Authors: Hideo Yokoyama
Mikami’s heart stopped. He looked at his watch. It was already after ten.
I’ll call to let you know when I’m leaving the office.
A shiver ran through him. It was like waking from a dream. Reality flooded in, replacing the squandered time he’d spent immersed in noise and drink. He ran down the hallway and into the living room, his mind an empty space; he took hold of the phone and started to dial the director’s number. His fingers
stopped. He couldn’t remember what came after the area code. He rammed his fist on to his forehead. Still unable to remember, he started to flick through his notebook.
Sitting formally, his knees together on the tatami, he listened to the phone ring. He’d broken a promise he’d made to his benefactor, despite being the one who had instigated contact. The moment he’d learned of Tokyo’s intentions from Arakida, he’d written Odate off as no longer useful. The truth was, he’d stopped expecting anything even before that. Odate hadn’t known about Ayumi running away from home; he’d been consigned to the past. How would someone like that have access to inside information on the commissioner’s visit? Mikami had realized this but asked to meet up regardless. To keep his worry at bay. Because he’d been desperate to do
something.
The call connected.
‘Mikami. It’s great to hear from you.’ While the good humour in her voice was unchanged from lunchtime, Odate’s wife had lost a little of her earlier cheer.
‘I’m so sorry. I really don’t know how to express my—’
‘Oh, don’t be silly, we know you’re busy. Right, I’ll put my husband on then. He’s been up waiting for you.’
Her voice petered out; the time that followed seemed to stretch on for ever. What he heard next was more breathing than a voice, almost like interference on the line. Perhaps he’d been half asleep already. Or he’d been feeling bad and forced himself to stay up.
‘Director . . .’
‘Ah . . . yes, this is Odate.’
Mikami went through every apology he knew. He denied having had any business to discuss. ‘I just wanted to see how you were. I’ll come over soon . . . I’ll make sure of it.’ The whole time, Odate’s breathing was close in his ear. Every now and then this became a wheeze. Mikami had suggested he get some rest and was just about to hang up when Odate managed some words.
‘Thank . . . you for . . . the call.’
He’d sounded genuinely grateful. Mikami pressed his fingers into his brow. Even after he’d ended the call, he didn’t leave his formal seated position.
Shozo Odate, Criminal Investigations Director, Prefecture D.
Was he proud of his accomplishments? Or was that all gone now, vanished like a dream? What had a life in the force given him? What had it taken away?
The ferment inside Mikami had settled. The Prefectural HQ would lose its remit over the director of Criminal Investigations.
The idea of keeping his promise to Amamiya scattered like mist. He couldn’t base his decision on a make-believe story he’d come up with when he was backed into a corner. What he needed was the truth. A light that would shine right through his dilemma.
He needed something else.
A genuine third path.
‘Seven out of the thirteen said they were ready to call off the boycott. Although . . .’
Mikami had still been at the kitchen table when he’d answered Suwa’s call. Unable to sleep the previous night, he’d been camped there until the morning. Much of the time he’d spent asking himself questions. He’d been left with a single answer. But could he really pull it off? He’d been lost in thought when the unexpected call had arrived.
‘. . . that was last night. We’re probably back at square one, with this morning’s commotion. I don’t think we’re going to be able to convince anyone into holding a GM now.’
He’d sounded like he’d given up.
The storm in the morning papers had been unprecedented. As forewarned, the
Yomiuri
and
Sankei
had both run long articles detailing the arrest of the CEO of Hakkaku Construction. And it hadn’t ended there – the pages of the
Asahi
and
Mainichi
had also contained unanticipated scoops. The
Asahi
’s article was about a traffic official in Station S hushing up his niece’s speeding ticket. That had been enough of a blow, but the greatest surprise had been the
Mainichi
’s article: ‘Guard Asleep for Detainee Suicide of Two Years Ago?’
