The trial of Takataro Sakuraba began on the first day of spring, when the cherry blossoms were just beginning to open in the parks of Meikyo and the city was shaking off the grey weight of winter. The High Court building was surrounded by crowds from dawn until dusk, protesters and supporters and curious citizens who had followed the story in the newspapers and wanted to see history unfold with their own eyes.
Mahiru arrived early on the opening day, passing through the security cordon with her press credentials hanging from a lanyard around her neck. The courtroom was already filling with reporters, lawyers, and the lucky few members of the public who had won seats in the daily lottery. The two Kazues were in the front row, sitting together as they had at the arraignment, their hands intertwined. Kenzo Emoto was behind them, his tall frame stooped but his amber eyes alert. Samejima had taken a seat near the back, his oxygen tank beside him, his expression grim but satisfied.
The judges entered at precisely nine o'clock, a panel of five led by a presiding judge named Michio Takamura, a man with a reputation for severity and a face that looked as though it had been carved from the same granite as the courthouse. The charges were read: three counts of murder, one count of obstruction of justice, one count of conspiracy to commit murder, and twelve lesser counts ranging from corruption to evidence tampering.
Sakuraba stood in the defendant's box, his prison uniform replaced by a dark suit that his lawyers had provided. His silver hair was combed back, his posture straight, his expression calm. He looked, Mahiru thought, like a man who had already made his peace with whatever was coming.
When the presiding judge asked for his plea, Sakuraba's voice was clear and steady. "Guilty, Your Honor. To all charges."
A murmur ran through the courtroom. Guilty pleas to murder were rare in Seiwa, where the death penalty still existed on the books and a life sentence meant exactly that. But Sakuraba had waived his right to a trial by contesting the charges. He had instructed his lawyers not to mount a defense, not to challenge the evidence, not to cross-examine the witnesses. He wanted, he had said in his written statement to the court, to spare the families of the victims the ordeal of a prolonged trial and to accept full responsibility for his actions.
Chikako Nogami, the prosecutor, rose to deliver her opening statement. She was dressed in a dark suit, her grey-streaked hair pulled back in a severe knot, and her voice was sharp and precise as a scalpel.
"Over the course of sixty years, the defendant constructed an elaborate edifice of lies," she said. "He built a career, a reputation, and a legacy on a foundation of murder and fraud. He killed Tetsuya Shimazaki in 1965 because Shimazaki threatened to expose a census fraud that would have destroyed the village headman who employed him. He killed Osamu Kibe in 2025 because Kibe was preparing to break a sixty-year silence and reveal the truth. He killed Riku, a monk who had dedicated his life to peace, because Riku's testimony would have corroborated Kibe's account. And he attempted to kill a journalist, Mahiru Yuzuki, because she was closing in on the truth."
Nogami paused, letting the courtroom absorb her words. "The defendant has pleaded guilty. He has confessed to his crimes. But a guilty plea is not the same as justice. Justice requires that the full story be told, that the historical record be corrected, and that the victims be given back the names and the honor that the defendant stole from them. That is the purpose of this proceeding."
The defense attorney, a court-appointed lawyer named Shiro Kanemoto who had been assigned the unenviable task of representing a client who refused to contest the charges, rose to deliver a statement that was more resignation than advocacy.
"The defendant does not dispute the facts as presented by the prosecution," Kanemoto said. "He wishes only to express his profound remorse for the harm he has caused and to accept whatever punishment this court deems appropriate. He asks for no leniency. He seeks no mitigation. He acknowledges that his crimes are beyond forgiveness."
The first day of the trial was consumed by procedural matters and the reading of the indictment. But on the second day, the witnesses began to testify.
The first witness was Kazue Shimazaki.
She walked to the witness stand slowly, her grey hair pulled back in the same simple knot she had worn the day Mahiru met her on Akijima. She was dressed in a black kimono, the color of mourning, and she carried a photograph of her father in her hands.
Nogami's questions were gentle. "Please tell the court about your father."
