Chosen Path Ch. 02

One step felt different than the others. She paused a pace past it and thought. Balancing on one leg, she raised the foot that had detected the anomaly and groped out to her side with it. Not far away, she found another rail, which confirmed her fear. She stood on a switch.

Yumiko had ridden the train to and from Kosei's flat many times, but those times were all so long ago. She closed her eyes to shut out that oppressive and distracting impenetrable black, and she tried to remember. In her mind, she left the station, walking slowly to an empty seat, always ready to grab a handhold if the car lurched. It did not, not yet. She continued forward.

She did find one sound she could understand: rats. She passed slowly through a kingdom of rats and insects, all the scavengers and shadow-dwellers that human civilization churns up in its wake. Sometimes they were far, tiny scratches echoing down the long, wide tunnel. Sometimes they were close, too close, moving purposefully in the same journey she was.

Soon, all sounds were made by rats. Rats teemed hungrily in an enormous pit somewhere far below the narrow rail on which she walked, waiting for her eventual misstep. Rats scurried along the surface of the earth above her, clicking their tiny claws as they ran. Rats dug the tunnel ahead of her, burrowing through solid rock, laying sections of rail and welding them together. Rats followed her, and if she ran, they would chase her. If she stopped, they would overtake her.

Rats were the least of her worries. She knew that a dragon lived somewhere in that cave. She knew the dragon far too well.

Another station and its one lonely lightbulb, like flotsam of a shipwreck, gave her some slight respite from her struggles to stay afloat in that ocean of devouring void. She placed her hand on the platform at her side, making sure it was real. As she walked, she read the signs along the tunnel's far wall, the station name. She was moving in the right direction.

She did not know specifically where she intended to go. She felt the need to get away from something, but chose not to remember what it was. Her imagination spun its rolodex of places she would rather be, but she wasn't paying attention. The thing that was looking for her would find her wherever she went.

She would need to fight it somehow. She remembered facing it before, fighting to a draw and slinking away wounded. It could not be persuaded or seduced. It must have been a force of nature, maybe an avalanche or a flood. She needed to find a refuge where she could hide from it, wait it out. She passed another station, another island of light, not high enough ground to make her stand, not by far.

She felt like she had walked for days, but it had only been hours: past another station, then a switch, then another station. She lost count very quickly. She kept walking, feeling like the world was turning underneath her and she had to keep walking just to stay in one place. Somewhere down in that abyss with her, the dragon woke.

She felt it rumbling far away. It moved though the caves quickly and effortlessly; they were its home. Yumiko felt like a trespasser sneaking through a monster's lair, hoping she was small and insignificant enough to pass unnoticed and unharmed. The monster was awake and moving toward her, shaking the ground underneath her harder as it drew near.

She walked faster but had no place to hide in the three-inch width of steel on which she balanced. She could only go forward. A dim flicker barely lit the walls around her. She turned her head to look back and saw one brilliant eye sliding through the tunnel behind her in the distance. It frightened her and she lost her balance, turning and falling on her back beside the rail.

The dragon charged at her, filling the cave with the fire in its eye. Yumiko's terror paralyzed her. It moved far too fast for her to get away, yet she still tried to scramble backward, pushing with her feet and elbows. Her kimono snagged, and she pushed harder, ripping it wherever it caught. It was no use. The beast was almost on her.

She turned her head aside and pressed it back against the ground, shielding her face with one arm, instinctively cowering as best she could from the danger. She remembered the last time the dragon had found her, and she turned her knees inward, pressing them together as tightly as she could. It thundered onto her, but that time she was not its prey.

It passed without even noticing her. It brutally tore away one of her sleeves and singed her garments with the sparks thrown by its claws as they plunged into the stone floor for traction, but that was all. Surprised to be still alive, she released the breath that she had thought would be her last.

=====

When the trains started running again in the morning, I came closer, at least, to my senses. There was truly no hope to run or to hide. I needed to face charges, and I needed help. They say that one who represents herself has a fool for an attorney. That would be true of me because my specialty is contract law. I know very little about criminal prosecution. However, working at a firm as prestigious as mine gave me the benefit of knowing an exceptional criminal defense lawyer.

