“With the adults adrift, the kids ran loose. It was hard to have a normal life. Everything we had been taught about America and justice and democracy all seemed to have no meaning. Most of us were raised to believe in America, and we felt we were Americans. We couldn’t understand why we were shipped off to these camps just because Japan, a foreign country, had attacked us. Eventually, family discipline broke down so much that some of the kids formed gangs. Even some of the men got together in gangs. And the prison guards were no better. Some were okay,” she corrected, “but like I said, a lot of them stole rations and sold them on the black market. Besides the squid, for awhile we just had rice and peaches to eat, because the meat they provided was rotten. They were selling all the good meat on the black market. The peaches actually turned out to be a bad thing, even though we kids liked them, because some of the men made stills and fermented alcohol from the peaches.”
Mrs. Okada looked at me and laughed. “I’m just running on about bad times! Until recently I wouldn’t talk about the camps at all and now I can’t seem to shut up!”
“Why didn’t you talk about the camps?” I asked, puzzled. The reticence to talk about the camp experience was something I had always noticed in Japanese-Americans who were in them. My family was from Hawaii. Although my grandfather lost his fishing boat because they thought all Japanese with boats must be spies, we were relatively untouched. My mother was at Pearl Harbor during the attack, and during the war she worked as a Red Cross volunteer. The experience of the mainland Japanese-Americans was different from Hawaiian Japanese-Americans, and I was frankly curious.
“We were embarrassed and ashamed. It was like being in prison, even though we had done nothing. But you younger people seem more open about it, and it’s made it easier to talk about the experience. The apology and redress for the camps from the U.S. government was also something that helped. I recently went to the Japanese American National Museum and looked up my camp records on their computer system. I even sent away to the National Archives and got a copy of my camp file. They had report cards and school records and even some drawings I did in school. It’s both sad and interesting that they keep everybody’s files after half a century.”
The doorbell rang, and I was so interested that I was actually sorry that Mrs. Okada’s grandson finally showed up.
When she opened the door I was surprised to see that Mrs. Okada’s grandson was well over six feet tall. He was in his late twenties, with spiky black hair atop a face with the same cheekbones as Mrs. Okada. He was dressed in blue jeans and a Levi’s work shirt. Despite the way he towered over the diminutive woman, I learned who the boss was inside of two seconds. “You’re late,” she scolded. “I’ve been boring Mr. Tanaka with my ramblings while we’ve waited for you.”
“I’m sorry, Grandma,” he said, a faint flush of color coming to his cheeks. She grabbed his arm and guided him inside. An elf leading a giant. She brought him over to me and said, “This is my worthless grandson.”
He flushed again, but because of the business with the tea, Mrs. Okada knew that I wouldn’t believe she was in earnest. Some Japanese downplay the virtues of their children and spouses and are surprised that others take them seriously. Mrs. Okada knew I wouldn’t make that mistake.
“Hi, I’m Ken Tanaka,” I said, offering my hand.
“I’m Evan Okada,” he said as he shook my hand. We each sat at an end of the couch as Mrs. Okada resumed her perch on the chair.
“I understand that you work as a reporter for the L.A. Times,” I said.
“Yes, I do,” he said with what I thought was a bit of wariness.
“Did you work on the story about the Japanese national who was killed at the Golden Cherry Blossom Hotel?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I was probably one of the last people to see him alive.”
Evan’s interest picked up. “Did you know him?” he asked.
“Not really. The night he was killed was the only time I met him.”
“Do you work at the hotel?”
“No. I had business with him.”
“What kind of business?”
“I was just picking up a package from him.”
“And when did you see him?”
I laughed. “I guess it’s in a reporter’s nature to ask questions, but I was really hoping that you could provide me with information, not vice versa. You haven’t even answered my original question about if you worked on the story.”
“Why are you interested in finding out more information?”
“Because I saw him that night, I think I may be a suspect. Frankly, I want to protect myself by learning about the case. I was surprised about how much information the Times story had about Matsuda’s background, and I wanted to know how you got the information so fast.”
“Actually, it’s against our policy to discuss sources for stories.”
The frustration must have shown on my face because Mrs. Okada interjected. “Now you answer his questions! Mrs. Kawashiri asked me to see if I could help Ken-san. She said it would be a great kindness to her if I did so. She’s been very good to me over the years, and I want you to stop being a bad grandson and help him.” She shook a small finger at him as she lectured.
In some Japanese families being a “bad” son or grandson is the ultimate chastisement. A reporter’s wariness and the policies of the Los Angeles Times were no match for Japanese Grandma Power. Evan crumbled.
“I’m sorry I haven’t answered your questions,” he said. “It’s just that a lot of the information was contained in a dossier I obtained from a confidential source. I didn’t write the story, but I did contribute some research. My normal beat is Pacific Rim business stuff, so I’m interested in the business activities of the Yakuza and have contacts with law enforcement who share that interest.”
“Matsuda was a member of the Yakuza?”
“Actually, I don’t know. He was certainly connected with Yakuza companies that are associated with the Sekiguchi-Gummi crime family, but he didn’t appear to be an actual member of the Sekiguchi-Gummi. Maybe his background made him a bit of an outcast. In any case, he seemed to operate as a ‘fixer,’ someone who acts as a go-between on deals, instead of an actual member of the Yakuza.”
“I’m a little confused. I thought the Yakuza was Japanese organized crime. He was acting as some kind of business agent for them?”
“The Yakuza is involved in legitimate businesses like pachinko parlors and bars. Like U.S. organized crime, they also get involved in show business. They also have clearly illegal enterprises, too, like drugs or gun smuggling. It’s really complicated. A big Yakuza family like the Sekiguchi-Gummi will have company picnics and operate more-or-less openly. It’s sort of like some sections of New York where everybody knows who the wise guys are and who the Don is. Knowing those things and proving criminal activity are two different things.”
“Do you think Matsuda was killed by the Yakuza?”
Evan paused for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he said. “What makes me think he might have been is the fact that he was apparently killed by a sword. A sword is a Yakuza weapon.”
“How do you mean?”
“Japan has strict gun control laws. Guns are very difficult to get. They’re becoming more common now, but until recently crimes involving guns were very rare, so the Yakuza would use swords and knives for hits. They cut up that movie director, Jizo Itami, because they didn’t like a movie he made about them. I’ve even seen TV news videotape of a Yakuza hit man crawling into the window of a house where an informer was hiding. He took a sword in with him and murdered the informer. Then he bragged on camera afterward, holding the bloody sword.”