Tokyo Vice

by Jake Adelstein

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “You want to believe that, suit yourself. We’re done.” He stood up. I stood up.

  “Look,” I said, holding out my hands, trying to keep him there a little longer, “just tell me that you’re telling the truth. Let me have one of the photos. I can get someone to look at them, maybe do a photo analysis, compare bone structure or something. I want to verify it’s her. That’s all I ask.”

  He had the bag in his hand. He put it back on the table within a foot of me—close enough that I might have been able to grab it. It seemed as if he was daring me to try. He folded his arms and stared at me, cocked his head to the side. He smiled just a little, almost imperceptibly.

  “You insult me.”

  “You lied to me. You weren’t straight up about what you were doing or what you wanted. You manipulated me. You played me like a sucker. How am I supposed to know you aren’t doing it again? If you were standing in my shoes, you’d do the same.”

  Cyclops was unfazed. “But I’m not you. And if I were you, I’ll tell you what I’d do. I’d be a man, and I’d kill Goto myself. It wouldn’t be hard. I can tell you where to find him. Somewhere he goes alone.”

  “I’m not a yakuza.”

  “You’re not a man, either.”

  “You’re not much of a yakuza, either.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Yeah, well, you didn’t even go to Shibata’s funeral. Where’s the loyalty, the respect?”

  “I went. I didn’t see your white gaijin ass there.”

  “So you knew Shibata. Was he the one who told you I was looking for her?”

  He took the bag off the table and shrugged. “If I ever owed you anything, I don’t anymore. We’re done with that.”

  “Just give me a photo. If it’s true, what you’re saying, then I’ll know for real. One fucking photo of her face. That’s all I want.”

  “How much are you willing to pay for it? These are valuable things.”

  “How much do you want?”

  “More than you have.”

  “I need a real answer.”

  “Good luck with that. Just make sure to stay out of my way.”

  “I don’t know if that’s possible.”

  He leaned forward a little and said very softly, “You were lucky once. Don’t tempt fate. You were allowed to live because you were useful. Once Goto is gone, people may see you differently. Cross me or my people the wrong way, and we’ll crush you. There are ways to do that without even laying a finger on you.” And he turned around and walked toward his gate. I have no idea where he is now. I’m certainly not going to go looking for him.

  I know that Helena wanted to start a new life. She had money in the bank. She’d bought a home. She was beautiful, she was caring, she was brave, and she was very funny, if you appreciate ribald humor. Part of me wants to believe that she just packed up, cut ties, and started a new life. I keep in touch with some of her friends from that time. I still send New Year’s greetings to her old e-mail address. They always come back undeliverable. But I hope that someday I’ll get a reply. Maybe she’ll hook up with one of us on Facebook. Sometimes, when I’m walking around Tokyo, I think I see her. I hear her voice. But it’s never her.

  I remember that one of the things homicide cops use to drag a confession out of a suspect is the line “Kokuhaku shinai to hotoke ga ukabarenai.” It’s almost a cliché, you see it in cop movies on television a lot. It translates loosely as “If you don’t confess, the Buddha nature [of the dead] will not rise up—the victim will never achieve peace [Buddhahood].” It comes from a Japanese folk belief that those who have been murdered become trapped between incarnations, like a hungry ghost, until their death is avenged. In Buddhist mythology, even Heaven and Hell are just two of the stages of existence. Supposedly, we are doomed to repeat birth and rebirth until as human beings we achieve freedom from hatred, ignorance, and greed. What happens when that is achieved—well, that’s never really satisfactorily answered. I imagine it’s a very nice state of being.

  If it’s possible to be haunted by someone, I suppose that Helena haunts me—or I just haunt myself. I’m pretty sure she’s no longer alive. I’d like to believe differently. I dream about her now and then. Sometimes she’s forgiving. Sometimes she’s very angry. Sometimes she just asks to be held. I don’t sleep very well. I haven’t slept well since March 2006. If she is dead, maybe when Goto leaves this mortal coil, she’ll finally be released. She’ll finally get to where she wanted to go. I’d like to know she got there.

