Nocturne of Remembrance

by Shichiri Nakayama

  “Anyway, I was surprised when I suddenly heard from you. What’s on your mind?”

  Mikoshiba took a bundle of documents from his briefcase. It was the report that he had checked that morning to be sure that nothing was missing.

  “If you read it, you should be able to understand the objective of my visit.”

  Horai took the report with a skeptical face, but the moment he saw the title on the front page, he was wide-eyed:

  “HORAI LAW FIRM DEBT CONSOLIDATION INCIDENT REPORT”

  The smile disappeared from his face to be replaced by a look of astonishment.

  Now they were talking. Watching the wrinkles between Horai’s eyebrows deepening with every page, Mikoshiba gloated: prey being forced into a blind alley and trembling, such a rare delight.

  “And what is this supposed to mean?”

  Before even getting to the final page, Horai looked up. His face was already spotted with anxiety and rage.

  “Other than its conclusions, nothing much else. The report suggests that the business being done in your office conflicts with the provisions of the JFBA”—the Japan Federation of Bar Associations.

  Mikoshiba crossed his legs and slouched arrogantly, certain that Horai would feel both annoyed and intimidated by his posture.

  “I am not doing anything that is against the law.”

  “Horai-sensei, that is a given because you are a specialist in debt consolidation. However, even if what you are doing is legal, how do you think the JFBA will see it? I don’t think I have to explain that according to the JFBA provisions the first condition in debt consolidation cases is that lawyers directly interview their clients.”

  In fact, these requirements were listed prominently at the beginning of Article 3 of the JFBA provisions that had gone into effect on April 1, 2011.

  “But your company has been handling an average of more than two hundred clients a day. Horai-sensei, including you in the capacity of president and representative, your firm has three lawyers. Even according to simple arithmetic, each of you would be interviewing sixty-seven such clients every day. However, you each only work six hours a day, from 11 a.m. until 5 p.m. Even if, for argument’s sake, you skip lunch, that comes out to only five minutes per client. How superhuman of you all to be able to discern a client’s living conditions, debt situation, family structure, and assets in five minutes.”

  “Before meeting them, we give them a bulleted form which has all these questions. Calling it an ‘assembly-line setup’ might give the wrong expression, but that way, it doesn’t take long to interview them.”

  Mikoshiba had expected him to say some such thing, but it was still a pretty lame excuse.

  “Indeed, such a complete and systematic setup is quite admirable. But in that case, what about this? For example, on page 16 of the report is the actual testimony of clients that requested debt-consolidation assistance from your firm. The man in Case 7 is a resident of Hiroshima. The woman in Case 11 lives in Akita. But both of them supposedly met with you, Horai-sensei, on the same day. Yet, neither came to Tokyo. By some chance, were these both done over the phone? I think that telephone counseling is contrary to the fundamental principle that these should be face-to-face interviews.”

  “The Hiroshima case was a face-to-face interview entrusted to the Osaka branch office. And the Akita case to the Hokkaido office.”

  “Are you referring to the local cooperation lawyers in those areas? Well, to have them do this cumbersome paperwork for a fee of only 20,000 yen couldn’t be more convenient. Unfortunately, though, Otsuki-sensei of your Osaka branch had a bar association meeting and was out of office that entire day. And the Hokkaido branch’s Yagi-sensei was in court and also out all that day.”

  Horai groaned and then shut his mouth.

  Yoko excelled at ferreting out such facts. These regional cooperation lawyers that Horai tasked to handle distant clients didn’t have many cases themselves, so they bought Horai’s snow job. In such one-lawyer, one-clerk offices, however, schedule management was sometimes not good, and the offices were often left unmanned.

  The findings of the report showed the non-execution of face-to-face interviews. It was clear that Horai’s firm was violating this point of the JFBA provisions. And for Horai, who was seeking the chairmanship of the Tokyo Bar Association, word of this getting out would be a fatal blunder.

