Damned in Paradise

“So you just walked off.”

“Yeah. I…and, uh…yeah, just walked off.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You were going to say something else, Jimmy. Finish your story.”

“It’s finished.”

I stood up, looked down at him, the nine-millimeter in hand, not so casually now. “What else did you see? You saw a struggle, didn’t you?”

“No! No, not…not exactly.”

I kicked his shoe. “What, Jimmy?”

“I heard her kinda…I dunno, squeal or maybe scream.”

“And you looked back, and what did you see?”

“They were kinda…draggin’ her into the car. It was like, you know, she maybe changed her mind. Maybe she was just doin’ it for show, saying yes to those boys, to get back at me, and once I turned around and walked off, she tried to brush the niggers off maybe…and they weren’t takin’ no for an answer.”

“They dragged her in the car and drove off. And what did you do about it, Jimmy?”

We both knew the answer. We both knew he hadn’t gone back and reported seeing an abduction, not to Tommie or the cops or anybody.

But I asked him again, anyway: “What did you do, Jimmy?”

He swallowed. “Nothing. Not a damn thing. I figured…she was an immature little bitch and a nasty little slut and the hell with her! Let her…let her get what she deserved.”

“Is that what she got, Jimmy?”

He began to weep.

“Suppose ol’ Joe Kahahawai got what he deserved, Jimmy?” I grunted a laugh. “You know what I think? Sooner or later we all do.”

“Don’t…don’t…don’t tell anybody.”

“Do my best,” I said, putting the nine-millimeter back in its holster, almost feeling sorry for the bastard. Almost.

That’s where and how I left him—sitting on the floor, crying into his hands, sniffling, swallowing snot.

Getting back out into the smoky air of the noisy, boozy club felt damn near cleansing.

18

The aftermath of the trial, in Honolulu, was surprisingly uneventful. The chief of police doubled the foot patrol and armed his squad cars with machine guns and tear gas, in case of unrest; who the chief expected to riot was never exactly clear, as the kanaka population was fairly content with the manslaughter verdict, and the haoles weren’t likely to rise up against themselves. Admiral Stirling made noises about “henceforth viewing Hawaii as foreign soil,” and a group of Navy wives announced a boycott of firms employing members of the jury. That was about it.

But back home, a tropical hurricane was pummeling the Capitol dome. Letters, wires, petitions, and long- distance calls bombarded Congress and President Hoover with outrage over the verdict, stirred by the Hearst papers running day-after-day front-page boxed editorials demanding that the Massie defendants be brought home and “given the protection American citizens should be properly entitled to.”

“We have it on good authority,” Leisure told me, “that Governor Judd received a bipartisan petition from both houses of Congress, pleading for the freeing of the defendants. One hundred thirty-some signatures.”

We were seated at a small round table amid the indoor palms of the Coconut Grove Bar at the Royal Hawaiian; it was midafternoon and not very busy, more red-jacketed Oriental waiters than guests.

“If Capitol Hill wants a pardon for our clients,” I said, sipping a Coke I’d spiked from my flask of rum, “why don’t they get Hoover to do it?”

Leisure, casual in a blue open-neck silk shirt, sipped his iced tea and smiled lazily; either this case, or the balmy climate, seemed to have sapped his endless energy. “The President doesn’t have the legal authority, Nate, to issue pardons in territories.”

“So it’s up to the governor.”

Leisure nodded. “Meanwhile, back in the hallowed halls, senators and representatives are stumbling over each other in a rush to introduce bills proposing pardons…not to mention a revival of interest in the effort to place Hawaii under military rule.”

“C.D.’s got the governor in a tight spot.”

“Judd’s not easily pushed around,” Leisure said, raising an eyebrow. “In our first meeting, he spoke of not being blackmailed by the irresponsible, sensationalistic mainland newspapers.”

“Hearst? Sensationalistic? Irresponsible? Perish the thought.” I sipped my rum and Coke. “You said ‘first’ meeting.”

“We meet again tomorrow evening. Darrow’s hoping you’ll have something for him on the Ala Moana case before then.”

I hadn’t told Darrow or Leisure about Bradford’s story; I was still hoping to lay hands on Sammy, first.

“Tell C.D. I’ll meet him for lunch tomorrow at the Young. I’ll see what I can come up with.”