Interpretation of the Law 7: Flirting with the Law

7. Flirting with the Law

Her mask cannot hide her red, blushing cheeks; her eyes glitter like a hanabi night, and her involuntary smile is undeniable. Yet she must look away, and she does. She controls her exhale and says nothing. There is nothing about her vibe that is impatient or withdrawn.

I point to the writing on my hand.

“Why don’t I take you to your favorite restaurant?” I ask.

She slowly nods, perhaps searching for the right response-one that doesn’t deny her heart nor betray her position.

“Ok,” she says.

“Ok,” I echo.

Steps sound by the door and an unfamiliar officer enters, holding forms. He’s tall and lanky, his attire more reminiscent of a green beret in the forest than a police officer. He sits across from me, explaining a few things I must acknowledge.

The young cadet translates, her tone shifting to bureaucracy.

“A knife has to be kept at home or work. If you use it for cooking, it must stay at home. If you need it for work, it must remain at work.”

I nod in acknowledgment.

He continues, and she translates with a serious tone of voice.

“If you have to carry it, it must be wrapped in a towel and put inside a bag. A knife cannot be kept in your car. Unless you are camping.”

He slides one of the forms across the table and instructs her to explain.

“On this document, you have to write down what he said. You have to write that you understand,” she says kindly.

I scan the page. It looks simple enough-nothing incriminating, I hope.

“Do I write it in Japanese or English?” I ask.

Without checking with the officer, she answers, “English is fine.”

They both watch as I write out the statement. The green beret across from me seems to read as I write. He probably doesn’t speak English fluently, but like many Japanese with some formal level of English education, he can read it.

I put the pen down and the young officer takes the document to read my statement. She quickly goes through each sentence, then turns to the officer in green beret attire.

“Yes, it’s ok. Daijobu desu,” she confirms.

He passes her an ink pad, and she opens it toward me.

“Put your hand here,” she orders, gesturing to my left. She’s starting to sound like immigration at the airport: just do this and that, no explanation.

I press my index finger into the ink for fingerprints. Unfortunately, this doesn’t require explaining, thanks to Boston Public Schools. Before they taught me and my classmates how to spell Massachusetts, they taught us how to press our fingerprints onto an ink pad and mark them onto a sheet of paper. We were six years old, getting our fingers dirty and having fun, but I can only guess why they taught us this.

“Press your finger here,” she commands.

A copy of my fingerprint now sits where the Japanese inkan would normally go on contracts and signed seals. My fingerprint is now my signature.

The green beret takes my statement, then presents two other documents. He explains the first for the cadet to translate.

“This is a form for you to sign. It states they have returned the knife to you,” she says.

“But they haven’t,” I reply, surprised they would return the knife at all. Does this mean I will go home tonight? I wonder, but don’t ask.

“No, they have not returned the knife to you,” she acknowledges.

“When they do, then I will sign it,” I say.

She translates, and the green beret agrees. He asks me to wait and steps out, leaving us alone again.

We sit in silence. My attention shifts to any sound outside the room. I hear neither the Dutchman nor anyone else. She looks up at the ceiling, avoiding eye contact.

The awkwardness in the room begins to return, and before the green beret returns, I pop the question, “Would you like me to give you my contact details?”

She replies, matter-of-factly, “No need. It’s in the system. I can look it up.”