The interpreter, p.9
The Interpreter, page 9
The austerity of the room suggests a typical municipal agency. The lack of windows is intentional. This must be what a prison feels like, she thinks. The walls are sealed in off-white paint. The table and chairs are so generic that they appear to have been hauled right out of a Kmart window. Curiously, it reminds her of her own apartment, the bareness, the chilling stillness, the unspecified waiting. It could be 4 a.m. still, and Suzy, alone, wishing for sleep.
“Ms. Suzy Park? James Richards, Assistant DA.” He is tall, somber, in a dark suit that matches the furniture. He hands her his card and points to the man standing next to him. “You’ll be interpreting for Mr. Lee here.”
Against the ADA, whose six-foot-four frame seems unsettling under the low ceiling, Mr. Lee looks timid, although he is not small for a Korean man. In a stiff black suit and a starched white shirt, he could almost pass for a lawyer, or an undertaker. Koreans tend to overdress at depositions. Lawyers and judges, in fact, anyone to do with the law, are taken ultra-seriously, and witnesses put on their cleanest, smartest outfits, as though these meetings were Sunday mass. It is their way of showing courtesy before the law, although such effort might mislead the opposing council to assume that the witness’s claim of economic hardship must be a fabrication. But a deposition is an event for these immigrant workers. A brush with the American law does not happen every day, never mind the summons from the Office of the Attorney General. For those who labor seven days a week at groceries, nail salons, dry cleaners, when, if not now, would they ever get a chance to don their fake Gucci, Armani, Rolex?
His face looks too tanned for a dry cleaner. Deli or grocery, maybe. But his hands have seen too much dirt and sun, which could only mean fruits and vegetables. The mystery does not last long, for the ADA sets down the folder he’s been carrying: “Case 404: Office of the Attorney General Labor Bureau in the Matter of the Investigation of Lee Market, Inc. of Grand Concourse, New York.”
Mr. Lee nods slightly, the way Koreans greet each other in formal settings. Suzy nods back, a bit more deeply, since he is obviously older and requires more respect.
“Ms. Park, this is just a preliminary questioning, so no stenographer will be present. Will you ask him if he understands that he has the right to be represented by a lawyer under the law?”
James Richards has a kind voice, and Suzy is glad for Mr. Lee, who looks nervous, almost rigid, the way he knits his eyebrows as if trying to understand the flow of language that escapes him.
It’s okay, she tells him. Don’t worry too much, she says before translating what has been uttered by the ADA.
He answers, “Yes, I understand, I cannot afford a lawyer, I have no time to find a lawyer, I work twelve hours a day, I work seven days a week, I barely have time to sleep, I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Suzy translates his answer, and the ADA nods eagerly, as if to acknowledge the man’s concern.
“Mr. Lee, no one’s accusing you of wrongdoing. You’ve been summoned here for a few questions in response to the complaints we’ve received, the source of which I cannot reveal to you due to the laws of confidentiality. The investigation has only just begun. This might lead to depositions and hearings, but for now all we are here to do is to ask you some questions, and to have you tell the truth.”
Suzy scribbles a few key words into her notepad while the ADA speaks. No matter how long a sentence, she must not leave out a single word in her translation. An interpreter is like a mathematician. She approaches language as if it were an equation. Each word is instantly matched with its equivalent. To arrive at a correct answer, she must be exact. Suzy, unbeknownst to herself, has always been skilled at this. It cannot be due to her bilingual upbringing, since not all immigrant kids make excellent interpreters. What she possesses is an ability to be at two places at once. She can hear a word and separate its literal meaning from its connotation. This is necessary, since the verbatim translation often leads to confusion. Languages are not logical. Thus an interpreter must translate word for word and yet somehow manipulate the breadth of language to bridge the gap. While one part of her brain does automatic conversion, the other part examines the linguistic void that results from such transference. It is an art that requires a precise and yet creative mind. Only the true solver knows that two plus two can suggest a lot of things before ending up at four.
But she is being more flexible than usual when she turns to the witness and repeats the ADA’s words, adding at the end, You should really bring a lawyer next time; in fact, if you want, you can stop this right now and request one.
Mr. Lee meets her eyes and says, “No, I will be fine, I will tell it as it is, tell this guy here I don’t lie.”
From the way the ADA twirls the pen between his thumb and his index finger, Suzy can tell that the real questioning is about to begin.
“What is your full name?”
“Lee Sung Shik.”
Koreans put their last names first. It is the last name that matters. The last name determines the status, the family history, the origin. Older people often refer to each other by last names only. All last names come from different roots. There might be twenty separate sects of Lee, or fifty divisions among Kim. Lee of the Junju sect bears no relation to Lee of the Junuh sect. Each sect carries its own registry of thousands of years, which documents the class status. Americans love to say that all Koreans are named Kim, but Koreans do not look at it that way. To them, all Kims are not the same. In fact, there is often a world of class difference between two sects of Kim. For example, Kim of the Kyungju line descends from noble blood, whereas another sect of Kim might trace its ancestry among the commoners. It is all in the last name. So it is not unusual for Koreans to skip first names altogether. Many deposition transcripts get mixed up because of this switch of the name order. Lawyers who often handle Korean cases immediately ask Suzy at the beginning of a deposition please to put last names last in her translation. Do it in the American way, they say.
