Page 23 of Tiki Beach
Families stood with small suitcases, identification tags pinned to their clothing. Military police with rifles stood guard beside a large wooden building with a sign reading “Processing Center #3.”
“That building stood where Pearl’s garden shed is now,” Auntie Leilani said, pointing to the photograph. “They processed over three hundred local Japanese-Americans through that facility in 1942.”
“Including Pearl’s family?” Ilima asked.
Auntie Leilani nodded solemnly, flipping to another page. “Here.”
The photograph showed a young Japanese couple with three small children. The woman held an infant, while two young girls—perhaps five and seven—stood stoically beside their father. A handwritten caption below read: “Yamamoto family, April 1942.”
“Pearl is the baby,” she said softly. “She was just six months old when they were sent to a camp on the continent. Her older sisters both died of influenza there. Her parents returned to Maui after the war with only Pearl surviving.”
My throat tightened at the casual documentation of such profound loss. “And they had to fight to keep their home and lost the bigger portion of land.”
“The legal battle took nearly two years,” Leilani confirmed, pulling out a folder of legal documents. “During that time, Felix Santos acted as civilian administrator for the processing center property. When the Yamamotos finally won their case and returned, they found their gardens destroyed and their home ransacked.”
Ilima’s expression darkened. “And no compensation, I’m guessing.”
“None,” Auntie Leilani agreed. “But here’s an interesting twist—Felix Santos was dismissed from his position on the property commission shortly after the Yamamotos won their case. Rumor was that certain improprieties came to light.”
“What kind of improprieties?” I asked.
Auntie Leilani’s voice dropped, though we were alone in the room. “The official records are vague. But there were suggestions of theft, abuse of power, maybe worse.” She pulled out a folder marked “Oral Histories” and selected a transcript. “This is from an interview I conducted with Mrs. Tanaka in 1998, shortly before she passed. She was processed through Center #3 and spoke about valuables being confiscated, never to be returned. About beatings for minor rule infractions.”
She hesitated, then added, “There was even mention of a death—a man who protested the treatment of his elderly mother. Mrs. Tanaka wouldn’t name names but said ‘the man in charge’ was responsible.”
“Felix Santos,” Ilima said grimly.
“That was the implication,” Auntie Leilani nodded. “Pearl believes her father had evidence of Santos’s misconduct—something so damaging that the Santos family has been trying to suppress it for generations.”
I turned more pages in the photo album, studying images of the processing center grounds. One showed a stone garden with a wooden crane sculpture at its center. “Is this?—”
“The original Japanese garden on the property,” Auntie Leilani confirmed. “Pearl’s father was a master gardener who created a traditional meditation garden before the war. The crane statue was carved by her grandfather.”
“‘The crane will fly once more,’” I murmured, remembering the note.
“Exactly,” Auntie Leilani smiled. “Pearl wants to recreate her father’s garden as part of the Heritage site. The original crane statue disappeared during the war, but she commissioned a replica based on these photographs.”
We spent another hour poring over the historical documents, learning that after the war, the processing center buildings were dismantled, and the Yamamoto family slowly rebuilt their lives on their reclaimed property.
“Pearl inherited the house in the 1980s when her parents passed away; she still wants the five acres next to it for the Heritage Garden. She considers it hallowed ground. The Heritage Garden would be her way of honoring those who suffered there while reclaiming the beauty her grandfather originally created.”
“And Mayor Santos has been fighting the project through zoning regulations and permit denials,” I noted. “Not to mention refusing to release the property back to Pearl.”
Auntie Leilani’s eyes flashed with rarely seen anger. “Politics and pride. The Santos family has spent generations crafting their image as Hana’s benefactors. Pearl’s garden would reveal the ugly truth beneath that facade.” She carefully closed the photo album. “Two nights ago, Pearl called me, very excited. Said she’d found ‘the final piece’ and that justice would finally be served.”
“Maybe that’s what was in the sandalwood box,” Ilima said, touching her intricate shell necklace.
Leilani looked surprised. “You know about the crane box?”
“We know it’s missing,” I explained. “And that it might contain evidence about what happened at the processing center.”
Leilani frowned. “Bad news that it’s gone. Pearl believed her father’s journal from that period survived. Something he hid for safekeeping.” She set aside some documents. “I’ll make copies of what might be helpful to your case.” After she gave me the copied papers, she repacked the archival materials. “If someone poisoned Pearl to prevent that evidence from coming to light . . .”
“Then they might go after anyone else who knows about it,” I said.
Auntie Leilani met my gaze steadily. “I’ve lived a long life. I’m not afraid of threats. But Pearl—” Her voice caught slightly. “Pearl deserves to see her garden of truth and reconciliation become reality.”
“We’ll find who did this,” I promised, helping her replace the last of the documents.
