Free Gasa-Gasa Girl by Naomi Hirahara Page B

respectful way. That way not going to work here, thought Mas. Like crossing against a red light, you needed to forget about the rules, and barrel ahead.
    The clerk told them to have a seat on some hard plastic chairs, but Mas opted to pace the linoleum floor instead. Displayed on the wall in a glass case were mug shots of criminals at large. No place for Lloyd and Mari, Mas said to himself. No, that was
baka na hanashi
. Stupid talk.
    As he tried not to think about his son-in-law in jail, the metal doors opened, bringing in cold air and a heavy Latino man, who Mas overheard was a pickpocket victim. One after another they came, telling stories of missing Toyotas and broken noses. They were all given papers to fill out and sign. “Then come back here again,” instructed the clerk.
    The pickpocket and car robbery victims had finished first; then a young Asian woman breezed in. Her hair was cut bluntly past her shoulders, as if it had been shorn by a pair of hedge clippers. She clutched a leather briefcase. “Excuse me, excuse me,” she called out to the clerk. “I’m here to see Lloyd Jensen. I’m his legal counsel.”
    Her voice was deep and throaty like that of a woman who drank and smoked too much.
    “Miss, I’m going to have to have you wait in line.” The rest of the victims nodded and hooted in agreement.
    “No, I will not wait in line.” The girl then began to speak faster and faster, using words that Mas had never heard of. Her voice became even more guttural; she seemed to be transforming into an
oni
, one of those red demons with knobby horns in Japanese fairy tales.
    Finally the clerk sighed. Apparently the attorney’s incantations had worked. “I’ll be right with you,” she said, leaving her post once again.
    The attorney then turned around, and her black eyes met Mas’s. Her face immediately softened and looked nothing like a red
oni
that Mas imagined. Her skin was as smooth as
mochi
, pounded rice, and her eyes, although not that big, were bright. When she held out her hand to shake his, Mas couldn’t help but take a step back. “You must be G.I.’s friend,” she said. “I’m Jeannie Yee.”

    J eannie Yee was originally from Torrance, California, a suburb thirty miles south of downtown L.A. That’s where the well-to-do Japanese moved to in the 1970s after exhausting the charms of Gardena, the working-class town next door.
    She was a
hapa
, too, half-Japanese and half-Chinese. Later she would joke that her Sansei mother had mixed sticky and long rice together, half and half, to appease both sides of the family. She had gone to UCLA for her BA, and then gone on to Columbia, Mari’s alma mater, for her law degree. Mas couldn’t imagine this young high-tone girl being connected with G. I. Hasuike in any way, but she explained that she had received a scholarship from his professional group, the Japanese American Bar Association, years ago. And although she had lived in New York City for seven years, her heart was still in L.A.
    “Damn, I’ve got to get back. Can’t take this weather.” Jeannie had taken off her black overcoat, revealing a lavender suit the color of jacaranda blossoms. She tossed her coat over one of the chairs beside her.
    Tug was the one to make most of the small talk with the girl lawyer. Her father was an engineer with the city of Los Angeles; Tug had been a county health inspector. They shared a world outside of Mas’s. The most Mas could do was pull her overcoat higher up on the chair so the bottom did not drag on the linoleum floor.
    “So, your son-in-law, is he a
hapa
?” Jeannie finally asked Mas.
    Mas shook his head. “Hunnerd percent
hakujin
. Dat mean you won’t help him?”
    “Well, we don’t discriminate,” said Jeannie, “although we can’t take every case. But since you know G.I., I’ll take him on. We charge a sliding scale based on income.”
    “Next-to-nuttin’ income, I think.”
    “Well, then,” said Jeannie. “You’ve probably come to