“Mr. Lee, what, if any, is your involvement with the store located at 458 Grand Concourse?”
“I am the owner,” Mr. Lee answers.
“How long have you been the owner of the store located at 458 Grand Concourse?”
“Four years.”
“Before that, where did you work?”
“I was unemployed.”
“For how long?”
“For approximately a year.”
“Before that, did you work at all?”
“I was employed at a fruit-and-vegetable store.”
“By whom?”
“They are dead now.”
“What were their names?”
This is where Suzy falters. This is where Suzy is afraid she will know the answer.
What were their names?
It takes her a second longer to translate the question, so easy, although the answer is even easier. She really should not be here.
“Mr. Park and his wife, over in the South Bronx; I never knew their first names.”
So he had known her parents. He’d worked for them five years ago, which must have been right around the time of their death. This man here, with stubby fingers and swarthy face, had seen Mom and Dad every day. It should not surprise her. The Korean community is not big, after all. Many workers passed through the store in the South Bronx during the eight years in which her parents owned it. Turnovers seemed unusually frequent. When Suzy asked Dad why, she was told to stay out of their business. They had bought the store the year Grace went away to college. Before that, they kept changing jobs almost every year. Neither of her parents stuck to one job for long. One of them always got fired for one reason or another. With each new job came a move. Sometimes the relocation made the commute easier for her parents. But more often, they moved for no reason whatsoever. The family never stayed in one address for longer than a year. It was as if they were on the run. From what, Suzy had no clue. Once they bought the store, things calmed down a bit. They moved less often, although by then both girls had moved into dorms at Smith and Columbia. Suzy was surprised that her parents had saved enough money to buy a store finally, and was even more shocked when Mom told her about the brownstone in Woodside, Queens. They closed on the house soon after she ran off with Damian. Suzy never got to see it.
Now the questions have moved on to the store Mr. Lee currently owns. Suzy translates with mechanical efficiency, as though each question simply filters through her, each word automatically switching from English to Korean.
“How many employees are there in your store total, including both day and night shift?”
The ADA is looking through his notes. Suzy wonders why he asks such questions, when the answer must be right at his fingertips.
“Seven, including myself.”
Mr. Lee is no longer thinking about Suzy’s parents. He’s back in his own fruit-and-vegetable store on Grand Concourse, where the underpaid illegal immigrant workers must be slaving away twelve hours a day, seven days a week, much the way he has been doing since he arrived in this country.
“Can you name the workers and their responsibilities, along with their salaries, weekly or bimonthly, however they are paid?”
So the issue at hand must be the violation of the minimum-wage law, for which countless Korean store-owners have come under scrutiny lately. Some have been forced to shut down, some so bombarded with back payments that they deteriorate into bankruptcy. Suzy has served in several depositions brought on by the union. She once overheard the lawyers gossiping about how the Labor Department has been tightening its watch, something about the elections coming up and the mayor needing a new shakedown. “Get them behind bars or back in their own country,” one lawyer chortled, imitating the mayor, known for his tough-man act.
Mr. Lee is rounding up the names now. Jorge, Luis, Roberto, inevitably Hispanic names. The hierarchy becomes even more marked. The white prosecutors, the Korean store-owners, the Hispanic workers, and Suzy stuck in between with language as her only shield. He is now producing the record of all payments, scrawled in ink, for workers are always paid in cash. Of course they are. How many of them actually have working papers or even bank accounts? How many are legal in this country anyway?
Suzy is desperately hoping that the questions will go back to five years ago, back to when this man had worked for her parents, while they were still alive, while they were still swearing to disown her. But the ADA is zeroing in now. This is the moment the investigation has been leading up to.
“No benefits, no sufficient evidence of pay, no adequate vacation or sick days. Have you, Mr. Lee, been exploiting these illegal immigrant workers?”
The questions become more accusatory as they drag on, well into the late afternoon. When the assignment lasts this long, which must mean something serious, it is the interpreter who tires the most. The ADA only asks, and the witness answers accordingly, but the interpreter must do both, must keep her ears open at all times. Mr. Lee says nothing in return, and James Richards lets out a deep sigh, twirling the pen faster. Each question takes her a bit longer to translate. She is beginning to slow her words. They have been doing this for over three hours.
“Can you describe to me again the ways in which you hire and fire your workers?”
He has asked that before. The answer could only be just as tedious. Through word of mouth, Mr. Lee will say, through acquaintances I find them, and I let the worker go when he’s not good. How predictable, such a question, such an answer. So, instead, Suzy makes up her own question, surprised even as the words escape her lips.
Five years ago, you said, you worked for people who are now dead. Can you describe to me what happened to them?
Mr. Lee casts a quick glance at the ADA’s face, as if slightly confounded by such a turn of questioning. But he appears unsuspecting and gazes at the wall as if reaching back to five years ago, which is exactly what Suzy wants to see.
“They were killed. I had stopped working for them by then, been fired, actually. I only heard about it later. It was all over the Korean news.”
