogue
Note on Sources and Source Protection
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
PRELUDE
Ten Thousand Cigarettes
“Either erase the story, or we’ll erase you. And maybe your family. But we’ll do them first, so you learn your lesson before you die.”
The well-dressed enforcer spoke very slowly, the way people speak to idiots or children or the way Japanese sometimes speak to clueless foreigners.
It seemed like a straightforward proposition.
“Walk away from the story and walk away from your job, and it’ll be like it never happened. Write the article, and there is nowhere in this country that we will not hunt you down. Understand?”
It’s never a smart idea to get on the bad side of the Yamaguchi-gumi, Japan’s largest organized crime group. With about forty thousand members, it’s a lot of people to piss off.
The Japanese mafia. You can call them yakuza, but a lot of them like to call themselves gokudo, meaning literally “the ultimate path.” The Yamaguchi-gumi is the top of the gokudo heap. And among the many subgroups that make up the Yamaguchi-gumi, the Goto-gumi, with more than nine hundred members, is the nastiest. They slash the faces of film directors; they throw people from hotel balconies; they drive bulldozers into people’s houses. Stuff like that.
The man sitting across the table and offering me this deal was from the Goto-gumi.
He didn’t make the proposal in a menacing way. He didn’t sneer or squint his eyes. Except for the dark suit, he didn’t even look like a yakuza. He had all his fingers. He didn’t roll his r’s like the heavies in the movies. If anything, he was more like a slightly surly waiter at a fancy restaurant.
He let the ash from his cigarette fall onto the carpet, then stubbed it out undramatically in the ashtray. He lit up another with a gold-plated Dunhill. He was smoking Hope. White box, block letters—reporters notice stuff like that—but they weren’t standard Hope cigarettes. They were the half-size, stubby version. Higher nicotine; lethal.
The yakuza had come to this meeting with one other enforcer, who said absolutely nothing. The Silent One was thin and dark with a horselike face, and he had a messy long haircut dyed orange—the chahatsu look. He had on an identical dark suit.
I had come with backup, a low-ranking cop formerly assigned to the Anti–Organized Crime Task Force in Saitama Prefecture. Chiaki Sekiguchi. He was a little taller than I, almost as dark, thickset with deep-set eyes and a 1950s Elvis haircut. He was mistaken for a yakuza a lot. If he’d gone the other way, I’m sure he would have been a well-respected crime boss. He was a great cop, a good friend, my mentor in a lot of ways, and he had volunteered to come along. I glanced at him. He raised his eyebrows, cocked his head, and shrugged his shoulders. He wasn’t going to give me any more advice. Not now. I was on my own.
“Do you mind if I smoke a cigarette while I think this over?”
“Be my guest,” the yakuza said, more diffident than I.
I pulled a pack of Gudang Garam, Indonesian clove cigarettes, out of my suit jacket. They were loaded with nicotine and tar, and they smelled like incense, which reminded me of my days living in a Zen temple during college. Maybe I should have become a Buddhist monk. It was a little late now.
I stuck one in my mouth, and as I fumbled for a lighter, the enforcer deftly flicked his Dunhill and held it close until he was sure it was lit. He was very accommodating. Very professional.
I watched the thick smoke waft in concentric circles from the tip of the cigarette; the burning clove leaves embedded in the tobacco snapped and crackled as I inhaled. It seemed to me that the whole world had gone quiet and this was the only sound I could hear. Snapping, crackling, sparking. Cloves tend to do that. I was hoping the sparks wouldn’t burn a hole in my suit or his—but then again, after further reflection, I decided I didn’t really care.
I didn’t know what to do or say. Not a clue. I didn’t have enough material to write the story. Hell, it wasn’t a story. Yet. He didn’t know that but I did. I had only enough information to have gotten me into this unpleasant face-off.
Maybe there was a bright side to this whole problem. Maybe it was time to go home. Yeah, maybe I was tired of working eighty-hour weeks. Maybe I was tired of coming home at two in the morning and leaving at five. I was tired of always being tired.
Tired of chasing after scoops. Tired of being scooped by the competition. Tired of facing six deadlines a day—three in the morning for the evening edition and three at night for the morning edition. Tired of waking up with a hangover every other day.
I didn’t think he was bluffing. He seemed very sincere. As far as he was concerned, the story I was trying to write would kill his boss. Not directly, but that would be the result. That would be his oyabun, his surrogate father. Tadamasa Goto, the most notorious Japanese gangster of them all. So naturally, he would feel justified in killing me.
