Chapter 10: Integration
Hawaii Incorporated ~ Paradise Gained
If you missed:
Chapter 1 (A Call to Arms), please click here.
Chapter 2 (Papa George), please click here.
Chapter 3 (Brothers in Arms), please click here.
Chapter 4 (East by West), please click here.
Chapter 5 (Sally), please click here.
Chapter 6 (The Scrimshaw Incident Part 1), please click here.
Chapter 6 (The Scrimshaw Incident Part 2), please click here.
Chapter 7 (Pilgrimage), please click here.
Chapter 8 (Damage Control), please click here.
Chapter 9 (In the Rough), please click here.
Hawaii Incorporated ~ Paradise Gained
For db
Our little systems have their day.
—from "In Memoriam A.H.H."
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Chapter 10: Integration
Created by AB Cooper
Narrated by Michael Smith
Michael Smith here.
Every aspect of the Islands of Profits vision was bold. The Goddards wanted Hawaii to dominate. More than that, they wanted each of the eight major islands to lead the world in its chosen domain. For the island of Niʻihau, that meant surpassing both Vegas and Macau in the business of casinos and resorts.
Kauaʻi had its own assignment. It needed to break into the top five defense contractors in the world. That meant surpassing companies like Lockheed, Boeing, General Dynamics, Dassault, or the British Aircraft Corporation. And Kauaʻi had to compete without the steady stream of Vietnam War money that greased the wheels for the American giants.
Hawaii International Group was already the top insurer in the world. Thanks to Chairman and CEO Jimbo Everton’s dealmaking during the KG Pacific Open, HIG had opened offices in Poland, Hungary, and Czechoslovakia. But if Oʻahu was going to become the global hub for financial services, it needed a world-class bank. That job fell to the Development Bank of Hawaii. Its mission was to displace Chase Manhattan, First National City, Bank of America, Barclays, or Deutsche Bank from the global top five by assets.
The Honolulu Securities Exchange was also evolving. It was transitioning from an auction model, like the New York Stock Exchange, to a pioneering dealer market built on electronic trading. Its primary focus would be technology and growth companies.
Thanks to Sally Goddard’s dealmaking at Aloha Capital, the Republic’s sovereign wealth fund had partnered with American, Japanese, and German manufacturers to turn Molokaʻi into a premier destination for offshore production.
IBM had already moved its mainframe manufacturing to Lānaʻi. Meanwhile, Aloha Capital had funded the Hawaii Technology Company to pioneer data storage solutions. Sally was also working with Lānaʻi officials to install a venture capital structure that would fuel the island’s startup ecosystem.
On the medical front, Aloha Capital’s Hawaii Laboratories was conducting 23 phase-one and 15 phase-two clinical trials on Maui. Acting on orders from the Prime Minister’s Office, the Hawaii Food and Drug Agency committed to a 90-day drug approval process. Its slogan: “From Lab to Patient in 90 Days.” Meanwhile, the Hawaii Baptist Hospital Group had built a healthcare campus to rival the Mayo Clinic. Only it was affordable for all Hawaiians. The Group supplemented local care with revenue from a new idea called medical tourism, in which high-net-worth patients from around the world came to Maui for treatment, recuperation, and recovery.
On the education front, the National University of Hawaii, the Maui Polytechnic Institute and National University, and the Hawaii Agricultural and Mechanical University served as the Republic’s higher education anchors. Meanwhile, Hawaii Trade School partnered with the Hawaii Commerce Corps to train the welders, electricians, cement layers, plumbers, and construction workers who were building the Republic one brick at a time.
On Hawaiʻi Island, ranchers, farmers, and researchers at Hawaii A&M were rebuilding the Republic’s food system from the ground up. They were increasing cattle, pineapple, and sugar production, experimenting with sustainable farming, and developing the island’s wine and spirits industry.
In 1965, Prime Minister Rob Goddard set a target: Hawaii would be 100 percent energy independent by 1990. The island of Kahoʻolawe was given the job. With funding from Japan, Aloha Capital, and the French Commissariat à l'Énergie Atomique, Hawaii Electric Corporation partnered with Électricité de France and Mitsubishi Heavy Industries to build a nuclear power plant in just three years. At the same time, companies like the Hawaii Battery Company and Tyba Energy were developing storage technologies with a long-term goal: support wind and solar energy and lay the groundwork for electric vehicles.
Prime Minister Goddard recently said, “Our companies are booming, but our most valuable resources are the Hawaiian people. I want Hawaii not only to be the best place to work, but the best place to live. Homeownership is how we make our islands the best place to live and work in the entire world. I won’t quit until every Hawaiian family can own their own home.”
In 1965, the Goddard government launched the Aloha Home Ownership Public-Private Enterprise program, known as Aloha HOPE. Its slogan was “Aloha Homes for All Hawaiians.” The program’s leader, property developer Keller Goddard, established four quantitative goals. The first was total housing units: 1.68 million by 1990. The second was a homeownership rate of 90 percent by 1990. The third was a population target of six million residents. And the fourth was affordability. Keller defined it as housing costs totaling less than 30 percent of household income for 80 percent of residents.
He also set four qualitative goals. The first was sustainable communities, built around integrated live-work-play environments. The second was cultural preservation through Hawaiian architectural elements in every development. The third was environmental harmony, including green building standards and the protection of natural beauty. And the fourth was social cohesion, achieved through mixed-income neighborhoods designed to prevent economic segregation.
Thursday, 15 January 1970
Kalama Valley, Oʻahu
I found myself once again in Jope’s jeep, speeding toward a protest. This time in Kalama Valley. Like the Chinatown Riots, it threatened to erupt into injury and death, or at the very least, spiral into a media circus.
The valley sits on 250 acres nestled within the Waimānalo ahupuaʻa on the east side of Oʻahu. Waimānalo means potable water, and ahupuaʻa is the Hawaiian term for a land division that stretches from the mountains to the sea. As part of the Aloha HOPE plan, the Housing and Development Board of Hawaii (HDB) had rezoned Kalama Valley in 1966 from agricultural to urban land use.
