The Chinese Jars (10 page)

“But you didn't need me!” exclaimed the examiner.

“I'm sure you remember the chain of evidence argument,” Charles teased.

At ten o'clock sharp, Mr. Song's assistant unbolted at least five locks from the inside, and the small man stepped aside as Charles, the medical examiner, the two marshals, the elegant Chinese man, and Samuel entered the establishment. The bell on the door tingled wildly, welcoming the procession.

Once they were all inside, the assistant hobbled through the blue beaded curtain and, within a couple of minutes, Mr. Song appeared carrying a cup of steaming tea with a top on it; he opened the top from time to time to breath in the aroma and take a sip. His black suit with a Mandarin collar emphasized his whiteness. He had on his head what looked like a black Chinese skullcap. He bowed slightly and mumbled something in his language.

“He says good morning, and he hopes you have many male children and live long lives,” said the Chinese man in the suit, who introduced himself as an official federal government interpreter.

“Tell him we are here to examine the contents of the jar. We have both halves of the claim check,” said Charles.

“You must put them here so he can see them,” said the interpreter.

Charles summoned the examiner to the counter, and they both put down their respective half 's of the claim check. Mr. Song pulled a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles with thick lenses out of his sleeve and put them on over his pink eyes. This had the eerie effect of enlarging them, making him look like an ostrich. Mr. Song stared at the two pieces for a long time, while the others tried to control their impatience. “This is claim check number 85. Now you need the key,” he said, through the interpreter.

“Shit!” exclaimed Charles.

“I think we have the key. It's one of those Mr. Engel copied for us,” said Samuel, fishing around in the manila envelope from Charles's briefcase and pulling out two keys.

The assistant pulled the ladder over to the middle of the stack of clay jars on the eastern wall. Mr. Song pointed with a long bony finger to number 85.

“He says to climb up and see if one of the keys opens the top. It's the second from the last one up there, a little to the left.”

They looked at each other and, since no one volunteered, Samuel scurried up the wooden ladder that creaked with each step. He started inserting keys into the band that held the top fast on the jar, not an easy task because the ladder moved and his hands shook. He also didn't like heights. At first none worked, but as he calmed down and was more careful, he found one that did. He then started inserting keys into the band that held the container against the wall. A scream from Mr. Song stopped him. The albino was gesturing like a madman with both his arms in front of his face as he talked to the interpreter.

“No, no,” said the interpreter, “Mr. Song says he will take care of the rest.”

“Why didn't you bring it down in the first place?' asked Charles.

“If you didn't have the key to open the jar, no need to bring it down because it wouldn't have belonged to you,” said Mr. Song through the interpreter.

Samuel came down quickly, while the assistant brought a huge key ring from behind the beaded curtain. Mr. Song sorted through the keys and chose one, which he gave to the assistant. With startling agility, given his age, he went up the creaking ladder, unfastened the band that held the jar to the wall, brought it down, and placed it on the counter. Mr. Song checked to make sure it was the right number and then stepped back.

“He says you are welcome to examine it, the contents belong to you,” said the interpreter.

“No, no,” said Charles, “we want him to open it. It might be booby trapped or something.”

This interchange produced a hilarious moment between the interpreter and the assistant. Mr. Song joined by smiling slightly, which consisted of his showing a row of pointed teeth for an instant. Finally, the small man removed the top, tipped it over until it was lying lengthwise on the counter, and started removing the contents. The first to come out was a vegetable material. There was a lot of it, and it had a strange musty odor.

“What's this?” asked Charles warily. “Is it a narcotic?” He picked up a small amount and smelled it, suspiciously.

“Mr. Song says it is a Chinese herb called Chai Hu used to treat liver problems,” said the interpreter. “In English it is called Bupleurum.”

The assistant then took out several packages. One was wrapped in white tissue paper and held fast with string. There were also five small bundles of hundred dollar bills, each held by rubber bands, some so old they were on the verge of disintegrating.

Samuel watched intently to see if any plane tickets were hidden in the jar, but there were none.