His name was Jun Shimizu, whose surname aptly signified cleansing and purification. I was filthy and not just metaphorically so. Jun had only been at the firm for three years, having served as a prosecutor previously. As a prosecutor, he was undefeated. As a defense attorney, his former colleagues had wisely never made him go to trial.

Litigation is only partly about the merits of one's case. It also requires that the litigant be believable. I certainly took advantage of my ability to subtly convince male members of juries to consider the merits of my argument carefully. Jun held the same advantage doubly. He looked average. By that I do not mean I found him unattractive—far from it. Everything about his appearance fell precisely in the middle of the road.

He looked tall but not towering, trim but not scrawny, strong but not bulky. He wore the face that eight out of ten Japanese men see when they think of themselves. He spoke clearly and plainly, calmly and in a voice that perfectly melded every news anchor and radio announcer within a hundred kilometers of Tokyo. He was the ultimate Everyman. Any man on a jury could see himself in Jun's shoes. Any woman could see herself in his bed.

If anyone could get me acquitted, Jun could.

I snuck into the first open station I came to, waiting until no one was looking to climb up onto the end of the platform. My kimono was torn in several places and covered with grease and grime from the tracks. It might have been possible to repair the obi, but I did not feel particularly fond of it at that time. I took both of them off and threw them away. That left me wearing only my thin, white, inner kimono. That meant I was walking around in my underwear, yes, but it was nice, conservative underwear.

It too was torn and sullied in places, particularly below my knees, to match my filthy stockings, but not nearly as badly and what I had worn over it. What I could see of myself in reflections looked like a wreck. I looked like a wreck but not necessarily like an insane killer on the lamb, which I was.

I hadn't brought my phone with me, only my PASMO, a credit card and a little bit of cash, all hidden in my sandals. I could have called Amaya, my assistant, to get Jun's address, but I felt reluctant to wake her up at 5:00 am, as if letting her sleep in would somehow make up for the moral abomination of my sin. Instead I called Information from a pay phone in the station. Even Jun's name is common. There were 27 Jun Shimizus listed. The operator patiently read all 27 addresses to me. Fortunately, one of them sounded familiar. I had seen his resume before we hired him, which was before I lost my mind.

=====

Why am I awake? My alarm goes off before I figure it out. 6:00 am, exactly. I smash the clock and wish I could sleep in. If I ignore the sunrise, maybe it will go away.

knock knock knock

Who knocks on a person's door at 6 o'clock Monday morning. Maybe that was what woke me up. Maybe if I ignore that it will go away too.

knock knock knock

No such luck. What could they possibly want? Whoever it is will have to deal with me answering the door in my underwear.

"Jun-san, I need your help," the woman says before I even get the door open.

She clearly needs someone's help, half dressed, grimy, hair all over the place. One thing confuses me. "How do you know my name?"

"From work," she answers. As I stare blankly at her, she elaborates, "at the firm."

She does kind of look like... no way; not possible. "Yumiko Itsumoto?" She nods, curtly. I don't interact much with the senior partners, and there are so many incomprehensible things about this situation that I will clearly need to keep talking for some time while I try to understand what is happening. "How can I help you."

"I believe that I would benefit from sound legal council."

"Most people would," I say, but she keeps looking at me as if I am supposed to say something else. Why is she at my door at 6:00 am on a Monday morning? Why is she only wearing an under-kimono? Why is she...um...why is she looking at me like that?

"Will you take my case?"

"What case?" I'm still confused.

"A criminal complaint."

"Against whom," I ask. I would be honored to have this conversation if we were at work. Maybe this is a referral that somehow cannot wait out the next couple of hours.

"Me."

Her? "What are you talking about?"

She has clearly run out of patience. "Will you represent me," she asks flatly and with finality, "or will you not?"

It sounds like this is my last chance to say something sensible. While rubbing my palms into my eyes, I manage to frame the problem as one I can understand: Miss Itsumoto is asking me to do something. What that might be is irrelevant. "Yes, of course. Please come in."