However, if I lived up to my end of the bargain, would they keep theirs? The real problem was that I couldn’t write the story. I didn’t have all the facts yet. But I couldn’t let them know that.
All I knew was this: In the summer of 2001, Tadamasa Goto had gotten a liver transplant at the Dumont-UCLA Liver Cancer Center. I knew, or thought I knew, who the doctor was who had performed the transplant. I knew about how much Goto had allegedly spent to get his liver: close to $1 million according to some sources, $3 million according to others. I knew that some of the money to pay for his hospital expenses had been sent from Japan to the United States via the Tokyo branch office of a Las Vegas casino. What I didn’t know was how a guy like that had gotten into the United States in the first place. He must have forged a passport or bribed a Japanese politician or a U.S. politician. Something was fishy. He was on the watch
list of U.S. Customs and Immigration, the FBI, the DEA. He was blacklisted. He shouldn’t have been able to get into the United States.
I was sure that there was a great story behind the journey of Goto and his operation. It’s why I’d been working on it for months. I could only guess that while I was working on the story someone ratted me out.
I noticed that my hands were shaking. The cigarette seemed to have evaporated in my fingers while I was thinking.
I lit a second cigarette. And I thought to myself, how the hell did I end up here?
I had one chance to make the right choice on this one. There wasn’t going to be a second meeting. I couldn’t print a correction later. I could feel myself starting to panic, my stomach knotting up, my left eye twitching.
I’d been doing this job for more than twelve years, and I was ready to leave. But not like this. How did I get here? It was a good question. It was a better question than the one being asked of me at the moment.
I got lost in thought; I lost count of the number of cigarettes I’d smoked.
“Erase the story, or we erase you” was what the enforcer had said.
That was the proposal.
I didn’t have any cards to play, and I was out of cigarettes.
I swallowed, exhaled, swallowed some more, and then muttered my response. “Done,” I said. “I will not … write the story … in the Yomiuri.”
“Good,” he said, very pleased with himself. “If I were you, I’d get out of Japan. The old man is mad. You have a wife, two children, right? Take a vacation. Take a long vacation. Maybe look for other work.”
Everyone stood. There were the merest of bows—more like inch-long nods and wide-eyed stares that did not waver.
After the enforcer and his helper left, I turned to Sekiguchi. “You think I did the right thing?” I asked.
He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed a little. “You did the only thing you could. That was the right thing. No story is worth dying for, no story is worth your family dying for. Heroes are just people who have run out of choices. You still had a choice. You made the right choice.”
I was numb.
Sekiguchi walked me out of the hotel, and we got into a taxi. In Shinjuku, we found a coffee shop. We slid into a booth. Sekiguchi pulled out his cigarettes and offered me one, which he lit.
“Jake,” Sekiguchi began, “you were thinking about leaving the newspaper anyway. Now would be the time. You’re not a coward if you do it. You have no cards to play. The Inagawa-kai? The Sumiyoshi-kai? They’re cute compared to these guys. I don’t know what the frigging deal is with the liver transplant he got in the United States, but Goto has got to have big reasons why he doesn’t want the story to get out. Whatever he did, it’s a big deal to him. Retreat.”
Then Sekiguchi tapped me on the shoulder to be sure I was paying attention. Looking me right in the eyes with a razor-edged intensity, he went on, “Retreat. But do not give up on that story. Find out what that bastard is afraid of. You’ll need to know because your peace treaty with this man will not hold. I guarantee you that. These guys don’t forget. You’ll need to know. Otherwise you’re going to spend the rest of your life in fear. Sometimes you have to pull back to fight back. Don’t give up. Wait. Wait a year, two years if you have to. But find out the truth. You’re a journalist. That’s your job. That’s your calling. That’s what got you to this point.
“Find out what he’s scared that people will find out, what he doesn’t want people to know. Because he is a man scared—scared enough to come after you like this. When you know it, you have a card to play. Use it carefully. Then you have a chance to go back to doing what you want to do.
“When I got knocked back down to traffic duty—because someone, one of my own people, set me up for demotion—I wanted to quit the force. Every day I wanted to quit. You cannot imagine how it feels to be a detective and then be forced to write traffic tickets because some dishonorable, insecure know-nothing cannot get ahead any other way. But I had my family to think about. The choice wasn’t about me alone. So I waited it out. I had to eat it, day after day, but time passes, and after a while things changed, I was able to make my case, and now I’m back doing what I am pretty good at. You’re in the same boat, Jake. Don’t give up.”
