"It's [a] pretty ugly thing in my memory bank. Pretty ugly....But what's been done, been done. It's like when you get into [a] car wreck; when it's happening, you block it out. It's like a bad dream."
-- Benjamin Ng, commenting on the Wah Mee Massacre in a January 1992 Seattle Times interview

"A decade of grime has settled on the alleyway. The light fixture that helped late-night patrons find the guarded entrance to the gaming room is reduced to shards of glass and mangled wire. The scuffed brown double doors that opened to opulence are fastened with a corroded chain and padlock."
-- Seattle Times reporter Sally Macdonald commenting on the ten-year anniversary of the Wah Mee Massacre

In February 1988, Seattle Times staff reporter Julie Emery went into Seattle's Chinatown searching for the community's reaction to the five-year anniversary of the Wah Mee Massacre. What she found was denial. The Seattle Chinese Post would not be publishing a story about the anniversary. "It's not important anymore," said the newspaper's publisher, Assunta Ng. Nor would the International Examiner publish any anniversary-related articles, Emery learned. The Examiner's editor, Ron Chew, told Emery, "People are [moving] on with their lives."

Contrary to Ng's assertion, the Wah Mee Massacre was very important. Prosecutor Lasnik told Emery, "The [Wah Mee trials] were huge in terms of their importance to the community and the office and ones taking us into unchartered ground. The Mak opinion from the state Supreme Court was extremely important because it answered key questions about juror instructions and what kind of evidence can be placed before a jury in the penalty case."

Prosecutor Downing felt that the intensive police investigation helped to deter copycat crimes similar to the Wah Mee Massacre. "The fact that we've seen nothing in the past five years to rival the boldness and coldness of the crime may, in a small way, reflect the deterrent effect of the good work done by the Seattle police and the court system in the Wah Mee Case," Downing told Emery.

Prosecutor Maleng concurred, "The three trials gave members of the Chinese and Asian communities the benefit of a front- row seat on how the criminal justice system operates."

Seattle police Detective Gary Fowler, a member of the Wah Mee Task force, told Emery, "[Wah Mee] won't ever go away. Every now and then, someone will propose re-opening the Wah Mee as an after-hours club, but the talk dies when the memory returns. The whole idea of the massacre has so permeated the community and so tainted it that no one would ever go there, anyway. It's kind of like it's just full of old ghosts down there."

And one would be hard pressed to think that the Wah Mee Massacre is "not important anymore" to the victims' family members. Linda Mar, daughter of victims Moo Min Mar and his wife, Jean, told Emery that she got a "weird and eerie type of feeling" whenever she ventured near the Club. "At the first of every year," Mar told Emery, "I think, 'next month is February, when everybody got shot to death,' and emotions surface."

If Wah Mee wasn't important anymore, then what was? Commerce and tourism were important to Chinatown. Publisher Ng preferred to look at the economic growth that resulted from a determination to pull the community from the low point where Wah Mee left it. Shortly after the murders, business in Chinatown dropped forty-percent. Chinatown, in turn, focused on being a lively commercial center, luring capitalists willing to invest millions in shopping complexes and other ventures. Viet Wah, a large Chinese supermarket, opened in the $1-million Asian Plaza on South Jackson Street. More than a thousand people turned out for the grand opening. Two other shopping centers cropped up post-Wah-Mee, as well -- namely Jackson Square and Orient Shopping Center. "We're working to bring people back to shop," Ng told Emery.

If Wah Mee isn't important anymore, it's still a very sensitive issue to many members of the Chinese community. In August 1997, a portion of this book was excerpted and published in The Seattle Scroll. Tony Ng's attorney had requested a hearing for a retrial, and I wrote a feature article about Ng's request, re-capping the case, and writing about where the Massacre stands now in the city's consciousness. When the newspaper hit the stands, Ron Chew, former reporter/editor for the Examiner, and current Director of the Wing Luke Asian Museum, contacted the Scroll's editor to complain. What was this paper doing in Chinatown? Why was I writing about this case? What made this story newsworthy? Why, all of a sudden, was the Scroll available in Chinatown? Was it simply because of the Tony Ng story? I am summarizing the conversation here but, as the Scroll's editor, Matt Asher, told me, Chew was irate. Asher defended my article, citing that Ng's request for a retrial made the story very newsworthy. Moreover, less than six months after the paper hit the newsstands, Seattle would be marking the fifteen-year anniversary of the Wah Mee Massacre. Finally, Asher pointed out, the Scroll had always been available in Seattle's Chinatown.