Kazue spoke in a voice that was soft but steady. "I never knew him. He died before I was born. But my mother told me about him every day of my childhood. He was an honest man. A good man. He believed that the truth mattered. He went to Hinagata to count the people, and he found a fraud, and he tried to report it. For that, he was killed."
"And how has his death affected your life?"
"I grew up without a father. My mother grew old without a husband. For sixty years, his name was dishonored. The official record said he died in an accident. But it was not an accident. It was murder. And the man who killed him became a judge, a respected man, a man who was honored by the nation." She looked directly at Sakuraba for the first time, and her voice did not waver. "He took my father's life, and then he took his honor. I have been waiting sixty years to get it back."
Sakuraba did not look away. His expression was unreadable, but his hands, resting on the table in front of him, were trembling slightly.
The next witness was Taro.
The old fisherman shuffled to the stand with the help of a bailiff, his eyes squinting in the bright courtroom lights. He had been given new clothes for the occasion, a simple grey suit that hung loosely on his wiry frame, but he still looked like what he was: a man who had spent his life on the sea and was now adrift on dry land.
"Tell the court what you saw on the night of July 2, 1965," Nogami said.
Taro cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his voice was rough as gravel but surprisingly clear. "I was twenty-three years old. I was walking back to the village from the river when I saw the fire. The census office was burning. I ran toward it, and I saw Jiro—the man who is now Sakuraba—walking away from the building. His hands were black with soot. He did not look afraid. He looked satisfied. Like a man who had finished a job."
"Did you see anyone else?"
"I saw Kibe. He was standing in the shadows, watching. He looked like he wanted to do something but could not make himself move. And I saw Shimazaki. He was inside the building. I could hear him screaming. But by the time anyone reached him, it was too late."
"Why did you not come forward with this information at the time?"
Taro looked down at his hands. "I was afraid. Jiro—Sakuraba—told us that if we spoke, we would share Shimazaki's fate. He offered us a way out. Good jobs, new lives. All we had to do was keep silent. I was young, and I was poor, and I was afraid. So I kept silent. I have been keeping silent for sixty years."
"And now?"
"Now I want to speak. Now I want the truth to be known. I am sorry, Shimazaki-san. I am sorry I did not stop them."
The courtroom was silent as Taro stepped down from the stand. Mahiru saw tears on the faces of several spectators, and Kazue Shimazaki was weeping openly, her shoulders shaking with sobs that she had been holding in for a lifetime.
The third witness was Yuriko.
The young maid had recovered from her ordeal in Hinagata, but her face still bore the marks of sleepless nights and anxious days. She testified about the night she had overheard Sakuraba meeting with the corrupt police officer, Shiro Kaneda. She testified about the button she had found under the chair, and the fear she had felt when she realized what her employer was capable of. And she testified about the morning Sakuraba had come to her apartment and taken her hostage.
"He said he would hurt my mother if I did not come quietly," Yuriko said, her voice trembling. "He said he knew where she lived. He knew everything. I thought I was going to die."
"And how did you escape?"
"The journalist, Miss Yuzuki, came for me. She traded the evidence for my life. She faced him alone, in that terrible place, and she made him let me go. I owe her my life."
Mahiru felt the eyes of the courtroom turn toward her. She did not look up from her notebook.
The fourth witness was the innkeeper from Hinagata, the old woman whose name Mahiru had learned was Hana Ishikawa. She had been brought to Meikyo by a police escort, her first journey out of the village in fifty years. She walked to the stand with the slow, deliberate gait of someone who had lived eight decades in the mountains and was not impressed by the grandeur of the capital.
"I saw Jiro walking toward the census office with a can of kerosene on the night of the fire," she said. "I did not think anything of it at the time. It was a normal thing to carry kerosene in a village without electricity. But later, when the flames rose and the screaming started, I knew what I had seen. And I said nothing. For sixty years, I said nothing."
"Why not?" Nogami asked.
"Because I was afraid. Everyone in the village was afraid. The headman threatened us. Jiro enforced the threats. It was easier to be silent. But silence has a cost. I have carried that silence like a stone in my chest for sixty years. I am glad, at last, to put it down."
The final witness of the day was Mahiru.
