It must have been about five years ago when an American friend of my husband asked me, “I heard that once someone is indicted in Japan, there’s a 99% chance they’ll be convicted. Doesn’t that mean the judiciary isn’t functioning properly?”
At the time, I replied, “It is a problem, yes, but Japan’s police and prosecutors are highly skilled. They only bring cases to court when they have solid evidence and a near certainty of conviction.” Still, I remember feeling uneasy with my own answer.
Why did that memory resurface now? Because this morning’s news covered the Okawara Kakoki wrongful prosecution case.
On August 25, 2025, in a cemetery in Yokohama, senior officials from the Metropolitan Police Department, the Supreme Public Prosecutors Office, and the Tokyo District Prosecutors Office bowed their heads before the grave of Mr. Shizuo Aishima, a former company advisor. He was indicted as a defendant in the case, discovered to have cancer while in detention, and died without ever being granted bail. His family was present at the graveside apology. There were no excuses offered, no self-justification. Earlier this month, on August 7, the authorities had already released a report acknowledging that the arrests, indictments, and detention requests had been unlawful. It was only on that condition that the family agreed to accept their apology.
A formal apology at the company headquarters, followed now by this bow at the grave. Yet the man beneath the gravestone will never speak again. What we must reflect upon is not the gesture itself, but the chain of decisions that brought us here, and who might have stopped them.
The case began with a technical dispute: whether the company’s spray-drying equipment should be classified under Japan’s Foreign Exchange and Foreign Trade Act. Investigators labeled it “equipment capable of internal sterilization,” placing it within strict export controls. The company, however, consistently argued that the model lacked sterilization capacity altogether, and experimental tests supported their claim. What was needed at that stage was a sober technical review and a fair evaluation of the evidence. Instead, momentum carried the process forward, arrests, indictment, and a further indictment. From the moment the courtroom doors opened, the defendants were swallowed by months of detention so long that they began to lose track of time itself.
The harshest element was the way pretrial detention was treated as virtually routine. Even as Mr. Aishima’s condition deteriorated, his requests for bail were repeatedly denied. “Presumption of innocence” may exist in theory, but in practice the vague notion of “risk of flight or destruction of evidence” almost automatically extended confinement. As I mentioned earlier, Japan is known for its 99% conviction rate after indictment. It is often explained by saying, “Prosecutors only bring cases they’re sure to win.” But the darker truth is that once someone is indicted, trial becomes a mere formality. Prolonged detention weakens the defense and functions as punishment before any verdict is rendered. People lose their health, their livelihoods, and their dignity long before they are judged guilty or not.
In this case, prosecutors have been criticized for abusing their broad discretion to indict, while neglecting to rigorously verify the legal requirements under the Act. But responsibility does not end with the prosecution. The continuation of detention and the rejection of bail lie squarely within the authority of the courts. Had judicial independence truly functioned, the need for confinement should have been reconsidered once serious doubts about the technical evidence emerged. Instead, judges largely rubber-stamped the prosecution’s position. This is what critics mean when they speak of Japan’s “hostage justice.” A culture of confession-centered investigations, the treatment of bail as a privilege rather than a right, and the perfunctory reasoning used to deny it—all these converged to decide the fate of one man’s life. The final outcome was a bow before his grave.
The official review has admitted to multiple institutional failings: lack of information sharing, breakdowns in the chain of command, and inadequate technical evaluation. But listing errors is not enough. Prevention depends not on abstract apologies, but on concrete safeguards built into the system itself. Independent experts must be included in pre-indictment technical reviews. Detention must be the exception, not the rule, with courts required to provide detailed, fact-based explanations for bail decisions. All experimental methods and data must be fully disclosed, not filtered through the prosecutor’s interpretation. Accountability must be personalized: those responsible for unlawful actions must be identified and subject to transparent disciplinary procedures. And the definitions and testing standards under the Foreign Exchange Act must be clarified in line with international norms to eliminate arbitrariness.
That bow at the grave should not merely look backward, it must also signify a promise for the future. If misapplied legal standards, procedural shortcuts, and the abdication of judicial oversight remain uncorrected, then tragedies like this will inevitably be repeated. The family’s earlier refusal to accept an apology without truth was, I believe, a visceral rejection of empty words. Only by fulfilling accountability, reforming the system, and leaving a public record of the lessons learned can we hope to ensure that Japan never again has to witness such belated rituals of contrition—apologies spoken only to the dead.
