The receipt for the money had to be filled out and verified by officials of the US government, namely me and Ernie. I cleared my throat and started asking questions.
“Who are the parents?”
All heads turned to the woman squatting next to the body and a man sitting cross-legged on the floor next to her. He was unbelievably thin, but he held his back perfectly straight. A white shirt and tie seemed incongruously bring beneath his weathered face. His cheekbones were high, like ridges of stone.
“You are Choi Heng-sok?”
He nodded.
“And the deceased is your daughter?”
He nodded again.
“May I see some identification?”
The words were written right there on the questionnaire, but as soon as I said them, I regretted them. An intake of breath rustled through the crowd. Even Ernie glanced over at me. Mr. Choi didn’t seem to notice, however. He reached back in his wallet and pulled out a laminated card and handed it across to me with bony, leather-skinned fingers, as steady as his rock-like expression.
I took the card, placed it on my clipboard, and copied down the Korean National Identification number. When I was finished, I handed it back to him.
As I filled in the receipt, I sensed movement next to the body. Something rustled. Then something shrieked.
“She is my daughter!” the woman screamed. “My baby and you have killed her!”
Ernie started to stand up. A couple of the relatives slid across the floor toward her, getting between us. Soon she was enveloped in grasping hands and cooing words.
She was crying now, shaking her head violently, her lips and cheeks quivering, drool dripping from her mouth.
I filled out the last of the form. Mr. Choi had turned toward his wife but looked back at me when I thrust the clipboard toward him.
“Sign,” I said. “It is necessary to receive your claim.”
He nodded and took the board from my hand, and while I pointed at the signature block he scribbled three Chinese characters in a quick, sure hand. He started to give it back to me, but I wouldn’t take it.
“Your wife must sign also.”
He stared at me, confused. In Korea, a husband can sign for the entire family. He and his ancestors had a long acquaintance with the peculiarities of red tape, however, and he was dealing with foreigners, after all. Acceptance came to his face and he slid forward across the immaculately polished floor. He and the other relatives soothed the girl’s mother. She kept mumbling about the beasts from across the sea, and her family laughed nervously, glancing at us, hoping Ernie and I wouldn’t take offense.
Ernie couldn’t understand much Korean, but he knew an insult when he heard it. Still, it didn’t seem to bother him. After the initial shock of the scream, he had settled back on his cushion. The only concession he made to nervousness was a stick of gum that he pulled out of his pocket and resolutely chomped on. He hadn’t offered gum to anyone else, which was unlike him. I knew he hadn’t suddenly become stingy. He was just preoccupied. Worried about getting fragged.
Mr. Choi and the others finally convinced the girl’s mother to sign the form. They handed it back to me. Her signature looked like the frenzied slashes of a sharp blade.
I slid the money to him. Ernie and I stood.
For a moment I thought of saying I’m sorry. It would be embarrassing, but it would probably do them a lot of good. But I hadn’t killed their daughter. I wasn’t Dwayne Ortfield. And I wasn’t the US government that had brought him over here.
I tried to think of other times I’d heard apologies on behalf of the US government. I couldn’t think of any.
Maybe there was a regulation against it.
The mother started to cry. Softly this time.
A solemn man who’d been sitting by himself in a corner leaned forward and riffled through the briefcase, stacking the money on the floor and counting it. At first I thought he was some sort of bodyguard. He was tall and lean and strong, watchful of everything. But then I realized he must be the lawyer. Taking charge of the finances. I wondered what his cut would be. Probably half.
We backed out of the room. To turn while leaving would’ve been a sign of disrespect. With things as tense as they were, even Ernie wouldn’t risk delivering such a slap in the face.
The courtyard was empty. The girls must’ve finished their ceremony and left so quickly that I hadn’t noticed. We shuffled across flat stone steps, but before we reached the gate, I heard footsteps behind me and someone grabbed me by the arm. I swiveled and stared into the stern face of the lawyer.
“What of Ortfield?” His English was heavily accented but understandable.
“The court-martial is finished,” I said. “He will be sent back to the States.”
“That is all? No jail? No punishment?”
I shook my head.
“Nothing?”
“He won’t last long in the army,” I said. “He will never be promoted again.”
His narrow eyes hardened. “That will not be good enough for Mr. Choi.”
I shrugged. “There is nothing I can do.”
Ernie stepped forward, positioning himself to kick the lawyer in the groin. I waved him back with the flat of my palm.
The lawyer glanced at him, coldly evaluating his size and strength, and turned back to me. His grip on my arm was strong, and his confidence, facing men a head taller than him, was impressive.
“The parents demand justice,” he said.
“It is too late for that. The Korean police gave up jurisdiction.”
“When does Ortfield leave?”
“Soon.”
“Not soon enough,” he said. “He won’t board an airplane without …” He searched for a word. “Without atonement.” He waved his arm around the courtyard. “This may not seem like the home of a rich man, but Mr. Choi lived a hard life, and when he made money he saved it. There are many people who will do his bidding for the right price.”
There was no question about that. The going rate for a murder in Seoul was about two hundred thousand won-three hundred dollars US.
Ernie’d had enough. He pushed his way in front of me. “Are you threatening me?”
The lawyer let go of my arm and backed off half a step. “Not you.”
“Ortfield then?”
“Yes.” The lawyer nodded. “He will pay.”
I grabbed Ernie by the elbow. “Come on. Let’s go.”
He resisted, but I yanked him toward the wooden gate and pushed him outside. The lawyer didn’t follow.
I started to say something. To tell Ernie that they were just upset and the threats didn’t mean anything, but I gazed down the alleyway and my mouth slammed shut.
They were waiting for us. A hundred grim-faced girls lining either side of the narrow lane. Some were beautiful, some plain, some plagued by pock-marked faces or erupting complexions. But they all stared at us as we walked by.
Ernie strutted, twisting his head back and forth, disdainful of their hatred.
As we descended the long flight of steps, I felt the eyes of the girls on the back of my neck. Fire flushed through my skull until my face burned.
Back at the compound, Ernie was still angry and made the mistake of telling Riley about the threats to Ortfield’s life. It wasn’t long before the first sergeant heard about it and then the provost marshal.
Riley strutted into the admin office, the starch in his fatigues crinkling with each step.
“Straight from the first sergeant,” he said. “New assignment for you guys.”
“No more payoffs, I hope.”
“Not this time. Guard duty. Ortfield’s hold baggage is being picked up in the morning. He catches the first flight out of Kimpo tomorrow afternoon.”
He slapped a plane ticket and a packet of orders into my hand.
“Until then you and Ernie watch him. Every minute. Day and night.”
“Babysitting.”
“You got it. And if he doesn’t make it to that flight, the provost marshal is to send you both back to the DMZ.”
I unfolded the tickets, checking the flight times, making sure the emergency orders were signed and sealed. Ernie’s face flushed red. He looked as if he were about to bust somebody in the chops. I spoke before he had a chance. No sense bitching about it.