She had known she would be called, had prepared for it with Samejima and Nogami in the days leading up to the trial. But walking to the stand felt different from anything she had imagined. The courtroom was larger than it looked from the gallery. The judges' bench loomed above her. And Sakuraba, sitting in the defendant's box, watched her with the same dark eyes that had watched her in the census office, in the tea house, on the cliff above the oyster beds.
Nogami's questions guided her through the story: the election suit, the discovery of the census fraud, the deaths of Kibe and Riku, the journey to Akijima and Yamagoshi, the confrontation in Hinagata. Mahiru answered each question clearly and precisely, the way she wrote her articles, the way she had trained herself to speak about difficult things.
"Tell the court what happened in the census office on the night the defendant was arrested," Nogami said.
"He was waiting for me there. He had Yuriko tied up on the floor. He wanted the evidence: the stone, the confession, the notebook. He said he would kill us both if I did not hand it over. I gave him the physical originals, but I told him that copies had already been filed with the Public Prosecutor's Office. I told him the truth was already out, that killing us would not save him."
"And how did he respond?"
Sakuraba's lawyer rose to object. "The prosecution is asking the witness to characterize the defendant's mental state, which she is not qualified to do."
Judge Takamura considered this. "Overruled. The witness is describing her direct observations. Continue."
Mahiru took a breath. "He pulled a knife. He said he would kill me even if the truth was already out, because he wanted to see my fear. He said I had destroyed everything he had built, and he wanted something in return."
"And what did you do?"
"I told him I was not afraid. I told him it was over. And then he lowered the knife, and he asked for an hour to pray at the shrine, and I gave it to him. He kept his word. He waited at the shrine until the police arrived."
Nogami nodded. "No further questions."
The defense attorney declined to cross-examine. Sakuraba had instructed his lawyers not to challenge the testimony of any witness, not to question their credibility or their memory. He wanted no further harm done, he had said. He wanted only to listen and to accept.
But as Mahiru stepped down from the stand, Sakuraba rose from his seat.
"Your Honor," he said, his voice cutting through the murmur of the courtroom. "May I address the witness?"
Judge Takamura looked startled. "This is highly irregular."
"I understand. But I have something to say, and I wish to say it while she is still before the court."
The judge hesitated, then nodded slowly. "You may speak."
Sakuraba turned to face Mahiru. The courtroom was utterly silent. Even the air seemed to have stopped moving.
"I told you once that you owed me your fear," he said. "I was wrong. I owed you something. I owed you the truth. For sixty years, I told myself that I was protecting my legacy, my reputation, the life I had built. But I was protecting nothing. I was hiding from the truth, and the truth was always coming for me. You were the one who brought it. You were the one who refused to be afraid. And for that, I thank you."
He bowed, a deep formal bow that he held for several seconds before straightening. Mahiru did not move. She did not know what to say.
"Justice is not only for the living," Sakuraba continued, his voice quieter now. "You taught me that. The dead deserve justice too. Shimazaki deserves justice. Kibe deserves justice. Riku deserves justice. I cannot give it to them. But I can stop fighting it. I can let it come."
He turned back to the judge. "I am ready to hear the sentence, Your Honor. Whatever it may be."
Judge Takamura looked at him for a long moment. "The court will recess to consider its verdict. We will reconvene tomorrow morning."
The gavel struck, and the courtroom erupted. Reporters rushed for the doors. Spectators stood and craned their necks to catch a glimpse of Sakuraba as he was led away. The two Kazues embraced each other, their faces wet with tears. Emoto stood motionless, his hands gripping the back of the bench in front of him. Samejima smiled, his shark's smile, the oxygen tank hissing beside him.
Mahiru walked out of the courtroom and into the corridor, her heart hammering against her ribs. The cherry blossoms were falling in the courtyard outside, pink petals drifting down onto the stone paths. The city was waking up to spring, to new beginnings, to a future that would be different from the past.
Behind her, in the courtroom, the judges were preparing their verdict. And somewhere in the detention center, an old man was waiting for the end of a story that had taken sixty years to tell.
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