Rising Sun: A Novel (33 page)

“Not that I am aware, no.”

“And your investigation is formally concluded?”

“Yes.”

“I just want to be clear. Because if I back down on my opposition to this sale, I don’t want to find that I’ve stuck my hand in a box of snakes. One could argue that the party at Nakamoto was an attempt to win over opponents to the sale. So a change of position can be worrisome. You know in Congress they can get you coming and going, with a thing like this.”

Connor said, “Are you abandoning your opposition to the sale?”

From across the lawn, an aide said, “Senator? They’re ready for you, sir.”

“Well.” Morton shrugged. “I’m out on a limb with this thing. Nobody agrees with my position on MicroCon. Personally, I think it’s another Fairchild case. But if this battle can’t be won, I say, let’s not fight it. Plenty of other battles to be fought, anyway.” He straightened, smoothed his suit.

“Senator? When you’re ready, sir.” And he added, “They’re concerned about the light.”

“They’re concerned about the light,” Morton said, shaking his head.

“Don’t let us keep you,” Connor said.

“Anyway,” Morton said. “I wanted your input. I understand you to say that last night had nothing to do with MicroCon. The people involved had nothing to do with it. I’m not going to read next month that someone was working behind the scenes, trying to promote or block the sale. Nothing like that.”

“Not as far as I know,” Connor said.

“Gentlemen, thank you for coming,” he said. He shook both of our hands, and started away. Then he came back. “I appreciate your treating this matter as confidential. Because,
you know, we have to be careful. We are at war with Japan.” He smiled wryly. “Loose lips sink ships.”

“Yes,” Connor said. “And remember Pearl Harbor.”

“Christ, that too.” He shook his head. He dropped his voice, becoming one of the boys. “You know, I have colleagues who say sooner or later we’re going to have to drop another bomb. They think it’ll come to that.” He smiled. “But I don’t feel that way. Usually.”

Still smiling, he headed back to the camera crew. As he walked, he collected people, first a woman with script changes, then a wardrobe man, then a sound man fiddling with his microphone and adjusting the battery pack at his waist, and the makeup woman, until finally the senator had disappeared from view, and there was just a cluster of people moving awkwardly across the lawn.

I said, “I like him.”

I was driving back into Hollywood. The buildings were hazy in the smog.

“Why shouldn’t you like him?” Connor said. “He’s a politician. It’s his job to make you like him.”

“Then he’s good at his job.”

“Very good, I think.”

Connor stared out the window silently. I had the sense that something was troubling him.

I said, “Didn’t you like what he was saying in the commercial? It sounded like all the things you say.”

“Yes. It did.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Connor said. “I was just thinking about what he actually
said.
”

“He mentioned Fairchild.”

“Of course,” Connor said. “Morton knows the real story about Fairchild, very well.”

I started to ask him what it was, but he was already telling me.

“Have you ever heard of Seymour Cray? For years, he was the best designer of supercomputers in the world. Cray Research made the fastest computers in the world. The Japanese were trying to catch up with him, but they just couldn’t do it. He was too brilliant. But by the mid-eighties, Japanese chip dumping had put most of Cray’s domestic suppliers out of business. So Cray had to order his custom-designed chips from Japanese manufacturers. There was nobody in America to make them. And his Japanese suppliers
experienced mysterious delays. At one point, it took them a
year
to deliver certain chips he had ordered—and during that time, his Japanese competitors made great strides forward. There was also a question of whether they had stolen his new technology. Cray was furious. He knew they were fucking with him. He decided that he had to form a liaison with an American manufacturer, and so he chose Fairchild Semiconductor, even though the company was financially weak, far from the best. But Cray couldn’t trust the Japanese anymore. He had to make do with Fairchild. So now Fairchild was making his next generation of custom chips for him—and then he learned that Fairchild was going to be sold to Fujitsu. His big competitor. It was concern about situations like that, and the national security implications, that led Congress to block the sale to Fujitsu.”

“And then?”

“Well, blocking the sale didn’t solve Fairchild’s financial problems. The company was still in trouble. And it eventually had to be sold. There was a rumor it was going to be bought by Bull, a French company that didn’t compete in supercomputers. That sale might have been permitted by Congress. But in the end, Fairchild was sold to an American company.”

“And MicroCon is another Fairchild?”

“Yes, in the sense that MicroCon will give the Japanese a monopoly on vital chip-making machinery. Once they have a monopoly, they can withhold the machines from American companies. But now I think—”

That was when the phone rang. I left it on the speakerphone.

It was Lauren. My ex-wife.

“Peter?”

I said, “Hello, Lauren.”

“Peter, I am calling to inform you that I’m going to pick up Michelle early today.” Her voice sounded tense, formal.

“You are? I didn’t know you were picking her up at all.”

“I never said that, Peter,” she answered quickly. “Of course I’m picking her up.”

I said, “Okay, fine. By the way, who’s Rick?”

There was a pause. “Really. That is beneath you, Peter.”

“Why?” I said. “I’m just curious. Michelle mentioned it this morning. She said he has a black Mercedes. Is he the new boyfriend?”

“Peter. I hardly think that is on the same level.”

I said, “The same level as what?”

“Let’s not play games,” she said. “This is difficult enough. I’m calling to tell you I have to pick up Michelle early because I’m taking her to the doctor.”

“Why? She’s over her cold.”

“I’m taking her for an examination, Peter.”

“For what?”

“An
examination.
”

“I heard you,” I said. “But—”

“The physician who will examine her is Robert Strauss. He is an expert, I’m told. I have been asking people in the office who is the best person. I don’t know how this is going to turn out, Peter, but I want you to know I am concerned, particularly in the light of your history.”