On October 27, 1997, approximately two months after my article was published, I wrote Chew requesting the opportunity to discuss the Wah Mee case. In all honesty, Chew was the most able of the reporters who covered the Wah Mee trials. As a reporter for the Examiner in the 1980s, Chew was able to cut past the stereotypes and hype of the mass-murders and report on the profound effect this event had on Seattle's Chinese American community. In addition to standard reportage, he wrote essays and editorials that gave readers of the Examiner a thorough understanding of the crimes. Simply put, while the Times and P-I were writing articles that resembled Hollywood movie scripts, Chew wrote telling and informative accounts of the Wah Mee Massacre.

In my October 1997 letter to Chew, I explained that I was working on a book about the Wah Mee Massacre. I also stressed that I was not interested in glorifying the crimes at the Club and, rather, was more interested in the history of the Wah Mee Club and, more importantly, its role as part of Seattle's history of gambling clubs, speakeasies, brothels, and vice affiliation. In essence, I was writing more of a "regional history" book than a true-crime "shoot-em-up."

In a terse letter, Chew replied, "I am not interested in participating in your book project on the Wah Mee case. I am offended -- as I'm sure other members of the Chinese American community would be -- by the sensationalistic tone of your manuscript and the glaring inaccuracies and offensive stereotypes. Contrary to your assertion that you are not interested in glorifying or exploiting the killings at the Club, it is apparent that those are very much your motives."

Ironically, Chew's letter was more telling than if he had agreed to sit down to an in-depth, two-hour interview. I can only speculate why Chew refused an interview, but I think it has a lot to do with the way that Chinatown wanted to be identified. As publisher Ng had told Times reporter Emery, the Chinese American community preferred to look at the economic growth of the community. Writing about Wah Mee and bringing attention to the horrible crime meant bad press for Chinatown. What if readers of this book passed the Wing Luke Asian Museum and the multi-million-dollar shopping malls in search of the padlocked entrance to the Wah Mee Club?

As an aside, while working on this book I frequented the Wing Luke Asian Museum for research purposes. I attended the screening of a documentary on Seattle's Chinatown and visited the Museum whenever I needed more information about the history of Seattle's Chinese Americans. Each visit I would sign my name in the guestbook. Three months after I received Chew's scolding letter, I received a rather bland "form" letter from Chew which read, in part:

Dear Mr. Matthews,

Thank you for recently attending a Wing Luke Asian Museum program. We value your participation and hope you enjoyed the event. Since then, we've been mailing you information about other Museum activities to give you a sense of all we do. We're writing you today in the hope that you will join the museum as a member. For as little as $30 a year, you can help ensure that we continue to offer the kinds of unique programs you have enjoyed.

You may know that we are the only community-based, pan-Asian American institution of its kind in the country. That our sole mission is to create bridges of understanding between Asian Pacific Americans and Americans of other backgrounds through the types of programs you've attended.

Whatever size gift you make, you join a community of people who value your perspectives and participation. Thank you for your consideration.

Sincerely,

Ron Chew

Director

Shortly after receiving this letter, I photocopied it (along with his initial, terse letter) and returned them to Chew in the hopes that he could decide whether or not he "valued my perspectives" or found me "offensive" and "stereotyping" of the Chinese American community.

I never heard from Chew.

Chew's initial letter was also telling in that he accused me of being "offensive" and "stereotyping" the Chinese American community. Shortly before my article was published in the Scroll, I met with editor Asher at the paper's office in South Seattle. Asher liked the piece, though, at close to ten-thousand words, it was a bit long. We met to edit the article and lay it out on the computer for publication. If there was a reservation Asher had about the piece, it was his feeling that I was too sensitive to the Chinese American community. "You think gambling in Chinatown is OK, don't you?" he asked. "It's OK if the seniors in the community get together to gamble after-hours, right?" Asher wasn't testing my morals. Rather, he felt that the tenor of the article was sympathetic toward Chinese Americans who gambled illegally in Chinatown. Asher had a very valid point. I was more enamored by the Wah Mee Club's beautiful and rich history, which dated back to the early- 1920s. What a thrill it would have been to gamble and drink at the Wah Mee, not because it was illegal but, rather, because it was virtually another world! And later, when I met retired private investigator Windsor Olson and he recounted his stories of drinking and dancing at the Wah Mee with his wife during the late-1940s and early-1950s, I realized that I had grown rather fond of the Club. It wasn't a place where thugs and gangs and hoodlums hung out; rather, the Wah Mee was one of the most fascinating landmarks in Seattle.

