“I thought I told you he’s not allowed telephone calls. The most he could provide was a floppy disc. He had messages on it to half of Tokyo, a big headache for me.”
“Is there a message for me?”
“Yes, there is,” he said grumpily. “I will fax it to you.”
“When?” I couldn’t believe he hadn’t volunteered the information earlier.
“This afternoon, maybe.”
“Listen, the only fax I have access to is at Nichiyu. If you could send the document at a set time, I’d be able to intercept it without anyone noticing. What about five minutes after three?”
“Three-oh-five then, Miss Shimura, and don’t forget to bring me the address book soon, please.”
Mrs. Bun watched me run to the fax machine when it suddenly stuttered at four minutes after three. It was only a report for Mr. Katoh.
“Rei’s doctor is faxing her medical record, and she’s afraid we’ll all snoop in it,” Richard smoothly lied. He made me blush, adding to the effectiveness of the ploy. At 3:08, the machine started again, spitting out a cover sheet with Mr. Ota’s letterhead. A second page followed with blurry typed writing. I grabbed them tightly against my chest and sprinted from the room, Richard at my heels.
“Come on, Rei. I’m involved!”
“Sorry, babe.” I slammed the women’s lavatory door in his face, curled up on the cracked vinyl chair by the sinks and began reading. The message had been neatly typeset into a memo form addressed To Rei Shimura, from HG, regarding incarceration. I half-smiled at that, but stopped quickly as I read on.
Alive and well in an unheated prison with no telephone privileges, to put it mildly. For reasons of security I cannot discuss elements of my defense, but Mr. Ota and I are both working hard. I am unsure whether the answer to Setsuko’s death lies here or in Tokyo, which is why I asked you to help.
I understand from everyone who’s spoken with you that you are remorseful about your telephone call to the police. I was quite angry at first; I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that. But I’ve thought things through and have come to the conclusion that you intended no malice. I hope Mr. Ota has communicated my feelings, as well as the fact that I remain grateful for whatever you can do. You are a woman of considerable talents. Still, I request that whatever you learn should be solely communicated to my lawyer, who will in turn share the news with me.
It wasn’t the way he talked, this patronizing, unemotional set of commands. Yet I had no doubt he’d written it. I read it over a few more times and wandered slowly out to the hall, where Richard was waiting. Without saying anything, I gave him the letter.
“He sounds stodgy. Like an old man,” Richard concluded.
“It’s probably the way lawyers are trained to write.” Irrationally, I was upset at my friend’s criticism. Maybe Richard was right; it certainly wasn’t the kind of letter a person would write to someone he was romantically interested in.
“Mmm, I don’t know. He seems to be taking things too seriously. He’s got no sense of humor.”
“Richard, prison is a serious place!” The letter was so depressing that only one thing was clear in my mind: he needed to get out. Then I could look into his eyes and figure out where we stood. And I would find Mariko, even if I had to visit every bank in town.
I started the next morning with the English-language telephone directory. I tried bank personnel departments in alphabetic order, identifying myself as a long-lost friend of Mariko Ozawa’s. I quickly found out Aoyama Bank didn’t release personal information about employees. The same policy was in effect at the next two banks. I needed a more compelling story. Then I came up with a truly devious idea.
“I wish to register a complaint about a bank employee who made an error with my account last week, Mariko Ozawa…”
The receptionists all instantly went into a defensive, hyper-courteous mode. “Could you please wait for a minute? We will check that…” They would come back, triumphant. “We have no employee by that name. Perhaps the honorable customer was mistaken?”
I had luck midway down the list when I called JaBank. “Mariko Ozawa? In foreign exchange at the Shinjuku branch? The personnel manager you need to speak to is named…” I took down the name carefully and assured the clerk I’d follow up.
That afternoon, Richard and I were sent to a kitchen store in Shinjuku to look at the English language signs that had been created for a Nichiyu espresso maker that could also steam milk to make caffe latte. “Latte” had been misspelled “ratte”, and Richard argued it wasn’t worth changing because there was no letter L in Japanese. We pronounced the word “ratte” ourselves to be understood by anyone at Nichiyu.