Before rezoning, the valley had been farmland, dotted with a handful of pig farmers and ramshackle homes packed with kids, dogs, and junked cars. Life was simple. People toiled the land and looked out for each other.
The Aloha HOPE plan for Kalama Valley called on the HDB to transform the 250-acre agricultural landscape into a modern residential community for 8,500 families. The development would rise from former taro patches and pig farms in three distinct building styles. Soaring 12-story apartment blocks would dominate the valley floor, housing 60 percent of residents in efficient vertical communities. More modest four-story walk-ups would step up the hillsides, accommodating another 30 percent of families. The remaining 10 percent would live in ground-level townhouses that preserved some connection to the land their predecessors once farmed.
The housing mix reflected the Republic’s commitment to serving all income levels. There were 2,000 compact studio and one-bedroom units for young professionals and couples; 3,500 two-bedroom apartments for small families; 2,500 three-bedroom units for typical Hawaiian households; and 500 spacious four-bedroom executive residences for managers and professionals. At 34 units per acre, the development would pack more people into Kalama Valley than had ever lived there before. Still, planners insisted this medium-high density was well suited for family-oriented living.
To ease the shift from rural to urban, HDB architects designed community gardens where residents could grow vegetables and flowers in the same rich soil that once nurtured taro. A cultural center anchored the heart of the development, offering space for traditional Hawaiian gatherings and modern activities. An integrated shopping complex ensured residents could meet daily needs without leaving the valley. What had once been home to a few dozen farming families would soon house nearly 25,000 residents, all within the same sliver of land locals simply called “the valley.”
The displaced farmers had options. They could relocate to the Big Island to continue working in agriculture, or they could attend Hawaii Trade School on Maui to learn a new trade, with the government covering the cost and offering them priority access to HDB housing in the new Kalama Valley development.
Despite these generous accommodations, local activists pitched tents on pig farmer Manny Bautista’s land in protest of the HDB development. Bautista, a stout and gregarious farmer of Filipino descent with a knack for spinning yarns, found a receptive ear in Thurston Langford, the owner of The Honolulu Gazette.
“Why did Langford back a few pig farmers?” Jope asked as he turned onto Kealahou Street, one of the main arteries through the valley that would take us to the protest at the community park.
“Do you want the short answer or the long one?” I replied.
“Short.”
“To stick it to the PM. Anything that comes out of the Prime Minister’s Office, Thurston opposes—just for the sake of opposing it.”
“Seems more like a death wish.”
“His fate was sealed when he opposed the pivot to Asia. I give him credit, though. He must’ve decided that since he’s going to go down—and it’s not a matter of if but when—he might as well go down swinging.”
“Dead man walking,” Jope snickered.
“Yup, dead on arrival,” I added.
Jope parallel parked the jeep next to the park. Unlike the Chinatown protests-turned-riots, we didn’t bother disguising ourselves. One lesson we took from that debacle was that a visible police presence helped deter violence. As I scanned the scene, I counted about two uniformed officers for every protester. I also noticed how the Gazette photographers crouched low, angling their cameras to exaggerate the size of the crowd.
Today’s protest wasn’t about the Aloha HOPE plan to redevelop the valley. HDB had already completed the four-story walk-ups, and families had moved in. What triggered this demonstration was an incident three weeks earlier. The Andersons—a contractor and his wife of Scandinavian descent—had purchased a Type D executive unit in one of the walk-ups. The details were fuzzy and would later come out at trial, but as Jope and I understood it, a dispute broke out with neighbors over the noise from a baby’s first birthday luau. Angry words were exchanged, and by midnight, rocks had shattered the Andersons’ windows. Someone had scrawled graffiti across their front door: HAOLES GO HOME.
The Internal Security Agency (ISA) was wrapping up its investigation of the matter, but I had it on good authority that the Attorney General’s Chamber was close to indicting two men of Samoan descent for hate crimes.
Jope and I leaned against his jeep, watching the protest unfold. The usual suspects were there. Manny Bautista stood front and center on the park’s makeshift stage. He’d traded his pig farm for an electrician’s van, purchased a Type D executive unit through HDB, and swapped his pitchfork and manure shovel for Reveille for Radicals, Saul Alinsky’s primer on community organizing. Beside him stood Damien Blackwood, leader of the opposition Worker’s Party and a lawyer in the Public Defender’s office.
Next to Blackwood was Lucy Ratunabuabua, a rising radical feminist. After graduating from the University of Wisconsin at Madison, she had worked as a research assistant for Betty Friedan. Since returning to Hawaii, she’d latched onto the region’s anti-colonial movements and now called for the overthrow of all paternalistic systems. What she wanted to replace them with, she refused to say. The ISA had her firmly in their sights and had labeled her a Marxist. She might have been attractive if she wore makeup. And a bra.
“This ain’t no Chinatown,” Jope declared. “The police have this under control.”
“I agree. Blackwood and his comrades are annoying, but not dangerous.”
“Let’s go then?”
I nodded and was about to slide into the shotgun seat of Jope’s jeep when I saw her.
Molly Goddard stepped off the public bus with a gaggle of schoolgirls in tow. They looked like carbon copies of one another. Each had her hair braided in a single ponytail and wore a white blouse tucked into a Puakalā School tartan skirt, with matching knee-high socks and patent leather shoes. Most of the shoes were shiny, though a few bore splotches of dried mud.
“Jope, you see what I see?”
“Yes, boss—trouble.”
Molly and her entourage marched straight for the stage. Before I could process what was happening, she was up there hugging Lucy, shaking hands with Blackwood and Bautista like she’d known them all her life.
“How the heck does she know these characters?” I muttered.
“They’re using her, boss.”
I watched her step up to the microphone, confident as ever.
“Oh no, Jope…”
She took the mic like she owned it. “People of the Valley,” she began, her voice clear and unshaking.
