Allegiance (24 page)

But how do we know who belongs in Leupp? That, it seems, is where I come in. There is a new director, appointed in the summer of 1943, and he does not know what his residents have done to warrant transfer. This is a problem. Detainees are supposed to receive hearings to determine whether the transfer was justified and when they might return, but the hearings can hardly proceed without any information about the alleged offenses. The director complains to the head of the War Relocation Authority, who sends an alert out to the camp directors. From all the camps, records flow to Washington, to the Department of Justice, to the folder on my desk. I am to evaluate the records and make a recommendation: hold this man or release him.

Easy enough, I think as I begin. It will be like cert work: synthesize the information, weigh the two sides, make a decision. But experience discourages that prophecy.

“There's something wrong,” I tell Felix Frankfurter later that evening.

He tilts his head. “How so?”

“I got through about eight files today. None of them has enough to support detention.”

“There is no explanation for why they are at Leupp?”

“Oh, there is. It's just not good enough.” Sometimes, in fact, it is laughably bad. An informer reports that Minoru Kanno tried to organize a union
among the beet farmers at the Topaz camp. I am not sure that this justifies sending Minoru to Leupp at all, but in any event the man they put in the truck was Masuo Kanno. Two of my eight are mistaken identity. The others are unsourced rumors.
It is reported
, they say,
that George Yamaguchi aided in the planning of an attack on a fellow resident
. It is believed; it is suspected; it is thought. Whispering voices, unsigned notes. How can I decide if these merit trust?

“Well,” says Frankfurter. “If the government thought it was important enough to put in the files, you may presume it is reliable.”

“You think so?”

“Why not? They are experts in these matters.”

“I don't know,” I say. “I was thinking something else.”

“What?”

“I think he's testing me.” By any objective standards, my first day has been disconcerting. Ennis is hostile, Rowe's papers a mess. Everything is wrong, but I take that as a good sign. I have found something at the Department of Justice. In the lack of evidence against the Leupp detainees, in the disarray of Rowe's files. It rises like a whorl of dust. The fingerprint of the enemy, trace of their invisible hand. They have been here.

“That may be,” says Frankfurter. “In which case your course is clear. You must tell him to hold these men. That will prove your loyalty.”

“Even Kanno? They've just got the wrong guy.”

“Who knows when the mistake was made? Perhaps the records are wrong and the man is right.”

“Is it fair to assume that?”

Frankfurter shakes his head. “Do you want to find who killed your friend? Or to be fair to someone you will never see?” I say nothing. “It is the right thing to do, anyway,” he continues. “If there is any chance they are dangerous, they should not be released.”

“I don't think that's what Ennis said.”

“Who cares what he said?” Irritation rises in Frankfurter's voice. “Why should we take the risk? These people use our courts and laws as weapons against us.” His tone softens. “I am not so sure Ennis is testing you. Perhaps mistakes were made. But not every error is sinister. They may be born of fear,
or indifference, or sincere devotion burnished too bright.” He smiles at me, suddenly avuncular. “Still, we should follow all possible leads. Perhaps you are right. See what you can learn from Rowe's papers. Talk to your friend John Hall. For my part, I have been watching the clerks. Murphy's new man arouses my suspicion. And how was your movie?”

“My movie?” The disastrous conversation with Clara returns to my mind. “We didn't go.”

Frankfurter cocks his head. “Why not?”

“She didn't want to.”

“She has some objection to the movies?”

“Seemed more like an objection to me.”

“Not you.” He frowns. “Perhaps she is cautious because she has something to hide. You must try again.”

I consider the possibility. I would rather try to ferret out a conspiracy in the Justice Department. Upon reflection, I would rather do almost anything. “I must?”

“Of course. You are our best means of uncovering the truth.” Frankfurter sets his mouth in a firm line. “I did not think you the sort to shrink from duty.”

He is right. I nod glumly and go. The walk to the Douglas chambers is like a condemned man's march for the scaffold. But then, as I near the door, I come up with a plan.