Sekiguchi was right, of course. It wasn’t the end.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
There was a time when I wasn’t pissing off yakuza, when I wasn’t a chain-smoking burned-out ex-reporter with chronic insomnia. There was a time when I didn’t know Detective Sekiguchi, the name Tadamasa Goto, or even how to write a decent article on a purse snatching in Japanese, and yakuza were something I knew only from the movies.
There was a time when I was sure I was one of the good guys. It seems like a very long time ago.
PART 1
The Morning Sun
Fate Will Be on Your Side
July 12, 1992, marked the turning point of my education about Japan. I was glued to a position next to the phone, feet inside my mini-refrigerator—in the heat of the summer any cool will do—waiting for a call from the Yomiuri Shinbun, Japan’s most prestigious newspaper. I would land a job as a reporter, or I would remain jobless. It was a long night, the culmination of a process that had stretched out over an entire year.
Not long before that, I had been wallowing in the luxury of not caring a bit about my future. I was a student at Sophia (Joichi) University in the middle of Tokyo, where I was working toward a degree in comparative literature and writing for the student newspaper.
So I had experience, but nothing that would pass for the beginnings of a career. I was a step up from teaching English and was making a decent income translating instructional kung fu videos from English into Japanese. Combined with an occasional gig giving Swedish massage to wealthy Japanese housewives, I earned enough for day-to-day expenses, but I was still leaning on the parents for tuition.
I had no idea what I wanted to do. Most of my fellow students had jobs already promised them before their graduation—a practice called naitei, which is unethical, but everyone does it. I had gotten such a promise too, with Sony Computer Entertainment, but it was good only if I extended my schooling for another year. It wasn’t a job that I really wanted, but it was, after all, Sony.
So in late 1991, with a very light class load and lots of time on my hands, I decided to throw myself into studying the Japanese language. I made up my mind to take the mass communication exams for soon-to-be university graduates and try to land a job as a reporter, working and writing in Japanese. I had the fantasy that if I could write for the school newspaper, it couldn’t be much more difficult to write for a national newspaper with eight or nine million readers.
In Japan, people don’t build a career at the major newspapers by working their way up through local, small-town newspapers. The papers hire the bulk of their reporters straight out of university, but first the cubs have to pass a standardized “entrance exam”—a kind of newspaper SAT. The ritual goes like this: Aspiring reporters report to a giant auditorium and sit for daylong tests. If your score is high enough, you get an interview, and then another, and then another. If you do well enough in your interviews, and if your interviewers like you, then you might get a job promise.
To be honest, I didn’t really think I’d be hired by a Japanese newspaper. I mean, what were the chances that a Jewish kid from Missouri would be accepted into this high-end Japanese journalistic fraternity? But I didn’t care. If I had something to study for, if I had a goal, however unreachable, the time spent chasing it might have some collateral productivity. At the very least, my Japanese would improve.
But where should I apply? Japan has more than its share of news media, which are also more vital than in the United States.
The Yomiuri Shinbun has the largest circulation—more than ten million a day—of any newspaper in Japan and, in fact, the world. The Asahi Shinbun used to be a close second—now it’s less close but still second. People used
to say that the Yomiuri was the official organ of the LDP, the conservative Liberal Democratic Party, which has dominated Japanese politics since World War II; the Asahi was the official newspaper of the Socialists, who are almost invisible these days; and the Mainichi Shinbun, the third largest, was the official newspaper of the anarchists, because the paper could never figure out whose side it was on. The Sankei Shinbun, which was then probably the fourth largest paper, was considered to be the voice of the extreme right; some said it had about as much credibility as a supermarket tabloid. Often, it had some good scoops as well.
Kyodo, the wire service, which is the Associated Press of Japan, was harder to figure out. The service was originally known as Domei and was the official propaganda branch of the World War II–era Japanese government. Not all connections were severed when the firm became independent once the war was over. Furthermore, Dentsu, the largest and most powerful advertising agency in Japan (and the world) has a controlling interest in the company, and that can color its coverage. One thing makes Kyodo a stellar news agency to work for, however: its labor union, which is the envy of every reporter in Japan. The union makes sure that its reporters are able to use the vacation days due them—something very rare at most firms in Japan.
There is also Jiji Press, which is kind of like Kyodo’s little brother but a hard worker. It has a smaller readership and fewer reporters. The joke was that Jiji reporters write their articles after reading Kyodo—a cruel joke in a cruel industry.
At first I was leaning toward the Asahi, but I started to feel offended by its tendency to put the United States in a bad light at every opportunity. It seemed at odds with the image I thought most people in Japan had of America—as a voice of democracy, spreading liberty and justice throughout the free world.
Tokyo Vice Page 1