“I have a message for my father—this valley is sacred ground. It belongs to the people, not his immigrant slaves!”
The crowd erupted. “Aloha ʻĀina! Aloha ʻĀina! Love of the Land! Aloha ʻĀina! Aloha ʻĀina!” Their chants were loud enough to seem like a mob, even if their numbers didn’t justify it.
Then someone shouted, “Molly for Prime Minister!” and before long, Lucy was leading the crowd in a full-throated chant: “Molly! Molly! Molly for Prime Minister!”
I rubbed my temples. “She’s only fifteen… augh. This is going to be all over the front page of the Gazette tomorrow, and the shit’s going to hit the fan in the Goddard household.”
“Boss, what do you want to do?”
“I can tell you what I don’t want to do—hang around here. I’m too young to die of a panic attack.”
Tuesday, 23 June 1970
People vs. Mau and Taumalolo in the High Court of the Republic of Hawaii
Royal Courthouse, Honolulu
Molly and I squeezed through the protesters and climbed the steps to the courthouse. My collar was already soaked with sweat and oh did I want to unbutton the top button and loosen my tie. I wore a cotton white shirt and a lightweight khaki suit in anticipation of a long, hot, and steamy trial.
Molly was dressed in her Sunday finest. A summer floral pattern adorned her dress, and the hem fell at the appropriate length just below the knees. Her mother had allowed her to wear dressy sandals without socks. It was a concession made in the heat of an argument over the halter top and short shorts that Molly had first tried to sneak out of the house in.
The iconic Royal Courthouse stood like a monument to Hawaiian justice. Its neoclassical columns and koa wood paneling commanded respect. As I escorted Molly through the marble-floored lobby, she studied every detail. She took in the portraits of Hawaiian monarchs lining the walls, the bronze scales of justice, and the way morning light filtered through the stained-glass dome overhead. “This is crazy!” she exclaimed.
“Crazy good or crazy bad?” I teased her.
“Big Mike, sometimes you sound like an old fart.”
I took heart in the fact that she said sometimes.
The High Court courtroom was a masterpiece of British colonial architecture adapted for Hawaiian sensibilities. Soaring twenty-foot ceilings rose above massive koa wood beams, their golden-brown grain polished to a mirror finish. The judge's bench, carved from a single enormous koa log, anchored the front of the courtroom like an altar. Behind it, the Hawaiian coat of arms was etched into the wall, flanked by the scales of justice. The counsel tables, gallery pews, and even the witness stand were hewn from the same sacred koa wood.
Tall windows lined both sides of the courtroom, their arched tops reminiscent of Westminster Hall but fitted with specially designed louvers to catch the trade winds. Though, I wasn’t expecting much relief today. The winds were silent, and the gallery would be packed.
"Why exactly am I here, Big Mike?" Molly asked, testing me as we took our reserved seats at the front of the gallery. We were right behind the prosecutor’s table with an unobstructed view of the defendants.
Two could play this game. “Didn’t your parents tell you?” I asked.
Her sandy hair was tied back in a single braid, and there was no hiding her eyes. She was caught.
“They said something about me wanting to be a lawyer and everything and that it would be good for me.”
She didn’t know that I was at the valley protest and had seen her with Blackwood and Lucy. I also knew that her parents hadn’t revealed their knowledge of her extracurricular activities and relationships.
I decided to have some fun and see if I could get a reaction from her by making an overtly nauseating fatherly statement.
"Book knowledge is fine and all, but the real education is life itself," I pronounced. "The courtroom is like a microcosm of society itself, Molly. Here you'll see all of human nature laid bare. Truth and lies. Justice and injustice. Hope and despair. It's where the rubber meets the road, where theory becomes practice, where young people like yourself learn that life isn't black and white but every shade of gray in between. Today you'll witness how our legal system strives to balance the scales of justice while grappling with the complexities of the human condition."
She rolled her eyes and made a gagging sound. "You sound just like my dad," she groaned.
I smiled to myself. Sally was betting that this case would cure Molly of her infatuation with radical politics. I wasn’t so sure.
The defendants, Tanielu Mau and Sione Taumalolo, sat stiffly beside their attorney, Damien Blackwood. Both defendants looked like they were in their early thirties.
At the prosecution table, Davinder Raj arranged his files with the precision of a chess master. Despite being only twenty-five, he carried himself with the confidence of a young Clarence Darrow. His perfectly pressed robe was topped not with the traditional barrister's wig but with a crisp white turban, a clear mark of his Sikh faith. He had received special dispensation from the Chief Justice to wear the turban in court. Raj had clerked for him straight out of law school. Though he'd been with the Attorney General’s Chamber for less than a year, he already commanded the respect of the High Court’s justices. Most judges stepped up their performance when he entered the room.
Blackwood was thirty-three, the same age as me. That still counted as young by High Court standards, even if he carried himself with the confidence of someone older. His face bore the deep tan of a man who spent his days protesting under the Hawaiian sun. Not even the goofy barrister’s wig and black gown could hide his striking Eurasian features: dark hair, a square jaw, piercing blue eyes, and a face that blended white Russian and Japanese heritage. At one point, Molly and I had a clear line of sight on him while he stood conferring with Raj about some procedural matter. She was staring so intently, I half expected her to scream like one of those girls throwing themselves at Paul McCartney during Beatlemania. I had to nudge her to snap her out of it.
The bailiff’s voice rang out across the court chamber: “All rise for the Honorable Justice James Daniel Jeyaretnam.”
Justice JDJ, as he was known throughout the legal community, entered through a door behind the bench. A man of Tamil descent in his early fifties, he cut an imposing figure in his black robes as he took his seat beneath the carved Hawaiian coat of arms. His reputation for fairness was rivaled only by his intolerance for courtroom theatrics.
Justice JDJ adjusted his reading glasses, the morning light from the tall windows catching the gold threads in his black robes. “Mr. Raj, please present your opening statement.”
