Thursday morning, July 13th

 

“Rokuban.”

I look up from my book to find Bear peering in through the window.

It may be a new morning, but I’m already feeling as if it is Groundhog Day again.

“Yes?”

He mumbles something I don’t catch.

“Pardon me?”

“Benkai,” he says. “Your lawyer’s here. Get ready.”

“My lawyer?” I say, brightening.

I’m so delighted I could do a little jig right here in the cell.

Maybe now we can get this matter all settled and Rémy can finally be on his merry little way.

If I had my druthers, I would have them release me before Gilligan wheeled around with lunch. Three nights in jail is more than enough.

I put the gray shirt on, making sure to tuck it in properly, and then kneel before the door, legs tucked under my fanny.

Several minutes later, just as the radio exercises are starting to kick in, a dull metallic clank at the front of the cell tells me the door has been unlocked.

“Rokuban, benkai,” a guard says, opening the door and taking a step back. Benkai, yet one more truncated word in the lexicon of Japanese Ministry of Justice. I give the word some thought, turning it around in my head like a Rubik’s cube until it occurs to me that it must be shorthand for bengoshi kaidan, or a consultation with one’s lawyer. [1]

After confirming my name and number, the guard then leads me to the right, and up the corridor.

As we are walking past the windows of my neighbor’s cells, I can’t help but look in on them. The boy next door in Cell 25 is at his desk writing what looks like a long letter. In the next cell, the long-haired, bearded Castaway sits against the wall, knees pulled up against his bare chest and bony arms at his sides. He stares vacantly at the opposite wall, rocking slowly.

At the end of the corridor we come to a wall of bars. The guard orders me to turn to the left as he fiddles with the lock. We do-sa-do upon passing through the opening, and, once again, I’m told to turn away while he locks the door behind us.

The guard then takes me up a flight of stairs and down a broad hallway. Similar to the hall on the western side of the jail, here, too, the outer wall has posters featuring Kyūshū’s scenic spots.

Wouldn’t it be more humane if there were windows offering a glimpse of the world outside the jail, something real and familiar to hold on to so the prisoners didn’t go completely bonkers?

At the end of the hall, we arrive at another wall of bars. A guard on the other side, sitting at a wooden desk cluttered with forms and rubber stamps, asks for my number.

“Rokuban.”

He makes a notation in a register and gives me an inkpad to dab my finger on. I put my fingerprint on the form.

We do-sa-do again, and yet another guard comes ‘round the outside to escort me. The hallway narrows and then slopes downward, the floor changing from bare concrete to white tile. Through a door on the right, and down a flight of steps we are back on the ground floor. Passing through one more locked door, we enter an “L” shaped hallway, windowless and antiseptic with evenly spaced doors running along the inner wall. The guard opens one of the doors and tells me to get in and take a seat. He turns the air-conditioner on and locks the door behind me.

The room is small, and lit up like a showcase. I sit down on a metal chair that is bolted to the floor and rest my hands on the cold stainless steel counter before me. A thick pane of glass separates my side from an identical, but unlit room on the other side.

This is how germs must feel when examined under a microscope.

On the wall is a list of rules:

 

No yelling.

No banging on the glass.

No standing.

 

A fluorescent light on the other side flickers on, the door opens.

My lawyer, Adachi, hurries in, looking just as disheveled and confused as when I first met him a week ago.

“I tried to get here as soon as I could,” he says, placing his briefcase on the metal counter and sitting down. He takes a long hard look at me, and then exhales slowly. “Things have gotten rather serious, haven’t they?”

“You can say that again.”

[1] Benkai (弁会) is indeed the abbreviation of bengoshi kaidan (弁護士会談), meaning a consultation or meeting with one’s lawyer.

The first posting/chapter in this series can be found here.

Rokuban: Too Close to the Sun and other works are available in e-book form and paperback at Amazon.