Democracy (13 page)

“And if you don’t know what this did to me, Inez, making me beg for that settee—”

“—Establish a chronology—”

“—Humiliating me when I’m down—”

“—Times, movements—”

“—Then I’m sorry, Inez, I don’t care to discuss it.”

During the next half hour Billy Dillon had managed to elicit the following information. Some time between 6:45 and 7:10 the previous morning, from a position midway between the koi pool and the exterior door on Janet’s lanai, Paul Christian had fired five rounds from the Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum he was carrying in his beach roll. He had then replaced the Magnum in the beach roll and made one call, not identifying himself, giving the police emergency operator Janet’s address.

He had been aware that Wendell Omura was on the floor, yes.

He had also been aware that Janet was on the floor.

Yes.

It would be quite impossible for either Inez or Mr. Dillman to understand how he felt about it.

When he left Janet’s house he went not to the borrowed house in which he had been living but directly downtown to the YMCA. He had swum fifty laps in the YMCA pool, thirty backstroke and twenty Australian crawl.

“Be sure you put down ‘crawl,’ ” he said. “I believe they call it ‘freestyle’ now but I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“ ‘Crawl,’ ” Billy Dillon said. “Yes.”

After swimming Paul Christian had breakfasted on tea and yoghurt in the YMCA cafeteria. There had been “a little incident” with the cashier.

“What kind of incident,” Billy Dillon said.

“Somebody says ‘have a nice day’ to me, I always say ‘sorry, I’ve made other plans,’ that usually puts them in their place, but not this fellow. ‘You’re quite a comedian,’ this fellow says. Well, I just looked at him.”

“That was the incident,” Billy Dillon said.

“Someone speaks impertinently, you’re better off not answering.”

“I see,” Billy Dillon said.

Paul Christian had gone then to his room, and spent the rest of the day packing the few belongings he kept there. He attached to each box a list of its contents. He made a master list indicating the disposition of each box. He wrote several letters, including one to Janet in which he explained that he “stood by his actions,” and, early that evening, just before calling the police and identifying himself, left these letters and instructions for their delivery with the night clerk downstairs. There had been “a little incident” with the night clerk.

“He spoke impertinently,” Billy Dillon said.

“Completely out of line. As were the police.”

“The police were out of line.”

“They treated me like a common criminal.”

“Which you’re not.”

“Which I most assuredly am not. I told them. Just what I told Janet. I told them I stood by my actions.”

“You told the police you stood by your actions.”

“Absolutely.”

“Just as you told Janet.”

“Exactly.” Paul Christian looked at Inez. “You’re being very quiet.”

Inez said nothing.

“Am I to interpret your silence as disapproval?”

Inez said nothing.

“Now that I’m jailed like a common criminal you’re going to administer the coup de grace? Step on me?” Paul Christian turned back to Billy Dillon. “Janet and I have always been close. Not this one.”

There was a silence.

“You’re going to miss Janet,” Billy Dillon said.

Paul Christian looked at Inez again. “I should have known you’d be down for the celebration,” he said.

After Paul Christian was taken from the room Inez lit a cigarette and put it out before either she or Billy Dillon spoke. Billy Dillon was making notes on his legal pad and did not look up. “How about it,” he said finally.

“Quite frankly I don’t like crazy people. They don’t interest me.”

“That’s definitely one approach, Inez.” Billy Dillon put the legal pad into his briefcase and closed it. “Forthright. Hard-edge. No fuzzy stuff. But I think the note we want to hit today is a little further toward the more-in-sorrow end of the scale. Your father is ‘a sick man.’ He has ‘an illness like any other.’ He ‘needs treatment.’ ”

“He needs to be put away.”

“That’s what we’re calling ‘treatment,’ Inez. We’re calling it ‘treatment’ when we talk to the homicide guys and we’re calling it ‘treatment’ when we talk to the shrinks and we’re calling it ‘treatment’ when we talk to Frank Tawagata.”

“I don’t even know Frank Tawagata.”

“You don’t know the homicide guys, either, Inez. Just pretend we’re spending the rest of the day on patrol. I’m on point.” Billy Dillon looked at Inez. “You all right?”

“Yes.”

“Then trot out the smile and move easily through the cabin, babe, OK?”