Her demeanor relaxes somewhat as she side-steps past me through the door. "Thank you," she says with a soft note of charm suddenly folded into her voice. "And may I use your shower?"

=====

He gave me a towel and a yukata. I decided I would wrap up my hair and wear the yukata. I had also decided to go ahead and indulge a little bit. It had been a very difficult night. I smeared some of the grease from my forearm onto my back where I could plausibly claim to need help removing it. I worked as quickly as I could to remove the rest, but it probably still took me 20 or 30 minutes.

I emerged from the bathroom and sighed my relief, saying "ah, I feel so much better." He lived in a small, modest flat, sparsely decorated in Japanese style: tatami flooring and shoji to separate (or not) a small bedroom from the tea room. I liked it. Jun had put on a yukata as well and sat formally in the tea room. I duly went to the first guest position and knelt. "Do you have any citric acid?"

He blinked and asked, "citric acid?" I had woken poor Jun from a sound sleep and it seemed he was still trying to gather his wits.

"Yes," I said softly, "I was unable to remove all of the grease from my skin. If I might further impose upon your hospitality, I would be grateful for your help with it. Citric acid, lemon juice if you have it, might break down the grease more readily than soap could."

As he stood and walked toward his small kitchen, I turned my back to him and widened my stance to sit directly on the ground with my feet beside me. I opened my yukata and dropped it from my shoulders to expose the smear of grease on my back. Holding the yukata up with the crooks of my elbows, I crossed my arms modestly over my chest and turned my head down. I heard the halt of his steps as he saw me. He approached slowly, carefully, and knelt behind me.

"I would be honored to provide you with whatever council I can, Itsumoto-san."

"Thank you, Jun-san," I said, "and please call me Yumi."

"Will you tell me of the matter?"

I breathed deeply and kept silent as he began to dab cold lemon juice too gently onto my back. He seemed very nervous, but I could not be certain why, exactly. There were several possibilities. In any case, I would need to tell him about what happened sooner or later if I wanted his help.

"I was waiting for a train yesterday," I began. "There was a woman next to me. She was killed by a passing train. I believe that I will be charged with her murder."

"Why would you be charged?"

I breathed heavily again. It was hard enough admitting my mistake, a mistake made in the making of another mistake. I had to tell him the unconfessed secret of my heart in order to answer him. In a way, sitting half-naked in front of him made it easier to let go of my pride. "I believe that she was engaged to marry a man I previously dated—a past lover. I had gone to his home yesterday hoping I could reconcile myself to him. When I got there, someone, I believe it was this woman, was there with him. I left without announcing myself. It seems she left not long after I did and intended to catch the same train as me."

"After he incident, I ran. That was foolish. I was scared, shocked and not thinking clearly. I have not been sleeping well. I had not slept for perhaps a week. This insomnia has effected my mental state. I did not intend to kill her, but I stood to benefit from her death. There were many witnesses. I paid my PASMO with a credit card. The police will be able to determine who I am."

"Your situation may not be so dire as you believe it, Yumiko-san," he assured me, "but I can understand that it troubles you."

"Jun," I said after a pause, "when a woman takes off her clothes and kneels before you, it's safe to assume you can drop the honorific."

"I never assume facts not in evidence."

I sighed. I felt his attraction to me in his finger tips on my back, but he was too nervous even to wipe away the grease. We would be there all day unless he stepped up his infinitesimal efforts. "I want you to call me Yumi. I want you to press hard against the stain on my back and scrub until I am clean."

He did as I told him, putting one hand on my shoulder to steady me and grinding into the grease smear with the other. Once he began to work on it in earnest, finishing did not take long. I felt him wipe the area smoothly with clean water one last time, then he raised the collar of my yukata to pat me dry. I gave him further instructions. "I also want you to fuck my brains out."

His hands snapped back away from me in shock. He remained silent, but I decided to wait him out, breathing slowly and wandering my gaze along the weave of his tatami floor. Eventually he spoke.

"Will you not be needing them?"

I liked the innocence of his question, so I decided to answer earnestly. "They have functioned poorly in recent times." I waited again to hear his next quandary.