Raj rose smoothly, his white turban a striking contrast to the golden koa wood behind him as he addressed the court. “Your Honor, this case is about hatred—pure and simple. On the evening of December 28th, 1969, Erik and Ingrid Anderson were celebrating their infant son's first birthday with family and friends in their new home in Kalama Valley. It was a joyous occasion, a milestone moment for young parents living the Hawaiian dream.
“But that joy turned to terror when the defendants, Tanielu Mau and Sione Taumalolo, decided that the Andersons didn’t belong in their neighborhood. Why? Because they were white. Because they were haoles.
“The evidence will show that these defendants, fueled by racial hatred, threw rocks through the Andersons’ windows, terrorized their infant child, and scrawled hateful graffiti across their front door. The words ‘HAOLES GO HOME’ weren’t random vandalism. They were a declaration of war, based solely on the color of the victims’ skin.
“Your Honor, Hawaii prides itself on being a melting pot—a place where people of all backgrounds can build lives together. But that dream only works when we reject the poison of racial hatred. The defendants chose poison. They chose hate. The People seek justice under Section 12 of the Criminal Code—aggravated assault motivated by racial bias.”
Justice JDJ made a note on the leather-bound pad before him and turned to the defense table. “Mr. Blackwood, your opening statement.”
Blackwood stood slowly. The Hawaiian sunshine streaming through the arched windows lit his deeply tanned face. When he spoke, his voice was softer than Raj’s, more conversational. I couldn’t help but think it was a good thing Hawaiian jurisprudence didn’t include trial by jury. If it did, he’d never lose a case.
“Your Honor, my colleague Mr. Raj paints a simple picture—good versus evil, love versus hate. If only life were that clean, that easy to understand.
“Tanielu and Sione are not monsters. They are working men, family men, who found themselves caught in the machinery of progress that sometimes crushes people beneath its wheels. For three generations, Tanielu’s family worked the taro fields in Kalama Valley. Sione’s grandfather raised the pigs that fed Waimānalo families for decades.
“Then came the bulldozers. Then came the Housing and Development Board with their grand plans and glossy brochures. Suddenly, land that had sustained their families for generations became ‘inefficient,’ ‘underutilized,’ ready for ‘improvement.’
“The prosecution wants Your Honor to focus on one night, one moment of poor judgment. But I ask the court to consider the context—what happens when you take people’s connection to the land, promise them a better future, then pack them into concrete towers next to families who’ve never known what it means to lose everything?
“This isn’t about hate, Your Honor. This is about pain. This is about displacement. This is about what happens when a government’s vision of progress forgets the people left behind.
“Yes, my clients made mistakes that night. But the People cannot prove racial hatred beyond a reasonable doubt, because this is not about race. It is about economics. The evidence will show two men who reached their breaking point in a system that promised everything and delivered loneliness.”
As Blackwood returned to his seat, adjusting his wig with one hand, I noticed Molly was completely still, her eyes fixed only on him. This court visit was definitely not going according to Sally’s plan.
The prosecution’s case moved methodically through the evidence: photographs of the broken windows, the Anderson family’s tearful testimony, forensic analysis of the graffiti. Raj presented it all with clinical precision, his turban catching the light as he moved between the counsel table and the witness box, building his case brick by brick.
But it was Blackwood’s cross-examination of Erik Anderson that electrified the courtroom. The defense attorney’s wig had settled more naturally on his head as the day wore on, and he moved with growing confidence.
“Mr. Anderson,” Blackwood began, his tone respectful but probing, “you testified that you moved to Kalama Valley in October 1969, correct?”
“Yes sir, that’s correct.”
“And you purchased a Type D executive unit—a four-bedroom residence with premium finishes and a mountain view?”
“We were fortunate to qualify for the housing program.”
“Indeed. Now, Mr. Anderson, what was your occupation at the time?”
“I am a general contractor.”
“Working on what projects?”
Anderson shifted uncomfortably in the witness chair, which—like everything else in the courtroom—was carved from rich koa wood. “Various HDB developments around the island.”
“Including the very apartment buildings being constructed in Kalama Valley?”
“Among others, yes sir.”
Blackwood paused, letting that sink in while the trade winds whispered through the courtroom’s louvers. “So, you were profiting from the development that displaced the previous residents of the valley?”
Raj shot to his feet, his turban catching the afternoon light. “Objection, relevance.”
“Goes to bias and context, Your Honor,” Blackwood replied calmly, adjusting his wig.
Justice JDJ looked up from his notes. “I’ll allow it, but get to your point, Mr. Blackwood.”
“Mr. Anderson, on the night of December 28th, you testified that the noise from your son’s birthday party was ‘reasonable’ and ‘appropriate for a celebration.’ But several neighbors had already complained about loud music after 10 PM. Isn’t that correct?”
“There may have been some concerns.”
“According to your own statement to police, Mrs. Kealoha from apartment 2B asked you to turn down the music at 10:15 PM. Mr. Taumalolo knocked on your door at 10:45 PM with the same request. Yet you continued the party until nearly midnight, correct?”
“It was my son’s first birthday.”
“And when Mr. Taumalolo came to your door the second time at 11:30 PM—this time with Mr. Mau—what exactly did you say to them?”
Anderson looked toward Raj. His lawyer’s countenance was expressionless and offered no-get-out-of-jail-free card. Anderson then blurted, “I told them it was a free country.”
“Is that all you said, Mr. Anderson?”
A long pause. The only sound was the gentle creak of koa wood settling in the afternoon heat.
“I may…I may have suggested they could call the police if they had a problem.”
“Did you use the phrase ‘Go back where you came from’?”
“I, that’s not what I meant it…that’s not how I meant it.”
“But you did say it?”
“It was taken out of context.”
Blackwood nodded slowly, his wig casting a shadow across his face as he leaned forward. “Mr. Anderson, both my clients were born in Hawaii, weren’t they?”
