Epilogue

There was one more thing I had to do.

I arranged a meeting in Hong Kong with the person who’d first turned me on to the Goto story, Cyclops. He’d fallen out of favor with the organization and was very hard to track down. His father had put us in touch. He partially blamed me for the trouble he’d gotten himself into, and I’m still not sure why. But he’d agreed to meet, maybe out of some residual sense of duty and obligation. We met in Hong Kong International Airport; I wanted safe territory. I didn’t trust him. I had my reasons. We sat in the waiting lounge and had a short conversation. I wanted to know one thing: had he deliberately given me that information, had I been set up? I’d been wondering about it for a while.

Cyclops had a fast answer to that.

“Of course we set you up. If you had done what you were supposed to have done, Goto would have been over in 2005. You didn’t do it. I told everyone you’d write it, but you just walked away. And I was fucked. I helped you out with the Kajiyama story and you fucked me over. You ruined my life. Got me kicked out.”

I didn’t really have a reply to that. Not a good one.

“How was I supposed to have known what I was supposed to do? You never told me. Are you sure you didn’t get kicked out because you’re a meth head?”

It was true. He had serious problems with speed. He’d been an addict so long that even when he wasn’t taking it, he was an angry, emotional, paranoid SOB. Ponchu is the slang for a guy like him: it sounds a little like punch-drunk, and the meaning is probably pretty close. It probably wasn’t a good thing to point out.

“Everybody takes that shit. No big deal. That isn’t what got me booted out. It was your fault.”

“You gave me a piece of the puzzle. I didn’t have enough to write the story. If you had told me about the FBI, it would have made a difference.”

“I didn’t say the FBI. I told you that he made a deal with the cops, that should have been enough.”

“No, you did not. You didn’t say anything about cops.”

“Bullshit. You weren’t paying attention.”

Maybe he was right. We’d been drunk, or at least I’d been drunk, the first time he’d dropped that little morsel about Goto’s Big Adventure in L.A., but I’m sure I would have remembered an important detail like that. Ninety-nine percent sure.

“Well, it’s done now. He’s gone. I did what I should have. And for the record, I don’t like being someone else’s pawn.”

“Zannen da ne [too bad].”

There was a small table between us. He had his bag on the floor. There were cups of coffee in front of both of us. His was black. I loaded mine with cream and sugar.

I sipped a little more coffee. I figured that our conversation was over, and I got up to leave. He had one more thing to say as I was leaving.

“Say, whatever happened to your mistress?”

“What mistress?” The question made me very uneasy.

“You know the cunt I’m talking about.”

“No.”

“Some gaijin bitch. Helena was her name, right?”

I think that’s when I got a very queasy feeling in my gut. I didn’t have a snappy comeback. I sat back down. I took another drink of coffee.

“I know a woman named Helena. I’ve been trying to get ahold of her for a while. A long time.”

“You won’t ever hear from her. You killed her, you know?”

And the sonofabitch smiled, a big, fat, happy smile. The kind kids give you when you’re telling a joke and they interrupt you with the punch line. He rolled the words off his lips like marbles: “You had her checking into the International Entertainment Association, right? She got caught snooping around. They dragged her to one of their offices, out in Ebisu. She had your business card on her. She wouldn’t talk, you know. She wanted to protect your scrawny ass.”

He explained what they’d done to her, at length and in detail. “It took them a couple hours. They tortured her for a while. Beat her. Raped her as well, with things lying around. She bled a lot. She probably choked to death on the cock stuffed in her mouth. Maybe her own puke. They might not have meant to kill her, but you know, she wouldn’t talk.”

He explained it all nonchalantly. He didn’t even bother to lower his voice.

And when he was done, he added, “That was your fault for having her look around. If the Goto-gumi hadn’t thought you were some kind of cop in disguise, they’d have killed you then too. You’re a real pain in the ass.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Well, why would I know her name, then?”

I couldn’t answer that one either. I know I hadn’t given him the name. I had nothing to say. I had asked some of my sources to try to find out where she was, and maybe one guy had told him about her. I couldn’t bring that up without the risk of burning my guy. I got lost in thought. He kicked the table.

“Still here? See, you’re not cracking jokes now.”

He pulled a manila envelope out of his leather bag and slapped it on the table.

“Consider this a present. I owed you once, I asked around on your behalf, and now we’re even.”

“What’s inside?”

“Photos. Why waste a good body? They took photos to show to the other girls working at the clubs. ‘This is what happens to troublemakers.’ Take a look. Then you’ll know I’m not jerking your chain.”

I took them out. They were horrible. I don’t feel a need to describe them in depth.

It was a woman. I don’t know if it was Helena. The hair was the same as hers, a long chestnut brown. The eyes were glazed over; I don’t think they looked like hers, but the eyes of the living and the dead are probably very different. I looked for the mole she had over her upper lip—couldn’t find it. But then again, they’d cut off her lips. It wasn’t a subtle message.

