A pair of dōshin stood on guard outside the prison gates. Despite their samurai swords and topknots, they had little else in common with the well-dressed nobles strolling through the city. The cuffs of their hakama trailed, threadbare, to the ground, and their tunics showed the signs of cheap repairs. One dōshin looked too old to work, his hair more white than gray. The other’s wrinkled hands and sagging eyes revealed that he, too, approached retirement age.
Hiro and Father Mateo stopped at the gates but did not bow.
“We have come to see a prisoner named Ginjiro,” Hiro said. “We were told that he is here awaiting trial.”
“Ginjiro?” the white-haired dōshin repeated. “Yes. I will ask if he can see a visitor.”
The dōshin entered the gates and locked them again from the opposite side. His companion, who remained behind, watched the priest with the mute alarm of a Japanese man who had never seen a foreigner.
Father Mateo nodded to the guard but didn’t speak. Hiro noted the behavior with approval. The lowest-ranking samurai drew the assignment to guard the prison gates. No man of rank would engage them in conversation without need.
After several awkwardly silent minutes, the ancient dōshin returned. This time, he didn’t lock the gate.
“You may see the prisoner,” he said, “but only briefly.”
“Acceptable,” Hiro replied, “we don’t need long.”
“And thank you,” Father Mateo added, to Hiro’s minor disapproval.
“Follow me.” The elderly dōshin led them into the prison yard.
The ammonia-rich scent of human waste assaulted Hiro’s nostrils with the force of a physical blow. He coughed but stifled it quickly. Coughing showed weakness. More importantly, coughs required deep inhalation, which renewed the assault on Hiro’s senses.
The acrid smell rose up from puddles in the dozens of wooden cages that lined the yard and ringed the compound walls. The cages measured three feet across and as tall as Hiro’s shoulder—too short for a man to stand erect and not quite wide enough to sit or kneel. Some of the cages stood empty, but most held a single, miserable prisoner. Without a night-soil bucket, the prisoners’ waste ended up on the ground, creating puddles that even the flies avoided.
“How long do they keep these men in those tiny cages?” Father Mateo asked in Portuguese.
“Until the magistrate hears their cases,” Hiro replied in the Jesuit’s language, glad to keep the conversation private.
“And after that?” the Jesuit asked.
“Fines, or flogging, or execution, depending on the crime.”
Near the middle of the compound, three wooden posts stood upright in the center of an open space. Each post measured as tall as a man and almost a foot in diameter, and had a pair of shackles secured to the top by a length of rusted chain. Dark red spots on the whipping posts attracted swarms of iridescent flies. Hiro didn’t need to get close to know the spots were blood.
Just in front of the whipping posts, the dōshin took a left and led the visitors to a row of cages near the compound wall.
Ginjiro crouched in a wooden cage near the end of the row, feet half-buried in mud and human waste. He kept his eyes on the ground as the jailer approached, in part because of the cage’s height but also, no doubt, in shame.
The dōshin stopped and called, “Ginjiro, identify yourself!”
The brewer raised his head. “I am Ginjiro.” His mouth fell open in shock, eyes wide, at the sight of Hiro and Father Mateo. He struggled to bow, but the narrow cage made courtesy impossible.
“Matsui-san,” Ginjiro said, “I am honored, and shamed, by your visit.”
“You have five minutes,” the dōshin said.
“May we approach him?” Father Mateo asked.
“If you choose,” the dōshin said. “I wouldn’t. The prisoners throw filth if you get too close.”
Hiro and Father Mateo walked to Ginjiro’s cage as the dōshin departed.
“Tomiko asked us to help you,” Hiro said.
Father Mateo added, “—to prove your innocence.”
Hiro wished the priest wouldn’t promise results when the truth remained uncertain.
“We have asked the magistrate to delay your hearing,” Hiro said.
Father Mateo looked up and down the row of cages. “Chikao’s family granted us four days to investigate.”
“After that, you answer to the magistrate,” Hiro said. “So if you know who killed Chikao, tell us now.”
“I didn’t kill him. I don’t know who did.” Ginjiro shifted position as if trying to find a more comfortable one. It didn’t seem to work.
“Tell us about the argument,” Hiro said.
Ginjiro coughed, likely due to the acrid fumes rising off the puddle in which he stood. “Chikao’s son, Kaoru, owes me a debt. He promised his father would pay, but the debt has gone so long, and grown so large, that I demanded payment.”
“Did you ask Chikao before you extended credit to his son?” Father Mateo asked.
“No.” Ginjiro shook his head. “Why would I? Sons don’t use their fathers’ credit without permission.”
“Kaoru did,” Hiro said.
Ginjiro nodded. “So I discovered. At first, Kaoru denied the debt and accused me of cheating his father, but his attitude changed as soon as I showed my ledger. Chikao requested a chance to pay the debt down over time. I agreed, but told him I wouldn’t support his application to join the brewers’ guild until he paid the debt in full.”
“This happened last night?” Hiro asked.
“No.” Ginjiro scratched his ear. “That happened about a week ago. After that, I considered the matter closed. Then yesterday, around midday, Kaoru tried to buy a cask of my sake for the Lucky Monkey.”
“Kaoru alone?” Hiro asked. “His father wasn’t with him?”
“Not the first time,” Ginjiro said. “Kaoru explained that his father wanted a better grade of sake, to serve along with the one they brew. I refused to sell, because of the debt, and Kaoru started making threats. He said I’d lose my daughter, my shop, and everything else I owned.”
“That’s a serious threat,” Father Mateo said. “Did you call the police?”
Ginjiro raised his hands. “If I reported every drunk who threatened my business, the magistrate would need to post a dōshin outside my shop on a permanent basis. Kaoru is rude and obnoxious, but matters like this are better resolved in private.
“After Kaoru’s visit, I sent a message to the Lucky Monkey, warning Chikao that he needed to keep his son away from my brewery.” Ginjiro paused. “Chikao sent a message back, begging me not to involve the guild. He promised to make a payment toward the debt that very night. I didn’t believe him, but yesterday evening he showed up as promised, along with Kaoru.
“Chikao started to make a payment, but Kaoru objected. Once again, he claimed that I inflated the bill unfairly. When I produced the ledger, he tried to snatch it from my hands. That’s when Chikao pulled Kaoru back and asked me to speak with them privately.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Hiro said. “You told Chikao to go into the alley, not the other way around.”
“I named the place,” Ginjiro said, “but only after Chikao asked to speak with me in private.”
“Why did you wait to report the debt and the threats to the brewers’ guild?” Hiro asked.
“The za will not admit a man whose sons or apprentices act in a shameful manner,” Ginjiro said. “Chikao is a hardworking man with a spoiled son. It seemed unfair to punish him—and also Ren—for Kaoru’s indiscretions.”
“What happened in the alley?” Hiro asked.
“Chikao pulled out his purse, but Kaoru snatched it from him.” Ginjiro looked at the ground. “At that point, I lost my temper.”
After a pause so long that Hiro doubted the brewer would finish the story, Ginjiro said, “The argument escalated. Kaoru wouldn’t return the purse, no matter what his father said. Eventually, he left the alley, taking the money with him. Chikao pursued him down the street. I followed only as far as the mouth of the alley.”
Ginjiro looked at the ground as if ashamed.
Hiro said, “You yelled something after them.”
Ginjiro nodded. “Yes. I said, ‘You will regret this foolishness. I’ll get my money, no matter what I have to do.’”