JOHN HALL RAISES
his squash racquet, his arm floating out and up to head level. He takes two steps backward into the center of the court. Standing behind him near the right wall, I am forced to backpedal also. A final flourish in the windup takes his racquet even higher and signals the start of the downstroke. It is the Merion backswing. I have it too, but the shot he follows with is pure Harvard, a combination of wrist action and forearm rotation that generates so much power the ball comes off the wall with a higher-pitched crack than my hardest drive. Beekman Pool introduced the style, and I remember it from college matches. You can walk past a court and know that Harvard players are warming up by the sound alone.

Hall drives the ball crosscourt to the left wall, near the front. It comes off fast, hitting the front wall low above the tin and trickling into the court. A reverse corner; I anticipate it and start forward as soon as I can, but his backswing has pushed me out of position and the shot is too fine, dying almost immediately. The game is over.

“Another one for the good guys,” Hall says. We shake hands. “Join me for a drink?”

“Sure,” I say. It is becoming a routine: we go to the Metropolitan Club, Hall beats me at squash, and we talk over beer. Two Philadelphia boys.

In the oak-paneled bar, his tone is ingratiating. “Honest, Cash, I'm glad
you're here.” He takes a sip of beer. “That's the stuff. I'm glad I won't have to deal with Rowe anymore, too. He wasn't easy to work with.”

“Really? I hadn't heard that.”

Hall's mouth is full again. He waves his hand, indicating protest or pending clarification, and swallows audibly. “No, no,” he says, “I'm sure he was fine within DOJ. But he was no good as a liaison to the War Department. Karl Bendetsen hated him. He's sure Rowe was out to sabotage the whole program.”

Bendetsen. There's that name again. It fills Rowe's notes. Bendetsen hated Rowe, thought he would undermine the detention. And now Rowe is on a destroyer in the Pacific. Funny how things work out. “ ‘Sabotage' is an ugly word,” I say.

“Yes,” says Hall.

“It would be disloyal,” I continue.

“Yes, it would be.” Hall nods as though encouraging a child. “That's the point. Bendetsen thought Rowe was disloyal.”

“So why didn't you give him a questionnaire to fill out?” I ask.

“Hah,” says Hall. His face assumes a hurt expression. “Try to remember we're on the same side here. You know, I wrote that questionnaire. Took me weeks.”

I take a drink of my own beer. It is refreshing, but rather tasteless. Not like the Yuengling at Merion. “Well, good job.”

“It was a good job,” Hall says. “We got thousands of people to admit they were disloyal. That's an accomplishment, isn't it?”

“If that's what happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“Seems sort of funny, that's all. That you're so worried about who's loyal and who isn't that you have to ship them all off to camps, and then it turns out all you had to do was ask.”

“It's not just asking,” Hall says proudly. “They had to take an oath. And say they're willing to serve.”

I think that Hall's Harvard degree has not cured the streak of idiocy he displayed in high school. Or possibly the War Department has restored it. In
either case, it is time to move on. “So Rowe was no good for you. Ennis was better?”

Hall shrugs. “Not really. No one in Justice has been particularly helpful.” He smiles and lays a hairy hand on the bar near mine. “That's why it's nice to have you here.”

Involuntarily, I move my hand away. “And how about Karl Bendetsen?”

“What?”

“Sounds like he's pretty committed to this program.”

“Yes, he is.”

“How far do you think he'd go to defend it? Do you think he might do something he's not supposed to?”

That gets a reaction from Hall. The dark eyes widen, the thick eyebrows edge up. Then, quickly, a pleased expression replaces the surprise. “He might. Why do you ask?”

My heart begins to beat faster. “I have an interest in the matter.”

Hall looks crafty. “Is it business, or is it personal?”

I consider. “It's personal.”

“I might be able to help you, then. Just to satisfy your interest. But you've got to do something for me.” He is adopting a conspiratorial tone, but for a moment a genuine enthusiasm breaks through. “See, Cash, this is how it's supposed to work. I could never talk like this with Rowe.”