  During the time I was collecting the last pieces of evidence, I became close to one of Goto’s mistresses. Right before she left Japan in May 2008, we had one more meeting at Narita International Airport. I was bitching about the man, and she was listening patiently. She probably hated him more than I did. Halfway through my tirade, she stopped me.

  “Jake, did it ever occur to you that you hate him so much because you’re so much like him?”

  “No, I don’t see that at all.”

  “You’re both workaholics with high libidos, adrenaline junkies, and shameless womanizers. You drink too much, you smoke too much, and you demand loyalty. You’re generous to your friends and ruthless to your enemies. You’ll do anything to get what you want. You are very much the same person. I see that in you.”

  “I don’t accept that.”

  “You should think about it.”

  “So you’re saying we’re the same?”

  She laughed. “No. There are two big differences.”

  “That’s a relief. Tell me.”

  “You don’t derive pleasure from the suffering of others and you don’t betray your friends. That’s huge.”

  And she lightly kissed me on the cheek and headed toward the security gates and her plane. I haven’t seen her since. I think she’s doing very well with her new life.

  Once upon a time, I thought about being a Buddhist priest. I thought I’d like to be one of the good guys, do something for the world, something benevolent. When I was living in the temple, I tried. I didn’t smoke, I didn’t drink, I tried to walk the noble path. I wasn’t very good at it.

  On April 8, 2009, Tadamasa Goto, at a temple in Kanagawa, took the Buddhist vows and began his study toward becoming a Buddhist priest. Of course, it was probably more of a publicity stunt than a serious desire to repent for all the misery he’s caused in this world. He’s still facing another trial and probably wants to make a good impression on the judge. It’s rumored that the top dogs at the Yamaguchi-gumi have put out a contract on his life—he knows too much, and he has a history of making deals with the cops. Maybe he figures it would be bad PR for them to kill a priest. Perhaps he’s hoping a rosary will work as well as a bulletproof vest. Maybe he really regrets the way he’s lived his life now that he’s been stripped of power and is living in fear of death.

  Still, it irks me a little. It seems blasphemous.

  If he really does feel guilt for what he’s done, if he really is repenting, I suppose I wish him well.

  I know that I started out as one of the good guys. I’m not sure I ended that way.

  I don’t regret much of what I’ve done. Yes, maybe I started as a pawn, but I played the game as well as I could. I fought poison with poison and probably poisoned myself in the process, but that was the only way to do it. I protected my people and did my job, and in the end, that’s a kind of victory.

  I find it interesting that he and I both were amateur Buddhists. His reasons were probably more from expediency than faith, but then again, maybe he really does have a guilty conscience. It’s possible.

  I like reading some of the Buddhist sutras, although I’m not a convert. I’m not a believer in things like karma and reincarnation. I’d like to believe. I’d like to believe that evil is punished and good is rewarded, that love conquers hatred, truth conquers lies, and everyone gets what’s coming to them. You don’t have to be too cynical to look around the world and see t
hat that’s not how it works.

  Maybe it’s being raised Jewish that allows for finding something satisfying in the unforgiving qualities of traditional Buddhism. The only way to really atone for doing wrong is to do the right thing. “I’m sorry” just doesn’t cut it. There is no get-out-of-jail-free card in the deck. Makes sense to me.

  Still, I find some comfort in the holy books, if you will. I particularly like the Hokukyo, a collection of Buddhist sayings—the sort of Q document of the religion. If Goto is seriously studying the Noble Path, he’ll be reading it sooner or later. There are some passages that I’d like to highlight for him.

  All beings quiver before violence.

  All beings fear death.

  All beings love life.

  Remember that you are like them.

  As they are like you.

  Then whom would you hurt?

  What harm would you do?

  He who seeks happiness

  By hurting others who seek happiness

  Will never find happiness.

  Not in the sky,

  Nor in the depths of the sea,

  Nor in the deepest mountains,

  Can you hide from your misdeeds.

  I hope when he lies on his futon late at night, rewinding and replaying the mental footage of his ill-spent life, Goto reflects on what he has done and what his soldiers have done, and that he thinks long and hard about those words.