9

“I
DON’T
need to tell you, Frank, Harry appreciates what you did for him in Miami,” Billy Dillon said at two o’clock that afternoon in Frank Tawagata’s office. Billy Dillon and Inez had already seen the homicide detectives assigned to the investigation and they had already seen the psychiatrists assigned to examine Paul Christian and by then it was time to see Frank Tawagata. In fact Inez did know Frank Tawagata. She had met him at the 1972 convention. He had been a delegate. He was a lawyer, but his being a lawyer was not, Billy Dillon had said, the reason for seeing him. “This is a guy who truly believes, you want to get your grandma into heaven, you call in a marker at the courthouse,” Billy Dillon had said. “Which is his strong point.”

“You went to the wire for us in ’72,” Billy Dillon said now. “Harry knows that.”

“Harry did one or two things for Wendell.” Frank Tawagata did not look at Inez. “Anything I did for Harry I did for Wendell. Strictly.”

“Harry knows that. Harry appreciates your position. Push comes to shove, you’re on Wendell’s team here. Which is why we’re hot pushing, Frank. You talk to Harry or me, you’re talking
in camera
. Strictly.”

“Strictly
in camera
,” Frank Tawagata said, “I still can’t help you.”

“You can’t, you can’t. Just say the word.”

“I just said it.”

Inez watched Billy Dillon. She was tired. She had not eaten since breakfast the day before in Amagansett. She did not know what it was that Billy Dillon wanted from Frank Tawagata but she knew that he would get it. She could tell by the slight tensing of his shoulders, the total concentration with which he had given himself over to whatever it was he wanted.

“Wendell was a very well-liked guy,” Billy Dillon said. “In the community. I know that.”

“Very well-liked.”

“Very respected family. The Omuras. Locally.”

“Very respected.”

“Not unlike the Christians. Ironic.” Billy Dillon looked out the window. “One of the Omuras is even involved with Dwight Christian, isn’t he? Via Wendell? Some kind of business deal? Some trade-off or another?”

Frank Tawagata had not answered immediately.

Billy Dillon was still looking out the window.

“I wouldn’t call it a trade-off,” Frank Tawagata said then.

“Of course you wouldn’t, Frank. Neither would I.”

There was a silence.

“Wasn’t your wife an Omura?” Billy Dillon said. “Am I wrong on that?”

“No,” Frank Tawagata said after a slight pause.

“Your wife wasn’t an Omura?”

“I meant no, you’re not wrong.”

Billy Dillon smiled.

“So there would be a definite conflict,” Frank Tawagata said, “if you were asking me to work on the defense.”

“We’re not talking ‘defense,’ Frank. We’re talking a case that shouldn’t see trial.”

“I see.”

“We’re talking a sick man. Who needs help.” Billy Dillon glanced at Inez. “Who needs treatment. And is going to get it.”

“I see,” Frank Tawagata said. “Yes.”

“Look. Frank. All we need from you is a reading. A reading on where the markers are, what plays to expect. You know the community. You know the district attorney’s office.”

Frank Tawagata said nothing.

“I wouldn’t think there was anybody shortsighted enough to see a career in playing this out in the media, but I don’t know the office. For all I know, there’s some guy over there operating in the bozo zone. Some guy who thinks he can make a name going to trial, embarrassing the Christians.”

Frank Tawagata said nothing.

“Embarrassing Harry. Because face it, the guy to get is Harry.”

“I would say ‘was’ Harry.”

“Run that down for me.”

“Harry’s already been got, hasn’t he? In ’72?”

“Free shot, Frank. You deserve it. One of Wendell’s cousins, isn’t it? This deal with Dwight Christian?”

Frank Tawagata picked up a silver pen from his desk and poised it between his index fingers.

Inez watched Billy Dillon’s shoulders. Killer mick, Harry always said about Billy Dillon, an accolade.

Billy Dillon leaned forward almost imperceptibly.

It occurred to Inez that the reason Harry was not himself a killer was that he lacked the concentration for it. Some part of his attention was always deflected back toward himself. A politician, Jack Lovett had said at Puncak. A radio actor.

“Didn’t I see something about this in
Business Week?
” Billy Dillon said. “Just recently? Something about the container business? Is that right? One of Wendell’s cousins?”

