with stiff fingers, trying to press out the tension locked there.
The steel cell gate slid open with a bang and he followed the guard to the interview room. There was a disinfectant smell in the air as they went down the dimly lit corridor.
Law on Order
Johnny’s gwailo , Caucasian, lawyer, whom he knew as “Leemon,” wore a charcoal-gray suit and stared at him with blue shark eyes from behind the metallic briefcase he’d opened on the interview table.
Next to him sat brother Tsai Ming Hui, who looked as if he were in his late twenties like Johnny himself, and who, representing the Hip Ching Benevolent Association, was involved in his defense. Ah Tsai’s wire-frame eyeglasses and combed-back hair made him out to be a manager or administrator for his tong sponsors. What rank, Johnny could not determine.
They believed in his innocence but needed to find the missing woman.
He’d had no other recourse from his Rikers Island cell.
As always, they’d reassured him that they’d obtain his freedom, and assist him in relocating elsewhere. Like a witness protection program, he imagined.
The lawyer, “Lee-mon,” made announcements in gwailo English that Johnny couldn’t understand.
“I’ve filed another motion to reduce bail,” Sheldon Littman said, glancing at Tsai, “or to get you transferred to the federal lockup on Pearl Street. I feel they’re backing off murder one but we’re not accepting manslaughter, either.”
“We’re trying to get you to a better jail, near Chinatown,” translated Tsai. “Your lawyer feels that the prosecutors don’t have a case.” Tsai turned away from Littman, saying, “Also, about the bail: the association’s member’s restaurants proved to be unreliable as collateral. Too many silent partners.”
Johnny nodded, disappointed. He’d heard a similar claim during their last meeting.
“We’re canvassing the membership,” Tsai continued in a confidential tone. “For houses, family homes we can use toward the bond. We’ll have to wait and see.”
Johnny had also heard this before; different words, same meaning. He noticed Lee-mon observing Tsai go , curious about the long translation of his own brief statements.
Tsai turned to Littman, saying in his Hong Kong English, “Don’t be concerned. I am keeping his hope alive.” He smiled. “It is a Chinese thing.”
Littman narrowed his eyes at Johnny, cracked a crooked smile. Tsai, turning back to Johnny, continued, “Now, you said you remembered something.”
Johnny hesitated.
“Don’t worry,” Tsai reassured him, “he doesn’t understand Cantonese.”
Johnny took a breath. “I had a dream,” he began. “Maybe it means something”.
“Go ahead.”
“She had a lot of different jewelry, I remembered, but she always wore a jade charm. Hanging off her wrist. It was white and gray, with pa kua , Taoist, designs on it. Round, like a coin, a nickel.”
“Was she religious?” asked Tsai.
“I don’t think so. But I heard her praying once.”
“Praying?”
“Like chanting.”
“Buddhist?”
“Maybe. She did it low, almost whispering. And she stopped when she became aware of my presence.”
Tsai was silent. Buddhist, he thought, so it would be wise to check Chinatown temples.
Littman interjected, “Tell him what we’ll do to the Chinese cop on the stand, once he mentions the missing lady. The person of interest.”
Tsai didn’t let his annoyance show, but instead smiled quietly at the intrusion.
“Your lawyer,” he translated, “assures you the courts will rule in your favor.” He nodded at Littman, who seemed pleased.
The Chinese cop, Tsai remembered, the American-born Chinese, the jook sing , empty piece of bamboo. They would dredge up his tainted career, his Chinatown misadventures, and destroy his credibility.
“Time’s up!” yelled the prison guard, opening the door of the interview room with a bang.
Littman shook Johnny’s hand, saying, “No worries, be patient,” and
The steel cell gate slid open with a bang and he followed the guard to the interview room. There was a disinfectant smell in the air as they went down the dimly lit corridor.
Law on Order
Johnny’s gwailo , Caucasian, lawyer, whom he knew as “Leemon,” wore a charcoal-gray suit and stared at him with blue shark eyes from behind the metallic briefcase he’d opened on the interview table.
Next to him sat brother Tsai Ming Hui, who looked as if he were in his late twenties like Johnny himself, and who, representing the Hip Ching Benevolent Association, was involved in his defense. Ah Tsai’s wire-frame eyeglasses and combed-back hair made him out to be a manager or administrator for his tong sponsors. What rank, Johnny could not determine.
They believed in his innocence but needed to find the missing woman.
He’d had no other recourse from his Rikers Island cell.
As always, they’d reassured him that they’d obtain his freedom, and assist him in relocating elsewhere. Like a witness protection program, he imagined.
The lawyer, “Lee-mon,” made announcements in gwailo English that Johnny couldn’t understand.
“I’ve filed another motion to reduce bail,” Sheldon Littman said, glancing at Tsai, “or to get you transferred to the federal lockup on Pearl Street. I feel they’re backing off murder one but we’re not accepting manslaughter, either.”
“We’re trying to get you to a better jail, near Chinatown,” translated Tsai. “Your lawyer feels that the prosecutors don’t have a case.” Tsai turned away from Littman, saying, “Also, about the bail: the association’s member’s restaurants proved to be unreliable as collateral. Too many silent partners.”
Johnny nodded, disappointed. He’d heard a similar claim during their last meeting.
“We’re canvassing the membership,” Tsai continued in a confidential tone. “For houses, family homes we can use toward the bond. We’ll have to wait and see.”
Johnny had also heard this before; different words, same meaning. He noticed Lee-mon observing Tsai go , curious about the long translation of his own brief statements.
Tsai turned to Littman, saying in his Hong Kong English, “Don’t be concerned. I am keeping his hope alive.” He smiled. “It is a Chinese thing.”
Littman narrowed his eyes at Johnny, cracked a crooked smile. Tsai, turning back to Johnny, continued, “Now, you said you remembered something.”
Johnny hesitated.
“Don’t worry,” Tsai reassured him, “he doesn’t understand Cantonese.”
Johnny took a breath. “I had a dream,” he began. “Maybe it means something”.
“Go ahead.”
“She had a lot of different jewelry, I remembered, but she always wore a jade charm. Hanging off her wrist. It was white and gray, with pa kua , Taoist, designs on it. Round, like a coin, a nickel.”
“Was she religious?” asked Tsai.
“I don’t think so. But I heard her praying once.”
“Praying?”
“Like chanting.”
“Buddhist?”
“Maybe. She did it low, almost whispering. And she stopped when she became aware of my presence.”
Tsai was silent. Buddhist, he thought, so it would be wise to check Chinatown temples.
Littman interjected, “Tell him what we’ll do to the Chinese cop on the stand, once he mentions the missing lady. The person of interest.”
Tsai didn’t let his annoyance show, but instead smiled quietly at the intrusion.
“Your lawyer,” he translated, “assures you the courts will rule in your favor.” He nodded at Littman, who seemed pleased.
The Chinese cop, Tsai remembered, the American-born Chinese, the jook sing , empty piece of bamboo. They would dredge up his tainted career, his Chinatown misadventures, and destroy his credibility.
“Time’s up!” yelled the prison guard, opening the door of the interview room with a bang.
Littman shook Johnny’s hand, saying, “No worries, be patient,” and
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