The Interpreter (18 page)

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Authors: Suki Kim

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“No, I can’t help you. I remember nothing.” Suzy is tempted just to get up and walk out, but she continues, “What I’m curious about is why you didn’t see any of this five years ago. If the
shooting method seems so familiar, why didn’t you suspect them then? Why did you call it a random shooting and ignore it for five years?”
Turning his back on her, Detective Lester faces the window, a tiny slit between the metal filing shelves which Suzy has not even noticed until now. He stays silent for a while with his arms folded across his chest, and then, without turning around, he says, “I’m not surprised that you’re upset. But we’re not God here in the Police Department. We’re not Sherlock Holmes. We might not always get to do the right thing. Several hundred murders in the borough every year, it’s hard to go after each one.”
The last bit gets to her.
Hard to go after each one
. So they haven’t even tried. It’s taken five years to look for a motive. This incompetent detective. This idiot of a man who called the execution random. And the murderer still somewhere loose, still so far from their grip. But nothing is fair. Nothing has been fair for so long. Five years. Why?
“I just don’t understand why you’re suddenly so interested in finding my parents’ murderer. The Asian Organized Crime Task Force. The Narcotics Squad. All of that means nothing to me. Are the stakes bigger now? Now that gangs and drugs spice up what happened five years ago; now that all the higher branches of your police force are having a field day with whoever might’ve murdered my parents; now that my parents might be more than just a middle-aged Asian couple shot dead in their store? Tell me, Detective, do you get a medal if you score this one? A promotion?”
He must be used to such outbursts. He may even expect them. When he finally turns around and faces her, the furrows between his eyebrows look deeper. He does not like doing this either, she can tell. It is a hard job, to pick up after the most hideous of all crimes. “We didn’t ditch them cold, Suzy.”
A sudden fatigue washes over her. Nothing more will come out of her. Everything seems to be crashing down at once. Damian, she misses him infinitely. Damian, what happened to Damian? Wasn’t he supposed to take her away from all of this? Wasn’t that why she lay in his matrimonial bed at twenty, letting the blood trickle down her legs? Wasn’t that why she went with him despite everything, despite her youth, despite her then-living parents, despite her Ivy League college, despite all good common sense that had told her to stay still, stay where she was, stay in her rightful spot as the good Korean daughter? Wasn’t that what she had wanted after all? To run away from all of this?
“Listen, Suzy, we’ve gotta work together on this one. Your father, whether you wanna face it or not, must’ve had some gang connection. It might not even have been a bad one. Many immigrant store-owners pay dues, for protection or whatever. Your father might’ve just been one of many victims. He might’ve owed them some money. Maybe business was slow, and he took a loan and couldn’t pay. Something as little as that. But we need evidence. We need some concrete motive. You’ve gotta think, and think hard. You’ve gotta try to remember everyone your parents knew or had dealings with. Someone somewhere must know something. I’ve already sent some men over to the Hunts Point Market and the Korean Grocers Association. Something’s gotta give. It’ll just be faster if you can recall some names, so we can finally resolve your parents’ deaths.”
He is making sense, of course. He is even convincing. But Suzy is not sure. She still cannot buy into such sudden enthusiasm. Five years is a long time to do nothing. Any evidence must have long been erased.
“I thought you said that Korean Killers disbanded in the early nineties. My parents were shot in 1995. What dues would they have owed? To Triad? I thought they were Chinese. Do they collect dues from Korean stores too?”
He is glad that Suzy seems to be coming around. The shadow of guilt that had clouded his face is gone. He looks almost grateful when he tells her, “No. New York Triad mostly operates within Chinatown. But these ex-KK guys seem to have been sort of working under them for years, at the bottom of the rung since the breakup of their own group. Who knows, there might’ve been old debts, old scores to settle.”
“What about their claim that it was a setup? Isn’t it odd that they would bring it up only to deny it? I mean, if they’re guilty, why mention it at all, when they weren’t even being accused?”
“That’s why it was a slip. One of them thought that we’d already linked them to the murder, when in fact we had not a clue. He thought that was why he was taken in for questioning.”
“So you’re convinced that it was them?”
“I didn’t say that. But I’ll tell you this, I certainly wouldn’t give much weight to their denial.”
