Alibi (40 page)

“I don’t believe it,” said Sara.

“There is only one way he could have known, Nora,” said David at last. “This was never about the reward money—at least not from H. Edgar Simpson’s point of view.”

“Well I’ll be . . .” said Arthur at last.

“He killed her,” said David. “H. Edgar Simpson killed Jessica Nagoshi and then cleverly framed one of his best friends for her murder, making a million profit in the process.”

“It explains Sawyer’s recording,” said Sara. “Simpson has obviously concocted some new evidence for Katz, to steer everyone even further away from the true killer, to make sure his friend is convicted for a murder he committed himself.”

“He has no alibi,” added Arthur as they continued to tag team it around the room. “Westinghouse dropped him home before the Nagoshi girl was killed. He could easily have gone out again without anyone knowing.”

“I need to talk to Joe,” said David. “If we are right, H. Edgar Simpson has to be one of the cleverest sons of bitches I have ever come across. It was all one big smoke screen, one brilliantly conceived plot to throw us off the game and crucify our client in his stead.”

“Dear Lord,” said Nora. “A dimple on the chin, the devil within,” she added, quoting an old Gaelic proverb.

It hit him—just like that, the irony of it all. Three days ago—only three days ago—he was sitting in Deane’s grand historical library, taking solace in the scholarly ambience of it all. He was burying his head in books, and while at the time he felt “imprisoned” by the gossip and innuendo that surrounded him, it was nothing like this—nothing like this at all.

The Suffolk County Jail library was small, a cramped corner enclave that dedicated more space to Stephen King paper-backs, which sat dog-eared and soiled at the top end of the room, than law journals and legal references. He lifted his head, something he had learned over the past twenty-four hours was not the most advisable of movements, toward the only other inmate in the room—a huge black building of a man with a mop of unkempt dreadlocks and pockmarked skin. The man, who he had learned over the course of the day from another prisoner on “badassmothafucka” level 6, was better known as “The Drill.” But James had not asked about the pseudonym’s origins, largely because he was afraid of what the answer might be.

The Drill was reading—slowly, carefully—his choice of genre not crime or horror or war or even shoot-’em-up, knock-’em-down kick-ass western. The Drill was reading a children’s book, or more to the point, mispronouncing every second word in it. It was one of James’ childhood favorites—
Danny the Champion of the World
by Roald Dahl.

“What the fuck you lookin’ at?” It was The Drill. He broke off from his stilted verse, his voice now thick with animosity.

“Nothing,” said James, averting his gaze.

“You got a problem with my reading?”

“No. I . . . ah . . . I love that book. I read it when I was a kid and . . .”
Stupid thing to say, stupid!

“I’m reading it to my kid,” said The Drill, luckily not picking up on the inference. And then James noticed the recorder in front of him. “I speak into this. They send my boy the tape.”

“Wow,” said James, struck by the incredible ingenuity and simultaneous sadness of it all. “A bedtime story,” he added, not knowing what else to say. “What’s his name?”

“Who?” said The Drill, the gravel turned down a notch or two.

“Your kid?”

“Danny, of course,” he said, pointing to the cover of the book. “He’s eight.”

James nodded. “I’m sure he’ll get a kick out of it,” he said. “You know—having it read to him by his dad.”

The Drill nodded, a look of pride spreading across his broad black face—a look almost immediately replaced by an expression of pure wretchedness, and regret, and sorrow.

“If he likes Roald Dahl,” James went on, trying to ease his discomfort, “you should read him
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
next.”

“What the fuck for?” asked The Drill, a look of intensity returning to his eyes. “Don’t you listen? His name is Danny, you fuckin’ fruit, not Charlie.”

“Sure, sorry,” replied James, putting his head back down. But he could feel The Drill still staring at him and so James glanced up to see a fresh look of curiosity on his face.

“You know what these pheasants are?” asked The Drill at last, pointing to the illustration of the bird before him, pronouncing “pheasants” with a “p”—like “peasants.”

“You say ‘pheasants’—like the word starts with the letter ‘f,’ not ‘p,’ and they’re birds, kinda like chickens. They serve them in fancy restaurants.”