The more I considered Asher's question, the more I had to agree that, yes, I was sympathetic toward the Chinese American gamblers in Chinatown. They worked long hours at low-wage jobs. Many didn't speak English and gambling was their only form of recreation. Moreover, cops had tolerated gambling for the past half-century -- a fact that helped reinforce the idea that illegal gambling wasn't so morally corrupt. In fact, the relationship between cops and gambling clubs seemed almost humorous to me -- greedy cops dodging reporters and sneaking into gambling back rooms in order to collect bag money from wealthy club operators.

My confrontation with Chew was one of the best things that could have happened to this book. When I had decided to write a book about the Wah Mee Massacre, shortly after the Scroll article was published, I made a very important decision: I wanted to write the most detailed and accurate account of what had happened at the Wah Mee Club on the night of killings. I wanted to delve into the history of the Club, its relationship to other Seattle speakeasies and gambling clubs, its vice affiliation, the impact the crime had on Seattle, accounts of the three trials, the search for Tony Ng, the history of Chinese Americans in Seattle, the appeals processes after the three verdicts, and first-hand accounts from individuals close to the case. I was also aware that Wah Mee was a very sensitive nerve in the Chinese American community. No one had written a book about this case, and there had to have been a very specific reason.

Tony Ng's attorney was still seeking a re-trial for his client. Mak's death sentence had been overturned and, on top of that, he was still seeking a lesser sentence. Benjamin Ng had given up on appeals, but he had given the occasional interview. When I wrote a letter to John R. Muenster, Tony Ng's attorney, requesting an interview, he could not grant me an interview. "Thank you for your letter," Muenster wrote. "Please note that Tony Ng was found not guilty of all of the murder charges in the Wah Mee case. I am not in a position to assist you with your book project because Tony's case is presently in litigation in federal court. We are seeking a federal court order granting Tony a retrial on the robbery charges. Good luck on your project."

I wrote King County Superior Court Judge Robert Lasnik, also in hopes of obtaining an interview. The Honorable Lasnik left me a voice mail message, indicating he was reluctant to talk about the case because of the pending appeals. "As much as I would like to help you," he said, in part, "I simply cannot. Things we've said in the past have popped up in legal briefs and have been used against us. It's hard to believe that we're going on fifteen years now and these cases are still open."

When publisher Ng told Times reporter Emery that Wah Mee "[wasn't] important anymore," she couldn't have been any further from the truth. Wah Mee was very important -- the case still openly active -- even more than a decade-and-a-half after the grisly murders.

ONE WINTER EVENING in 1998, I headed down to Chinatown to visit the Wah Mee Club. I had been to Chinatown dozens of times while writing this book, and each instance was different than the other. One summer day I stood on South King Street and watched the area's patrons and business owners crane their necks to view the Blue Angels tearing across the sky during Seattle's SeaFair Festival. On other occasions I dined at Fortune City and the Sea Garden during busy weekend evenings, when the restaurants and streets were clogged with tourists and locals alike. One rainy evening, I walked down Maynard Alley and saw two homeless men huddled at the entrance of the Club, sleeping in the doorway. Other occasions I would take friends on tours of some of the notable Wah Mee locales -- Wai Chin's apartment building, various historical gambling clubs and speakeasies, Danny Woo Memorial Garden, Maynard Alley, and the Wah Mee Club.

But this particular February evening was different than others: I was visiting Chinatown and, more importantly, the Wah Mee Club on the fifteen-year anniversary of the murders. Wah Mee may not have mattered anymore to some, but to me it had been the most important part of my journalism career. I worked on other articles and pursued other writing interests, but I always returned to the Wah Mee and its compelling story. Each time I stared at the Club's facade, I was reminded of police corruption and wealthy gamblers and a few thugs with wild ambitions and Windsor Olson pushing past the mahogany doors with his wife at 2:00 a.m. for drinks and Wai Chin staggering out of the Club shortly after the murders and the cops who busted into the Club to find the carnage. While others passed the Club without notice, I felt the Club was larger than life; I couldn't help but notice the Club.

