Michael Crichton - Rising Sun

by Rising Sun [lit]

  "He mentioned Fairchild."

  "Of course," Connor said. "Morton knows the real story about Fairchild, very well."

  I started to ask him what it was, but he was already telling me.

  "Have you ever heard of Seymour Cray? For years, he was the best designer of supercomputers in the world. Cray Research made the fastest computers in the world. The Japanese were trying to catch up with him, but they just couldn't do it. He was too brilliant. But by the mid-eighties, Japanese chip dumping had put most of Cray's domestic suppliers out of business. So Cray had to order his custom-designed chips from Japanese manufacturers. There was nobody in America to make them. And his Japanese suppliers experienced mysterious delays. At one point, it took them a year to deliver certain chips he had ordered — and during that time, his Japanese competitors made great strides forward. There was also a question of whether they had stolen his new technology. Cray was furious. He knew they were fucking with him. He decided that he had to form a liaison with an American manufacturer, and so he chose Fairchild Semiconductor, even though the company was financially weak, far from the best. But Cray couldn't trust the Japanese anymore. He had to make do with Fairchild. So now Fairchild was making his next generation of custom chips for him — and then he learned that Fairchild was going to be sold to Fujitsu. His big competitor. It was concern about situations like that, and the national security implications, that led Congress to block the sale to Fujitsu."

  "And then?"

  "Well, blocking the sale didn't solve Fairchild's financial problems. The company was still in trouble. And it eventually had to be sold. There was a rumor it was going to be bought by Bull, a French company that didn't compete in supercomputers. That sale might have been permitted by Congress. But in the end, Fairchild was sold to an American company."

  "And MicroCon is another Fairchild?"

  "Yes, in the sense that MicroCon will give the Japanese a monopoly on vital chip-making machinery. Once they have a monopoly, they can withhold the machines from American companies. But now I think— "

  That was when the phone rang. I left it on the speakerphone.

  It was Lauren. My ex-wife.

  "Peter?"

  I said, "Hello, Lauren."

  "Peter, I am calling to inform you that I'm going to pick up Michelle early today." Her voice sounded tense, formal.

  "You are? I didn't know you were picking her up at all."

  "I never said that, Peter," she answered quickly. "Of course I'm picking her up."

  I said, "Okay, fine. By the way, who's Rick?"

  There was a pause. "Really. That is beneath you, Peter."

  "Why?" I said. "I'm just curious. Michelle mentioned it this morning. She said he has a black Mercedes. Is he the new boyfriend?"

  "Peter. I hardly think that is on the same level."

  I said, "The same level as what?"

  "Let's not play games," she said. "This is difficult enough. I'm calling to tell you I have to pick up Michelle early because I'm taking her to the doctor."

  "Why? She's over her cold."

  "I'm taking her for an examination, Peter."

  "For what'?"

  "An examination."

  "I heard you," I said. "But— "

  "The physician who will examine her is Robert Strauss. He is an expert, I'm told. I have been asking people in the office who is the best person. I don't know how this is going to turn out, Peter, but I want you to know I am concerned, particularly in the light of your history."

  "Lauren, what are you talking about?"

  "I'm talking about child abuse," she said. "I'm talking about sexual molestation."

  "What?"

  "There's no getting around it, at this point. You know you've been accused of it in the past."

  I felt churning nausea. Whenever a relationship goes sour, there's always some residue of resentment, some pockets of bitterness and anger — as well as lots of private things that you know about the other person, that you can use against them. If you choose to do that. Lauren never had.

  "Lauren, you know that abuse charge was trumped up, You know everything about that. We were married at the time."

  "I only know what you told me." Her voice sounded distant now, moralistic, a little sarcastic. Her prosecutor's voice.

  "Lauren, for Christ's sake. This is ridiculous. What's going on?"

  "It is not ridiculous. I have my responsibilities as a mother."