“And you’ve known nothing at all about these three guys until now, until they got raided in the pool hall with enough drugs to spread alarm through the entire New York Narcotics Squad?”
“It’s like this.” He begins pacing around the desk, as if shuffling the bits of information in his head. “KK disbanded nearly a decade ago. We know much more about the other groups, like Korean Power and Green Dragons, who’re both still active in the Flushing area. Korean gangs operate differently from either Chinese or Japanese gangs. They tend to keep a lower profile. They often have links to the bigger international groups, like Triad or Yakuza. They might occasionally do some dirty work for the big guys, but mostly they keep to their own. They raid their own Korean communities, who are infamous for never using banks, just hoarding cash in their homes. Easier for them, since Koreans rarely report gang crimes. The AOCTF calls it a ‘collective shame.’ A sort of responsibility, immigrant guilt for not having properly reared their second generation. You might understand
that one better than I can. So, according to the AOCTF, it’s always harder to keep track of the Korean gang movements. They don’t know much about these ex-KK ones except that all three have done time for fraud, extortion, money laundering, the usual stuff. No murder, though; they’ve never been charged with murder. One interesting thing is that they used to call themselves the Fearsome Four. They obviously fancied themselves as a bit of legend in their own little-league way. They once each cut off their little fingers to honor their brotherhood, copying that crazy Yakuza ritual. But it seems that’s as far as their legend ever got. Other than doing a little time here and there, we’ve heard nothing about them until two weeks ago.”
“What happened to the fourth one?”
“Which fourth?”
“The Fearsome Four. If only three have been arrested, what happened to the fourth one?”
“Oh, he faded out of the picture long ago.”
“How?”
“Deported. Gone without a trace. He seemed to have split from his brothers soon after the KK breakup; anyway, it’s all hazy, who knows, maybe it was Maddog or one of his many ‘brothers’ who dropped a dime on him. But somebody reported him, and the INS tracked him down at a motel on Junction Boulevard and packed him home. Turns out the guy never even had a green card. One of those orphans who’d been shipped into the country, probably through the KK’s adoption fraud of the early seventies.”
“Which was?”
“The typical trick. They’d charge between ten and twenty grand for each Korean orphan adopted by an American couple, and then, once the deal goes through, pocket the money and sneak the kid away.”
“Why the kid too?”
“Human resource. Child labor. They usually traded boys over the age of four. I guess the younger ones proved useless. You can’t really stick two-year-olds into sweatshops, can you?”
“But why would the orphans be left without a green card? What about the visa that had been issued to them to begin with?”
“
Please
—there never was an orphan, don’t you see? The orphans weren’t real. Those were just some random kids kidnapped off the streets of Seoul or wherever they were taken from. Whatever papers they had with them were all fake anyway. The visa was only useful to smuggle the kids into America. After that, these kids filtered through the system as nonentities. They truly became the orphans of the world, no name, no nothing, which was exactly what the gang wanted. To pin these kids with nowhere to go. These were the very ones recruited as the next generation of KK. The true brothers. The little boys with no ties in the world except for their gang brothers. Desperation. That’s what pulled them together, which is why it’s so hard to get any of them to speak.”
“When did you say that he was deported?”
“November ’95. Roughly five years ago. He was in his twenties. I guess he should be about your age now. Why? You think you’ve heard of him or something?”
“No, all of this is news to me. What was his name anyway?”
“They all called him DJ. No last name. None of them ever have real names.”
An orphan kid smuggled into the country.
No one except for his gang brothers.
She must be getting tired. The day may have dragged on too long.
“Two possibilities, assuming we’ve got the right boys.” Detective Lester suddenly stops pacing. “Either the gang acted on
their own, or they were hired by someone. But gangs don’t kill for debts. They might threaten or hurt the victims, but they wouldn’t just get rid of them. What would be the point? Where would they get the money? So let’s assume that they were following someone’s order. Then we’ve gotta start looking around at the people your parents knew. Employees. Other store owners. People with enough reason to want them dead. Can you think of anyone with a grudge against your parents? My men doing rounds among the Korean markets might find something. But Koreans don’t tend to trust policemen. They don’t wanna tell us anything, which unfortunately doesn’t help your parents’ case.”