The examiner, who had been sulking in the corner, with his turtle's head slumped between his shoulders, perked up when he heard about the herb that was a treatment for hepatic problems. Rockwood's pathology slides showed that his liver was in its last stages. The herbs reinforced his opinion as to the cause of death. But from the looks of the situation, it was more complicated than one supposed, which meant that he'd have to hold on to the cadaver.

“I'll examine the material, if you like,” he said.

“Be my guest,” said Charles. He went on to the package wrapped in white tissue paper. He carefully unwrapped it and found a velvet box. It had three gleaming green stones in it, one the size of a bean and two smaller ones.

Charles whistled, “Emeralds! And they look to be of good quality. They must be worth thousands of dollars. How did they come to be in the hands of a janitor, I ask? How much cash is there?”

The examiner counted out the hundred dollar bills in each packet. “Ten thousand.”

“And a like amount in these stones,” added Charles. “How much is the medicine worth?”

“Mr. Song says it's worth about thirty dollars,” said the interpreter.

“Thirty dollars for some grass. What times we live in!” exclaimed Charles.

“Just a minute,” said Samuel. “You see that piece of paper holding one of the packets of bills? It has some printing on it. It looks like part of an address. It has the number 838 and nothing else.” He took his notepad out and wrote down the number.

“It doesn't mean much,” said the examiner. “It was just used to hold the bills together.”

“You never know,” said Samuel.

Charles puffed up as much as his tired frame allowed. “We're going to take possession of this evidence in the name of the people of the United States of America. This document allows us to do that.”

He showed the search warrant to the interpreter, who in turn showed it to Mr. Song.

“You are welcome to the entire contents of the jar,” said Mr. Song, through the interpreter, “because you presented the claim check. But the jar belongs to the shop, so you can't take it.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Song, we must take it,” said Charles. “We'll hold the evidence in it until we decide if a federal crime has been committed. If there is no reason to hold onto it, we'll return it to you.”

“The material in the jar is not mine, it is yours,” responded Mr. Song through the interpreter. “But the jar belongs to Mr. Song's Many Chinese Herbs, and it will not leave here.”

“We can pay you for it,” suggested Samuel.

“It's not for sale,” replied Mr. Song, who by now had lost the proverbial patience of his race and was furrowing his brow.

“I'll give you a receipt for the jar from the United States government,” said Charles. He took a sheet of Justice Department stationary from his briefcase and wrote a detailed list of all the items he was taking from the shop. The interpreter read them off to Mr. Song.

“Is this white man deaf or demented?” Mr. Song asked.

But the interpreter thought better than to translate it. Instead he explained, “Mr. Song is desolate because if the people on the street see you leave with his jar they will spread the word, and he will lose his good reputation. How could the people confide in him if he allowed just any white man to leave his establishment with one of his jars underneath his arm?”

“Listen, Mr. Song,” interrupted Charles. “Here's the receipt for everything. You keep it until the case is over. Then, everything of yours will be returned to you,” and he slammed the paper down on the countertop.

Exhausted, Charles motioned to the examiner, the two marshals, and the interpreter that they should follow him out of the shop while at the same time he was cursing the albino, his assistant, and the infernal bells above the door that wouldn't stop tingling.

“Call me tomorrow, Samuel. I can't think straight right now,” he said.

S
AMUEL WENT
to Camelot at an ungodly hour of the morning because Melba had woken him up with the bad news that Rafael had been arrested. He found Blanche effortlessly carrying cases of beer from the storeroom to the bar dressed only in a top, short pants and work boots. He tried to help her but the boxes were too heavy for him. Then Melba came out of the office. Samuel heard her. She'd been on the phone talking to important clients of the bar, trying to find someone who could help Rafael.

“What happened?” asked Samuel.

“I told him a thousand times to take that goddamned net off his head!” exclaimed Melba.

“They arrested him because of that?”

“No, they caught him with a stolen machine. I don't know what kind, but it looks like it's valuable. They searched the bar and his house. His mother was beside herself,” explained Blanche.