“One of Wendell’s brothers.” Frank Tawagata replaced the pen in its onyx holder before he spoke again. “My wife is a cousin.”

“There you go,” Billy Dillon said. “I love a town this size.”

By three o’clock that afternoon it had been agreed, and could be duly reported to Harry Victor, that Frank Tawagata would sound out the district attorney’s office on the most discreet and expeditious way to handle the eventual commitment to treatment of Paul Christian.

It had been agreed that Frank Tawagata would discuss the advisability of this disposition with certain key elements in the Nisei political community.

It had been agreed that Frank Tawagata would make his special understanding of both the district attorney’s office and the community available to whatever lawyer was chosen to represent Paul Christian at what would ideally be mutually choreographed proceedings.

“You’re not visualizing a criminal specialist,” Frank Tawagata said.

“I’m visualizing a goddamn trust specialist,” Billy Dillon said. “One of the old-line guys. One of those guys who’s not too sure where the crapper is in the courthouse. I told you. We’re not mounting a criminal defense here.”

All that had been agreed upon and it had been agreed, above all, that no purpose would be served by further discussion of why Wendell Omura had introduced legislation hindering the development of Dick Ziegler’s Sea Meadow, of how that legislation might have worked to benefit Dwight Christian, or of what interest Wendell Omura’s brother might recently have gained in the Chriscorp Container Division.

“How exactly did you know that,” Inez said when she and Billy Dillon left Frank Tawagata’s office.

“Just what I said.
Business Week
. Something I read on the plane coming down.”

“About Dwight?”

“Not specifically.”

“About Dick?”

“About some Omura getting into containers. Two lines. A caption. That’s all.”

“You didn’t even know it was Wendell Omura’s brother?”

“I knew his name was Omura, didn’t I?”

“Omura is a name like Smith.”

“Inez, you don’t get penalties for guessing,” Billy Dillon said. “You know the moves.”

10

B
Y
the time Inez and Billy Dillon got back to Queen’s Medical Center that first day in Honolulu it was almost four o’clock, and Janet’s condition was unchanged. According to the resident in charge of the intensive care unit the patient was not showing the progress they would like to see. The patient’s body temperature was oscillating. That the patient’s body temperature was oscillating suggested considerable brainstem damage.

The patient was not technically dead, no.

The patient’s electroencephalogram had not even flattened out yet.

Technical death would not occur until they had not one but three flat electroencephalograms, consecutive, spaced eight hours apart.

That was technical death, yes.

“Technical as opposed to what?” Inez said.

The resident seemed confused. “What we call technical death is death, as, well—”

“As opposed to actual death?”

“As opposed to, well, not death.”

“Technical life? Is that what you mean?”

“It’s not necessarily an either-or situation, Mrs. Victor.”

“Life and death? Are not necessarily either-or?”

“Inez,” Billy Dillon said.

“I want to get this straight. Is that what he’s saying?”

“I’m saying there’s a certain gray area, which may or may not be—”

Inez looked at Billy Dillon.

“He’s saying she won’t make it,” Billy Dillon said.

“That’s what I wanted to know.”

Inez stood by the metal bed and watched Janet breathing on the respirator.

Billy Dillon waited a moment, then turned away.

“She called me,” Inez said finally. “She called me last week and asked me if I remembered something. And I said I didn’t. But I do.”

When Inez talked to me in Kuala Lumpur about seeing Janet on the life-support systems she mentioned several times this telephone call from Janet, one of the midnight calls that Janet habitually made to New York or Amagansett or wherever Inez happened to be.

Do you remember, Janet always asked on these calls.

Do you remember the jade bat Cissy kept on the hall table. The ebony table in the hall. The ebony table Lowell Frazier said was maple veneer painted black. But you can’t have forgotten Lowell Frazier, you have to remember Cissy going through the roof when Lowell and Daddy went to Fiji together. The time Daddy wanted to buy the hotel. Inez, the ten-room hotel. In Suva. After Mother left. Or was it before? You must remember. Concentrate. Now that I have you. I’m frankly amazed you picked up the telephone, usually you’re out. I’m watching an absolutely paradisical sunset, how about you?