Damned in Paradise

name.”

We spent the better part of two days prowling a maze of dark alleyways, crooked paths, and narrow lanes, street after unpaved street where if I were to outstretch my arms I could touch a wall on either side. I never quite got used to the sickly-sweet stench of the nearby pineapple canneries that merged here with the salty odor of the marshlands below the city. And the sagging balconies and rickety wooden stairs of tenements made the Maxwell Street ghetto of my childhood seem like Hyde Park.

Chang questioned various whores, pimps, and assorted hardcases, sometimes in Hawaiian, sometimes in Cantonese, occasionally in Japanese, in neighborhoods with names that were a little too vivid for comfort: Blood Town, Tin Can Alley, Hell’s Half Acre. In Aala Park, Chang questioned rummies and hip-pocket bootleggers; but in Mosquito Flats, a disturbingly pretty, disturbingly young-looking prostitute in a red silk slit-up-the-sides dress told him something that made his eyes flash.

He grabbed her by the arm, tight, and spat Cantonese at her. Scared as hell, she squealed a stream of Cantonese back at him—but she seemed only to be repeating what she’d said before, louder.

And I thought I’d made out two English words: “Lie man!”

Now Chang was really walking fast. Something was bothering him.

“What did she say? What’s going on, Chang?”

“Nothing. Crazy talk.”

“What did she say? Did she give you a name?”

“Dead end.”

“What? Chang, did I hear her call you a liar?”

But he wouldn’t say any more about it, and the sun was going down, so it was time for the haole from Chicago to head to friendlier territory. We walked to our cars, parked on Beretania Street, and Chang paused at his Model T.

“So sorry I was of so small help,” Chang said.

“We going to pick up tomorrow where we left off?”

“No. Nowhere else to ask.”

“Hey, we haven’t even tried the residential neighborhoods yet.”

A rabbit warren of slum housing nearby included the home of the late Joe Kahahawai.

“With respect,” Chang said, “I decline offer further assistance.”

And the little man got in his car and rumbled off.

“What the hell,” I said to nobody.

Before I drove all the way back to Waikiki, I used a pay phone and checked with Leisure at the Alexander Young.

“Any word?” I asked.

“Glad you called,” he said. “We were just leaving for the courthouse. There’s a verdict.”

“Christ! How long did it take, anyway?”

“Fifty hours. Two hours ago, the judge asked the jury if they felt they could reach a verdict…we all thought we were headed to a hung-jury mistrial, like the Ala Moana case…but they said they could. And they did. See you over there?”

“See you over there.”

Darrow was right: it was manslaughter.

When the court clerk read the verdict, Thalia stood up, next to her husband, as if she were one of the defendants upon whom judgment was being pronounced. All four were declared equally guilty, but with “leniency recommended.”

The defendants took it stoically: a thin smile traced Mrs. Fortescue’s lips, and Tommie stood erect, Lord too, though Jones was nibbling at his fingernails. Thalia, on the other hand, went completely out of control, weeping and wailing.

Over Thalia’s sobs, the judge set sentencing for a week later, and prosecutor Kelley agreed to allow the prisoners to be kept in the Navy’s custody, on the Alton, until that time. The judge thanked and dismissed the jurors.

Thalia’s wailing continued, but Tommie said to her, surprisingly harshly, “Get ahold of yourself!” And she quieted down.

The public was filing out, but the reporters were swarming forward. Perhaps knowing he was under their watchful eye, Darrow went over to Kelley, shook the prosecutor’s hand, and said, “Congratulations.” Patient as a pallbearer, Chang Apana was waiting to escort the defendants to the Shore Patrol, and allowed Lord and Jones to shake hands with Kelley and proclaim no hard feelings.

Tommie held his hand out to Kelley. “If I ever had anything against you—”

Kelley, shaking Tommie’s hand, interrupted, saying, “I’ve never had anything personally against you, or your wife.”

Thalia snapped, “Oh really? Then you ought to look up the difference between ‘prosecution’ and ‘persecution.’”

The reporters were grinning as they jotted down this juicy exchange.

Tommie was again quieting Thalia down, whispering to her. She folded her arms, looked away, poutily.