Kim Yong Su. And the other witness at the deposition, Mr. Lee. Even Mr. Lim, who’d had a falling-out with her father, who resembles the strange man in Montauk. In fact, the entire Korean community might be filled with people who had hated her parents. Yet no one will talk. No one will cooperate with the investigation. No one wants the murderer to get caught.
“No, I don’t know anyone with a reason to kill my parents.” She may be like the rest of them. She won’t confide in police. She may even be shielding the killer.
“Well, if you remember anything, call me.” Detective Lester extends his hand with a smile. If he suspects her of withholding anything, he does not show it. Instead, he asks, “So where’s your sister?”
“She’s … away.”
“Vacation?”
“Something like that.”
“Funny, she didn’t mention it on the phone.”
“You spoke to her?”
“Just last week. I told her it was perfect timing.”
“She
called you?”
“Sure, she was just checking in, she’s done that before,” he muses, as if to say, What about you? “She wasn’t much help either. I was hoping to see both of you here today.”
So Grace knew about it already. Grace was told.
“When did she call last week?”
“Gee, I don’t know. Friday maybe?”
Grace showed up in Montauk the same day. Bob the bartender seemed to think that she then returned to the city. On Sunday, she called Ms. Goldman to say that she was not coming in.
“Well, tell her to stop by when she gets back. She’s older, right? Maybe she’ll remember more.” He shows her to the door. It is not much of a door. A narrow crack, just like the window. The whole building is tightly woven. No sound, no bullet, no room for escape. Before shutting the door, he says, almost in passing, “You look different from how I remembered. I don’t know what it is. I can’t quite put my finger on it.” Then, gazing at her once more, he adds, “Don’t worry. It’ll come to me.”
“INS, MAY I HELP YOU?”
The 800 number was the only viable option. Since eight o’clock this morning, Suzy has kept dialing the local branch, whose computerized operator put her on hold for what seemed like the entire morning only to route the call to the toll-free number. New York City must be one of its busiest chapters. They probably have their hands full, having to answer all the immigrants, whose panicked questions in broken English must get tiresome pretty quickly.
“I’m trying to find out about my status, and that of my parents, who are … both deceased.”
“Are you a U.S. citizen?”
“I think so.”
“Were you born in this country?”
“No, but I’m sure I am a citizen.”
“What’s your file number?”
“I don’t know. But my name is Suzy Park, and my Social Security number is …”
“Miss, I didn’t ask for your Social Security number. Do you have a filing receipt or a certification paper?”
“No.”
“Did you file for citizenship yourself?”
“No, I believe my parents did.”
“Were they citizens?”
“I think so.”
“Miss, I can only help you if you are certain of the situation.”
“I’m almost sure that we are all citizens, I mean, that they were also, until they passed away.”
“Miss, I can only help you if you are certain of the situation.”
What did she expect? It is the INS, after all. The iron gate of America, and the gatekeeper is on the other end, not sure if he wants to let her in.
“Look, if I were certain, I wouldn’t be calling you in the first place. My parents are both dead. They can’t tell me a thing. They never showed me any certification papers. I just want to know when they might have filed for citizenship and under which circumstances. You tell me, am I a U.S. citizen or not?”
Then the silence at the other end. For a second, Suzy is afraid that he may have hung up. She is half expecting the usual “Let me call the supervisor” move. Instead, the man comes right back on. Obviously, in his line of work, her level of outrage must be almost expected.
“Miss, there’s nothing I can do for you. It sounds to me like you need to apply for G639 papers. Freedom of Information Act. Please hold, while I transfer you.”
With that, she is put on hold again. Several minutes later, when she is put through, it is to a machine telling her to leave
an address to which the G639 application can be sent out. The application will take two to three weeks in the mail.
The INS, not the most open organization, not exactly known for efficiency. It was naïve to think that she could just call and find out anything. Not surprising that no one is jumping to her aid. Looking up a citizenship-status file cannot be as urgent as deporting an illegal immigrant. A few weeks to get her hands on a bunch of papers called G639, a few weeks for them to process, and then who knows when they would get back to her with a response? Freedom of Information Act. Freedom, sure, in the most roundabout way. There must be an easier way.