James expected to see some form of appreciation in The Drill’s eyes, but to his horror saw the exact opposite. He had thought he was having his first meaningful conversation, some sharing of experience with another human being in a similar fucked up situation, but those eyes told him he was wrong. The next thing he knew, The Drill was on his feet. He moved so swiftly for a man of his bulk that James barely had time to lift his arms in defense before he felt the sharp, searing sting of The Drill’s right hand slapping him upward, diagonally, across the right-hand side of his face.

“The next time you tell me how to read I’ll rip your fucking head off,” he said, James barely able to hear him above the hot, thumping beat of his heart. “If I say it’s ‘p’ then it’s ‘p,’ you pucking frick.”

And then The Drill smiled at his own joke.

“God help me,” said James at last.

And then he began to cry.

Kwon Si was in a most unfortunate predicament. It had been a difficult day. Production was at an all time high but his men were tired and hungry and increasingly ill at ease. He was counting the moments before he might leave this place of disquiet and seek refuge in the comfort of his home, until this evening’s call brought a most unsettling communication that was, while unexpected, almost inevitable given the recent escalation of restlessness amongst his exhausted employees. He could almost feel the handpiece of the telephone vibrate as he shifted it away from his ear, cowering from the lifeless piece of plastic that seemed to shake with the spirit of a man who was located some thousands of miles away in a city where the sun was only just starting to rise.

“How did this happen,” yelled Peter Nagoshi down the phone.

“I told you, Mr. Nagoshi. I do not know.”

“It is your duty to know,” countered the voice. “You are the manager. I do not accept your denial.”

Kwon hesitated then, wondering if perhaps, at least on this occasion, honesty was the safest option. “There has been some unrest. Work continues, but the men are burdened.”

“What unrest?” asked Peter.

“Some talk, some expressions of displeasure regarding the working conditions, the pay.”

“If a man complains I want you to fire him, Mr. Kwon. The workers are amoebas and easily replaced.”

Even Kwon, who was all for pleasing management in the interests of personal advancement, took offense at this latest observation. His men were hard workers, and they toiled under difficult conditions for a mere pittance.

“It is not just the working conditions, Mr. Nagoshi. There have been some questions regarding Mr. Lim and his untimely death.”

“The man was stupid enough to electrocute himself, Mr. Kwon. I am sure the only reason he had not managed to do this to himself at home was because his hovel most likely has no electricity.”

Kwon cringed. “His brother is one of the workers devoted to engine development,” he said. “He is educated and he is angry. He has many friends—those willing to listen to his suspicions that Mr. Lim was taken before his time. The family are Taoists. They follow the art of
wu wei,
which is to let nature take its course, and there is some suggestion Mr. Lim’s course was ended by unnatural means.”

“Ancient Chinese superstition. I will hear no more of this. Insubordination will be met with loss of jobs. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” said Kwon at last. There was a pause, as Mr. Kwon prepared himself for his orders.

“You must find out who betrayed us and relieve them of their employ,” Peter Nagoshi began. “And then . . . then you must triple your efforts, Mr. Kwon. The only way to salvage this disastrous situation is to bring our deadline forward and further reduce the cost of production. If we can cut our bottom line we can release the ‘Dream’ early and at a cheaper price. Then we can, as the Americans like to say, head our competitors off at the passage.”

“What passage, Mr. Nagoshi?” asked Kwon.

“It is a stupid Hollywoodism, Mr. Kwon. Something to do with cowboys and Indians.”

Kwon said nothing.

“Are you listening, Mr. Kwon?” pushed Nagoshi.

“Yes, sir. We shall do our best, but my men are exhausted. We will need some time to . . .”

“You have a week, Mr. Kwon, after that the plant shall exist no more. I can only delay my father so far. His lawyers have his ear and they fill it with the weakness of panic. If you do not succeed he will move my plant to Japan. Your men will die breaking their backs in the slime of their stinking rice fields and you shall, well, to be honest, Mr. Kwon, I could not care what you should do.”

“I understand,” said Kwon, feeling the rise of resentment in his throat.

