“Check this out, she’s got her own site.” He opened the home page to a full-screen pose of Opal Onishi standing at the gate of a Cherokee reservation, resting her arm on an Arri Amira camera body presenting a defiant look to the viewer.
Nikki drew closer to the monitor. “What’s this about?”
“It’s about Opal’s other life. As an independent documentary filmmaker.”
“And a serious one, too,” said Rook. “Look at the films and subjects she’s made.” Raley obliged by scrolling as he read. “‘Village of the Slammed — Gay violence and bashing in New York’s Greenwich Village; Heart of the Bully — Chronicle of the aftermath of spousal violence; Tribe and Punishment — Exposing corruption and abuse on Native American reservations.’ That must be where that home page pic was taken.”
Raley swiveled his chair to Heat. “So, it looks to me like the Gen-Y kid who’s been fetching coffee and schlepping stage lights is really a Michael Moore in the making.”
Heat made the connections in a blink. “Kind of makes you wonder what her latest social justice project was. But I have a pretty good idea.” She went to her desk to grab her keys. “If anyone needs me, I’m off to the East Village to visit an indie filmmaker.”
EIGHTEEN
ou keep waking me up,” said Opal Onishi when she opened the door to let in Heat and Rook. “You know, it’s polite to call first. The power’s all fucked up, but my cell works.” She thumbed the home button to check for bars and held it out as a visual aid. Heat ignored it and instead surveyed the living room. The surplus furniture remained stacked, as before, but the cardboard cartons had been razored open revealing their contents: kitchen gadgets in one; surge suppressors and orphan TV remotes in another. Some of the boxes were empty, and their contents covered every open surface in the room.
“I see you’ve had time to move in since my last visit.”
“Yeah, sorry for the mess. Wasn’t expecting company, and I was up working on a project. At least till the lights went out.”
Rook said, “What’s the project, American Hoarders?”
“You’re not a cop, are you?”
“No, this is Jameson Rook. He rides with me sometimes.”
“The writer. Cool.” Opal scooped up a few of the tall stacks of papers that filled the couch, end to end. “Here, sit here.”
When they sat, Nikki said, “So you’re trying to finish up your next documentary.”
She got back a cautious reaction. “Yeah…How’d you know?”
“Detective.” Heat side-nodded to the bundles of paper — drafts of screenplays — and four milk crates filled with DVDs, both sleeveless and in jewel cases. Fanned across the coffee table in front of a Mac Cinema Display were stapled forms entitled EDITING CONTINUITY in boldface with grids containing lists of time codes, shots, and scene notes marked by highlighters.
“What gave me away?” Onishi chuckled and then lit a cigarette with an Ohio Blue Tip. She didn’t sit, but stood because it seemed to relax her, one hand on her hip and the other taking a satisfying drag.
“Actually, to be truthful, we checked you out online.”
“If one were to be truthful,” added Rook with a calculated degree of innuendo as an attachment. “You have some impressive reviews. I checked you out on Cultureunplugged and Documentarystorm. Your film on gay bashing won a Doxie Award at South by Southwest.”
“Ancient history. That was my senior project at NYU.” She acted dismissive but seemed flattered by Rook’s notice. “Independent documentary film doesn’t get a lot of mass awareness, which is cool, really. It’s a passion. As an investigative journalist, you should screen it. I have a DVD of it here somewhere.”
Nikki said, “I’m more interested in the project you’re working on now.”
“Tribe and Punishment?”
“Stop lying to me, Opal. You know the one I’m talking about. The one Jeanne Capois was helping you with.”
“The maid? Helping me on a film?”
“Stop. The. Lying.”
“Looks to me like it’s called Smuggled Souls.” Rook held up one of the pages of editing notes.
“Hey, that’s private.” She snatched it from him and tossed it in one of the empty cartons — a futile gesture since the title appeared in boldface atop every other piece of paper that was visible.
“Opal, we checked,” said Heat. “The Happy Hazels did not refer Jeanne Capois to you. And we know now that she was a victim of human trafficking. I am forming the reasonable assumption that she had something to do with a film you are making, and I want you to cut the crap and tell me what it was.”
“OK. This is true.” Onishi stubbed out her smoke and sat on one of the boxes, lighting up another. “Jeanne came to me a few times. Helped me out with some background stuff, you know, keeping it real. That’s all.”
Detective Heat had done enough interviews in her career to know the dodges. One was the straight lie, which was what she got from Opal last time. Now she was getting the lie hidden inside a truth. Suspects and witness did that when they wanted to feed you enough to satisfy you, hoping you’d move on. Nikki wasn’t budging, and needed to call her out. “I did a records check and didn’t see any calls to you from Jeanne Capois.”
Just as the woman started to relax, Nikki pulled the rug. “But I did another one before I came here and recognized several calls that turned out to be from the home phone of her employer, Shelton David. Including one the night she was murdered. The night you moved out of your place in Chelsea like it was on fire.” The cardboard box gave in a little under Opal’s weight, startling her. Nikki ignored the distraction. “Did she share something with you that made you afraid?”
“I am not afraid.”
Heat waited out her defiant glower through the smoke curl. After a few seconds Nikki spoke quietly as she laid out the crime scene death shots of Jeanne Capois in front of Opal, one by one. “Here is where they killed her. It’s a trash storage area behind a prep school.” She set out another. “Here is a close-up of what they did to her hands and fingers to make her talk.” Then another. “This discoloration on her neck is where they choked her.” Then one more. “This is what they did to her eyes. Poured antifreeze into them until they sizzled. See the discoloration?”
“Stop it! Don’t!” She swept the pictures off the coffee table and turned away from them, covering her face. Nikki didn’t know what sickened her more: seeing the photos again or using Opal’s vulnerability to get what she needed from her. It didn’t matter. Heat had a job to do.
“Whatever Jeanne Capois shared with you so you could make your movie got her killed. And you know that. Make it right. Will you help me get these guys?”
Opal Onishi didn’t answer yes or no, but simply began in a very distant voice to narrate, as if doing a voice-over in one of her docs. “Jeanne Capois was special because she was just like all the others. A girl who grew up in poverty but raised with hope. Like a lot of the Haitians I have interviewed over the past year, hope is not just aspiration, but takes form in tenacity. It is how you survive, it is how you keep going in the face of life’s unrelenting assault. Political corruption, violence, hunger, disease, squalor — even an earthquake does not stop them from seeking a better way.” The ash fell from her cigarette and she absently ground it into the rug with her slipper, then turned to them.