I looked at the businessmen in their suits with their heads bowed, taking notes. I wondered what they were writing. Know your place?
The speaker continued: "Many times you hear executives say, 'I have no place in a Japanese corporation, and I had to quit.' Or you will hear people say, 'They didn't listen to me, I had no chance to get my ideas implemented, no chance for advancement.' Those people didn't understand the role of a foreigner in Japanese society. They were not able to fit in, and so they had to leave. But that is theirproblem. The Japanese are perfectly ready to accept Americans and other foreigners in their companies. Indeed, they are eager to have them. And you will be accepted: so long as you remember your place."
A woman raised her hand and said, "What about prejudice against women in Japanese corporations?"
"There is no prejudice against women," the speaker said.
"I've heard that women can't advance."
"That is simply not true."
"Then why all the lawsuits? Sumitomo Corp. just settled a big antidiscrimination suit. I read one-third of Japanese corporations have had suits brought by American employees. What about that?"
"It is perfectly understandable," the speaker said. "Any time a foreign corporation begins to do business in a new country, it is likely to make mistakes while it gets used to the habits and patterns of the country. When American corporations first went multinational in Europe in the fifties and sixties, they encountered difficulties in the countries they entered, and there were lawsuits then. So it is not remarkable that Japanese corporations also have some period of adjustment coming into America. It is necessary to be patient."
A man said with a laugh, "Is there ever a time when it's notnecessary to be patient with Japan?" But he sounded rueful, not angry.
The others in the room continued to make notes.
"Officer? I'm Jim Donaldson. What is this about?"
I turned. Dr. Donaldson was a tall, thin man with glasses and a precise, almost prissy air. He was dressed in collegiate style, a tweed sport coat and a red tie. But he had the nerd pack of pens peeking out of his shirt pocket. I guessed he was an engineer.
"I just had a couple of questions about the Nakamoto tapes."
"The Nakamoto tapes?"
"The ones in your laboratory last night."
"My laboratory? Mr., ah– "
"Smith, Lieutenant Smith." I gave him my card.
"Lieutenant, I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about. Tapes in my lab last night?"
"Kristen, your secretary, said everybody in the lab was working late on some tapes."
"Yes. That's true. Most of my staff."
"And the tapes came from Nakamoto."
"From Nakamoto?" He shook his head. "Who told you that?"
"She did."
"I assure you, Lieutenant, the tapes were not from Nakamoto."
"I heard there were twenty tapes."
"Yes, at least twenty. I'm not sure of the exact number. But they were from McCann-Erickson. An ad campaign for Asahi beer. We had to do a logo transformation on every ad in the campaign. Now that Asahi beer is the number one beer in America."
"But the question of Nakamoto– "
"Lieutenant," he said impatiently, glancing at the podium, "let me explain something. I work for Hamaguchi Research Labs. Hamaguchi is owned by Kawakami Industries. A competitor of Nakamoto. Competition among the Japanese corporations is very intense. Veryintense. Take my word for it: my lab didn't do any work on any Nakamoto tapes last night. Such a thing would never happen, under any circumstances. If my secretary said it did, she's mistaken. It's absolutely out of the realm of possibility. Now, I have to give a speech. Is there anything else?"
"No," I said. "Thanks."
There was scattered applause as the speaker on the podium finished. I turned and left the room.
I was driving away from the Bonaventure when Connor called in from the golf course. He sounded annoyed. "I got your page. I had to interrupt my game. This better be good."
I told him about the one o'clock appointment with Senator Morton.
"All right," he said. "Pick me up here at ten-thirty. Anything else?"
I told him about my trips to JPL and Hamaguchi, then my conversation with Donaldson.
Connor sighed. "That was a waste of time."
"Why?"
"Because Hamaguchi is funded by Kawakami, and they're in competition with Nakamoto. There is no way they would do anything to help Nakamoto."
"That's what Donaldson told me," I said.
"Where are you going now?"
"To the U.S.C. video labs. I'm still trying to get the tapes copied."
Connor paused. "Anything else I should know?"
"No."
"Fine. See you at ten-thirty."
"Why so early?"
"Ten-thirty," he said, and hung up.
* * *
As soon as I hung up, the phone rang. "You were supposed to call me." It was Ken Shubik at the Times. He sounded sulky.
"Sorry. I got tied up. Can we talk now?"
"Sure."
"You got information for me?"
"Listen." He paused. "Are you anywhere around here?"
"About five blocks from you."
"Then come by for a cup of coffee."
"You don't want to talk on the phone?"
"Well . . ."
"Come on, Ken. You always want to talk on the phone." Shubik was like all the Timesreporters, he sat at his desk in front of his computer and wore a headset and talked on the phone all day long. It was his preferred way of doing things. He had all his stuff in front of him, he could type his notes into the computer as he talked. When I was a press officer, my office had been at police headquarters in Parker Center, two blocks from the Times building. And still a reporter like Ken would rather talk to me on the phone than see me in person.
"Come on by, Pete."
That was clear enough.
Ken didn't want to talk on the phone.
"Okay, fine," I said. "See you in ten minutes."
¤
The Los Angeles Timesis the most profitable newspaper in America. The newsroom takes up one entire floor of the Times building, and thus is the area of a city block. The space has been skillfully subdivided, so you are never confronted by how large it actually is, and how many hundreds of people work there. But still it seems you walk for days past reporters sitting at clusters of modular workstations, with their glowing computer screens, their blinking telephones, and their tacked-up pictures of the kids.
Ken's workstation was in Metro, on the east side of the building. I found him standing by his desk, pacing. Waiting for me. He took me by the elbow.
"Coffee," he said. "Let's get coffee."
"What is it?" I said. "You don't want to be seen with me?"
"No. Shit. I want to avoid the Weasel. He's down hustling that new girl on Foreign. She doesn't know any better yet." Ken nodded toward the far end of the newsroom. There, by the windows, I saw the familiar figure of Willy Wilhelm, known to everyone as Weasel Wilhelm. Willy's narrow, ferretlike face was at this moment composed into a mask of smiling attentiveness as he joked with a blond girl sitting before a terminal.