Sweat
The Story Plantâ¨
The Aronica-Miller Publishing Project, LLC
P.O. Box 4331â¨
Stamford, CT 06907
Copyright © 2012 by Mark Gilleo
Jacket design by Barbara Aronica Buck
Print ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-051-9
E-book ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-052-6
Visit our website at
www.thestoryplant.com
All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, except as provided by US Copyright Law.
For information, address The Story Plant.
First Story Plant Printing: August 2012
Printed in The United States of America
Acknowledgments can be tricky. There is always the risk of forgetting someone. I tried to keep this in mind when I was writing the acknowledgement section for my first novel,
Love Thy Neighbor
. Then I promptly forgot someone I had no excuse for omitting. So with that oversight in mind, I would like to thank my good friend, Tim Davis. Tim helped with both this manuscript and the last, and went as far as to try to teach me some proofreading symbols in his editing efforts. He is a better teacher than I am a student. So thank you Tim, and this time around you get top billing.
For this book, I would once again like to thank my A-team of readers: Jim Singleton, Fabio Assmann, Tim Davis, Michele Gates, Don Gilleo, Claire Everett and Sue Fine. I would also like to thank a couple of other people for their opinions, help, support, and in at least one case, a potential idea for a future book. So for their various input, contribution and support, I would like to thank Sharon Mitchell, Marlo Ivey, Cornelia Newbold, Amy Ganz and Jim Mockus. I would also like to thank Lou Aronica and The Story Plant.
And last, but certainly not least, I would like to thank my family and friends, in particular my wife, Ivette.
Morphine made the Sunday paper more palatable. For as long as Jake could remember, coffee had been the chosen accompaniment for the Lord's Day morning ritual. Mass, a thick paper, the Sunday ads, and a pot of good drip coffee. But when a yellow hue in the eyes indicates liver failure, and when the kidneys are relying on a dialysis machine to do their work, routines have a way of changing. Sure, caffeine was the still the champ of the legal morning kick, but it did little to ease bone-deep pain.
The story began in the lower left corner on the front page of
The Washington Post
and snaked through several columns between pages eight and ten. Jake, dressed in jeans and a dark blue Georgetown University t-shirt, his Sunday's best gathering dust in the closet, took a sip of water. He cleared his throat and read aloud with smooth clarity and muted animation, taking cues from the professional voices on the audio books that were strewn about the corner table in the bedroom. The article was a human-interest story, a journalist's rendition of the facts, pieces of a case pulled together from observations, known habits, and evidence:
Kazu stepped off the front porch and stared at the light shining through the trees and fog in the strip of woods between his house and the gas station mini-mart on Route 18. It was time for his evening study-break. Straight A's didn't come easy, and Kazu powered his cerebral engine with Mountain Dew and Skittles.
The son of Japanese parents working for a local Sharp Electronics research facility, studying was a way of life. He didn't have the verve of an immigrant's son trying to pull himself from a third-world background. His father was an engineer, his mother the daughter of one. They had moved from Tokyo, hardly a city teeming with flies and raw sewage. No, Kazu didn't have to study to climb the social ladder. He had to study because his parents were Japanese and they demanded that he did. It was that simple.
The mini-mart with two pumps in the front parking lot was off the beaten track, two miles from the center of town and the strip malls and supermarkets that sprung up during the years following the high-tech boom in the great Northwest.
Luke “Pops” Wilson greeted everyone who came into his establishment with the same smile, a modest flash of dentures and reborn Christianity. At sixty-five, his face weathered by the passage of life and years of wild youth, Pops was now a man of peace. When the young man entered the store from the fog and darkness and asked to use the john, Pops smiled and pointed to the single door on the far side of the establishment he had owned for over three decades. As his only patron in the last hour weaved his way past the coffee machine, the hot-dog roller, and the long aisle of candy and chips, Pops looked out the front window at an empty lot.
He turned on the small radio he kept on the counter and checked the clock on the wall. In twenty minutes he would hit the lights, count the day's cash, and put it in the safe in the small office in the back of the single story building. Tomorrow he would start over at the crack of dawn and thank the good Lord for his job and the ability to serve the public with petrol and snacks for the road.
Pops heard the door to the bathroom shut and looked up. By the time the flash of darkness moving behind the far aisle registered, it was too late. The blast from the sawed-off double-barreled shotgun sent him into the cigarette and chewing tobacco display, nicotine vices raining down on his body as it crashed to the floor. Sprawled on the tiles, Pops fought for consciousness as the backside of a dark sweatshirt dug through the register and shoved wads of cash into its pockets. When Pops opened his eyes again, he was alone. With waning strength, he squirmed across the floor and pushed the silent alarm button under the counter with the toe of his boot. Gasping, he pulled the phone off the counter by its cord. The call to 911 was the last one Pops would ever make.