“I, I wouldn’t know.”
“But you assumed they weren’t, didn’t you? You assumed that because they looked different from you, because they had different names, that they were somehow less Hawaiian than you— a man who’d lived here for only a few months”
Raj finally objected, but the damage was done. I could see Justice JDJ making careful notes, his expression thoughtful as he gazed up at the carved Hawaiian coat of arms above his bench.
“No further questions,” Blackwood said, returning to his seat with obvious satisfaction.
I glanced at Molly. Her eyes said it all. She was certain Blackwood had just won.
Raj rose, his white turban gleaming as he approached the witness stand with renewed purpose.
“Just a few questions on redirect, Your Honor,” he said, his voice crisp and controlled.
“Mr. Anderson, when Mr. Blackwood asked about your work on HDB projects, did you choose which developments to bid on based on the race or ethnicity of their future occupants?”
“Of course not. I’m just a general contractor. I bid on projects based on the building specifications and whether my qualifications match the scope of work.”
“And when you moved to the valley, did you select your HDB unit because you wanted to displace someone?”
“No. We simply wanted a good home for our family in a safe neighborhood.”
Raj let that stand, establishing his foundation. “Now, Mr. Anderson, you testified that you told the defendants, ‘It’s a free country,’ and suggested they call the police. At any point that evening, did the police visit your home?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you throw rocks?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you write graffiti on anyone’s property?”
“No.”
“Did you tell anyone to ‘go home’ based on their race?”
Anderson straightened in his chair and looked intently at Raj. “I said, ‘Go back where you came from,’ in the heat of the moment, but I meant go back to their apartment—not leave Hawaii. They had just been at my door twice demanding I end my son’s birthday party.”
“So you were referring to their apartment, not their country of origin?”
“Exactly.”
Raj moved closer to the witness stand. “Mr. Anderson, after this confrontation at your door, what did you do?”
“I turned down the music and started cleaning up to wind the party down.”
“Did you go to the defendants’ apartment?”
“No.”
“Did you follow them outside?”
“No, sir. I stayed in my home with my wife and baby.”
“And what happened next?”
“About twenty minutes later, rocks came crashing through our windows. Glass flew everywhere. My infant son was sleeping in the room where one of the rocks landed.”
Raj’s voice hardened slightly. “Mr. Anderson, regardless of any insensitive comments you may have made, did you deserve to have rocks thrown through your windows while your baby was sleeping?”
Blackwood rose. “Objection, calls for opinion.”
“Sustained,” Justice JDJ ruled.
Raj nodded and shifted tactics. “Mr. Anderson, when you found the graffiti on your door the next morning, what exactly did it say?”
“‘HAOLES GO HOME’ in large red letters.”
“Not ‘GO BACK TO YOUR APARTMENT’?”
“No. ‘HAOLES GO HOME.’”
“And haole refers to what?”
“White people.”
Raj let that hang in the air.
“Mr. Anderson, how many units are in your four-story walk-up HDB?”
“Forty-eight units, sir. Twelve units per floor.”
“In the six months you’ve lived in Kalama Valley, have you had positive interactions with neighbors of different ethnic backgrounds?”
“Yes sir, many. Mrs. Kealoha, the lady who asked us to turn down the music, has been very kind. She brought us homemade malasadas when we moved in. Mr. and Mrs. Lee from downstairs babysit our son sometimes. Most of our neighbors have been wonderful.”
“So, this incident was not representative of your general experience in the community?”
“Not at all. Most people have been welcoming.”
Raj returned to his table and picked up a photograph. “Your Honor, I’d like to show the witness prosecution exhibit seven.”
He handed the photo to Anderson. “Mr. Anderson, can you describe what this photograph shows?”
Anderson’s voice caught slightly. “It’s my son’s crib with glass all around it. This is where one of the rocks landed—right next to where he was sleeping.”
“How old is your son?”
“He was exactly one year old that night. It was his birthday.”
Raj retrieved the photograph and faced Anderson directly. “Mr. Anderson, whatever mistakes you may have made in your choice of words that evening, do you believe those words justified putting your infant child in danger?”
“No,” Anderson said firmly. “Nothing justifies that.”
“Thank you…Your Honor, no further questions.”
As Raj returned to his seat, I noticed the shift in the courtroom’s atmosphere. Blackwood had tried to portray the case as a macro-crime of economic injustice rather than an individual hate crime. But Raj had managed to refocus attention on the central, micro issue: regardless of context or provocation, two men had endangered a baby’s life.
Justice JDJ was taking copious notes, his expression unreadable as he gazed from the witness stand to the defendants’ table and back again.
The thought occurred to me that Blackwood had achieved exactly what he wanted—turning two working men into symbols of a larger struggle. Whether they won or lost was almost beside the point now. Now watching Justice JDJ’s careful notetaking, I suspected the defendants might pay a steep price for their attorney’s grand political theater.
Raj delivered his closing with the same clinical precision he’d shown throughout the trial. In a strange way, his white turban seemed to carry more authority than any powdered wig ever could as he addressed Justice JDJ.
“Your Honor, Mr. Blackwood wants this court to believe this case is about social justice, about displacement, about the pain of progress. Don’t be misled. This case is about two men who decided that violence was an appropriate response to a noise complaint.
“Yes, the transition in Kalama Valley has been difficult for longtime residents, especially the farming families. Yes, the defendants may have misinterpreted Erik Anderson’s words. But none of that—none of it justifies throwing rocks through windows while a baby sleeps inside. None of it justifies terrorizing a family with racial slurs.
“If we excuse this behavior, if we say that pain justifies hatred, that displacement excuses violence, then we abandon the rule of law. We abandon the very principles that make Hawaii a place where people of all backgrounds can build lives together.
“The evidence is clear: racial graffiti, targeted violence, coordinated harassment. The defendants chose violence. They chose hate. The People respectfully request Your Honor find them guilty as charged.”