“What can we do?” asked Melba.

“He needs a lawyer. He has a right to a defense,” said Blanche.

“Who'll pay for that?” asked Samuel.

“We'll see. This thing has to be cleared up fast,” said Melba.

“On the assumption that he's innocent,” pointed out Blanche.

“You don't think Rafael's a thief, child!” exclaimed Melba.

* * *

Days later Samuel watched the criminal court judge sitting on the dais in his black robe pounding the gavel. “The clerk will call the roll. Please give time estimates. We have a full calendar this morning.”

The sleepy female clerk looked through the sheets of paper in front of her. “The People of the State of California versus Rafael Garcia, docket number 54321702.”

Rafael—in handcuffs, with his ankles shackled, and wearing a San Francisco County Jail jumpsuit—was let out of the holding cell at the side of the courtroom by the bailiff. In the meantime, the well-dressed attorney sitting next to Samuel, in his expensive double-breasted Walter Fong suit, looked at his watch and pulled his Day-Timer out of his jacket pocket. He was heavyset with curly hair, a bulbous nose, and capped white teeth that matched the porcelain of a bathtub. He smiled all the time to show them off, as they had no doubt been expensive. He sauntered up to the podium inside the railing and the swinging door that separated the observers from the participants at the daily cattle call.

“Hiram Goldberg of the Law Offices of Hiram Goldberg representing defendant Rafael Garcia.” He was one of the best criminal lawyers in the city. He stood there waiting for the prisoner to make his way slowly to a place beside him, followed by the deputy closely guarding him.

When Rafael arrived, he looked at the attorney suspiciously. He'd never seen him before. Then he quickly glanced around the courtroom, saw Samuel in the rear, and waved with a slight smile of recognition. He guessed that the fancy attorney standing next to him was Samuel's doing, so he relaxed a little.

The municipal court judge, who had a florid face and the reputation of being irascible, looked over his reading glasses at the defendant with a total lack of sympathy. He didn't trust Mexicans or other immigrants of color; it was a matter of principal with him. “To the charge of violating section 496 of the California Penal Code, receiving stolen property, a felony, how do you plead?”

“The defendant pleads not guilty to the charge, Your Honor, waives time to a speedy trial and asks that bail be reduced from $5,000 to $1,500, which we're prepared to post this morning.”

“He's charged with a felony, Mr. Goldberg. The words have to come out of his mouth, not yours,” the judge chided. “Do you plead not guilty and waive time, Mr. Garcia?”

Rafael had a whispering session with his attorney and remained silent for almost a minute. Samuel guessed from a distance that they were having an argument. It was too bad that Hiram couldn't have talked to his client beforehand.

“Do you speak English, young man?” asked the judge, impatiently. “I have a full calendar this morning, and if you need an interpreter, we'll have to pass on this matter.”

“I understand everything you said, Your Honor, except about the time thing. That's what I was asking about. You wouldn't want someone to agree to something he didn't understand, would you?” Rafael asked, sarcastically.

Hiram nudged Rafael to shut up, but he straightened his shoulders in defiance and gave a penetrating glance at the bench. He was scared because he'd never been in front of a judge before, and he knew he was in trouble. Nonetheless, he wanted the judge to know he was his own man.

“We'll pass this matter,” said the judge. “You need to consult with your attorney.”

As Hiram slammed his Day-Timer on his thigh, the ruby in his pinky ring gave off a glint from the fluorescent light above. This messed up his whole morning calendar. Now he'd have to wait until the end of the hearing. He whispered something in Rafael's ear and reminded the judge, “I'm scheduled to appear in departments 15, 16 and 17, Your Honor.”

“That's okay. We'll see you back here at eleven. The defendant's not going anywhere.”

Rafael was shuffled back to the holding cell in cuffs and shackles, and Hiram walked quickly through the swinging gate doors that separated the working part of the courtroom from the audience. He motioned to Samuel to follow him out into the hall.