“Lauren, what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about child abuse,” she said. “I’m talking about sexual molestation.”

“What?”

“There’s no getting around it, at this point. You know you’ve been accused of it in the past.”

I felt churning nausea. Whenever a relationship goes sour, there’s always some residue of resentment, some pockets of bitterness and anger—as well as lots of private things that you know about the other person, that you can use against them. If you choose to do that. Lauren never had.

“Lauren, you know that abuse charge was trumped up. You know everything about that. We were married at the time.”

“I only know what you told me.” Her voice sounded distant now, moralistic, a little sarcastic. Her prosecutor’s voice.

“Lauren, for Christ’s sake. This is ridiculous. What’s going on?”

“It is not ridiculous. I have my responsibilities as a mother.”

“Well, for God’s sake, you’ve never been particularly worried about your responsibilities as a mother before. And now you—”

“It’s true that I have a demanding career,” she said, in an icy tone, “but there has never been any question that my daughter comes first. And I deeply,
deeply
regret if my past behavior in any way contributed to this unpleasant circumstance now.” I had the feeling that she wasn’t talking to me. She was rehearsing. Trying out the words to see how they would sound before a judge. “Clearly, Peter, if there is child abuse, Michelle cannot continue to live with you. Or even to see you.”

I felt pain in my chest. A wrenching.

“What are you talking about? Who told you there was child abuse?”

“Peter, I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to comment at this point in time.”

“Was it Wilhelm? Who called you, Lauren?”

“Peter, there’s no point in going into this I’m officially notifying you that I’m going to pick Michelle up at four p.m. I want her ready to go at four this afternoon.”

“Lauren—”

“I have my secretary, Miss Wilson, listening on the line and making stenographic notes of our conversation. I’m giving you formal notice of my intention to pick up my daughter and take her for a physical examination. Do you have any questions about my decision?”

“No.”

“Four o’clock, then. Thank you for your cooperation. And let me add on a personal note, Peter, I’m truly sorry that it has come to this.”

And she hung up.

I had been involved in sex abuse cases when I was a detective. I knew how it worked. The fact is, you usually can’t determine anything from a physical exam. It’s always equivocal. And if a kid is questioned by a psychologist who
hammers her with questions, the kid will eventually start to go along, and make up answers to please the psychologist. Normal procedure requires the psychologist to videotape the kids, to prove that the questioning wasn’t leading. But the situation is almost always unclear when it finally comes before a judge. And the judge must therefore rule conservatively. Which means, if there is a possibility of abuse, to keep the child away from the accused parent. Or at least, not allow unsupervised visitation. No overnight visits. Or perhaps not even—

“That’s enough,” Connor said, sitting beside me in the car. “Come back now.”

“Sorry,” I said. “But it’s upsetting.”

“I’m sure. Now: what haven’t you told me?”

“About what?”

“The molestation charge.”

“Nothing. There’s nothing to it.”

“
Kōhai
,” he said quietly. “I can’t help you if you won’t tell me.”

“It had nothing to do with sexual molestation,” I said. “It was something else entirely. It was about money.”

Connor said nothing. He just waited. Looking at me.

“Ah, hell,” I said.

And I told him.

You have these times in your life when you believe you know what you’re doing, but you really don’t. Later on, you can look back, and you see you weren’t acting right at all. You drifted into something, and you were completely screwed up. But at the time, you thought everything was fine.

What happened to me was, I was in love. Lauren was one of those patrician-acting girls, lean and graceful and understated. She looked like she grew up with horses. And she was younger than me, and beautiful.

I always knew it wouldn’t work between us, but I was trying to make it work anyway. We had gotten married and had begun living together and she was starting to be dissatisfied. Dissatisfied with my apartment, where it was located,
how much money we had. All of that. She was throwing up, which didn’t help. She had crackers in the car, crackers by the bed, crackers everywhere. She was so miserable and so unhappy that I tried to please her in little ways. Get her things. Bring her things. Cook her meals. Do little domestic things. It wasn’t my usual way, but I was in love. I was drifting into this habit of pleasing her. Trying to please her.

And there was constant pressure. More this, more that. More money. More, more.

We also had a specific problem. Her health insurance through the D.A.’s office didn’t cover pregnancy and neither did mine. After we got married, we couldn’t get coverage in time to pay for the baby. It was going to cost eight thousand dollars and we had to come up with it. Neither of us had the money. Lauren’s father was a doctor in Virginia but she didn’t want to ask him for the money because he disapproved of her marrying me in the first place. My family doesn’t have any money. So. There wasn’t any money. She worked for the D.A. I worked for the department. She had a lot of debts on her MasterCard and owed money on her car. We had to come up with eight thousand dollars. It’s hanging over our heads. How we are going to do this. And it gets to be an unspoken thing, at least from her. That I should handle it.

So one night in August I’m out on a domestic violence call in Ladera Heights. Hispanic couple. They’ve been drinking and going at it pretty good, she’s got a split lip and he’s got a black eye, and their kid’s screaming in the next room, but pretty soon we calm them down and we can see that nobody is seriously injured, so we’re about to leave. And the wife sees we’re about to leave. At that point she starts yelling that the husband has been fooling with the daughter. Physically abusing the daughter. When the husband hears this, he looks really pissed, and I think it’s bullshit, the wife is just doing something to harass him. But the wife insists we check the daughter, so I go into the kid’s room and the kid is about nine months old and screaming red in the face, and I pull the covers back to check for bruises and there I see a kilo of white brick. Under the covers with the kid.