On February 19, 1998, I purchased a small arrangement of flowers at a florist located next to the Wing Luke Museum. Then I headed down Seventh Avenue, turned right on South King Street, and cut down Maynard Alley. A van was parked in the alley, its driver unloading produce and groceries through the back door of a restaurant. It was still winter, and rather chilly -- especially standing in the shadows of the large buildings that loomed overhead. I stared up at the buildings, spotting a specific window in the building across from the Club. Shortly after the murders, Times photographer Matt McVay arrived at the scene only to find the area cordoned off by police officers. An obscure radio tip sent McVay to the scene at 2:30 a.m. -- less than three hours after Willie Mak, Benjamin Ng, and Tony Ng fled the Club. Reporters and passersby were not allowed within 100-yards of the Club. McVay loitered around Chinatown with the other reporters, before slipping into a residential hotel directly across the aalley from the Club. He started knocking on doors. "I was met by this real nice old guy," McVay commented, "who let me in. He had been watching [all the commotion] himself. The noise had awaked him." McVay leaned out the apartment window and began snapping photos of police officers, Medical Examiners, and investigators entering and exiting the Club -- removing bodies and loading them into vans. "It was a real eerie feeling sitting there looking out the window for an hour, watching the body bags come out." McVay's photographs, taken around dawn, were published the same day in the Times, and were the first to depict the level of carnage that three young men had left behind at the Wah Mee Club.

I stood in the alley and stared up at the same window from which McVay had snapped his photos. Fifteen years had passed and the hotel had been gutted by the Chin family (who had grown up in Maynard Alley), and was in the process of renovations.

Then I turned and stared at one of the apartment windows directly above the Club's entrance. When McVay snapped his photos of the bodies being carried of the Club, he had inadvertently included two heads leaning out of a window from an apartment directly across the alley. A man and woman sat with their arms on the brick window ledge, also watching the commotion in the alley. I stared up at the window, and I remembered that the man who lived in the apartment directly above the Club told a reporter that he heard nothing that night. "There is only a wood floor between me and [the Club]," the man explained. "My French poodle wakes up if he hears a firecracker a half-block away and he didn't make a sound all night."

I stood back a moment, staring at the dusty padlocked doors and degenerate condition of the Club's facade. I tried to read the graffiti on the door. I peeked through the single glass block and into the Club's office, where a coat hung on a hook and several hollowed coffee cans with paint brushes sat on a ledge. I ran my finger along what was once the Club's doorbell; now only a small block of wood is bolted in its place. I tried the handle on the large doors, shaking them so the padlocked chain rattled dully. I ran my foot along the mat at the Club's entrance; what was once covered with drops of Wai Chin's blood, the mat was now covered with pigeon shit and, occasionally, broken malt liquor bottles.

I placed the flowers outside the entrance, and stepped back. Looking south down the alley, I noticed the van was gone. Instead there were a dozen small children walking up the alley, laughing and smiling and teasing one another. A man stood outside Liem's Pet Store, smoking a cigarette and eyeing me suspiciously. Perhaps Wah Mee didn't matter anymore? After all, many of these kids would probably never know about Wah Mee. Perhaps they were the sons and daughters of parents who felt that Wah Mee wasn't important enough to tell them about. Perhaps, fifteen or twenty years from now, the incident at Wah Mee would be no more than a blip on Chinatown's history -- if even a blip at all. Chinatown was changing, growing old. In 1990 the average Chinatown resident was fifty-six years old. The elders in the community would die in the next decade-and-a-half, and many of their offspring would opt to live in sprawling suburbs rather than the claustrophobic confines of Chinatown's residential hotels. Some of the buildings would be razed or renovated in the future. The only real catalyst for preserving and teaching Chinatown's history was the Wing Luke Museum, and I would seriously doubt that its Director, Ron Chew, would be including an exhibit on Wah Mee any time in the near future.

As the children came up the alley, they grew louder. They stopped at the pet store, staring in the window, as it has always been popular with the area children. Then they moved along, and as they approached me, their shrill voices and scattered laughter grew even louder. A few of the kids glanced at me, but only briefly. They moved further up the alley, finally turning right onto South King Street -- perhaps never thinking twice about that strange Caucasian standing in a Chinatown alley outside an old decrepit building, during an early-dusk evening in February.

Epilogue | The last bell ringer

This story originally appeared as a serialized feature in Asian Focus newspaper