Suki Kim - The Interpreter

“Human resource. Child labor. They usually traded boys over the age of four. I guess the younger ones proved useless. You can’t really stick two-year-olds into sweatshops, can you?”

“But why would the orphans be left without a green card? What about the visa that had been issued to them to begin with?”

“ Please —there never was an orphan, don’t you see? The orphans weren’t real. Those were just some random kids kidnapped off the streets of Seoul or wherever they were taken from. Whatever papers they had with them were all fake anyway. The visa was only useful to smuggle the kids into America. After that, these kids filtered through the system as nonentities. They truly became the orphans of the world, no name, no nothing, which was exactly what the gang wanted. To pin these kids with nowhere to go. These were the very ones recruited as the next generation of KK. The true brothers. The little boys with no ties in the world except for their gang brothers. Desperation. That’s what pulled them together, which is why it’s so hard to get any of them to speak.”

“When did you say that he was deported?”

“November ’95. Roughly five years ago. He was in his twenties. I guess he should be about your age now. Why? You think you’ve heard of him or something?”

“No, all of this is news to me. What was his name anyway?”

“They all called him DJ. No last name. None of them ever have real names.”

An orphan kid smuggled into the country.

No one except for his gang brothers.

She must be getting tired. The day may have dragged on too long.

“Two possibilities, assuming we’ve got the right boys.” Detective Lester suddenly stops pacing. “Either the gang acted on their own, or they were hired by someone. But gangs don’t kill for debts. They might threaten or hurt the victims, but they wouldn’t just get rid of them. What would be the point? Where would they get the money? So let’s assume that they were following someone’s order. Then we’ve gotta start looking around at the people your parents knew. Employees. Other store owners. People with enough reason to want them dead. Can you think of anyone with a grudge against your parents? My men doing rounds among the Korean markets might find something. But Koreans don’t tend to trust policemen. They don’t wanna tell us anything, which unfortunately doesn’t help your parents’ case.”

Kim Yong Su. And the other witness at the deposition, Mr. Lee. Even Mr. Lim, who’d had a falling-out with her father, who resembles the strange man in Montauk. In fact, the entire Korean community might be filled with people who had hated her parents. Yet no one will talk. No one will cooperate with the investigation. No one wants the murderer to get caught.

“No, I don’t know anyone with a reason to kill my parents.” She may be like the rest of them. She won’t confide in police. She may even be shielding the killer.

“Well, if you remember anything, call me.” Detective Lester extends his hand with a smile. If he suspects her of withholding anything, he does not show it. Instead, he asks, “So where’s your sister?”

“She’s… away.”

“Vacation?”

“Something like that.”

“Funny, she didn’t mention it on the phone.”

“You spoke to her?”

“Just last week. I told her it was perfect timing.”

“She called you?”

“Sure, she was just checking in, she’s done that before,” he muses, as if to say, What about you? “She wasn’t much help either. I was hoping to see both of you here today.”

So Grace knew about it already. Grace was told.

“When did she call last week?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Friday maybe?”

Grace showed up in Montauk the same day. Bob the bartender seemed to think that she then returned to the city. On Sunday, she called Ms. Goldman to say that she was not coming in.

“Well, tell her to stop by when she gets back. She’s older, right? Maybe she’ll remember more.” He shows her to the door. It is not much of a door. A narrow crack, just like the window. The whole building is tightly woven. No sound, no bullet, no room for escape. Before shutting the door, he says, almost in passing, “You look different from how I remembered. I don’t know what it is. I can’t quite put my finger on it.” Then, gazing at her once more, he adds, “Don’t worry. It’ll come to me.”

“INS, MAY I HELP YOU?”

The 800 number was the only viable option. Since eight o’clock this morning, Suzy has kept dialing the local branch, whose computerized operator put her on hold for what seemed like the entire morning only to route the call to the toll-free number. New York City must be one of its busiest chapters. They probably have their hands full, having to answer all the immigrants, whose panicked questions in broken English must get tiresome pretty quickly.

“I’m trying to find out about my status, and that of my parents, who are… both deceased.”

“Are you a U.S. citizen?”

“I think so.”

“Were you born in this country?”

“No, but I’m sure I am a citizen.”

“What’s your file number?”

“I don’t know. But my name is Suzy Park, and my Social Security number is…”

“Miss, I didn’t ask for your Social Security number. Do you have a filing receipt or a certification paper?”

“No.”

“Did you file for citizenship yourself?”

“No, I believe my parents did.”

“Were they citizens?”

“I think so.”

“Miss, I can only help you if you are certain of the situation.”

“I’m almost sure that we are all citizens, I mean, that they were also, until they passed away.”

“Miss, I can only help you if you are certain of the situation.”

What did she expect? It is the INS, after all. The iron gate of America, and the gatekeeper is on the other end, not sure if he wants to let her in.

“Look, if I were certain, I wouldn’t be calling you in the first place. My parents are both dead. They can’t tell me a thing. They never showed me any certification papers. I just want to know when they might have filed for citizenship and under which circumstances. You tell me, am I a U.S. citizen or not?”

Then the silence at the other end. For a second, Suzy is afraid that he may have hung up. She is half expecting the usual “Let me call the supervisor” move. Instead, the man comes right back on. Obviously, in his line of work, her level of outrage must be almost expected.

“Miss, there’s nothing I can do for you. It sounds to me like you need to apply for G639 papers. Freedom of Information Act. Please hold, while I transfer you.”

With that, she is put on hold again. Several minutes later, when she is put through, it is to a machine telling her to leave an address to which the G639 application can be sent out. The application will take two to three weeks in the mail.

The INS, not the most open organization, not exactly known for efficiency. It was naïve to think that she could just call and find out anything. Not surprising that no one is jumping to her aid. Looking up a citizenship-status file cannot be as urgent as deporting an illegal immigrant. A few weeks to get her hands on a bunch of papers called G639, a few weeks for them to process, and then who knows when they would get back to her with a response? Freedom of Information Act. Freedom, sure, in the most roundabout way. There must be an easier way.

Her first instinct is to call Detective Lester. He should be able to pull up the record in a second. Aren’t they all in league with one another? Would the INS refuse him speedy access when the information might be pertinent to a criminal investigation? If you remember anything, call me . He sounded almost chirpy. The police. It is impossible to guess what they know or how much they pretend. Where has he been for the last five years? Why did he declare her parents’ deaths random? Why has he ignored the case all this time, until now? Korean Killers. Fearsome Four. On second thought, maybe she shouldn’t ask him for help. Why bring him into something that might only be personal?