Damned in Paradise

So I jumped in with, “You gotta give the local coppers some credit, Admiral Stirling —they sure picked those hoods up in a hell of a hurry.”

“That was a kindly Providence,” the admiral said. “Were the particulars of their capture in the materials you were provided?”

Darrow glanced at me; he didn’t know.

“No,” I said. “Just that the assailants had been involved in another assault, earlier that night. Was that another rape?”

The admiral shook his head, no. His pipe had gone out. He relighted it as he said, “About forty-five minutes past midnight, only about an hour and a quarter after Mrs. Massie left that nightclub, an automobile with four or five dark-skinned youths bumped bumpers with a car driven by a white man and his kanaka wife.”

“Kanaka?” I asked.

“Hawaiian,” the admiral said, waving out his kitchen match. “Interracial couples are, unfortunately, all too common here. At any rate, one of the dark men got out of the car, saying, ‘Let me at that damn white man!’ But the woman, apparently a husky Island gal, jumped out and confronted the bully. Smacked him a few times, and he scurried away, and he and the other cowards drove off. But the woman got their license number and reported the collision at once to the police. By three o’clock that morning, the five hoodlums who’d been the occupants of that car were rounded up and placed under arrest.”

“Sounds like pretty good police work to me,” I said.

“There are a number of competent officers on the force,” the admiral admitted. “Perhaps you’ve heard of Chang Apana—he’s something of a local celebrity. The fictional Chinese detective Charlie Chan was based on him.”

“Really,” I said. I’d read several Chan serials in The Saturday Evening Post; and there was a pretty good talkie with Warner Oland, the title of which escaped me, which I’d seen last year, at the Oriental. Appropriately enough.

“Unfortunately, Chang Apana is approaching retirement age,” the admiral said, “and his involvement in the Massie case was minimal. But could even his judgment be less than suspect?”

I couldn’t hold back a smile. “You mean, even Charlie Chan can’t be trusted?”

The admiral lifted an eyebrow. “He’s Chinese. His sympathies might well be with the colored defendants. And the vast majority of policemen are Hawaiian, or have Hawaiian blood—there’s a longstanding patronage system giving such individuals an inside track on police jobs.”

If I was supposed to get indignant about police patronage, the admiral was telling the wrong boy: how did he think I got my job on the Chicago PD?

“The Honolulu police department,” the admiral was saying, “is divided against itself in the Massie matter. During the six long weeks it took Mrs. Massie to recover to the point where she could undergo the rigors of a trial, many officers were said to be making reports to the defense attorneys, instead of the DA’s office!”

Darrow gave me a sideways glance that all but said, Where can I find some coppers like that back home?

“And,” continued the admiral, “those hoodlums had the best legal minds in the Territory—William Heen, a Territorial senator and former circuit judge, and William Pittman, brother of U.S. Senator Kay Pittman.”

I asked, “How could a bunch of kid gangsters afford top talent like that?”

The admiral sighed. “Two of the five culprits were of pure Hawaiian blood, so it was no surprise the acknowledged head of their race, Princess Abby Kawananakoa, gave them financial support. After all, her own son is a hoodlum beach boy, in Oahu Prison on a second-degree murder charge.”

“So a defense fund was raised?” Darrow asked.

“Yes. And, keep in mind, both Hawaiian defendants were professional athletes, and local gate-receipt attractions. Managers of sporting contests helped finance the defense as well.”

“Two of the assailants were sports heroes?” I asked. “But you’ve been saying they were hoodlums…”

“They are,” the admiral said crisply, teeth tight around the stem of his pipe. “Ben Ahakuelo is a popular local boxer—he also was convicted with his crony Chang on an attempted rape charge in 1929…. Governor Judd paroled him so he could represent the Territory at the National Amateur Boxing Championship at Madison Square Garden last year. The late Joseph Kahahawai was a football star—and a convicted felon…he did thirty days on a first-degree robbery charge in 1930.”

“What about the other two boys?” Darrow asked.

“They had no criminal records,” the admiral said with a shrug, “but they were known as bad characters by the police, with no visible means of support. And all five were soon out on bail, thanks to Princess Abby and the defense fund. Ahakuelo and Kahahawai continued playing football each Sunday, their names emblazoned in headlines on the sports pages of our Honolulu papers….” He sighed, shook his head. “In spite of the discipline I maintain on this base, I half-expected to find those savages swinging by the neck from trees up Nuuana Valley or at the Pali.”

“And of course,” Darrow said gravely, “one of the defendants was seized and beaten by Navy men….”

The admiral nodded matter-of-factly. “Yes. Horace Ida, severely so, and I believe that the discipline our men were under prevented more drastic action being taken upon him. They were trying to obtain a confession…”

Darrow asked, “Did they succeed?”

“Rumor is, yes…but the duress involved would negate it. By the way, I allowed Ida to be brought around, to have a look at the sailors on liberty that night, and he was able to make no identification.”

Not surprising. You know what they say—all white boys look alike.