Kazu Ito walked into the mini-mart with his hood on and his iPod blaring. He bee-lined it for the cold sodas in the refrigerator in the back of the store and stopped at the magazine rack on his way to the register to check out AutoWeek's Import Car of the Year. Mountain Dew and Skittles in hand, music playing beneath his hood, Kazu never saw the police officer high on adrenaline and hell-bent on blind justice. He never heard the word “freeze.”
The mini-mart, thirty years without incident, claimed its second victim in ten minutes. By the time the ambulance and police back-up arrived on the scene, the sawed-off shotgun left by the original robber was resting firmly in Kazu's rapidly cooling hands and the store's surveillance tape had magically disappeared.
Jake stopped reading as the boney hand of his lone audience landed on his arm. He looked over at the gaunt face next to him and watched her chest rise and fall in shallow breaths. He read the last paragraph of the article to himself and folded the paper in his lap.
Kazu Ito was dead. That was the only fact that really mattered, the only fact that had a family in the Seattle suburb of South Renton screaming for justice and weeping for consolation. The rest of the story was a distraction. The Kazu Ito incident was the third killing of an innocent Asian in the Seattle region by law enforcement in just under a year. But before he rested in peace, Kazu would reach out from the great beyond to jumpstart the biggest news story of the year.
And Jake's life would hang in the balance.
The half-paved road made a wide turn around a stand of palm trees and abruptly ended at a closed metal gate fifty yards ahead. The black four-door sedan with tinted windows rounded the curve and hit its brakes, a cloud of dirt washing over the freshly waxed vehicle. The trailing white ten-seater van steered its way through the wave of dust, bounced through a rut in the road, and lurched to a final halt, brakes screeching.
Senator John Day primped himself in the backseat of the car. He straightened the collar of his shirt, checked his fly, and decided for the second time that he looked dapper enough for the camera and the occasion.
“Are we ready to do this thing?” the senator asked, not looking for an answer. His Chief of Staff nodded from the driver's seat as he put the car into park.
Senator Day stepped from the car and stared down the towering fence line with as much stoicism as his jet-lagged mind could muster. His tall lean frame hunched forward and he pressed his hands into the small of his back. “My back is killing me.”
Peter Winthrop, American businessman-turned-tour-guide, rose from his side of the car. “Eighteen hours on a plane isn't good for anyone except a chiropractor and his accountant.”
Peter took a deep breath of the saltwater-laden air, and stared at the sprawling compound of buildings and warehouses in front of them. “What do you think?” he asked, looking over the roof of the vehicle.
“Christ, Peter. It looks like a prison camp.” The senator ran his fingers through his straight salt-and-pepper hair and contemplated the task at hand.
“It is a prison camp,” Peter responded with a smile, hitting the senator on the shoulder as he made his way around the trunk of the car. “But it's
our
prison camp.”
The door to the white van slid open and a four-man filming crew poured from the vehicle into the blistering afternoon sun. A blurry layer of haze and heat hovered over the ground, the warmth of the earth radiating up the pants legs of the politician from Massachusetts.
“Where is our host?” Senator Day asked.
“I thought we'd be met at the entrance,” Peter answered. “Let me see what I can do.”
“Please. I didn't just travel halfway around the world to stand in the heat.”
Peter walked past the closed gate of the ten-acre facility, his tanned skin relishing in the tropical sun. He peeked into the unmanned guard booth and picked up a gray phone on a wooden post near the massive chain-link fence. Peter frowned at the phone, a telecommunications relic without a dial, and put it to his ear. A faint ring teased the limits of his hearing, and he pressed the phone harder to the side of his head.
Across the dirt entrance to the facility, the senator's filming entourage stared at their destination, mouths gaping, eyes bulging. The pudgy cameraman with a perfectly trimmed goatee squinted behind his designer sunglasses. “Good God,” he said.
“âGood God' what?” the senator snapped from a distance.
“Sir, I think that is razor wire,” the cameraman quipped, pointing his finger to the large rolls of flesh-slicing metal that topped the fence for as far as the eye could see. “I'm not so sure⦔
Senator Day growled. “You are getting paid to film and keep your mouth shut. You'll do exactly as you are told. You'll film what I tell you to film. No razor wire, no gates, no security guards, no guns. Keep it clean.” The senator paused and then continued. “No, scratch that. I don't want clean, I want fucking
charming
. Think Disneyland.”
