Miracle Creek(52)
This was the thing he regretted most about their move to America: the shame of becoming less proficient, less adult, than his own child. He’d expected this to happen eventually, had seen how children and parents switch places as the parents age, their minds and bodies reverting to childhood, then infancy, then nonbeing. But not for many years, and certainly not yet, when Mary still had a foot in childhood. In Korea, he had been the teacher. But after his move, when he visited Mary’s school, her principal had said, “Welcome! Tell me, how are you liking Baltimore?” Pak smiled, nodded, and was deciding how to answer—perhaps the smile-nod had been enough?—when Mary said, “He loves it here, running the store right by Inner Harbor. Right, Dad?” The rest of the meeting, Mary continued speaking for him, answering questions directed his way, like a mother with her two-year-old son.
The irony was, this was precisely why they’d immigrated to America: so that Mary might have a better life, a brighter future, than theirs. (Wasn’t that what parents were supposed to hope for, that their children would become taller/smarter/richer than they?) Pak was proud of his daughter for the speed with which she achieved fluency in this foreign language that eluded him, for her sprint down the path of Americanization. And his inability to keep up—that was supposed to happen. Not only because she’d been here four years longer but because children were better at languages, the younger, the better; everyone knew that. At puberty, one’s tongue set, lost its ability to replicate new sounds without an accent. But it was one thing to know this, and another thing entirely to have your child witness you struggle, to transform in their eyes from a demigod to someone small.
“Pak, why did you start Miracle Submarine? Korean-run groceries, I’ve seen. But HBOT seems unusual,” Abe said, the first of challenging questions requiring longer narratives.
Pak looked at the jurors and tried to imagine them as new friends he was getting to know, as Abe had advised. He said, “I worked … at a wellness center … in Seoul … It was my dream to … start same facility … to help people.” The words he’d memorized didn’t feel right in his mouth, stuck like glue. He’d have to do better.
“Tell us why you got fire insurance.”
“Fire insurance is recommended by hyperbaric regulators.” Pak had practiced this over a hundred times last night, the seven r’s in a row straining his tongue, making him stutter. Thankfully, the jury seemed to understand him.
“Why 1.3 million?”
“The company determined the policy amount.” At the time, he’d been outraged, having to pay so much—and every month!—for something that might never materialize. But he’d had no choice. Janine had insisted on the policy, had made it a condition of their deal. Just behind Abe, Janine was looking down, her face pale, and Pak wondered if she lay awake at night, regretting their secret arrangement, the cash payments, wondering how their excited plans had ended here.
“Yesterday, Ms. Haug accused you of calling the company regarding arson, using Matt Thompson’s phone. Pak”—Abe stepped closer—“did you make that call?”
“No. I never use Matt’s telephone. I never call my company. There is no need. I already know answer. It is written in the policy.”
Abe held up a document, as if to show off its thickness—two centimeters at least—then handed it to Pak. “Is this the policy you’re referring to?”
“Yes. I read before I signed.”
Abe put on a look of surprise. “Really? It’s a mighty long document. Most people don’t read the fine print. I don’t, and I’m a lawyer.”
The jurors nodded. Pak guessed they were in the category of people—most Americans were, Abe said—who just signed things, which seemed to be incredibly trusting or just lazy. Maybe both. “I am not familiar with American business. So I must read. I translated to Korean using dictionary.” Pak flipped to the arson page and held it up. The jurors were too far to make out the words, but they could surely see his scribbles in the margins.
“And the answer to the arson question is in that document?”
“Yes.” Pak read the provision, a model of American verbal excess, an eighteen-line sentence full of semicolons and long words. He pointed to his Korean scribble. “This is my translation. You get money if someone sets fire, but not if you are involved.”
Abe nodded. “Now, another thing the defense tried to pin on you is the H-Mart note the defendant claims to have found.” Abe clenched his jaw, and Pak guessed he was still upset about Teresa’s “defection,” as he’d called it. “Pak, did you write or receive any such note?”
“No. Never,” Pak said.
“Know anything about it?”
“No.”
“But you do own an H-Mart notepad?”
“Yes. I had in the barn. Many people use it. Elizabeth used it. She liked the size. I gave her one pad. For her purse.”
“Wait, so the defendant kept an entire H-Mart notepad in her purse?” Abe looked shocked, as if he hadn’t known, hadn’t scripted Pak’s answer.
“Yes.” Pak resisted the urge to smile at Abe’s theatrics.
“So she could’ve easily crumpled up H-Mart paper and left it for others to see?”
“Objection, calls for speculation.” Shannon stood.