Imelda had already accomplished an all-out miracle. Four desks with computers were up and running, giving the place the look of a long-established law office, barring the contradictory presence of hair supplies cluttered all over the counters. One of her clerks was typing, another was filing, and the third was taking dictation from Keith.
Imelda was seated in one of the four parlor chairs, feet kicked up, proofreading some legal document, slashing away with a thick red pen, looking like the Queen of Sheba. I swore I’d never forgive her.
A message awaited us, too. It was from the embassy and said that Katherine and I were invited to a powwow in the office of the Republic of Korea’s minister of justice at 1:00 P.M. It being twenty till, the two of us frantically dashed outside and jumped into a sedan. We raced for the front gate, and it wasn’t until we were almost there before I realized we were completely screwed. The gate was bound to be choked up with protesters.
But when we arrived, the Korean fellas in blue suits were already hammering folks aside to make room for us to pass. It had to be Imelda, of course. She’d obviously called ahead. The woman never missed a beat.
The ministry was located five miles away, and fortunately the traffic, which in Seoul almost always moves like constipated molasses, was suspiciously light. Probably everybody and his brother was out protesting against us Americans, which falls under the heading of what you might call a mixed blessing.
The overly elegant Mr. Brandewaite and his trusted henchman, Colonel Piranha Lips, awaited us at the grand entrance to the Ministry of Justice.
Hands were swiftly shaken while Brandewaite, with a very virtuous look, said, “Hey, I’m damned sorry for that testy meeting this morning. I’m on your side in this thing. Please believe that. I called the minister and persuaded him to at least hear your argument. Now it’s in your hands. I wish I could do more, but my own hands are completely tied.”
Bullshit. This guy was the acting ambassador in a country that thoroughly depended on us to keep the North Koreans from launching what businessmen call a hostile takeover. There were all kinds of things he could do. The only reason he’d even lifted a pinkie was because he was scared witless about being publicly barbecued by Katherine’s gay buddies. But I kept that thought to myself.
We then trooped up some big stairs and walked across a wide hallway to a set of carved mahogany doors. Brandewaite and Janson seemed to know their way. We entered a cavernous anteroom with about six secretaries scattered at various desks. Brandewaite said something in Korean and one of the secretaries leaped from her chair in the obsequious way some Korean women have, bowed demurely, then led us to another set of carved doors. She knocked gently and we entered.
It was a big office with high ceilings, decorated, like most Korean official suites, with cheap-looking furniture, big scrolls on the walls, and a few watercolor paintings of peasants frolicking in fields, or big white cranes cruising through the air. I guess if you’re Korean, they carry hidden meanings. I’m not Korean, though.
The gentleman behind the desk nodded politely and indicated with a stately wave for us to take the seats arrayed directly in front of his desk. It did not escape my notice that he chose not to shift our conversation to the corner where three couches were located. In Korea, symbolism counts for a lot. The symbol here wasn’t hard to figure out. This wasn’t going to be a chummy little chat, so let’s not pretend otherwise.
The minister was elderly, white-haired, and had a broad, bony face, dark eyes, and a mouth so tight it looked as if it had been slashed on with a machete.
There was another Korean gentleman there also, even older than the minister, also white-haired, but more distinguished-looking, with a very handsome face and serene eyes. He sat quietly on a chair in the corner, the traditional place for notetakers and translators.
Brandewaite and the minister yammered back and forth in Korean. I couldn’t understand a word, but this was one of those exceptions to my general rule about what you don’t know don’t hurt you. What Brandewaite was saying might be real hurtful. His posture and mannerisms were almost comically obsequious.
Finally they finished, and the minister, whose name was Chun Moon Song, turned to us and in passable English said, “Miss Carlson, Ambassador Brandewaite says you are protesting our request for jurisdiction over Captain Whitehall.”
“That’s correct,” Katherine said.
“What bothers you so greatly? Do you not have confidence in the fairness of our Korean courts?”
In lawyer’s terms this was what’s called a verbal ambush, the legal equivalent of asking when you’re going to stop beating your wife.
Katherine never blinked. “Aren’t
It was a nicely done turn of phrase, and if I didn’t dislike her so thoroughly I would’ve been real proud of her.
The minister blinked a few times, then sat back in his chair. He was a very powerful man, and this was Korea, which is a very patriarchal, Confucian land. He wasn’t accustomed to being challenged by anyone younger than him. He was painfully unaccustomed to being contradicted by a woman half his age.
“Miss Carlson, if a Korean soldier in America brutally murdered the child of your Secretary of Defense, how would your country respond?”
“In America, we honor our agreements. Our entire economic and legal system depends on it. If we had a contract, like our SOFA, we’d stand by it.”
“But you agree, don’t you, that the crime Captain Whitehall committed exceeds the bounds of ordinary criminality? Can’t you see why our people demand that
Katherine looked at him very curiously. “I don’t agree. You’re speaking as though you’ve already convicted Captain Whitehall.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, somewhat clumsily. “My command of your language is flawed.”
“Is it really?” she asked, not missing a beat.
The minister ignored her, because the only other alternative was to simply throw us out of his office. In fact, I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t just do that.
Instead he drew his neck back a bit and said, “I assure you, Miss Carlson, that Captain Whitehall will get every benefit of the doubt. He will be treated as fairly as though he were in an American court.”
I have to tell you, at this point, that I have an egregious flaw. Most lawyers live for long-drawn-out arguments. It’s what attracts them to the profession. They love the interplay of opposing arguments, the commingling of subtle nuances and hair-splitting points, the thrill of intellectually besting a worthy, voluble, articulate opponent. I just don’t happen to be one of them. I guess you’d say I’m impetuous, or impatient, or both.
Before anybody could utter another word, I blurted out, “Damn it, Mr. Minister, Whitehall’s an American soldier. He’s stationed here on the orders of our government to protect your country’s security. He’s here involuntarily. If he’s convicted in your courts, using your legal standards, the consequences will be damned serious. Miss Carlson’s movement will raise all kinds of embarrassing issues. They’ll keep them alive for years. Whitehall will become a symbol, a martyr to a travesty of justice. His face will become as common on CNN as… well… as mustard on hot dogs. Is that what you want?”
Now I’d gone ahead and done exactly what Keith had accomplished in Brandewaite’s office that morning. I’d brought their gay movement and all its political and media clout into this. But frankly, given the stakes of this case, philosophical debates weren’t likely to have sway in this room.
“You really believe that?” the older gentleman in the corner suddenly asked.
“I absolutely do,” I blurted out. “It’s a damn shame what happened to that Korean kid, but he’s dead and you can’t bring him back to life. You need to seriously consider the damage this will do to the alliance.”
The older man looked thoughtful. “And you believe we will harm our alliance?”
“Believe it? Buddy, I know it. I don’t care what Mr. Brandewaite or Colonel Janson have told you. Their job is to kiss your asses, but it’s not mine. I can tell you like it is. Americans might not be very sympathetic to the gay movement, but they’re extraordinarily sympathetic to the rights of a serviceman serving on foreign soil. A West Point graduate, with eight years of distinguished service and an unblemished record. They’ll make Whitehall sound like Joan of Arc. They’ll make you all sound like Torquemada and his band of merry inquisitors. You’ll have the same CNN legal correspondents who analyzed O.J. Simpson’s trial spending months picking apart the very gaping differences between your legal system and ours. This is America we’re talking about. There’ll be a made-for-TV movie on the air before you can lock his cell door. And no matter how diplomatic we want to be in this room, face