A glint of disdain simmered in the cameraman's eyes.
“Well, get moving,” the senator snapped. He always felt better when he was giving orders.
The cameraman turned toward his director's assistant, his soundman, and the college intern who did most of the heavy work. “Let's get the equipment out of the van. We can start filming an opening sequence with the company sign in the background.” The senator nodded at the cameraman and smiled. The freshly painted
Chang I
n
dustries
sign was sandwiched between a set of soaring palm trees, the white lettering on the blue background melting perfectly into the tropical sea in the distance.
The college intern, the lone wheel in his mind beginning to turn, mumbled to the bohemian director-in-training. “Is that fence to keep people in or to keep people out?” The entourage, hands full of camera equipment, paused briefly and looked back up at the fence.
No one answered.
The senator's chief aide and head of public relations, Scott Ryder, a Columbia grad with a Tom Cruise smile, stood next to his boss as Senator Day rubbed his chin, one elbow on the roof of the car.
“Sir, quite frankly the cameraman isn't the only one concerned. I have my reservations as well.”
“Scott, your opinion is noted.”
“Senator, if someone should decide to check out this facility, to verify our little show, it could prove, shall we say, problematic.” The senator's aide, still looking impeccable after twenty-four hours on the road, shifted his weight from foot to foot as if he had to take a leak.
“That's what I have you for, to ensure that things don't become problematic.”
“Sir, with all due respect, there could be ramifications⦔
“Thank you,” the senator said sternly, looking down his nose at his aide. “I'll notify you when your opinion is needed again.”
Peter Winthrop leaned on the post next to the fence and finished his conversation before hanging up the phone. He turned his broad shoulders toward the senator and approached the hood of the car with a smile. He loosened his royal blue tie and spoke with his usual car salesman tone.
“The owner apologizes for keeping us waiting. Someone will open the gate momentarily. The guard at the front gatehouse is making his afternoon patrol of the perimeter. He should have been here to let us in.”
“Patrolling the perimeter?”
“I'm sure it's just an expression.”
Senator Day turned at the waist and looked around. Scott was sulking near the trunk, shuffling through his electronic organizer and the senator's schedule for the upcoming week. Across the makeshift movie studio at the entrance to Chang Industries, the cameraman arranged the angle of the video camera on a tripod and assessed the lighting. He ordered his crew around like a basketball coach without a whiteboard, fingers pointing left, arms darting right.
The senator leaned toward Peter and spoke quietly. “Peter, this place isn't exactly as advertised.”
“Since when is advertising accurate?”
“This is not a joke.”
“Everything is fine, Senator. You wanted a garment manufacturing facility. I give you Chang Industries. I've been doing business with the Chang family for years. It has been a mutually beneficial and financially rewarding relationship. This place is ours for the filming. Just look around. Fabulous sunsets, views of the ocean, palm trees, and not a cloud in the sky.”
“Nothing is perfect,” the senator said. A bead of sweat ran down his brow, past the distinguished crows-feet stretching from the corner of his grey eyes.
“Relax, Senator. After we film, I'll see to it that you get a massage. Maybe get two girls to work on you. Clothing optional.”
The senator paused. “No one underage.”
“Of course,” Peter answered, smiling.
A brief, audible buzz interrupted the conversation. The front gate to the facility chugged with a rattle of loose metal, then began to slide open without further protest.
Lee Chang and a well-built Chinese employee made their way across the open dirt lot between the gate and the main building. Senator Day's eyes passed over the manager of the facility and settled on the enormous employee with the ponytail and powerful swagger. The senator muttered under his breath. “Look at this guy. The Mountain of Shanghai.”
Peter grunted in response.
Lee Chang stepped through the still-moving gate and greeted Peter with a handshake and a pat on the shoulder. “Good to see you again, Peter,” Lee said in near perfect English. “Sorry to keep you waiting. One of my guards should have been here to let you in.” Lee's red silk button-down shirt flapped lightly in the wind. His jet-black hair was freshly combed, a thin moustache stretched over his lip.
“I hear he was patrolling the perimeter,” the senator said.
“Lee,” Peter interrupted, pulling his host by the elbow. “It's a great honor for me to introduce Senator John Day from Massachusetts.”
“Senator Day, it's a pleasure to meet you. Welcome to Saipan, Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands.”
“Thank you for allowing us to visit your facilities.”
“The pleasure is mine, Senator. Anything you need, just ask. Anything at all.” Lee Chang stepped aside and his oversized companion cast a shadow on the senator's torso. “I would like to introduce my assistant and a longtime associate of the Chang family, Chow Ying. He arrived last month to help me out here at Chang Industries.”