  "Well, for God's sake, you've never been particularly worried about your responsibilities as a mother before. And now you— "

  "It's true that I have a demanding career," she said, in an icy tone, "but there has never been any question that my daughter comes first. And I deeply, deeply regret if my past behavior in any way contributed to this unpleasant circumstance now." I had the feeling that she wasn't talking to me. She was rehearsing. Trying out the words to see how they would sound before a judge. "Clearly, Peter, if there is child abuse, Michelle cannot continue to live with you. Or even to see you."

  I felt pain in my chest. A wrenching.

  "What are you talking about? Who told you there was child abuse?"

  "Peter, I don't think it's appropriate for me to comment at this point in time."

  "Was it Wilhelm? Who called you, Lauren?"

  "Peter, there's no point in going into this, I'm officially notifying you that I'm going to pick Michelle up at four p.m. I want her ready to go at four this afternoon."

  "Lauren— "

  "I have my secretary, Miss Wilson, listening on the line and making stenographic notes of our conversation. I'm giving you formal notice of my intention to pick up my daughter and take her for a physical examination. Do you have any questions about my decision?"

  "No."

  "Four o'clock, then. Thank you for your cooperation. And let me add on a personal note, Peter, I'm truly sorry that it has come to this."

  And she hung up.

  I had been involved in sex abuse cases when I was a detective. I knew how it worked. The fact is, you usually can't determine anything from a physical exam. It's always equivocal. And if a kid is questioned by a psychologist who hammers her with questions, the kid will eventually start to go along, and make up answers to please the psychologist. Normal procedure requires the psychologist to videotape the kids, to prove that the questioning wasn't leading. But the situation is almost always unclear when it finally comes before a judge. And the judge must therefore rule conservatively. Which means, if there is a possibility of abuse, to keep the child away from the accused parent. Or at least, not allow unsupervised visitation. No overnight visits. Or perhaps not even—

  "That's enough," Connor said, sitting beside me in the car. "Come back now."

  "Sorry," I said. "But it's upsetting."

  "I'm sure. Now: what haven't you told me?"

  "About what?"

  "The molestation charge."

  "Nothing. There's nothing to it."

  "Kōhai," he said quietly. "I can't help you if you won't tell me."

  "It had nothing to do with sexual molestation," I said, "It was something else entirely. It was about money."

  Connor said nothing. He just waited. Looking at me.

  "Ah, hell," I said.

  And I told him.

  You have these times in your life when you believe you know what you're doing, but you really don't. Later on, you can look back, and you see you weren't acting right at all. You drifted into something, and you were completely screwed up. But at the time, you thought everything was fine.

  What happened to me was, I was in love. Lauren was one of those patrician-acting girls, lean and graceful and understated. She looked like she grew up with horses. And she was younger than me, and beautiful.

  I always knew it wouldn't work between us, but I was trying to make it work anyway. We had gotten married and had begun living together and she was starting to be dissatisfied. Dissatisfied with my apartment, where it was located, how much money we had. All of that. She w
as throwing up, which didn't help. She had crackers in the car, crackers by the bed, crackers everywhere. She was so miserable and so unhappy that I tried to please her in little ways. Get her things. Bring her things. Cook her meals. Do little domestic things. It wasn't my usual way, but I was in love. I was drifting into this habit of pleasing her. Trying to please her.

  And there was constant pressure. More this, more that. More money. More, more.

  We also had a specific problem. Her health insurance through the D.A.'s office didn't cover pregnancy and neither did mine. After we got married, we couldn't get coverage in time to pay for the baby. It was going to cost eight thousand dollars and we had to come up with it. Neither of us had the money. Lauren's father was a doctor in Virginia but she didn't want to ask him for the money because he disapproved of her marrying me in the first place. My family doesn't have any money. So. There wasn't any money. She worked for the D.A. I worked for the department. She had a lot of debts on her MasterCard and owed money on her car. We had to come up with eight thousand dollars. It's hanging over our heads. How we are going to do this. And it gets to be an unspoken thing, at least from her. That I should handle it.