  “Page 11 of the report has transcriptions of consultations with various money-lenders. According to that, it seems that all of the negotiation to settle your clients’ debt for a lower amount than they owed has been conducted by your clerks. There is not even one case that was negotiated directly by a Horai lawyer.”

  “The office personnel are instructed in advance about the outward amount of money that can be agreed to. They are nothing more than messengers.”

  “Oh, well, then what about Case 22? After relentless negotiations by the lender, your office manager stated that ‘minus 100,000 yen was the limit at his discretion.’ This discussion was recorded by the lender, who can submit it as evidence at any time. Is it just a delusion on my part that, in fact, the discussion might be construed as illegal behavior by a non-attorney according to Article 72 of the Attorney-at-Law Act?”

  “You said a recording?”

  “Yes, the world has really become a convenient place. Unlike the magnetic tape recordings of yesteryear, each phone line has three months’ worth of recorded conversations.”

  “Recordings are not acceptable as evidence.”

  “That’s for sure. But it would certainly be effective in tempering the impression the lawyers sitting in the TBA general meeting have of you.”

  As soon as he mentioned the general meeting, Horai’s shoulders suddenly jerked up and down. As Mikoshiba had speculated, being singled out at the Bar Association definitely seemed a painful prospect for Horai. This was the direction to pursue him.

  “There’s more. Provision 8, Article 2 states that if you are aware that the debtor has other debts, you must not process overpayment refund claims without also attending to the other debts. Your office manager asserted that ‘this firm only takes on overpayment cases.’ There is a recording of this, too.”

  Previously, there had been a provision that the normal remuneration for debt consolidation was twenty percent of the total debt. However, since remuneration provisions did not exist for overpayment refunds, those cases definitely paid better for the same amount of work, and lawyers and judicial scriveners nationwide were running after overpayment refund claims. Attorney and judicial scrivener associations throughout the nation hurriedly embarked on a correction course, but these insects had learned the sweetness of the huge tree’s sap and were not leaving it.

  “The Tokyo Bar Association once made a so-called List of the Hundred. It named so-called specific lawyers who processed debt-consolidation cases in conflict with the provision against unprofessional conduct. Based on the list, the bar association moved to discipline those who had conducted shady dealings, but only a small number could be so disposed of, and the rest got away because it is very difficult to prove unprofessional conduct. Moreover, most members had already scraped their shins otherwise and were reluctant to make disciplinary claims against their buddies. But in your case, with such a complete report of both lenders and clients’ testimonies—”

  “Just what do you stand to gain by doing this?” interrupted Horai, his eyes flashing. “What could Reiji Mikoshiba, only motivated by high fees, be plotting by sticking his nose into the affairs of another law firm? Come on now, you aren’t plotting to blackmail me, are you?”

  “Well, there are probably people who’d love to blackmail a nice prosperous law firm such as yours. Unfortunately, though, all of my income is gained legally, and I never have my sights on criminal acts. If I have to reply, perhaps it’s revenge.”

  “Just what do you mean?”

  “While I was in the hospital, it seems that Horai-sensei very eagerly submitted a request for disciplinary action a
gainst me. I believe you even argued that I was a criminal.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “It is certainly disreputable and outrageous for anyone suspected of such things to complacently linger around the TBA. In my case, though, it’s just rumors. On the other hand, Horai-sensei, you’ve committed full-fledged violations of the Attorneys-at-Law Act as well as broken JFBA regulations. In which case, it is only ethically proper for me to rush to the board with this report.”

  Mikoshiba cut short his words there and waited for the other party’s reaction. Horai seemed to be confirming the particulars of the report. Finally, he raised his head and looked Mikoshiba directly in the face.

  Horai slowly shed his lawyer mask. Mikoshiba, who had seen the faces of hundreds of criminals by then, could tell. From under it emerged the mug of a beast adept at deceit.