Turning to the ADA, Suzy repeats the same response Mr. Lee had given previously. Her heart is pounding. She cannot stop herself. She is being guided by an impulse that is beyond her. James Richards nods, as though he’s been expecting such an answer. Undeterred, he continues. “Mr. Lee, when a new employee is hired, do you offer him a set amount of time for training?”
Training, what a useless question. These jobs don’t require sophisticated skills. Just strong muscles and a willingness to sweat for a bit of cash.
Instead, Suzy asks, What was the nature of the murder?
Mr. Lee answers grumpily, “They said that it was some sort of a random shooting. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t. I shouldn’t talk this way about the dead. But that Park guy, he had it coming to him.”
Mr. Lee does not notice Suzy’s face turning pale at his last words. She needs to register this information quickly, discreetly. She faces the other and gives him what’s been answered before. Yes, she tells him. Yes, for about a week, all the new worker does is watch how the work gets done and do whatever the others tell him to do.
James Richards sees nothing. He is setting up the next question. He seems to be moving toward his mission: get them behind bars or back in their own country. The evidence is all right here in this terrible man who cheats on those illegals who should be sent back to their country immediately. What’s the INS doing?
“Mr. Lee, can you describe the manner in which a worker is fired at your store? Do you offer him unemployment benefits?”
What does he think a fruit-and-vegetable market is? A Wall Street office? A nine-to-five, suit-and-tie job? Does he actually assume that working twelve hours a day, seven days a week, comes with that kind of privilege? Does he believe that the same rules apply to those who don’t have the right papers, don’t speak a word of English? Does he believe that the American dream is that easy? Unemployment and health benefits? They were never designed with these immigrant workers in mind. No one, not even the owners, have those!
So, instead, Suzy asks, What do you mean? What makes you believe that the shooting was not random?
Mr. Lee spits out the answer, as though the whole business is distasteful to him: “He had friends in all sorts of places. He and his wife, they were up to something.”
It is clear that the man is not enjoying these questions. What had her parents done to evoke such strong feelings?
James Richards is patient. He keeps on. He wants evidence. Not those scribbled notes the man has brought with him, but a record, a receipt, an invoice, none of which seem to exist.
“Mr. Lee, how would you notify your worker when he is being fired?”
But Suzy barely hears his question as she asks instead, Why did they fire you?
Mr. Lee’s face reddens a little, as if he cannot control the sudden rage as he recalls, “That Park guy had it all planned. He owed me two months’ pay, so he decided to throw me out instead. He looked as though he could kill, the way he screamed what a lazy lout I was, so I walked out. I took off my apron, which they made me wear for the work around the salad bar, and just walked out. Of course he never paid me, and I didn’t pursue it. I knew I didn’t want to mess with him. I’d seen what happens to guys who stand up to him, like this delivery guy out in Queens, Kim Yong Su I think his name was. Man, was he really screwed by that Park guy! Let me tell you, half the Korean community didn’t exactly shed tears when they heard about his death!”
It is hard to keep her composure, but Suzy must try, improvising an answer as long as the heated monologue. She repeats what Mr. Lee had said earlier, about firing a worker when he’s not good. She repeats it a few times to make up for the length. It actually works, this repetition, and discourages the ADA from poking into what is quite simple and obvious.
“I understand,” the ADA is pleading now. “I can see how you fire your workers, but tell me again about the hiring process; is there any contract which you or your employee enter into, a written contract, I mean?”
A written contract? Has he forgotten that no one, neither the one who does the hiring nor the one who is hired, speaks, never mind reads, a word of English?
Suzy turns to Mr. Lee without meeting him in the eyes. She is afraid that he will see the resemblance, find her father’s face in her lowering gaze. She is afraid to ask further.
Tell me, who do you think was responsible for their death?
Mr. Lee snickers as he barks, “The brave one. Someone so righteous that eliminating them would’ve been a necessity. Even the police wouldn’t touch the case. Random shooting, my ass; what idiot would believe that?”
Suzy believed, and Grace. Or maybe they wanted to believe.
Turning to the ADA, she tells him no, no written contract, no such thing. It is shocking how she manages to maintain her calm through all this. It is shocking how easily she lies.
James Richards appears exasperated at last. The questioning is going nowhere, or going so smoothly that his answers will haunt the trial as falsifying evidence.
“I am asking you one final time, Mr. Lee, are you claiming that you have always paid your workers the minimum wage?”
Suzy translates the last question quickly, wanting to be done with this.
“Yes,” Mr. Lee shouts back with a vengeance. “You can see from all the record.”
He’s lying. He has clearly broken the minimum-wage law. It’s her instinct. An interpreter knows almost instantly when a witness is lying. She is the most astute listener in the world. She listens between the lines, between the words. Nothing goes unnoticed. The first time Suzy interpreted for a lying witness, she was surprised how much it hurt. It happened at a trial, before a judge and a jury. Suzy stumbled, causing the entire room to stare at her. An interpreter must be neutral, and anonymous. It is not up to her to make judgment. Except the bitterness was on her tongue, and Suzy was not sure if she would be spared with her heart intact. Afterward, she could not help noticing that it was the lying party that won.