“Good.”

Seconds later a weary Kwon hung up the phone and rose from his dirty plastic chair, scraping its scratched metal legs across the harsh concrete floor. His perch high above the factory floor used to give him a feeling of satisfaction. He felt big despite his small stature, clever despite his having left school at age ten, and perhaps more importantly, responsible for a troop of dedicated workers toiling toward a common goal.

But more and more over the past months, his eagle-eye view of the world had started to sour. His muscles had begun to shrink as his brow was beaten by a man half his age with all the compassion of a cobra. But Mr. Kwon was not stupid. He had learned much from his hardworking parents, about honor amidst oppression, and strength in the shadow of tyranny.

He moved toward the window to look down upon the factory floor beneath him. There were sixty, perhaps seventy, men still sweating, still toiling, a physical eternity since their arrival some thirteen hours ago. Many were thin and tired, their grease-covered bodies heavy with burden. They were too young and too old, too pale, too weak. And in that moment Kwon Si knew what he had to do.

He found the number in his personal diary. Something had made him write it down all those months ago when the false sun of greed had blinded him to the oncoming storm. He reached to his left to pick up the phone, clearing his throat as he extended his narrow pointer finger to punch in the thirteen digit figure.

To his surprise, the voice answered immediately. It was young and foggy as if it had been pulled from sleep by a secret ready to reveal itself at last.

“Mr. Jones,” said Kwon.

“This is Sawyer Jones.”

“My name is Kwon Si. I am calling from Guangdong. I work for . . .”

“I know who you work for,” said the boy, now awake. “How can I help you, Mr. Kwon?”

“I . . .” Kwon hesitated. “I need to speak with you and your comrades at Solidarity Global, about my . . . about our situation here.”

“It’s all right Mr. Kwon. I understand your predicament, and I realize how hard it must have been for you to make this call. But I think perhaps you are a man of honor, Mr. Kwon, and believe me when I tell you we will help you in any way that we can.”

And then there was a pause.

“Are you at work, Mr. Kwon?”

“Yes.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“You need to go home, Mr. Kwon, and I shall call you there.”

“Do you think this phone might be . . . ?”

“Perhaps. It has happened before.”

“Oh . . . I . . . This is not safe for me or my workers.”

“Give me your home number, Mr. Kwon. Go home and then we shall talk.”

“Yes.”

“But,” Jones started, obviously anxious to ask one further question before the shield of secrecy was set. “One more thing, Mr. Kwon, I need you to think about the question I am going to ask you and I need you to answer me a simple yes or no. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I need to ask about one of your men, or rather a man who used to work for you.” Jones stopped there, obviously not wanting to compromise Kwon’s situation any further.

“Accidents are not always as they seem, Mr. Jones,” answered Kwon as cryptically as he could, given his limited grasp of English nuances and overall fear for his safety. “A flame went out before it reached the end of its wick, Mr. Jones, and now there are many questions as to who blew out the candle.”

“I understand, Mr. Kwon,” said Jones. “I want you to get in your car and . . .”

“I have no car.”

“What?”

“You see the irony,” said Kwon. “I manage an automobile plant and I have no automobile. I cannot afford one, Mr. Jones. I have a wife and five children.”

“So how do you get home, and how long does it take?”

“I walk, Mr. Jones, and it takes me a little under an hour and a half.”

“Give me your number,” said Jones, and Kwon could hear the shuffle as the young American obviously sought out a pen and some paper. “I shall call you in exactly ninety minutes. I promise.”

Breakfast in the Mannix house was pure bedlam. It reminded David of his youth—as one of three scruffy-haired kids clanging plates and spilling juice and arguing over who would get the plastic toy at the bottom of the Cheerios packet, all in the manic confines of the Cavanaughs’ tiny Newark kitchen.

They had tried to reach Joe last night, but it had been Marie Mannix’s birthday and part of Joe’s present to her was his promise to turn off his cell phone while he took her out to their favorite Italian local. And so David left a message and early this morning was woken with an invitation to join Frank McKay at the Mannix household for this frenetic family feast.