  So one night in August I'm out on a domestic violence call in Ladera Heights. Hispanic couple. They've been drinking and going at it pretty good, she's got a split lip and he's got a black eye, and their kid's screaming in the next room, but pretty soon we calm them down and we can see that nobody is seriously injured, so we're about to leave. And the wife sees we're about to leave. At that point she starts yelling that the husband has been fooling with the daughter. Physically abusing the daughter. When the husband hears this, he looks really pissed, and I think it's bullshit, the wife is just doing something to harass him. But the wife insists we check the daughter, so I go into the kid's room and the kid is about nine months old and screaming red in the face, and I pull the covers back to check for bruises and there I see a kilo of white brick. Under the covers with the kid.

  So.

  I don't know, it's one of those situations, they're married so she'd have to testify against her husband, there's no probable cause, the search is invalid, on and on. If he's got a halfway decent lawyer he can beat this, no problem. So I go out and call the guy in. I know I can't do anything. All I'm thinking is that if his kid ever got this brick in her mouth, chewed on it, it would kill her. I want to talk to him about that. I figure I'll fuck him over a little. Scare him a little.

  So now it's him and me in the kid's room. The wife is still out in the living room with my partner, and suddenly the guy pulls out an envelope two centimeters thick. He cracks it open. I see hundred-dollar bills. An inch thick of hundred-dollar bills. And he says, "Thanks for your help, officer." There's got to be ten thousand dollars in that envelope. Maybe more. I don't know. The guy holds out the envelope and looks at me. Expecting me to take it.

  I say something lame about how it's dangerous to hide shit in a kid's bed. Right away, the guy picks up the brick, puts it on the floor, kicks it out of sight under the bed. Then he says, "You are right. Thank you, officer. I would hate something happens to my daughter." And he holds out the envelope.

  So.

  Everything is in turmoil. The wife is outside screaming at my partner. The kid is in here screaming at us. The guy is holding the envelope. He smiles and nods. Like, go ahead and take it. It's yours. And I think . . . I don't know what I thought.

  Next thing I know, I'm out in the living room and I say everything is fine with the kid, and now the woman starts to scream in her drunken way that I abused her child — now it's me, not the husband — and that I am in a conspiracy with the husband, that we are both child abusers. My partner figures she's crazy drunk and we leave, and that's it. My partner says, "You were in that room a while." And I say, "I had to check the kid," And that's it. Except the next day she comes in and makes a formal complaint that I abused her child. She's hung over and she has a record, but even so it's a serious charge and it goes through the system as far as the preliminary, where it gets thrown out as entirely without merit.

  That's it.

  That's what happened.

  That's the whole story.

  "And the money?" Connor said.

  "I went to Vegas for the weekend. I won big. I paid taxes on thirteen thousand in unearned income that year."

  "Whose idea was that?"

  "Lauren. She told me how to handle it."

  "So she knows what happened?"

  "Sure."

  "And the department investigation? Did the preliminary board issue a report?"

  "I don't think it got that far. They just heard it orally and dismissed it. There's probably a notation in the file, but not an actual report."

  "All right," Connor said. "Now tell me the rest."

  So I told him about Ken Shubik, and the Times, and the Weasel. Connor listened silently, frowning. As I talked, he began to suck air through his teeth, which was the Japanese way of expressing disapproval.

  "Kōhai," he said, when I finished, "you are making my life extremely difficult. And certainly you make me appear foolish when I should not. Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"

  "Because it has nothing to do with you."

  "Kōhai." He was shaking his head. "Kōhai . . ."

  I was thinking about my daughter again. About the possibility — just the possibility — that I would not be able to see her — that I would not be able to—

  "Look," Connor said, "I told you it could be unpleasant, Take my word for it. It can get much more unpleasant than this. This is only the beginning. It can get nasty. We must proceed quickly and try to wrap everything up."

  "I thought everything was wrapped up."