When Blackwood rose for his closing, the courtroom fell completely silent. Even the court reporter seemed to lean forward in anticipation. And even though, at least in my view, he’d been dealt a terrible legal hand, he carried himself with impressive confidence as he approached the bench.
“Your Honor, the prosecution wants this court to believe that justice is simple—that it can be measured in broken glass and spray paint. But real justice requires us to see the whole picture, not just the moment when everything falls apart.
“Tanielu Mau’s great-grandfather was one of the original Hawaiian Kingdom citizens who worked these lands. Sione Taumalolo’s family came here as laborers, invited by Hawaiian plantation owners who needed strong backs to build this island’s prosperity. For generations, these families contributed to Hawaii—not as visitors, not as immigrants, but as kamaʻāina, people of the land.
“Then came progress. Progress that promised them a better future while erasing their past. Progress that moved them from houses with yards where children could play to apartment blocks where neighbors were strangers. Progress that brought in families like the Andersons—good people, I don’t dispute that—but people who had no connection to the land, no understanding of what had been lost.
“On December 28th, these two men reached their breaking point. Did they handle it well? No. Did they make choices they regret? Absolutely. But hatred? The prosecution hasn’t proven racial hatred beyond a reasonable doubt—indeed, they have proven the real pain of systemic loss that comes in the name of progress.
“Your Honor, you have a choice. You can send these men to prison, treating them as criminals instead of casualties of a system that forgot about human costs. Or you can recognize that sometimes justice requires mercy—that sometimes understanding matters more than punishment.
“My clients don’t need prison. They need to be heard. They need their community to acknowledge that progress without compassion isn’t progress at all—it’s just another form of colonization.
“I’m not asking Your Honor to excuse what happened that night. I’m asking this court to understand it. And in understanding, to choose mercy over vengeance, healing over punishment.
“The choice is yours, Your Honor.”
Molly watched Blackwood return to his seat with something approaching awe. I couldn’t understand what she saw in him.
Justice JDJ gathered his papers beneath the carved Hawaiian coat of arms. “Court will recess until tomorrow morning at nine o’clock for my ruling.” The gavel echoed through the koa-paneled chamber like a gunshot.
As we emerged from the koa-paneled courtroom into the blazing Hawaiian sun, I was immediately struck by the circus that had assembled on the courthouse steps. What had been a manageable crowd that morning had swollen into something approaching a mob.
Television crews from all three Honolulu stations had set up cameras at strategic angles to frame the courthouse’s neoclassical columns. Reporters clutched notepads and thrust microphones toward anyone who looked remotely connected to the case. The Honolulu Gazette’s photographers were there in force, no doubt preparing tomorrow’s front-page spread under Thurston Langford’s direction.
On the left side of the steps, about fifty supporters of the defendants had gathered, many holding signs reading Justice for Kalama Valley and Housing Rights Now.
On the right side, a smaller but more organized group of Anderson supporters stood with their own signs: Law and Order and No Hate in Hawaii. I spotted several HDB officials and what looked like other Kalama Valley residents. No doubt the ones who complied with Islands of Profits and traded pigs and taro for elevators and concrete.
Between the two camps, a phalanx of uniformed police maintained an uneasy peace.
Blackwood emerged with the triumphant look of General MacArthur wading ashore in his return to the Philippines. He was flanked by the two defendants, who were flashing shaka signs to the crowd and soaking up the attention from reporters. Manny Bautista and Lucy Ratunabuabua dashed up the court steps to embrace the three men.
Lucy grabbed a microphone from a reporter and began speaking passionately about colonialism and corporate exploitation. The reporters were lapping it up.
“Quite a show,” I muttered to Molly. She showed no hint of knowing them, but she was giddy with excitement.
“Did you see how Justice JDJ was taking notes during Mr. Blackwood’s closing? He’s going to win big, Big Mike. I can feel it.”
Down below us, Raj was holding his own impromptu press conference, his white turban gleaming in the television lights. Despite his youth, he handled the media with professional composure, sticking to facts and legal precedent. No theatrics, no emotional appeals. Just cold, hard law.
Sunday, 25 October 1970
Papa George and Clara’s Estate, Mānoa Valley, Oʻahu
The dining room at Papa George and Clara’s home was a study in East meets West. A Japanese tansu displayed Spode china and Georgian silver. A large Japanese screen from the 16th century adorned one side of the mahogany paneling, which rose to meet coffered ceilings. On another wall hung a painting of Clara’s favorite flower, the Honolulu Queen (Hylocereus undatus), a night-blooming cereus. Clara loved it because its large, fragrant white blossoms unfurled only at night, draping the walls and trees of her garden in ethereal beauty. Her friend Georgia O’Keeffe had painted the flower for Clara, blending Hawaiian, O’Keeffe, and Japanese motifs into a composition that complemented the other art and furnishings in the room. The long mahogany trestle dining table, set with Clara’s grandmother’s old English silver and gleaming under the warm light of a crystal opera chandelier, was the work of Stephen Swift, a young American furniture designer. He also designed the mahogany pomfret dining chairs. They looked uncomfortable but weren’t. Swift had carved the seat just so. The chairs didn’t allow for leaning, which was fine by Papa George, who expected all his guests, especially his grandchildren, to sit tall and straight at the Goddard family dining table.
The kitchen staff was off tonight. Clara had stepped in and tried her hand at a traditional Sunday roast: herb-crusted leg of lamb with Yorkshire pudding, roasted root vegetables, and homemade mint jelly.
“Michael, you’re looking thin,” she observed, nudging Papa George to carve me a double portion. “I know Rob’s been working you hard. Are you taking care of yourself and getting enough to eat?”
“No, ma’am—I mean yes, ma’am. No, he’s not working me too hard. Yes, I’m getting enough to eat, and I’m taking care of myself.”
“I think I caught what you just said,” Papa George laughed. “But knowing Rob’s government, I’m not sure I buy it.”
I kept my mouth shut.