“Exactly what does he help with, moving furniture?” the senator asked, smiling and extending his hand.
More handshakes followed as the senator's chief-of-staff and the camera crew were introduced. Behind his calm exterior, the senator's penetrating grey eyes were measuring everything in his vision. Next to him, Peter Winthrop also calculated the possibilities of the scenario. While Lee Chang was playing the role of gracious host, all sides knew it was a wad of cash in a brown envelope that was the main motivation behind the welcoming committee.
The senator looked around at the afternoon sky and spoke. “It would be great if we could get a tour and pick our spots for filming.”
“Of course, Senator. This way please.”
Lee Chang sugarcoated the tour of the facilities as he walked, the live performance of a rehearsal perfected earlier in the day. He kept his visitors moving, answering the senator's questions as the cameraman took notes and the entourage lugged equipment and whispered among themselves.
“Chang Industries is truly a global success story,” Lee Chang said, his hands sweeping in a grand gesture away from his body. “Our workers are the epitome of the success of globalization. The standard of living and wages we supply our workers will deliver them and their families from the poverty of some of the poorest countries in the region.” Lee paused for effect. “And, as you all know, everything produced here on Saipan is officially made in the U.S.A.”
“Everyone wins,” the senator said aloud.
“Everyone wins,” Lee Chang repeated.
“Could you tell us more about your employees?” Peter asked, knowing the response before it was given.
“Our girls are very well cared for,” Lee said. “We run the cleanest facility on the island. As you are about to see.”
Lee Chang briefly glanced around the property for his missing guard and then continued his tour. “There are three main buildings here at Chang Industries, in addition to several smaller structures where we store chemicals, tools, excess material. The building on the left houses an infirmary and an office on the first floor. My personal residence is above the infirmary on the top two floors. My home is not very large, but it is more than adequate for my simple tastes. The building in the middle is the workshop floor. Two warehouses are located in the back of the workshop at the rear of the building. On a busy day we have over a hundred workers in here, making everything from winter parkas to khaki shorts.”
As the group approached the front doors of the workshop floor, Lee Chang continued. “The large building to the right is the seamstresses' living quarters, which I will show you momentarily.”
The cameraman asked the entourage to hold their position in front of the building. He snapped several still frame shots and filmed a minute of footage with the senator and his chief-of-staff surrounded by Lee Chang, Peter Winthrop, and the large Chang Industries employee.
Lee Chang led the smile-brigade until the cameraman dutifully said, “cut.” The light on the video camera clicked off, and Lee Chang forged ahead. “As I mentioned, the building we are about to enter is the main floor of the manufacturing facility. Twenty-five thousand square feet of efficiency.”
The tour of Chang Industries took just over two hours. They filmed inside the main doors to the facilities and next to the entrance to a scrubbed and sterilized warehouse. Long tables stretched from one end of the work floor to the other, the hard benches made from mismatched planks of wood tidily tucked under the tables, out of sight. Flower bouquets stood at the end of each row of workbenches.
“Can we film in the seamstresses' quarters?” the senator asked.
“Of course. Of course,” Lee Chang answered.
The crowd walked through the double doors of the seamstresses' quarters, past a pile of neatly stacked shoes and slippers near the entrance. Lee Chang led them to the first room on the right. The movie set was built and waiting for the camera.
“This room is typical of the housing here at Chang Industries. Each worker has her own bed, TV, air conditioning, and desk. There is a shared bathroom at the end of the hall that was remodeled last summer.”
Peter took his turn giving orders. “Film this room. Be sure to get the TV and the air-conditioning.” He turned toward the senator and winked. “This room is better than most college dorms, and we pay twenty grand a year for our kids to have that privilege.”
The camera crew set their equipment in the hall and filmed directly into the room. “Where are the workers now?” the cameraman asked, earning him a scowl from the senator.
“I arranged for the workers to have the afternoon off in the city. I thought it would expedite your filming efforts.”
The cameraman knew he was being lied to. What he didn't know was that upstairs, packed eight to a room, a hundred seamstresses from a dozen Southeast Asian countries were huddled behind locked doors. Sweating through another tropical afternoon, they took turns rubbing each other's backs, putting hand lotion on their calloused knuckles, nursing various ailments that came with carpal tunnel syndrome and the occasional on-the-job beating. They didn't know who their visitors were, or why they had spent most of the day cleaning a hole-in-the-wall sweatshop. But they would know when their visitors left. They would be back at their machines before the front gate closed.