Michael Crichton - Rising Sun

by Rising Sun [lit]

  "Why? He has contacts. Mr. Hanada. Other people. He told us that."

  "No," Connor said, shaking his head. "If you take away all the bullshit, what Senator Morton told us was his train of thought: Is the investigation over? And can you connect it to MicroCon? Because I am now going to change my position on the MicroCon sale."

  "Okay . . ."

  "But he never explained a crucial point. Why was he changing his position on the MicroCon sale?"

  "He told us why," I said. "He had no support, nobody cares."

  Connor handed me a Xerox. I glanced at it. It was a page from a newspaper. I gave it back. "I'm driving. Tell me."

  "This is an interview Senator Morton gave in The Washington Post. He repeats his stand on MicroCon. It's against the interest of national defense and American competitiveness to sell the company. Blah blah. Eroding our technology base and selling off our future to the Japanese. Blah blah. That was his position on Thursday morning. On Thursday night he attends a party in California. By Friday morning, he has a different view of MicroCon. The sale is fine with him. Now you tell me why."

  "Jesus," I said. "What are we going to do?"

  Because there is a thing about being a policeman. Most of the time, you feel pretty good. But at certain points, it comes back to you that you are just a cop. The truth is, you're pretty far down the ladder. And you are reluctant to take on certain kinds of people, certain kinds of power. It gets messy. It gets out of control. You can have your ass handed to you.

  "What do we do?" I said again.

  "One thing at a time," Connor said. "Is this your apartment building up here?"

  The TV minivans were lined up along the street. There were several sedans with PRESS signs behind the windshield. A knot of reporters stood outside the front door to my apartment, and along the street. Among the reporters I saw Weasel Wilhelm, leaning against his car. I didn't see my ex-wife.

  "Keep driving, kōhai," Connor said. "Go to the end of the block and turn right."

  "Why?"

  "I took the liberty of calling the D.A.'s office a while ago. I arranged for you to meet your wife in the park down here."

  "You did?"

  "I thought it would be better for everybody."

  I drove around the corner. Hampton Park was adjacent to the elementary school. At this hour of the afternoon, kids were outside, playing baseball. I drove slowly along the street, looking for a parking place. I passed a sedan with two people inside. There was a man in the passenger seat, smoking a cigarette. There was a woman behind the wheel, drumming her fingers on the dashboard. It was Lauren.

  I parked the car.

  "I'll wait here," Connor said. "Good luck."

  ☼

  She always favored pale colors. She was wearing a beige suit and a cream silk blouse. Her blond hair was pulled back. No jewelry. Sexy and businesslike at the same time, her particular talent.

  We walked along the sidewalk on the edge of the park, looking at the kids playing ball. Neither of us said anything. The man who had come with her waited in the car. A block away, we could see the press clustered outside my apartment.

  Lauren looked at them and said, "Jesus Christ, Peter. I can't believe you, I really can't. This is very badly handled. This is very insensitive to my position."

  I said, "Who told them?"

  "Not me."

  "Someone did. Someone told them you were coming at four o'clock."

  "Well, it wasn't me."

  "You just happened to show up with full makeup on?"

  "I was in court this morning."

  "Okay. Fine."

  "Fuck you, Peter."

  "I said, fine."

  "Such a fucking detective."

  She turned, and we walked back the way we had come. Moving away from the press.

  She sighed. "Look," she said. "Let's try and be civil about this."

  "Okay."

  "I don't know how you managed to get yourself into this mess, Peter. I'm sorry, but you're going to have to give up custody. I can't permit my daughter to be raised in a suspect environment. I can't allow that. I have my position to think of. My reputation in the office."

  Lauren was always preoccupied with appearances. "Why is the environment suspect?"

  "Why? Child abuse is an extremely serious allegation, Peter."

  "There's no child abuse."

  "The allegations from your past must be dealt with."

  "You know all about those allegations," I said. "You were married to me. You know everything about it."

  She said stubbornly, "Michelle has to be tested."

  "Fine. The exam will be negative."

  "At this point, I don't really care what the exam shows. It's gone beyond that, Peter. I'm going to have to get custody. For my peace of mind."

  "Oh, for Christ's sake."

  "Yes, Peter."

  "You don't know what it's like to raise a child. It'll take too much time away from your career."

  "I have no choice, Peter. You have left me no choice." Now she sounded long suffering. Martyrdom was always one of her strong suits.

  I said, "Lauren, you know the past accusations are false. You're just running with this thing because Wilhelm called you."

  "He didn't call me. He called the assistant D.A. He called my boss."

  "Lauren."

  "I'm sorry, Peter. But you brought it on yourself."

  "Lauren."

  "I mean it."

  "Lauren, this is very dangerous."

  She laughed harshly. "Tell me. You think I don't know how dangerous this is, Peter? This could be my ass."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "What do you think I'm talking about, you son of a bitch?" she said, furiously. "I'm talking about Las Vegas."

  I was silent. I didn't follow her line of thought at all.

  "Look," she said. "How many times have you been to Las Vegas?"

  "Just once."