I didn’t have a long time to look them over either before he grabbed them out of my hand, and jammed them back into the envelope, and stuffed the envelope back into his bag.

I had a hard time not throwing up and a harder time not showing that I was feeling very, very ill. Suddenly, it felt as though gravity had been turned up so much that it was pulling me down to the ground and pinning me to my chair.

“In any event, good work. Goto’s effectively gone. That makes life a little easier for me.”

“I have one question.”

“I’m out of answers.”

“Did Goto order her killed? If she was actually killed.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know what I think. I want to know what happened.”

“I’m sure you would. Maybe someone called him and asked what to do. Maybe they did it on their own. I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Goto yourself?”

“You think he’d tell me?”

“No. I think it would be funny if you asked. Even if he gave the orders, I doubt he’d remember.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“So you know. So you know what happens when we don’t do what we’re supposed to do.”

“What was I supposed to have done?”

“You were supposed to have written a story about how Tadamasa Goto made a deal with the cops to get a liver transplant in the United States—and how as part of that deal he ratted out members of the Kodo-kai. That was what you were supposed to have done. That would have ended his career then and there.”

“And now I have. Goto and three other pricks who got liver transplants at UCLA. I exposed them all.”

Cyclops chuckled. “Well, you weren’t supposed to write about the other three. You weren’t even supposed to know about them. You pissed off a lot of people by digging that deep. I’ll give you this much, you’re a better reporter than I thought. You’re stupid, obtuse, stubborn, and reckless, but at the end of the day, I guess that’s what makes a good journo.”

We sat there in silence. I was thinking.

He stuck out his chin and raised his eyebrow.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Well, when a man gives you a present, don’t you usually thank him for it?”

“Thank you.” It was the only thing I could think of to say.

“You’re welcome. I thought you’d want to know. It must be hard knowing that if you’d done the right thing, she’d still be alive. It must really suck. You know, a thing like this, it could also ruin a journalist’s career. Who’s going to trust a reporter who gets his sources killed?”

“If what you say is true, yeah.”

“You know it’s true, you cowardly prick. I don’t lie.”

“No,” I said, becoming a little angry, “you do lie. You’ve lied to me before, and I have no reason to believe you’re not lying to me now.”

“Why would I lie to you?”

“Because you’re a vengeful jerk and you want to make me as miserable as you are.”

He giggled. He was definitely high on something.

“Think I’d make up something like this just to fuck with you?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

“You want to believe that, suit yourself. We’re done.” He stood up. I stood up.

“Look,” I said, holding out my hands, trying to keep him there a little longer, “just tell me that you’re telling the truth. Let me have one of the photos. I can get someone to look at them, maybe do a photo analysis, compare bone structure or something. I want to verify it’s her. That’s all I ask.”

He had the bag in his hand. He put it back on the table within a foot of me—close enough that I might have been able to grab it. It seemed as if he was daring me to try. He folded his arms and stared at me, cocked his head to the side. He smiled just a little, almost imperceptibly.

“You insult me.”

“You lied to me. You weren’t straight up about what you were doing or what you wanted. You manipulated me. You played me like a sucker. How am I supposed to know you aren’t doing it again? If you were standing in my shoes, you’d do the same.”

Cyclops was unfazed. “But I’m not you. And if I were you, I’ll tell you what I’d do. I’d be a man, and I’d kill Goto myself. It wouldn’t be hard. I can tell you where to find him. Somewhere he goes alone.”

“I’m not a yakuza.”

“You’re not a man, either.”

“You’re not much of a yakuza, either.”

“Bullshit!”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t even go to Shibata’s funeral. Where’s the loyalty, the respect?”

“I went. I didn’t see your white gaijin ass there.”

“So you knew Shibata. Was he the one who told you I was looking for her?”

He took the bag off the table and shrugged. “If I ever owed you anything, I don’t anymore. We’re done with that.”

“Just give me a photo. If it’s true, what you’re saying, then I’ll know for real. One fucking photo of her face. That’s all I want.”

“How much are you willing to pay for it? These are valuable things.”

“How much do you want?”

“More than you have.”

“I need a real answer.”

“Good luck with that. Just make sure to stay out of my way.”

“I don’t know if that’s possible.”

He leaned forward a little and said very softly, “You were lucky once. Don’t tempt fate. You were allowed to live because you were useful. Once Goto is gone, people may see you differently. Cross me or my people the wrong way, and we’ll crush you. There are ways to do that without even laying a finger on you.” And he turned around and walked toward his gate. I have no idea where he is now. I’m certainly not going to go looking for him.

I know that Helena wanted to start a new life. She had money in the bank. She’d bought a home. She was beautiful, she was caring, she was brave, and she was very funny, if you appreciate ribald humor. Part of me wants to believe that she just packed up, cut ties, and started a new life. I keep in touch with some of her friends from that time. I still send New Year’s greetings to her old e-mail address. They always come back undeliverable. But I hope that someday I’ll get a reply. Maybe she’ll hook up with one of us on Facebook. Sometimes, when I’m walking around Tokyo, I think I see her. I hear her voice. But it’s never her.