I ignore that. Hall's affect is entirely wrong for someone discussing a murder, but perhaps he knows only part of the truth. Whatever information he has, I want it. “What do you want me to do?”

“Talk to Biddle.”

“About what?”

“So we got several thousand no-nos on the questionnaire. Won't take the oath, won't fight. They're certified disloyal, right?”

“If you say so.”

“I do. We're sending them to the Tule Lake Relocation Center.”

“Great,” I say. “So what do you need me for?”

“The ones who said yes on the questionnaire, the ones who aren't going to Tule Lake.”

“What about them?”

“Well, the Relocation Authority is screwing with us. They're a bunch of sociologists. They've never understood the idea of military necessity. They want to get the detainees out of the camps. They sent ten thousand out last summer on temporary furloughs to harvest the sugar beets, and now they want to say that the ones who don't admit they're disloyal are safe to release. They're willing to let them go if they can find jobs and places to stay. Some of them are out already.” He looks at me expectantly.

I do not see the problem. “So?”

Hall frowns. “Well, they might be disloyal. We've been screening them. Some of them are serious security risks.”

“Even though they took your oath?”

“Come on, Cash. You know a disloyal person would lie.”

“If the disloyal people lie, then who are the ones who refused to take the oath?”

For a moment, Hall looks confused. Then he shakes his head as if to clear it. “Leave that to us. The point is, we've said these people are security threats, and the Relocation Authority is letting them go. And this is where you come in. The War Department wants to know if DOJ will bring them back.”

“Arrest them?”

“If you have to. You can start by asking nicely.”

“I don't know,” I say. I am feeling a flicker of discomfort. Surely Gene Gressman would have been horrified at the idea. In my mind I replay our plan to flush out the leak by giving a fake opinion to the Court printer. Such innocent games, when the enemy was a myth to us, the shadow of fire on a cave wall. Things are different now. Gressman is dead; the enemy is real; Hall has promised me information on Bendetsen. And if all I do is raise the issue, perhaps make a recommendation . . . The ultimate decision will still lie with the Attorney General. I sip my beer. Warmer, but still watery. “I can ask Biddle. But I can't promise anything.”

“Then I guess I can't promise you anything, either. But ask. Tell him it comes from me. I'm sure he'll be reasonable. We're all Philadelphians. That's what Rowe didn't understand. We're all on the same side here.”

“And if he says yes, you'll tell me what Bendetsen did?”

Again there is the widening in his eyes, the lift of the brows, followed by the crafty smile. “Who says he did anything?”

“We should play cards sometime, John.” He frowns uncomprehendingly. I look at my watch. It is almost five.

“Got somewhere to be?” Hall asks. He finishes his beer and signals for another.

“I do, actually.” I drain my glass and put a dime on the bar. “Let me give you something for this.” Hall pushes the coin back to me.

“It's on Uncle Sam,” he says. “Just talk to Biddle.”

• • • • 

Clara has said she will meet me in Dupont Circle. I find her by the fountain in a black dress, and together we walk up Massachusetts Avenue. The after-work crush is thinner here than downtown, where the government girls throng, but it is still a steady stream. Clara gives me an appraising glance as we pick our way along the sidewalk. “Are you sure you're game for this?” I ask. “I told you it would be risky.”

“Better than a movie,” she says.

I hope it will be. The last time I was at Cissy Patterson's house, Drew Pearson told me about a new sport in the capital. Put on a dark suit, he said, get your girl a silk dress, and just walk down Massachusetts Avenue until you see a crowd of people. That will be an embassy party. Tell the greeters you are with Senator Smith and smile your way in.

It seemed audacious enough to lift me from the realm of ice cream soda cliché. In the Douglas chambers, Clara arched an eyebrow as I laid out the possibility. “Were we not clear?”

“We were,” I said. “No talking you into the movies. And this is absolutely not a movie.”

“A fair point,” she said. “Worthy of a lawyer.” In the silence that followed I did my best not to show my nerves. “We are not working together anymore,” she said at last. “And I should like to see an embassy.”