  I know that I do.

  NOTE ON SOURCES AND SOURCE PROTECTION

  One thing I have wrestled with in writing this book is how to do it in a way that would not endanger my sources and/or adversely affect the people involved. In Japan, a police officer leaking any information to a reporter can be criminally prosecuted; it can certainly cost him his job. It doesn’t happen often, but that’s not much consolation to the cop, prosecutor, or NPA bureaucrat who loses his job because I didn’t protect his identity. For a yakuza, revealing organizational secrets or working with someone like myself can cost him his life.

  I’m certainly not the first journalist or the first person in Japan to be threatened by yakuza. If they were just threats, it wouldn’t be so bad. The problem, of course, is that yakuza sometimes live up to those threats. The respected yakuza journalist Mizoguchi Atsushi had the unpleasant experience of Yamaguchi-gumi members stabbing his son. They did it after he wrote a series of articles they found unflattering. They attacked not the author himself but his son—simply because his son happened to be around. It wasn’t an isolated case of yakuza attacking civilians. When writing about organized crime in Japan, protecting sources can be a matter of life and death. I take it very seriously.

  If Goto Tadamasa were still running his old organization, this book would have no acknowledgments and no dedications. But Goto’s priest and guru, Jishu Tsukagoshi, insists that the former gang boss is now a devoted student of the Buddha and living a life of peace, atonement, and tolerance—so I’ll assume things are different.

  The other issue I wrestled with is that most of the women who worked in the sex industry when I was a reporter are now leading different lives. Some are married, some have children, most are in completely different jobs. I wouldn’t feel good about shaming them or exposing their pasts.

  I’ve gone to great lengths to protect the names of my sources in this book. I have changed names, used nicknames, altered nationalities and identifying details, and more. I’ve tried to keep a good balance between obscuring and misleading, and I hope that has worked.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to thank a number of people who helped me put this book together, stay alive, and keep my friends and family safe—in completely random order.

  Fifteen guys in the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Force and the National Police Agency of Japan, especially the Gang of Five.

  A few good yakuza. Yes, they do exist.

  The courageous Michelle Johnson, who kept me company when everyone else split and who bandaged me up when I needed it.

  Howard Rosenberg, for watching out for both my father and me over the years.

  Sunao Adelstein, who has endured much and raised our children almost single-handedly, has been a great wife, a fantastic mother, and is one of the most intelligent and beautiful women I’ve ever met. I wish I had done things right or that they had worked out better.

  Beni, my beautiful and brilliant daughter, and Ray, my supersmart and very brave son, I hope when they are old enough to read this book, they will learn from my mistakes and lead a better life.

  Bob Whiting, a great writer and superb friend. I couldn’t have finished the book without him.

  Tim O’Connell, my editor at Pantheon, a great guy and allegedly a hell of a sushi chef. I’ll be the judge.

  Katie Preston; her remarkable mastery of all things English, intimate knowledge of the Japanese language and culture, and editorial sensibility were invaluable.

  Christina Kinney, gal Friday, researcher, and Girl Genius!

  Michiel Brandt, the most cheerful researcher and two-time leukemia survivor in the world. She’s inspirational.

  Asako Ichisaka, my closest friend and confidante and the best assistant in the world.

  His Holiness the Dalai Lama, for some good advice. Apologies for asking that question on the plane, but I had to know. I hope the noise-canceling headphones are still working.

  The Yomiuri Shinbun, for giving me a chance in the first place.

  Boting Zhang, who has been a 24/7 editor and adviser and my personal Kannon Bosatsu. Thanks to ronin-editor Tama Lung and her husband Phil—both of whom offered me a place to hide and their support when things were crazy, and especially to Tama who has suffered the joys of writing with me.

  Also, merci beaucoup to Kaori Shoji, a brilliant writer in two languages—“the Dorothy Parker of Japan”—and a good friend and confidante when I needed one.

  The pride of Montana, Kathy Laubach, and hardworking journalist Sarah Noorbakhsh also contributed some translation work and editing to the book.