  “It might be ethically proper, but you aren’t one to be governed by such things. Actually, you are opening your cards to me before showing this to the disciplinary committee.”

  Once again Mikoshiba gloated in his mind. Finally, Horai was looking for some kind of breakthrough. In this kind of negotiation, the one who proffered his hand first always lost.

  “Fortunately, you seem to be like me: a man who knows that there are things more important in this world than ethics and justice. Now, tell me clearly. What do you want?”

  Horai brought his face closer to Mikoshiba and glared at him.

  The man’s bad breath was terrible, and Mikoshiba looked away to flee it. “You don’t have to make such a scary face. I brought the report here to have you check the facts, Horai-sensei. If you believe that the report contains factual errors, I would put it in the shredder.”

  “So … what are your conditions?”

  “Well, now that you mention it, actually there’s a case that interests me personally. You have been the defense counsel for the Shingo Tsuda murder that occurred in Setagaya.”

  “Oh, yes. The accused made a full confession, and we are just contending the sentencing. We filed an appeal just yesterday.”

  “How about if you resign from the case and let me take your place?”

  “What? Hey, this defendant isn’t some executive, she’s just a housewife. No position, no honors, no particular assets. Me, if this wasn’t a request from a good friend …”

  “If you have no attachment to the case, switching with me shouldn’t be a bother.”

  “She, herself, admits to the charges, so there is not a shard of public sympathy for her. It’s not a case that can build your reputation even if you get the sentence shortened a bit. The appeal is being made only because she stubbornly insisted on it.”

  “If anything, defendants that have no public sympathy on their side are my specialty.”

  “Why on earth are you taking a case that won’t make a cent?”

  “Having specialized in debt consolidation, haven’t you handled clients who’ve been ripped off by fraudsters?”

  “Yes. Merely being told ‘This is bound to make money’ or ‘This is special, only for you’ often fools them into signing the contracts.”

  “If something was bound to make money, you would never tell others about it.”

  For some time, Horai studied Mikoshiba’s face trying to weigh his true motive. But eventually he just shook his head, apparently giving up.

  “For now, what do you need from me?”

  “The trial records. Everything.”

  “I will mail them to you once I have confirmed your appointment notification. And what else?”

  “That will be enough.”

  “The trial record is on my computer’s hard disk, but I will delete it once you receive it. For this, you have no choice but to trust me.”

  Since the negotiation was over, there was no point in staying any longer. Mikoshiba stood up and opened the door without so much as a glance at Horai.

  As he left, he heard a tongue click behind him.

  *

  Central Governmental Complex Building #6, Tokyo District Public Prosecutor’s Office.

  From the tenth floor where Kyohei Misaki stood, he could survey the red brick building next door. Retaining the dignity of its Meiji-era western fashioning, it embodied the authority of the prewar Ministry of Justice. The neo-baroque style that informed the entire structure was a remnant of Japan’s Imperial era.

  For a while after he was posted to the Tokyo District Public Prosecutor’s Office, Misaki got fairly emotional at the view. But as one would expect, six months later, it only looked like the archives building of the Justice Ministry that it was.

  It clearly had to do with his being swamped with work, he thought. Compared to his previous assignment at another district public prosecutor’s office, the number of cases brought here was extremely large. He finally realized, after being transferred here, why there was such a clear distinction between the treatment of other district offices’ chief prosecutors and Tokyo’s.

  There was a knock at his office door. He acknowledged it, and in walked administrative clerk Junichiro Yokoyama.

  “I brought you the preliminary memo, sir.”

  “Put it over there.”

  Yet another new case had come in. Misaki thought he was accustomed to the heavy volume of work, but it came in such quick succession that his urge to be industrious was waning. He couldn’t let his subordinates catch on to it, though, and kept his back to Yokoyama. Yet the clerk was a step ahead of him.

  “Prosecutor Misaki … Are you not feeling well, sir?”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because normally you are sitting down when I visit your office.”