  "And the one time you went, you won big?"

  "Lauren, you know all about that— "

  "Yes, I do. Clearly I do. And what is the timing of your big winning trip to Las Vegas, and the accusations against you of child abuse? A week apart? Two weeks apart?"

  So that was it. She was worried that somebody could put those two things together, that it could be traced back, somehow. And that it would implicate her.

  "You should have made another trip, last year."

  "I was busy."

  "If you remember, Peter, I told you to go every year, for the next couple of years. Establish a pattern."

  "I was busy. I had a child to raise."

  "Well." She shook her head. "Now we're here."

  I said, "What's the problem? They'll never figure it out."

  That was when she really exploded. "Never figure it out? They've already figured it out. They already know, Peter. I'm sure they've already talked to Martinez or Hernandez or whoever that couple is."

  "But they can't possibly— "

  "For Christ's sake. How do you think somebody gets a job as Japanese liaison? How did you get the job, Peter?"

  I frowned, thinking back. It was more than a year ago. "There was a posting of the job in the department. A list of candidates applied for it . . ."

  "Yes. And then what?"

  I hesitated. The truth was, I wasn't sure exactly what happened administratively. I had just applied for the job and had forgotten all about it, until it came through. I had been busy in those days. Working in the press section was a hectic job.

  "I'll tell you what happens," Lauren said. "The chief of Special Services for the department makes a final determination of appropriate candidates, in consultation with members of the Asian community."

  "Well, that's probably true, but I don't see— "

  "And do you know how long the members of the Asian community take to review the list of candidates? Three months, Peter. That's long enough to learn everything about the people on that list. Everything. They know everything from the size of your sh
irt collar to your financial status. And believe me, they know about the allegations of child abuse. And your trip to Las Vegas. And they can put it together. Anybody can put it together."

  I was going to protest, when I found myself remembering what Ron said earlier in the day: Now they watch the backhaul.

  She said, "You're going to stand there and tell me you don't know how all this works? That you weren't paying attention to the process? Christ, Peter, come on. You understood what was involved in that liaison job: you wanted the money. Just like everybody else who has anything to do with the Japanese. You know how they make their deals. There's something for everyone. You get something. The department gets something. The chief gets something. Everybody gets taken care of. And in return they get to pick exactly the kind of person they want as a liaison. They know they have a handle on you going in. And now they have a handle on me, too. All because you didn't take your goddamn trip to Las Vegas last year and establish a pattern, the way I told you to."

  "So now you think you have to get custody of Michelle?"

  She sighed. "At this point, we're just playing out our roles."

  She glanced at her watch, and looked toward the reporters. I saw that she was impatient to get on with it, to meet the press and make the speech she had already prepared for herself. Lauren had always had a strong sense of drama.

  "Are you sure what your role is, Lauren? Because it's going to get very messy around here in the next few hours. You may not want to be involved."

  "I am involved."

  "No." I took the Polaroid out of my pocket and showed it to her.

  "What's this?"

  "That's a video frame from the Nakamoto security tapes, taken last night. At the time of the murder of Cheryl Austin."

  She frowned at the picture. "You're kidding."

  "No."

  "You're going with this?"

  "We have to."

  "You're going to arrest Senator Morton? You're out of your fucking mind."

  "Maybe."

  "You'll never see daylight, Peter."

  "Maybe."

  "They'll bury you so fast and so deep you'll never know what hit you."

  "Maybe."

  "You can't make this work. You know you can't. In the end, it's only going to harm Michelle."

  I didn't say anything to that. I found I liked her less all the time. We walked along, her spike heels clicking on the sidewalk.

  Finally she said, "Peter, if you insist on following this reckless course of action, there's nothing I can do. As your friend, I advise you not to. But if you insist, there is nothing I can do to help you."

  I didn't answer. I waited and watched her. In the hard sunlight, I saw she was starting to get wrinkles. I saw the dark roots of her hair. The fleck of lipstick on her tooth. She took off her sunglasses and glanced at me, her eyes worried. Then she turned away, looking toward the press. She tapped the sunglasses in the palm of her hand.

  "If this is really what's happening, Peter, I think maybe I had better hold off a day and let events take their course."

  "All right."

  "You understand: I'm not dropping my concerns, Peter."

  "I understand."

  "But I don't think the question of Michelle's custody should be mixed up in some other, crazy controversy."

  "Of course not."

  She put her sunglasses back on. "I feel sorry for you, Peter. I really do. At one time you had a promising future in the department. I know you've been mentioned for a position under the chief. But nothing can save you if you do this."

  I smiled. "Well."

  "You have anything besides photographic evidence?"

  "I don't know if I should give you too many details."

  "Because if you only have photographic evidence, you have no case, Peter. The D.A. won't touch it. Photographic evidence doesn't fly anymore. It's too easily doctored. The courts know it. If all you have is a picture of this guy doing the crime, it won't wash."

  "We'll see."

  "Peter," she said. "You are going to lose everything. Your job, your career, your child, everything. Wake up. Don't do it."