Her first instinct is to call Detective Lester. He should be able to pull up the record in a second. Aren’t they all in league with one another? Would the INS refuse him speedy access when the information might be pertinent to a criminal investigation?
If you remember anything, call me
. He sounded almost chirpy. The police. It is impossible to guess what they know or how much they pretend. Where has he been for the last five years? Why did he declare her parents’ deaths random? Why has he ignored the case all this time, until now? Korean Killers. Fearsome Four. On second thought, maybe she shouldn’t ask him for help. Why bring him into something that might only be personal?
Grace. Only Grace would know. Grace, the sole evidence of her family.
Without Grace, there remains no trace of her parents. The Woodside brownstone. What did Grace do with all their parents’ things? Whenever Suzy pictures Grace sorting through them, she imagines her amidst a pile of blankets in rainbow colors. They each owned thick winter blankets, which Mom called “mink blankets.” Fake silky furs with complicated flower designs in pink and orange. They were very warm, but Suzy found them too heavy and flashy. Both Suzy and Grace left the blankets behind
when they went off to college. That was one thing Mom objected to. Although nothing aroused her reaction much, she seemed hurt when her daughters would not take what she considered to be the family heirlooms. Suzy felt bad when Grace cut her short with, “Please, Mom, it’s not mink and it’s not an heirloom.”
A few months after the funeral, Grace contacted Suzy once through the accountant. It should have been handled by a lawyer, but Korean accountants often extended themselves over all matters, from inheritance rights to tax returns. There was money, he told Suzy over the phone one morning. Not a whole lot, but a good enough sum to see her through for a few years. Suzy refused her share. They had disowned her up until their death. It seemed unthinkable to take their money. “Sleep on it for a while,” the accountant dismissed her refusal. “Heirs often react this way. Inheritance evokes guilt. You think you’re compromising your parents’ death. Especially when their death isn’t natural. But believe me, you’ll change your mind in a few months.” The accountant was adamant. When Suzy said no for the third time, he barked, “That won’t bring them back, you know.”
What is his name? She had not thought to write it down. During those few months after the funeral, nothing quite stuck with her. It is still a wonder how she managed from day to day. Getting up each morning. Finding a place to live. Finding something to do. Finding ground to stand on. You’ll regret it, the accountant warned. But he was wrong. She could not have taken her parents’ money. It did not belong to her, although it might not have belonged to them either.
You’re so fucking stupid, Suzy, you wouldn’t care what kind of money it is as long as it puts food before you
.
It wouldn’t be a bad idea to look up the accountant. The guy might know something. He had done paperwork for her parents
for a few years. Not for long, he insisted. He made a point of emphasizing “few years,” which, for an accountant-client relationship, was not a long period. Later, it occurred to her that he might not have wanted to be associated with her parents’ death. At their only meeting, she found him abrasive. But no one seemed to be on her side then. Everyone appeared unsympathetic, unfeeling, including Suzy herself, who remained living while her parents were shot down in a remote corner of the Bronx.
Suzy is about to grab the Yellow Pages when it dawns on her that most Korean accountants would not be advertised in it. What would be the point? No American clients come to them anyway. She would do better with the Korean Business Directory or Korean newspapers, neither of which she has in her apartment. His office had been located in Koreatown, above a restaurant that specialized in bone-marrow soup, 32nd Street in midtown Manhattan. A part of the city she rarely visits. The pervading smell of
kimchi
along the street. The posters on windows displaying jubilant Korean movie stars. Bright neon signs in Korean letters. Too close to home, although her home had never been that festive. Suzy had been to his office once to sign papers. It was a simple procedure. It took five minutes, and all her claims to her parents were over. Afterward, she sat before a bowl of oxtail soup and wept.
She is zipping up her knee-high boots when the phone rings. Ten-thirty on Friday morning. Who else but Michael? His daily phone call. His daily declaration of love, or need. It is good to have a routine. The only problem is that, by the time you get used to it, something inevitably happens to break it. She picks up the phone on its third ring. He should be impressed. He knows she is bending rules for him.
“Michael, I’m on my way out, can you call me later?”
No response. His phone must be acting up again. He must
be out of Germany now. The connection is never a problem from there.
