ENZAI: Police and Prosecutors Ordered To Pay Damages For Railroading 3 Innocent Men

Tokyo cops and prosecutors framed 3 innocent men, got caught, and the Tokyo High Court ordered them to pay $1 million in damages. Too late, though for the one man who died after months in detention.

Last month, the Tokyo High Court ruled that the Tokyo Metropolitan police and prosecutors unfairly framed three men for crimes they didn’t commit and that they had to pay the price: over $1 million in damages. This week law enforcement, giving in to public opinion, decided not to fight the verdict all the way up to the Supreme Court. This time, the innocent guys won. All of them except one, a company man who died from complications of cancer, after spending months in detainment. 

There is no end to the problem of the innocent being wrongfully accused or imprisoned in Japan. The word “冤罪” (enzai) is a legal term every defense attorney knows. Author Yoshiyuki Nishi has written an excellent book on the subject: ENZAI: Why do people keep making these mistakes?

The Dark Reality of Enzai (冤罪): How Japan's Okawara Kakohki Case Exposed Systematic Prosecutorial Failures

Here's a vocabulary word you won't see in ads touting a trip to Japan: Enzai (冤罪). 

Enzai, meaning "false charges" or "wrongful prosecution," represents one of Japan's most persistent judicial problems. The word means being accused or convicted of something you never did, catching a rap you never earned. In everyday Japanese, folks might shrug and say nureginu (ぬれぎぬ), a soaked kimono, the classic image of being unfairly stained by false blame. But in legalese, enzai lands harder—especially when innocent folks get cuffed, charged, or worse, convicted.

Break it down, and the kanji tell their own little noir story:

冤 (エン / en): Unjust suffering, resentment, or crying out against a wrong—like life's handed you a loaded deck. It's found in words like 冤苦 (えんく, enku) which means "the pain and suffering from being falsely accused"or 冤憤 (えんぷん, enpun)—the tremendous anger that arises from being blamed for something that isn’t your doing.

The zai in enzai is 罪 (ザイ / zai): Sin, guilt, wrongdoing, crime—the baggage you carry whether you deserve it or not.

Put 'em together and you get 冤罪  (enzai): guilt unfairly slung around someone's neck. English translations of the word struggle with the nuance, offering "false charge," "wrongful conviction," or even the slangy "bum rap." Lawyers toss around phrases like "miscarriage of justice" when the wheels of law slip gears. Sometimes you're simply "framed," stuck like a character in a pulp novel.  The Bottom line is that enzai isn't just a misunderstanding—it's injustice with teeth, a stain that's hard to wash out, whether in courtrooms or written apologies. 

Not even a 90-degree bow can undo the damages. 

The recent conclusion of the Okawara Kakohki case this month stands as a landmark example of how Japan's criminal justice system can fail catastrophically. It shows how half-baked investigations and prosecutorial pride can lead to wrongful arrests, prosecutorial misconduct, and rarely (unfortunately), significant financial and reputational consequences for the state itself.

The Okawara Kakohki Case: A Timeline of Injustice

Plaintiff Masaaki Okawara, president of Yokohama's Okawara Kakohki Co., and his associate, Junji Shimada, a former director, spent a staggering 331 days locked up before any court even had the chance to prove they were innocent. That's 331 days under the thumb of Tokyo prosecutors, enduring interrogations without the comfort of a lawyer or even a surveillance camera to keep things halfway honest. Despite clamming up as the law permits—an inconvenient right that seems to irk authorities—they faced repeated arrests, relentless questioning, and four bail denials.

The whole grim affair kicked off in March 2020, when Okawara and Shimada found themselves accused of illegally exporting spray dryers to China—machines allegedly capable of crafting biological nasties without proper authorization. Tokyo's prosecutors gleefully indicted and locked them away, keeping the doors shut tight until February 2021, when, quite suddenly, prosecutors admitted they'd developed some doubts. In a move rarer than a unicorn sighting at Shinjuku Station, they withdrew their indictment just four days shy of the first court hearing. Oops.

And then there's Shizuo Aishima, another former executive whose fate was even grimmer. Diagnosed with stomach cancer during detention, Aishima had his bail plea turned down eight separate times, each denial more callous than the last. He died behind bars in February 2021, never tasting the freedom—or justice—he desperately sought.

All three men, once arrested, fell into the black hole of Japan's criminal justice system. Once you're arrested, the police can hold you for 24 hours, and then the prosecutors have 48 hours to soften you up without bail.

Sure, they’ll politely inform you of your alleged misdeeds, remind you of your right to silence, and let you call a lawyer (on your own dime, naturally). Initially, the Japan Lawyer’s Association offers free legal advice—though by the time your counselor arrives, you've probably sung a few stanzas already. Oh, and no lawyers during interrogation. Privacy, apparently, is a police privilege. After that delightful opening act, the prosecutor has to decide whether you're worth keeping around. If they're feeling optimistic, they ask a judge for an extension, buying another 10 days to really get to know you. Forget your phone and those English-language novels, they prefer you isolated: one visitor per day, please. And if you haven’t quite cracked, they can always tack on another 10-day extension, sometimes stretching your involuntary vacation up to nearly a month. At the end of all this, if the prosecutor shrugs, you walk free—though they might still keep you dangling with a "suspended decision," or legalese for limbo.