Papa George, resplendent in a navy blazer and regimental tie, raised his wine glass. “To absent friends and family.” We all raised our glasses, thinking of Jack, thousands of miles away at Cambridge.
“Speaking of Jack,” Sally said, “we received a letter this week. Not only has he made captain of the Cambridge rugby team as a first-year—practically unheard of—but he’s also reading law under the tutelage of Toby Milsom.”
“Who’s Milsom?” asked Papa George. “I don’t remember him.”
“He wasn’t there when you were, Dad,” Rob said, not having fully swallowed his food. Papa George shot him a look that his grandchildren knew well.
They broke up in hysterics, and Bobby said, “See, Dad, I’m not the only one who gets in trouble for speaking with his mouth full.”
Rob smiled and took being called out in good stride. “Toby was a classmate of mine at Trinity College. But I thought he was teaching at the London School of Economics?”
“No,” corrected Sally, “Jack said in his letter that he’d just come over from LSE. Did you even read the letter?”
“I skimmed it,” Rob said sheepishly. “I must’ve missed the ‘coming’ part and thought he was still at LSE.”
The kids were snickering, enjoying the rare sight of their father, the prime minister, squirming in the hot seat. I must admit I found it amusing. And I think Papa George did too. Clara, not so much.
“Well, Toby’s a good man,” Rob said, trying to dig himself out. “He’s brilliant, but a bit heretical for me.”
“What’s heretical mean?” asked Bobby.
“Heretical. It’s someone who challenges accepted standards and norms,” Sally explained. “Like if you told your coach that from now on, you’re only going to play rugby wearing bowling shoes.”
“Why would I—” Bobby was laughing so hard he couldn’t finish the question. Then milk came out of his nose, which earned him an “oh brother” look from Molly. It took some time for the disruption to settle, and when it did, well, all I can say is things went downhill real fast.
“Molly’s always challenging things at school. She’s a hero-cow,” Bobby said, pleased with his play on words.
“Shut up, big mouth!” Molly snapped, glaring at her brother.
“Hero-cow! Hero-cow!”
Time stopped, and I got a good look at everyone’s initial reaction. Bobby’s face was frozen in pleasure. Rob’s jaw was clenched as he glanced toward his father to gauge the temperature. Clara’s eyes were on Molly. Compassionate, but worried. Molly’s were defiant and locked onto Sally’s.
Well, Sally’s expression wasn’t frozen like the others. Her look was moving in slow motion, which meant that in real time it was moving at the speed of light. Her eyes were processing and calculating, scanning for the right response. The verdict was still out on what it would be, but it wasn’t looking good for Molly. Or the rest of us.
However, in that split second of stillness, Papa George intervened. The calm before the storm.
“I’m reminded of Alfred, Lord Tennyson,” he said, letting the poet’s name linger in the air a beat longer than necessary.
It was a subtle and brilliant opening. The adults in the room, me included, knew exactly what he was about to say. Papa George loved to recycle his favorite quotes. Especially the ones from fellow Cambridge men like Alfred, Lord Tennyson. In this case, I knew Rob and Sally would be able to work with it.
The kids, on the other hand, while familiar with Papa George’s habits, weren’t seasoned enough to remember this particular quotation, much less anticipate it. And since they weren’t yet jaded, they simply waited, eager to hear their beloved grandfather impart his wisdom.
“Our little systems have their day,” said Papa George, as if quoting holy writ. “From In Memoriam A.H.H., by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.”
The tension broke. The various emotions drained from our faces as the room recalibrated. The kids and I were still processing what the quote meant, and why Papa George had invoked it. Sally didn’t need a second.
She took the bull by the horns.
“Molly, honey, I understand you questioning things,” she said. “And I agree with Papa George—rules change, systems change. But it’s our leaders, our elected officials like your daddy, who decide when those changes happen.”
That’s not what Mr. Blackwood says,” Molly shot back. “He says leaders never change things for the good.”
“Danger, Will Robinson!” Bobby blurted, mimicking the robot from Lost in Space. His voice went high and mechanical as he flailed his arms like the robot. Even Bobby knew it was verboten to invoke Damien Blackwood’s name at this table, let alone parrot his warped gospel.
“Easy for him to say,” Sally sneered. “He’s an academic. He doesn’t have to answer to the people. He doesn’t have to answer for the divisiveness he spews.”
When mother and daughter squared off like this, the men in the family tended to dive under the table for cover. I was no exception. Clara usually looked up from her plate and endured until the storm passed. But not this time.
“I understand the need for affordable housing,” said Clara. “I just wish it weren’t so disruptive.”
“Mom,” said Rob, “the HDB units are upgrades for the pig farmers. You know the shabby conditions they were living under.”
“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” Papa George pointed out.
Rob’s jaw clenched. “That’s not fair, Dad. I’m the prime minister. I have to think about the collective good.”
“Of course you do, dear,” said Clara, clearly trying to head off a spat between her husband and son. “I’m just saying we have to listen to all sides.”
“Mom, that’s true in an ideal world, but I don’t live in that world. If I learned anything fighting in the Pacific, it’s that there’s no such thing as the perfect. As a leader, I set my objective and put in place processes and procedures to achieve it—”
Sally couldn’t resist. “Clara, Rob’s right. That’s the only way to run a country. We live in a multicultural nation that we’re transforming from an agricultural outpost into a first-world economy. The only way to do that is with mathematics. Take AIP—Rob’s integration plan—the Aloha Integration Policy.”
Clara's teacup paused halfway to her lips. "What integration policy?"
Rob leaned forward eagerly. "It’s revolutionary, really. Using computer simulations, we can determine the optimal ethnic, religious, and economic mix for each HDB building. Every family will be matched to housing that promotes social cohesion."
"How exactly does this work?" Clara asked gently.
Sally picked up the explanation. "The computer analyzes demographics—ethnicity, income, education level, age, religion—and creates integrated communities. No more ethnic enclaves. No more economic segregation."