“Michael? Your cell’s not connecting. I can’t hear you.”
He must be calling from Southern Europe. Portugal, maybe Spain, if he is lucky. Michael chuckled when Microsoft announced the downsizing of their Madrid office. “Those hotblooded Spanish will rock you with their fiestas and siestas. But are they Web-ready? Do they care? They’ll be the last civilization to hook up. Why should they, when they actually prefer their world to the virtual one?”
“Michael, it’s useless. I’m hanging up.”
Then she hears it. The perfect silence. No static. No distance on the connection. This call could be coming from down the block. It is not Michael. It is not Michael on the other end.
“Who is this?” Dropping her bag, she throws a quick glance at the dead irises dried up in the Evian bottle.
“Damian?” Part of her is hoping. Of course it cannot be Damian. He would not be calling her. Not like this anyway.
“I’m going to hang up if you don’t speak.”
She is about to take the receiver off her ear when the voice stops her. A male voice. Shaky and unnaturally low, with a distinct Korean accent.
“Don’t.” It is not clear if he just has a feeble voice or is talking in a whisper.
“Who is this? Who are you?” She speaks slowly, strangely calm, as though she has been expecting him.
“I call to tell you … No more. Stop. No more talk with people. No police.” His English is just barely comprehensible. But he won’t speak in Korean. Maybe he is afraid that she will recognize his voice if he speaks with fluency. Maybe he is calling from somewhere not private. She tries anyway and asks in Korean, “Stop what? What’re you talking about?”
“Your parents dead. No more. Stop now.” He insists on his
broken English. Barely a whisper. She won’t recognize his voice even if she hears it again.
“What do you mean? Who are you?”
“No. Nothing. They do not kill your parents. So stop.”
He is about to hang up. She can sense it. She cannot let him get away. He is the only clue she’s got.
“Wait! Who’s they? What did they have to do with my parents’ death?”
“Your parents dead. Nothing change. They watch you.”
He is gone. She can tell even before she hears the click.
Stop poking around, unless she wants to get hurt.
Is it a warning, or a threat?
Who is watching her?
Who are
they
?
Who is he?
She is slumped on the kitchen floor staring at the phone when it rings again. She snatches the receiver almost instantly. Has he changed his mind? Is there something he forgot to say?
“Wow, what’s with you?”
It is Michael. The real Michael this time.
“Babe, what’s going on? You been waiting for my call or something? Suzy, are you there?
Suzy, hello
?”
Her heart is beating too fast. She shuts her eyes and counts to three.
“Suzy, what’s the matter? You sick or something?” He is not used to a sick mistress. He sounds uncertain suddenly.
“Hi, I … I’m just a bit out of sorts.”
“Shit, I thought I’d have to jet over, scoop you in my arms, and lick your wounds!”
“Michael, I’m a bit scared.” She cannot help it. Sometimes the truth is easier with someone for whom it won’t matter much.
“
Christ,
Suzy, what’s going on with you?” He sounds more
alert now. He is not used to vulnerable Suzy. He is not sure how to respond.
“Nothing at all. I think it’s my period.” She quickly change her mind. It is not fair to dump it on Michael. It is too late for them to be anything but what they are. It is really not his fault.
“
Christ,
sometimes you fucking surprise me.” He breaks into nervous laughter. He is relieved.
“I think I better go lie down.”
“You do that. But I’m gonna call and check up on you.”
“Don’t. I’m gonna sleep for a while.” She does not want any more calls this morning.
“You need anything? Should I get Sandy to send you a doctor or something?”
Suzy laughs at his suggestion. How absurd, a doctor making a house call to her East Village flat? Michael. He will try anything. He will make anything happen.
Anything
. Of course, why hasn’t she thought of it before?
“There is something, actually.”
“Just name it.” Michael is trying to hide his surprise. Suzy has never asked for anything. She has never had a request for him.
“I need to find out about my citizenship status. And that of my parents. I need to know on what grounds those citizenships were issued, if they were issued. I need them fairly soon.”
“Done. Sandy will call you in five minutes and take down the info. I’ll tell her to send you a doctor also. What else?” He is a good businessman. Gets the job done. No questions asked.
“Nothing else.”
. “Sure?”

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