Mikami had reached the office by 7 a.m. Suwa, Kuramae and Mikumo all arrived soon afterwards. They’d ended up arguing with the reporters when the latter had demanded a press conference. Akama hadn’t shown up in his office. Ishii had poked his
head into the room at one point but had left without issuing a single order or word of advice, either spooked by the rancour of the reporters, or by seeing the bandage on Mikami’s hand. Working at his own discretion, Mikami had set about making the various preparations for a press conference. When he’d finished calling the relevant divisions, debating the content and response to each of the articles, and arranging the schedule itself – thirty minutes each, starting with Second Division, then Transport, then Administration – it was already gone eight thirty.
He could hear Arakida’s shrill laughter. He had forced Akama into claiming a lack of negligence, then overturned it by leaking the fact that the guard had actually been dozing off. The
Toyo
might have fired the initial volley, but there was nothing to say they had to deliver the fatal blow themselves. Arakida would have realized that result wouldn’t change, whichever paper he used. And it was the safer way to do it. By seeding the information through different papers, he was making it harder to see through to his involvement.
The story on the bid-rigging had most likely been a calculated leak, too. And it was easy to imagine a detective in Station S hearing about the speeding ticket.
Arakida
– he was the principal instigator. And judging from the fact that he’d opted to release the information about the guard having been asleep, rather than keep it in reserve together with the volley of arrows accompanying it, it seemed safe to assume that the misconducts listed in Tokyo’s ‘letter bomb’ would be both numerous and deadly in their destructive potential.
The morning was long. The atmosphere remained feverish throughout, in both the office and the Press Club. Each of the three press conferences had ended in complete chaos. The press had asked a succession of barbed questions, cursing each time they thought the answer evasive; as the deadline for the evening edition drew closer, there were even scenes of reporters shouting each other down. It was impossible to predict what would
happen next. The reporters appeared possessed as they busied themselves with calls and writing copy, and this left no room to bring up the proposal of a GM. Mikami hadn’t even been able to find out if Yamashina and Yanase had made good on their promise to Suwa.
Mikami took a late lunch at his desk.
The traffic of reporters coming and going had finally petered out, and, with the rest of the staff out on reconnaissance, he was alone in the room. The only sound was him sipping his tea. He realized he hadn’t taken lunch at home since the whole commotion broke out over the commissioner’s visit; not once. What was Minako eating? Was she eating at all?
‘Has it settled down?’
Akama’s call came in just after 2 p.m. He told Mikami he was still in Tokyo, that he’d be there until late that night, finally giving a hint as to the gravity of the situation.
‘How did you deal with the issue of the guard?’
‘Ishii held a press conference; he stuck to his guns, maintaining that we were still looking into the matter.’
Akama’s breathing seemed to steady. But only for a moment.
‘And the
other
matter?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The boycott. Did you manage to get it turned around?’
His voice was low enough to be inaudible. Someone else was nearby.
‘I haven’t had the chance to discuss it yet.’
‘Why?’
‘The press are still reeling after this morning.’
‘What about the apology?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Well? Have you told them we won’t issue any more reports anonymously?’
‘They’re still—’
‘Then get a move on and tell them, you simpleton!’
Mikami let his eyes close. He pictured himself overlooking the cluster of skyscrapers in the Kasumigaseki part of Tokyo.
‘Of course, sir.’
The phone went dead the moment he finished speaking. He lit a cigarette. His mind was calm. The smoke pricked at his eyes. Through it, he saw Suwa come into the room.
‘How are things in there?’
‘Calmer . . . a little, but no one’s speaking to each other.’
‘And the GM?’
‘. . . is looking difficult. Yamashina told me he’d tried raising the subject; I can’t say if he actually did or not.’
‘Whatever happens, I doubt they’ll be happy with an apology from me.’
Suwa nodded silently.
‘Call Kuramae and Mikumo in.’
‘Sir?’
‘I’ve got something I want to say to all of you.’
Kuramae walked in as Mikami was saying this. He stopped by his desk, then came over with a sheet of paper in his hands.
‘Well?’
‘Right. Well, according to Yanase, Yamashina hasn’t even—’
‘Not that. What’s in the paper?’
‘Ah, yes, this is . . . some more on Meikawa. Supplementary information.’
Exactly as Mikami had suspected. Suwa looked dumbstruck.
