‘Why exactly can’t we make that decision for you?’
‘Because the facts of the case become obscured. Without the details of the people involved – their names, addresses – we have no means of verifying that the information you provide is correct, or if the cases are properly closed. Also, if the Prefectural HQ gets into a routine of issuing anonymous reports, who’s to say the district stations won’t start cutting corners in their own statements? Thinking of the worst-case scenario, withholding information like this could be used to bend the truth, even as part of a police cover-up.’
‘A police cover-up . . .’
‘Listen, all we’re saying . . .’ Yamashina’s lanky frame shouldered in from the side. Zenken Times. Provisional Chief. University F. Twenty-eight. Third son of a secretary to a member of the Diet. Charmer. Loser. ‘. . . is that when someone seems desperate to hide something, well, you start to wonder. Maybe she’s the daughter of someone important. Maybe they’re going easy because the old man was a drunk.’
‘You’re being ridiculous,’ Mikami said, his voice unwittingly loud.
Yamashina just shrugged, while other voices boiled over. You’re the ridiculous one! Of course we’re suspicious when you insist on hiding everything! Were the names of pregnant women withheld before? No. We demand a proper explanation! Mikami ignored the jeering. If he opened his mouth he would end up shouting, too.
‘Let’s see, Mikami,’ Akikawa said finally. He took his time, unfolding his arms. It stank of drama, as though to suggest that their star performer was about to take the stage. ‘What you’re afraid of is . . . the police coming under public censure if something were to happen to the woman or her unborn child because her name had come out in the press.’
‘That’s not it. There are simply some circumstances in which a person involved has the right to privacy.’
‘The right to privacy?’ Akikawa scoffed. ‘Let me get this right . . . you think we should be discussing the rights of the guilty party?’
‘Yes.’
Again the room descended into commotion.
Come on! As if you understand that! Isn’t disregarding human rights a particular forte of the police? Who are you to lecture us on that?
‘I don’t understand why you’re so worked up. You know the trend in reporting is increasingly heading towards anonymity. You employ it all the time – on TV, in the papers. Why are you so against us making the decision?’
That’s just arrogance. The police don’t have the right. Don’t you understand anything about press freedom? Anonymous police reports infringe on the public’s right to know.
‘Come on, Mikami, just give us her name. We’re not going to print it if she really is in bad shape.’ Yamashina spoke over them again. This time his tone was conciliatory. ‘It’s not as if it makes any difference in the end. We’d still do our research, get her name and address, even if you were to withhold her details. I imagine it would be harder on her, too – as we know she’s pregnant – if we had to find out from her directly.’
‘Director Mikami, let’s just get this clear,’ Tejima implored, speaking up the moment Akikawa refolded his arms. His forehead was oiled with sweat. ‘Are you willing to consider giving us the woman’s identity?’
‘No.’ Mikami’s answer was immediate. Tejima’s eyes grew wide.
‘Why not?’
‘You know, she was in tears when she pleaded with the officer in charge, asking him not to talk to the press.’
‘Hey! Don’t make us out to be the bad guys.’
‘That’s how scary it is. To face having your name in the papers.’
‘That’s unwarranted. You’re just trying to shift the blame.’
‘You can say what you want. We’re not giving you her name. The decision has already been made.’
The room fell silent. Mikami stood ready for an angry backlash. But . . .
‘You’ve changed, Mikami.’ Akikawa had switched tack. He placed his hands on Mikami’s desk and leaned forwards, his expression grave. ‘We expected things from you. You weren’t like your predecessor, Funaki. You never tried to ingratiate yourself with us, nor did you ever suck up to your superiors. Honestly . . . we were impressed with you after your transfer in. But then you seemed to give up, become indifferent. Now you tow the party line. What happened?’
Mikami was silent. He stared into empty space, loath for them to notice his hesitation. Akikawa continued.
‘You were the one to call Media Relations a “window”. It’s a hard pill to swallow when the same press director chooses to follow official policy blindly, like all the other officers. Without someone willing to listen to us in the outside world, someone who has the nerve to be objective and make a stand, the police will never be anything more than a closed-off black box. Are you happy with that?’
‘The window’s still there. It’s just not as big as you thought.’
Disappointment flashed over Akikawa’s face. Mikami realized that, rather than seeking to attack or condemn, Akikawa had been making a genuine appeal. His eyes were dispassionate when he returned his gaze to Mikami.
‘Okay. I want to know one more thing.’
‘What?’
‘Your personal opinion on anonymous reporting.’
‘Personal, official – the distinction’s irrelevant. The answer’s the same.’
‘You really believe that?’
Mikami was silent again. Akikawa said nothing. Each probed the other’s eyes. Five, ten seconds. Time seemed to slow down. Finally, Akikawa gave a deep nod.
‘Your position is clear enough.’ He looked around the reporters behind him for a while before turning back to face Mikami. ‘Then I formally request, representing the consensus of the Press Club, that you reveal the identity of the woman. We ask this not of you but of the Prefectural HQ.’
Mikami’s eyes provided his answer: you know the decision.
Akikawa nodded again.
‘“Give them the woman’s name and they’ll run it in the papers.” Meaning you, the police, have no trust in us whatsoever. Yes?’
The words came out sounding like an ultimatum. Akikawa turned his back on Mikami. The reporters began to file out of the room, their heels loud.
Don’t think we’re going to stand for this.
A brooding disquiet was all that remained in the cramped room.
4
Had they meant to threaten him?