  She started back toward her car. I walked with her. We didn't say anything. I waited for her to ask how Michelle was, but she never did. It wasn't surprising. She had other things to think about. Finally we arrived at her car, and she went around to the driver's side to get in.

  "Lauren."

  She looked at me over the top of the car.

  "Let's keep it clean for the next twenty-four hours, okay? No well-placed calls to anybody."

  "Don't worry," she said. "I never heard any of this. Frankly, I wish I never heard of you."

  And she got in the car and drove off. As I watched her go, I felt my shoulders drop, and a tension leave me. It was more than the fact that I'd done what I set out to do — I had talked her out of it, at least for a while. It was more than that. There was something else, finally gone.

  ☼

  Connor and I went up the rear stairs of my apartment building, avoiding the press. I told him what had happened. He shrugged.

  "This was a surprise to you? How the liaisons are chosen?"

  "Yeah. I guess I never paid attention."

  He nodded. "That's how it happens. The Japanese are very skilled at providing what they call incentives. Originally, the department had qualms about letting outsiders say anything about which officers would be chosen. But the Japanese said they simply wanted to be consulted. Their recommendations wouldn't be binding. And they pointed out that it made sense for them to have some input in the choice of liaisons."

  "Uh-huh . . ."

  "And just to show they were even-handed, they proposed a contribution to the officers' relief fund, to benefit the whole department."

  "How much was that?"

  "I think half a million. And the chief was asked to come to Tokyo and consult on criminal record-keeping systems. Three-week trip. One-week stopover in Hawaii. All first class. And lots of publicity, which the chief loves."

  We got to the second-floor landing. Went up to the third.

  "So," Connor said, "by the time it's all finished, it's rather difficult for the department to ignore the recommendations of the Asian community. Too much is at stake."

  "I feel like quitting," I said.

  "That's always an option," he said. "Anyway, you got your wife to back off?"

  "My ex-wife. She got the point right away. She's a finely tuned political animal, Lauren is. But I had to tell her who the murderer was."

  He shrugged. "There's not much she can do in the next couple of hours."

  I said, "But what about these pictures? She says they won't stand up in court. And Sanders said the same thing: the day of photographic evidence is over. Do we have any other evidence?"

  "I've been working on that," Connor said. "I think we're all right."

  "How?"

  Connor shrugged.

  We came to the back entrance to my apartment. I unlocked the door, and we went into the kitchen. It was empty. I went down the corridor to the front hall. My apartment was quiet. The doors to the living room were closed. But there was the distinct smell of cigarette smoke.

  Elaine, my housekeeper, was standing in the front hall, looking out the window at the reporters on the street below. She turned when she heard us. She looked frightened.

  I said, "Is Michelle all right?"

  "Yes."

  "Where is she?"

  "Playing in the living room."

  "I want to see her."

  Elaine said, "Lieutenant, there's something I have to tell you first."

  "Never mind," Connor said. "We already know."

  He threw open the door to the living room. And I had the biggest shock of my life.

  ☼

  John Morton sat in the makeup chair at the television studio, a Kleenex tucked around his collar, while the girl powdered his forehead. Standing at his side, his aide Woodson said, "This is how they recommend you handle it." He handed
a fax to Morton.

  "The basic through-line," Woodson said, "is that foreign investment invigorates America. America is made stronger by the influx of foreign money. America has much to learn from Japan."

  "And we aren't learning it," Morton said gloomily.

  "Well, the argument can be made," Woodson said. "It's a viable position and as you can see, the way Marjorie shaped it, it doesn't read as a change of position so much as a refinement of your previous view. You can skate on this one, John. I don't think it is going to be an issue."

  "Is the question even going to come up?"

  "I think so. I've told the reporters you are prepared to discuss a modification of your position on MicroCon. How you now favor the sale."

  "Who'll ask it?"

  "Probably Frank Pierce of the Times."

  Morton nodded. "He's okay."

  "Yeah. Business orientation. Should be fine. You can talk about free markets, fair trade. Lack of national security issues on this sale. All that."

  The makeup girl finished, and Morton stood up from the chair.

  "Senator, I'm sorry to bother you, but could I have your autograph?"

  "Sure," he said.

  "It's for my son."

  "Sure," he said.

  Woodson said, "John, we have a rough assembly of the commercial if you want to see it. It's very rough, but you might like to give comments. I've set it up for you in the next room."

  "How much time have I got?"

  "Nine minutes to airtime."

  "Fine."

  He started out the door and saw us. "Good evening, gentlemen," he said. "You need me for anything?"

  "Just a short conversation, Senator," Connor said.

  "I've got to look at a tape," Morton said. "Then we can talk. But I've only got a couple of minutes . . ."

  "That's all right," Connor said.

  We followed him into another room, which overlooked the studio below. Down there, on a beige-colored set that said NEWSMAKERS, three reporters were shuffling through their notes and being fitted with microphones. Morton sat in front of a television set, and Woodson plugged in a cassette.

  We saw the commercial that was shot earlier in the day. It had a timecode running at the bottom of the frame, and it opened with Senator Morton, looking determined, walking over the golf course.