  Thanks to John Pomfret and Emily Langer at The Washington Post Outlook section for vetting and publishing my article in May 2008.

  Andrew Morse, formerly of The Wall Street Journal, for being supportive and for introducing me to John “Soulpatch” Glionna at the Los Angeles Times. He and Charlie Ornstein were great to work with.

  A special thanks to Lara Logan, whose candid advice helped polish the manuscript. Vanessa Mobley, a master wordsmith, also steered me in the right direction.

  Kudos to Special Agents (ICE) Jerry Kawai and Mike Cox, who worked like dogs to seize Kajiyama’s blood money and return it to his victims in Japan. They are amazing guys. I’m grateful to former Special Agent Jim Moynihan for being honest with me and for his hard work in getting Japan to partially ban child pornography.

  I have to thank my fellow reporters and former bosses at the Yomiuri: Maruyama, Komatsu, Yamamoto, Shimizu, Murai, Hirao, Mizoguchi, Yamakoshi, Wakae, Misawa, Inoue, Umemura, Kurita-desk, crazy Nakamura, Endo, Chairman Mizukami, “Stone-head” Ishima, and everyone else. I am very grateful for the time I spent there and the training they gave me.

  Thanks to those who helped me during my college days in Japan as well: Ryogan Adachi, the Buddhist priest who let me live in his temple during college. Laurence Moriette, who taught me European table manners and some sensitivity. My Sophia University professors, especially Professor James Shields, who taught me the joys of Japanese literature, and Professor Richard Gardner, who taught me what a nutty, mystical place Japan still can be. Speer Morgan, writer, editor, and mentor, also offered valuable advice.

  Also a salute to the following: Action and his partner, two people I cannot name but who have been there in the light and the dark. Thanks for always being there. Ikuru Kuwajima, my protégé, a fantastic photojournalist and fearless friend. Rod Goldfarb, who has always had my back and Tim and Gina Overshiner for putting up with me. Arianne, former band-mate and my second favorite Scorpio. Shannon Loar, my next-door neighbor as a chi
ld and a good friend even now. J. T. Rogers, playwright and senpai. Aya Yoshikawa, man-killer, super-mom, and close friend, and the amazing P-rama, who dances with her eyes closed. Thanks again to Greg Starr and Elmer Luke, who made the first draft possible. And of course, my mother, Willa Adelstein—who carried me in her womb for nine months, as she constantly reminds me. Gracias to my sisters Jennifer and Jacky, who still think I’m a moral reprobate and a total dork and thus keep me humble. I’d like to express appreciation to certain friends in the OSI, NCIS, and the DEA who went out of their way on my behalf. Kudos to Pete, Joe, and Miki for keeping North Korean drugs from flooding Japan. A special mention to Miles Saverin, yakuza expert and noted intelligence officer, and Aki Adachi, a fantastic reporter pal. I owe much to Anna Przeplasko for doing the photographs for the cover. Kou Sundberg was invaluable in researching the Keizai yakuza.

  I would also like to thank Dan Frank, Pat Johnson, Paul Bogaards, Edward Kastenmeier, Chris Gillespie, fellow Saitama alumna Michiko Clark, Altie Karper, Catherine Courtade, Virginia Tan, and everyone else at Pantheon Books who helped make this possible.

  I also owe thanks and bows to some of the other hardworking journalists here in Japan who have been good friends and inspirational to me over the last few years. Yakuza savvy David McNeill, the fearless Justin McCurry, the crafty economy reporter Leo Lewis, the savvy Coco Masters, crime expert Mark Schreiber, subculture whiz Hiroko Tabuchi, Dan Slater, Allison Backham, Marsha Cooke, Richard Parry, Julian Ryall, and all the others stranded outside the press club system. I don’t know if it’s common to add apologies to acknowledgments, but I’ll do it here. I owe apologies to my family and some of my friends for putting them through a lot of stress and possibly in danger. I went a little crazy for a while, and during that period I was probably quite annoying and troublesome to a lot of people. I’m sorry.

  There are some people who didn’t approve of the way I handled things, and I’m sure I have disappointed them. I did what I thought would work, and mostly it did.