"So, the government decides who lives where?" Clara's voice remained soft, but I could hear the water starting to boil beneath her calm exterior.
"The government ensures that every community reflects Hawaii's beautiful diversity," Rob corrected. "It's social engineering at its finest—using technology to build the society our Constitution envisions."
Clara set down her teacup. "And families like the ones I read about in The Gazette? Do they have a choice in where they're placed?"
“Thurston’s Gazette?” snapped Sally.
Rob cut her off, likely to save her. He thought Thurston was a blowhard, but Sally positively despised her old flame. She wanted blood. Rob, by contrast, took a more pragmatic approach. He had recently authorized the Minister of Communications to strip Thurston Langdon of the Gazette’s business arm to starve it of advertising revenue. He’d also approved Keller’s plan to create a nonprofit trust called The Hawaii Free Press to compete with the Gazette. Keller had come up with the brilliant idea of raising capital from businesses to co-own the newspaper and distribute it for free. The paper was available everywhere, but its reach was most effective in 8&8 convenience stores, Minister of Finance Stephen Goh’s inlaws’ vast and dominant retail chain. It was just a matter of time before Thurston capitulated.
"Mom, everyone benefits from integration," Rob said firmly. "Any families Thurston’s been talking about will be housed in a carefully balanced community where their children can interact with peers from all backgrounds. It's the future of harmonious living."
"It's playing God with people's lives!" Molly burst out. "You're treating families like chess pieces, moving them around your perfect board."
"Did Blackwood put that into your head?" Sally snapped.
But Molly was just getting started. "No, Mother! Don’t you always tell me to think for myself?"
Now even Clara was ducking for cover, joining us cowering men under the table.
"Where's the love in that stupid—what do you call it—Ape? Where’s the compassion in Ape?"
"Love," Sally said sharply, "is ensuring that your children grow up in a society where race riots don’t tear communities apart. Compassion is building housing for families who need it, even if that means difficult transitions."
"Displacement isn't compassion—it’s control!" Molly’s voice cracked. "And Dad’s Ape policy is just another way to control people while pretending it’s for their own good."
"Honey, the policy will create one unified Hawaiian identity, I promise," Rob said, poking his head out from under the proverbial family dining table. "No more us versus them, no more ethnic tensions. One people, one nation…I promise."
"One prison!" Molly shot back, tears streaming down her face. "Papa George, you wrote the Declaration of Independence to protect people from exactly this kind of government intrusion! You don't put families in computers and spit out housing assignments! You don't jail people for four years for being angry! You don't create propaganda newspapers and call them independent!"
She pushed back from the table so forcefully that her chair toppled backward. "I can't do this anymore!"
She fled from the dining room, her footsteps echoing down the hallway. A moment later, we heard the back door slam.
Clara rose gracefully. "I'll go to her."
"No," I said, standing. "Let me. Please."
Clara nodded gratefully. "She'll be in her spot—near her Honolulu Queen, by the koa tree at the back of the garden."
As I was leaving, I heard Sally, “I thought we had an agreement – she wasn’t going to hang out with Blackwood and his gang anymore.”
I found Molly exactly where Clara had predicted. She was curled up on a stone bench beneath the spreading canopy of an ancient koa tree. The vesper light filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows across the garden path. The jasmine-scented air was thick with the promise of evening rain.
She looked up as I approached, her eyes red from crying. “Did they send you to lecture me about respecting my elders?”
“No,” I said, settling beside her on the bench. “Clara thought you might like some company.”
We sat in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant sound of trade winds through the valley.
“I love them,” Molly finally said. “Papa George and Clara. They actually listen to me. They think about what I’m saying instead of just dismissing it.”
“Your parents love you too, Molly.”
She laughed bitterly. “All my parents care about is Hawaii.”
“You’re part of Hawaii,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I was out of my depth. Correction. I was way out of my depth.
“Yeah, just a number to them, one of a seven hundred thousand growing population growing to, what, is it six million or is it six billion?”
I chuckled.
“What are you laughing at?” she asked, uncertain whether to take me out or listen to my response.
Sensing that, I responded quickly. “I love that you know what your goal is for immigration. You are part your parents, part your grandparents.”
“I’m not like my mother,” she said defiantly, but I knew I was on the right path.
“Come on,” I teased her. “Just a little bit. You have her head for numbers, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she admitted. A little less reluctantly now.
“Listen, Molly,” I said, “You’ve got Papa George’s love of peace. You got your grandmother’s patience and kindness. You have your parents’ drive and ambitions. Bottle it all together and see what you can do with it.”
That was the gist of what Molly and I talked about in her secret spot in Clara’s garden. It had been a rough summer for her. The two defendants in the hate crime trial had been sentenced to five years in prison. It was a harsh sentence, perhaps. But it was designed to send a signal that hate crimes would not be tolerated in a nation striving to get on its feet after LBJ’s tariffs, Sand Island, the Chinatown riots, and the Friends of Hawaii Rescue plan.
Molly hadn’t taken the verdict well. She and her mother had fought about it many times over the summer. It didn’t help that Molly was the prime minister’s daughter, something that felt like an unbearable burden to her, though her mother argued it was a privilege that came with responsibilities.
As we walked back toward the house, Molly asked quietly, "Do you really think there's hope for finding balance? Between what my parents want to build and what Papa George believes about love?"
I thought about the question as the garden lights began to flicker on, illuminating the stone pathways Clara had designed with such care.
"I think," I said finally, "that balance is something each generation has to discover for itself. Your parents are finding their way through war and economic crisis. Your grandparents found theirs through depression, territorial politics, and two wars. Soon it’ll be your generation’s turn to find yours. But not yet…Not yet."
As we reached the back door, the warm glow of the dining room spilled out into the gathering dusk. Through the windows, I could see the family still gathered around the table, having dessert.
"Ready?" I asked.
Molly took a deep breath and nodded. "Ready."
Next on the docket: Oil Slick.
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