‘Is it important?’ Mikami asked.
Kuramae lowered his head in puzzled concentration. ‘Oh. I’m not sure if it’s important in the general sense. It’s just that . . .’
‘Just that what?’
‘I just thought it might be important . . . for
him.
’
This came as a subtle jolt. Mikami had been thinking something similar even that morning, when the sky had still been growing light.
Amamiya’s transformation.
He remembered how, Amamiya having had his beard and hair neatly trimmed, Mikami
had hardly recognized him on his second visit. Was it possible that he’d been leaning towards accepting the visit even before Mikami had burst into tears? Going out. Getting his hair cut. It was possible these had been important steps for a man like Amamiya.
The promise existed
. Mikami had kept the idea in his head, allowed it as speculation.
Still, whatever his promise to Amamiya, Mikami’s mind was already set. The third path. He would do whatever was important to him.
‘Call Mikumo in.’
Mikami put up a notice to indicate that there was a meeting in progress, shutting the door for the first time since he’d become press director because of the office’s policy of never turning anyone away. Suwa and Kuramae were on chairs across from the couch. Mikumo had pulled a folding chair up next to them. Having hurried back, she was out of breath.
‘It’s time we settled the anonymity issue.’ Mikami introduced the topic and looked at each of the others in turn. ‘The breakdown of relations with the press, the boycott – looking back, it all started with our disagreement over anonymous reporting. It’s been a curse ever since. So we’re going to take it down.’
Take it down?
Suwa gave a questioning frown.
‘We will no longer withhold information from our press reports. From this point forwards, our policy is on principle to be full disclosure.’
The look on all three faces changed. Suwa’s eyes rolled briefly to the ceiling.
‘But Akama won’t stand—’
‘This is
his
idea.’
‘Really? Akama gave his blessing to this?’
‘He said we could make an empty promise to the press, if it would stop the boycott.’
Suwa rocked back in his chair before coming to sit upright again. ‘So, you’re proposing we lie to them?’ he said, half coughing.
‘No. We’re going to work, on principle, with full disclosure. It should be fine.’
‘So . . . actually go ahead with it?’
‘Exactly. We’re going to turn Akama’s scheme on its head, use it to pave the way for full disclosure.’
Suwa’s mouth twitched. Kuramae looked speechless. Mikumo was staring, rapt.
‘You want us to lie to Akama, and not to the press?’ Suwa’s response made his irritation clear.
‘We are going to use him to pave the way for change.’
‘Change? A change for the worse, maybe. I don’t understand it. Why lie to our superiors and do something so reckless? Full disclosure for everything is just irresponsible. Can we just give out the name of the driver, even though she’s pregnant? What about juveniles? Are we to ignore the laws governing juvenile crime? What about cases involving the Yakuza? If the names of people involved crop up in the press, who’s to say the Yakuza won’t go looking for retribution? Then there are the suicides. And double suicides. What about when people have a record of mental illness? We can’t leave these kind of decisions to the press . . .’
‘That’s where Media Relations comes in. That’s our job. We give them everything, but when a case needs discretion we sit down with the reporters and get them to agree to withhold the information. Think about it. Do you think there’s a difference between our criteria and theirs for this kind of thing? As long as we’re doing our jobs properly, they won’t deviate far off course – look at how vocal they are on privacy, on individual rights.’
‘But isn’t that just wishful thinking? You know personally how much trouble they can cause. They’re a mob with a fancy name. There’s nothing to guarantee they won’t unexpectedly break ranks or get out of control.’
Suwa represented the office’s past and its present. Nothing would change unless Mikami managed to bring him on board. He leaned over the table, weaving his fingers together.
‘I want to have faith.’
Suwa was wide-eyed. ‘Faith? In that lot?’
‘That’s right. For anonymity at least, we should give up on strategizing, try trusting them. Think of it as a test run to see how far they’re willing to cooperate.’
‘Come off it. Having faith is fine, but this isn’t the place for it. As police, it’s our job to manage the press. And we can’t do this – whether it’s anonymity or something else – unless we maintain the advantage of knowing more than they do.’