  Misaki laughed. “Well, I’m not a PC accessory. I’m a human being, and occasionally I like to view the outside scenery.”

  “I, too, will look outside when I want to change my mood. But in the presence of his subordinates, Prosecutor Misaki alone never shows a different face for no reason.”

  Misaki was surprised and, at the same time, a little impressed when he heard this. “Oh my, you are very observant.”

  “Yes, sir. To me, the Deputy Chief Prosecutor is the model of excellence for a prosecutor. And I try not to miss even your slightest gesture.”

  That such words, which would normally set one’s teeth on edge, did not sound like sarcasm coming from Yokoyama was to his credit. He had a child-like innocent streak unbefitting a clerk at a district public prosecutor’s office.

  “A model of excellence … really? I am no such thing. I am a mere public servant.”

  “Oh no, sir. The Deputy Chief Prosecutor impresses us here as ‘the elite’ among prosecutors.”

  Being referred to as elite, Misaki felt somewhat uncomfortable.

  In his former posting as the Nagoya District Chief Prosecutor, he was the top official there, but he became Deputy Chief when he was transferred to Tokyo. The new title sounded like a demotion, but actually it was a promotion. After serving two years as the Tokyo District Deputy Chief Prosecutor, his next position would be as the High Public Prosecutor’s Deputy Chief, and two years later he would arrive and become the Tokyo District Chief Prosecutor.

  This career track that he vaguely had in mind was not so outlandish. If he made no blunders in each of the respective offices, it would unfold in due course.

  Misaki, however, did not in the least intend to bide his time just avoiding blunders. There were those who’d started the same year as him who professed that running along the rail without incident was the mark of the elite. If that was what the word meant, Misaki wanted to feed it to some racehorse.

  The true objective of public prosecutors was not to perform the duties of the office without being marked down, but rather to adhere to justice as conceived by the nation and its people; and if necessary, to exclude the parasites that nested in the bureaucratic crawl of Kasumigaseki and to tie a restrainer to the powerful and influential people of the time. For that purpose, prosecutors were given claws and fangs.

  “I perhaps should
not say this, sir, but the past deputy chiefs have ‘adjusted’ their work schedules a little more than you have been doing.”

  Yokoyama’s choice of “adjusted” was so much like the guy that Misaki could not help blurting out, Ha!

  “I appreciate your concern, but don’t worry. If we couldn’t handle this trifling amount of work, it would be an insult to the police officers that send these cases to us for prosecution.”

  Misaki was not saying that merely as lip service. He really meant it.

  People were asking about how things were being done at the Public Prosecutor’s Office like never before. Fabrication of evidence by prosecutors, illegal donations to ruling-party lawmakers being treated leniently—the public had lost faith to the point that they threw paint on the Office’s signboards. To reverse the situation, it was necessary to take a firm stand against any and all wrongdoing, no matter how small.

  It wasn’t about putting on a crowd-pleasing performance. All that was required was to make it known that “heaven’s vengeance is slow but sure” wasn’t just a vacuous saying.

  “Say there, Yokoyama.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What do you think creates order in this world?”

  “The laws … no?”

  “You are close. But more so it is the penalties in laws that are the foundation of order and wellbeing. All evils come to light sooner or later, and if one is found guilty there is a commensurate punishment—awareness of this is directly related to order in our world. Therefore, we can’t be tolerant of any crime. We cannot be fearful. ‘Tolerance of sin’ may sound sweet, but in the end that way of thinking is only self-serving.”

  And so Misaki took up as many cases that came across his desk as possible, and punished. Prosecutor Kyohei Misaki did not doubt that it was his only raison d’être.

  When he glanced back at Yokoyama, the look on the clerk’s face was a bit troubled. Another trait of his, that his thoughts immediately showed on his face, wasn’t necessarily praiseworthy in someone who served at an investigative outfit.