Refuse to spill your guts, and it’s a coin toss whether they even bother to indict. But once indicted, your odds tank like a gambler on a bad streak: a 99% conviction rate means you're toast. Confessing post-indictment usually gets you bail; stubborn silence earns you detention until your trial date rolls around. No wonder Japanese defense lawyers and international observers alike call this charming system "hostage justice.” Nothing motivates a good confession like the persuasive threat of endless captivity.

The defendants didn't confess and thus they didn't get bail. Even the innocent aren’t spared. Ask Mark Karpeles, the subject of my forthcoming book, The Devil Takes Bitcoin. He wouldn't confess and the police kept rearresting him, hoping that the added pressure would make him crack. And the prosecutors continued to add charges after his indictment. And even after indictment, he wouldn't bend and so it was almost a year before he was given bail. 

Paging Satoshi Nakamoto, inventor of Bitcoin—you have a call on line #2!

President Okawara spent months in detention until it was clear the case was as bogus as a 4000 yen bill.  By February 2021, Okawara and one other defendant were released on bail. In July 2021, the prosecutors dropped all the charges just four days before the first court hearing, stating "doubts have arisen as to whether they are guilty of a crime.” They had done a 180, effectively acknowledging that the prosecution had been unfounded.

The Legal Victory and Financial Reckoning

Rather than accepting this injustice quietly, Okawara and his associates took the bold step of suing both Tokyo and the Japanese state for damages in September 2021. This civil lawsuit sought compensation for the wrongful prosecution and the damage inflicted on their lives and business.

The Tokyo District Court initially ruled in December 2023 that Tokyo and the state should pay approximately 162 million yen (over $1 million USD) in compensation.  However, the case escalated to the Tokyo High Court, which on May 28, 2025, increased the compensation order to approximately 166 million yen. 

Most significantly, on June 9, 2025, both Tokyo and the national government made the unprecedented decision to abandon their appeal of this ruling. This decision came after Okawara and his supporters submitted over 40,000 signatures collected online, demanding that authorities stop their legal challenges and properly reflect on their misconduct. 

What Went Wrong: Systematic Failures in Japan's Justice System

In Japan, wrongful accusations, enzai, rarely get the spotlight they deserve. But when they do, like in the Okawara case, you can practically hear the creaking machinery of justice choking on its own embarrassment.

Right from the start, the authorities treated suspicion like concrete proof, arresting folks who were presumably guilty because, well, they were available. The eventual dropping of charges was about as subtle an admission as prosecutors ever make that they had less evidence than a Trump supporting January 6-er. 

And detention? Let’s talk about detention. Nothing like months in jail without trial to ruin your career and sanity. This classic maneuver—hold them until they crack, confess, or conveniently disappear into societal oblivion—is so standard in Japan it's practically a tradition.

But once the prosecutorial freight train left the station, turning around wasn't an option. Tunnel vision doesn't quite capture the determined blindness of investigators stubbornly ignoring inconvenient facts.  The problem with Japanese prosecutors-- as we discussed in last week's post---is that they drop 50 to 60% of the cases they get because they hate to lose. But once they have indicted, right or wrong, they tend to stick it out until the bitter end. Lose a case and you lose serious face. Dropping charges? Almost as equally shameful. 

So they barreled ahead like legal lemmings with badges, refusing to look up until the cliff was already behind them.

Then there’s accountability—or rather, Japan’s institutional allergy to it. Tokyo and the state initially appealed the compensation order because, of course, admitting a screw-up openly would be as inconceivable as a sumo wrestler in skinny jeans.

Yet something astonishing happened. Tokyo blinked. The state surrendered. They withdrew their appeal, making this a unicorn-level rarity: the government actually acknowledging prosecutorial failure. Handing over 166 million yen isn’t peanuts—it’s an expensive mea culpa that even bureaucrats can't comfortably hide behind the budget.

Turns out, public outrage can sometimes trump hierarchy. The victims collected 40,000 signatures demanding justice. The petition might have seemed quaint at first, but even in the land of rigid authority, collective voices occasionally get loud enough to pierce bureaucratic eardrums.

And now, the police and prosecutors have solemnly vowed to "verify issues with their investigation and prosecution methods," a phrase so dry it practically flakes from the prepared statement that the words were cut out and pasted to. But hey, admitting the need for reform is still progress, even if couched in language designed to anesthetize.

The broader context isn’t exactly comforting, though. With Japan’s conviction rate hovering above 99%, you'd think prosecutors were psychic—or more realistically, that they're simply careful gamblers who only bet when holding all the cards. And when they’re holding weak hands? Well, then comes the coercion, prolonged detentions, and a disregard for defense rights that would make Kafka nod knowingly.

The cultural compulsion to "save face" ensures prosecutors often cling to their accusations long past the point of absurdity. Admitting error is akin to career death, and who wants to attend their own funeral?

Still, there's cautious optimism. Company president Okawara’s weary plea for authorities to "stop here and properly reflect" may resonate beyond his own ordeal. The calls for reform—independent oversight, real rights for detainees, transparent misconduct investigations—are growing louder, harder to dismiss.

Perhaps the Okawara case, painful and absurd as it was, marks a turning point. Authorities promising reform may not guarantee it, but it's certainly preferable to the alternative: more innocents shredded by a system too proud to admit its faults.

Who knows? Maybe next time, justice won't just be an expensive afterthought.