  Connor sighed, and shook his head. "It's not," he said. "And now we must resolve everything before you meet your wife at four o'clock. So let's make sure we are done by then."

  ☼

  "Christ, I'd say it's pretty fucking wrapped up," Graham said. He was walking around Sakamura's house in the Hollywood hills. The last of the SID teams was packing up cases to leave.

  "I don't know why the chief has such a bug up his ass on this," Graham said. "The SID boys have been doing most of their work right here, on the spot, because he's in such a rush. But thank God: everything ties up perfect. Sakamura is our boy. We combed his bed for pubic hair — it matches the pubic hair found on the girl. We got dried saliva off his toothbrush. It matches blood type and genetic markers for the sperm inside the dead girl. Matchup is ninety-seven percent sure. It's his come inside her, and his pubic hair on her body. He fucked her and then he killed her. And when we came to arrest him, he panicked, made a break for it, and died as a result. Where is Connor?"

  "Outside," I said.

  Through the windows, I could see Connor standing down by the garage, talking to policemen in a black-and-white patrol car. Connor was pointing up and down the street; they were answering questions.

  "What's he doing down there?" Graham said.

  I said I didn't know.

  "Damn, I don't understand him. You can tell him the answer to his question is no."

  "What question?"

  "He called me an hour ago," Graham said. "Said he wanted to know how many pairs of reading glasses we found here. We checked. The answer is, no reading glasses. Lots of sunglasses. Couple of pairs of women's sunglasses. But that's it. I don't know why he cared. Strange man, isn't he? What the hell is he doing now?"

  We watched as Connor paced back and forth around the squad car, then pointed up and down the road again. One man was in the car, talking on the radio. "Do you understand him?" Graham said.

  "No, I don't."

  "He's probably trying to track down the girls," Graham said. "Christ, I wish we had gotten the ID on that redhead. Especially now it's turned out this way. She must have fucked him, too. We could have gotten some sperm from her, and made an exact match with all the factors. And I look like a horse's ass, letting the girls get away. But shit, who knew it was going to go tha
t way. It was all so fast. Naked girls up here, prancing around. A guy gets a little confused. It's natural. Shit, they were good-looking, weren't they?"

  I said they were.

  "And there's nothing left of Sakamura," Graham said. "I talked to the PEO boys an hour ago. They're downtown, cutting the corpse out of the car, but I guess he's burned beyond identification. The M.E.'s office is going to try, but good luck." He stared unhappily out the window. "You know what? We did the best we could with this fucking case," he said. "And I think we did pretty good. We got the right guy. We did it fast, no fuss no muss. But all I hear now is a lot of Japan-bashing. Fuck. You can't win."

  "Uh-huh," I said.

  "And Christ they have juice now," Graham said. "The heat on my ass is terrific. I got the chief calling me, wanting this thing wrapped up. I got some reporter at the Times investigating me, hauling out some old shit about a questionable use of force on a Hispanic back in 1978. Nothing to it. But this reporter, he's trying to show I've always been a racist. And what is the background of his story? That last night was a 'racist' incident. So I am now an example of racism rearing its ugly head again. I tell you. The Japanese are masters of the smear job. It's fucking scary."

  "I know," I said.

  "They getting to you, too?"

  I nodded.

  "For what?"

  "Child abuse."

  "Christ," Graham said. "And you got a daughter."

  "Yes."

  "Doesn't it piss you off? Innuendo and smear tactics, Petey-san. Nothing to do with reality. But try and tell that to a reporter."

  "Who is it?" I asked. "The reporter talking to you."

  "Linda Jensen, I think she said."

  I nodded. Linda Jensen was the Weasel's protégé. Somebody once said that Linda didn't fuck her way to the top. She fucked other people's reputations to the top. She had been a gossip columnist in Washington before graduating to the big time in Los Angeles.

  "I don't know," Graham said, shifting his bulk. "Personally, I think it's not worth it. They're turning this country into another Japan. You've already got people afraid to speak. Afraid to say anything against them. People just won't talk about what's happening."