I remember that one of the things homicide cops use to drag a confession out of a suspect is the line “Kokuhaku shinai to hotoke ga ukabarenai.” It’s almost a cliché, you see it in cop movies on television a lot. It translates loosely as “If you don’t confess, the Buddha nature [of the dead] will not rise up—the victim will never achieve peace [Buddhahood].” It comes from a Japanese folk belief that those who have been murdered become trapped between incarnations, like a hungry ghost, until their death is avenged. In Buddhist mythology, even Heaven and Hell are just two of the stages of existence. Supposedly, we are doomed to repeat birth and rebirth until as human beings we achieve freedom from hatred, ignorance, and greed. What happens when that is achieved—well, that’s never really satisfactorily answered. I imagine it’s a very nice state of being.

If it’s possible to be haunted by someone, I suppose that Helena haunts me—or I just haunt myself. I’m pretty sure she’s no longer alive. I’d like to believe differently. I dream about her now and then. Sometimes she’s forgiving. Sometimes she’s very angry. Sometimes she just asks to be held. I don’t sleep very well. I haven’t slept well since March 2006. If she is dead, maybe when Goto leaves this mortal coil, she’ll finally be released. She’ll finally get to where she wanted to go. I’d like to know she got there.

During the time I was collecting the last pieces of evidence, I became close to one of Goto’s mistresses. Right before she left Japan in May 2008, we had one more meeting at Narita International Airport. I was bitching about the man, and she was listening patiently. She probably hated him more than I did. Halfway through my tirade, she stopped me.

“Jake, did it ever occur to you that you hate him so much because you’re so much like him?”

“No, I don’t see that at all.”

“You’re both workaholics with high libidos, adrenaline junkies, and shameless womanizers. You drink too much, you smoke too much, and you demand loyalty. You’re generous to your friends and ruthless to your enemies. You’ll do anything to get what you want. You are very much the same person. I see that in you.”

“I don’t accept that.”

“You should think about it.”

“So you’re saying we’re the same?”

She laughed. “No. There are two big differences.”

“That’s a relief. Tell me.”

“You don’t derive pleasure from the suffering of others and you don’t betray your friends. That’s huge.”

And she lightly kissed me on the cheek and headed toward the security gates and her plane. I haven’t seen her since. I think she’s doing very well with her new life.

Once upon a time, I thought about being a Buddhist priest. I thought I’d like to be one of the good guys, do something for the world, something benevolent. When I was living in the temple, I tried. I didn’t smoke, I didn’t drink, I tried to walk the noble path. I wasn’t very good at it.

On April 8, 2009, Tadamasa Goto, at a temple in Kanagawa, took the Buddhist vows and began his study toward becoming a Buddhist priest. Of course, it was probably more of a publicity stunt than a serious desire to repent for all the misery he’s caused in this world. He’s still facing another trial and probably wants to make a good impression on the judge. It’s rumored that the top dogs at the Yamaguchi-gumi have put out a contract on his life—he knows too much, and he has a history of making deals with the cops. Maybe he figures it would be bad PR for them to kill a priest. Perhaps he’s hoping a rosary will work as well as a bulletproof vest. Maybe he really regrets the way he’s lived his life now that he’s been stripped of power and is living in fear of death.

Still, it irks me a little. It seems blasphemous.

If he really does feel guilt for what he’s done, if he really is repenting, I suppose I wish him well.

I know that I started out as one of the good guys. I’m not sure I ended that way.

I don’t regret much of what I’ve done. Yes, maybe I started as a pawn, but I played the game as well as I could. I fought poison with poison and probably poisoned myself in the process, but that was the only way to do it. I protected my people and did my job, and in the end, that’s a kind of victory.

I find it interesting that he and I both were amateur Buddhists. His reasons were probably more from expediency than faith, but then again, maybe he really does have a guilty conscience. It’s possible.

I like reading some of the Buddhist sutras, although I’m not a convert. I’m not a believer in things like karma and reincarnation. I’d like to believe. I’d like to believe that evil is punished and good is rewarded, that love conquers hatred, truth conquers lies, and everyone gets what’s coming to them. You don’t have to be too cynical to look around the world and see that that’s not how it works.

Maybe it’s being raised Jewish that allows for finding something satisfying in the unforgiving qualities of traditional Buddhism. The only way to really atone for doing wrong is to do the right thing. “I’m sorry” just doesn’t cut it. There is no get-out-of-jail-free card in the deck. Makes sense to me.

Still, I find some comfort in the holy books, if you will. I particularly like the Hokukyo, a collection of Buddhist sayings—the sort of Q document of the religion. If Goto is seriously studying the Noble Path, he’ll be reading it sooner or later. There are some passages that I’d like to highlight for him.

I hope when he lies on his futon late at night, rewinding and replaying the mental footage of his ill-spent life, Goto reflects on what he has done and what his soldiers have done, and that he thinks long and hard about those words.

I know that I do.