"I would think it a difficult thing to do to a woman of your considerable intellect." It seemed he needed to work up to it, to flirt a little bit before he could believe me.

"Take your time," I assured him.

Then I sat and waited patiently while he tried to think through what was happening to him, seemingly as disturbed by his own unanticipated circumstances as I had been by mine the night before. Cold and clammy fingertips, followed by their palm, touched down high on my back then slid haltingly up onto my shoulder and alongside my neck. I turned my head up slightly, yielding to the almost imperceptible push of his index finger. He followed, and I continued until I craned my neck back as far as I could.

When his fingertips moved back, I leaned back instead of letting them drag against my skin. I kept leaning, transferring my weight back onto my toes, which pointed back along the floor by my sides. Finally flipping over my toes to set my weight on my spine and straighten my knees from that position is always a difficult and awkward move. Jun was not prepared for how suddenly I fell backward when my weight transferred, but he caught me with a hand behind my neck before my head hit the floor. That was just as well because the abruptness of his catch knocked the towel free from my hair and just in time because I held my back still fully arched and would have driven my head hard into the mat.

I had left my hands in my lap, straightening my elbows as he bent me backward, so my torso lay bare in front of him, and my yukata lay folded inward over my thighs only enough for a pretense of modesty. His eyes struggled not to wander as I stared up at him, so I closed mine to let his have their way. I had told him to take his time, so I parted my lips slightly and waited.

"Did you do it?"

My eyelids rocked open in surprise. That was neither what I wanted nor what I expected. "You ask your clients if they're guilty?"

"I'm asking you."

I closed my eyes again and rolled my spine downward, relaxing my back and lying on the floor. "Nice dodge."

"Likewise," he volleyed. "Shall we play again?"

"I'd rather not," I admitted.

"Then answer my question."

He became more confident as he worked his art. I felt it in his hand behind my neck, which was shortly joined by his other to cradle my head. He had no idea how to handle a woman, but he knew exactly what to do with a hostile witness. I would have to tell him, and he knew it. I was the one asking him for help. He could simply decline and be rid of me. Something inside him clamped down abruptly and turned to stone. I could tell that our little back-and-forth spanned the full width of his patience. It takes a hard man to set murderers free every day and still look at himself in the mirror. I drew a very deep breath to show him I was about to answer. I needed a hard man. I was a murderer.

"Yes," I began, saving my equivocation to come after my answer. "I must have. I was there. I had motive. I fled the scene. She would have had no reason to kill herself and showed no signs of suicidal ideation. There was a man standing right behind me. He would have given a statement to the police."

"I didn't ask you if you would be found guilty," he pressed me, "I asked you if you were."

"I feel guilty."

"Again, you have answered a question other than the one I asked."

I continued slowly. "I remember standing next to her on the platform. I knew the express was about to pass. I remember seeing Kosei's number on her phone. I don't know if I was fully cognizant of the fact that she was engaged to him. I knew it on some level. She screamed."

I paused, handling my fragile memories of the event carefully. They had already begun to deteriorate. "I remember being surprised when it happened. I felt annoyed because I expected subsequent trains to be delayed. I remember just standing there, trying to ignore her. I also remember pushing her. These memories cannot all be true, but I do not know which are real and which are my mind's efforts to fill in the blanks. I began hallucinating moments later—I hadn't slept in many days. I thought my obi was trying to kill me. I blacked out in the station's bathroom and woke up under the sink. The truth is that I don't know what happened. I cannot remember."

After gently laying my head down on the floor, he stood up, found a pair of sandals for me and then started getting dressed. I noticed a sudden pang of fear in my mind, fear that he was abandoning me. It was irrational, and I suppressed it. Instead of asking where he was going, I laid there silently.

"Get dressed," he commanded, nodding toward the sandals he had set next to me. "We're going to the hospital for a toxicology report."

"What about my brains?"

He turned to face me squarely and stopped buttoning his shirt. "As your attorney, I advise you to come to the hospital with me immediately for blood tests." I recognized both the wording and the tone. I had used them many times. They were the legal precursor to 'I told you so,' a more polite wording than 'don't blame me when this blows up in your face.' I nodded slightly and sat up.