The 1976 arrest of Prime Minister Kakuei Tanaka became the pivotal moment that bound Japan to U.S. dominance.
Journalist Masayuki Takayama exposes how Japan’s prosecutors accepted tainted evidence, enabling Washington to eliminate a political giant who dared to pursue independent diplomacy.
From semiconductor decline to currency manipulation and cultural pressure, Japan’s long era of submission traces back to this event.
A must-read analysis for understanding modern Japan’s political trajectory.

Hori Tatsuru of the Special Investigation Department, who pursued the “Prime Minister’s crime,” has passed away.
The foolish Asahi Shimbun praises him, saying he “negotiated with the U.S. Department of Justice” in the Lockheed case to obtain evidence and “earned the nickname ‘the Razor’” as he handled Tanaka’s trial.
But for someone who supposedly wielded a razor, the case itself remained opaque, and only the excesses of the judiciary seemed conspicuous.
From the beginning, the case was bizarre.
One day, a misdelivered piece of mail arrived at the U.S. Senate.
When opened, it turned out to be a “receipt for 100 peanuts” that Yoshio Kodama had sent to Lockheed.
Americans casually open other people’s mail, which is astonishing.
Moreover, they used it as grounds to open a hearing and declared that the company had bribed “a person at the level of the Japanese prime minister.”
In American legal doctrine, such dubious evidence is called “fruit of the poisonous tree” and is excluded.
But if the target is Japan, they seem not to care.
Tanaka Kakuei, insinuated by implication, had restored diplomatic ties with China, secured access to Indonesia’s oil, and discussed Siberian development with the Soviet Union.
The United States, believing it had Japan under its thumb, must have felt humiliated.
Any ordinary Japanese would think, “They will retaliate somehow.”
But the Special Investigation Department thought differently.
They cared only about their own glory: “We might be able to take the head of the prime minister.”
So they arbitrarily drew a picture of the prime minister’s “crime.”
“Tanaka forced All Nippon Airways, which had decided on the Douglas DC-10 as its next main aircraft, to switch to Lockheed’s TriStar and received 500 million yen.”
As if Tanaka would wag his tail to an American company for five hundred million yen.
Moreover, that narrative was remarkably ignorant.
Japan Airlines had already made the jumbo jet its flagship and used the DC-10 as its second-tier aircraft.
Would All Nippon Airways, in the middle of selecting its main aircraft—on which it staked its corporate fate—choose a rival company’s second-tier model?
Incidentally, the TriStar’s engine structure was developed by the same engineers who designed ANA’s flagship Boeing 727; they had simply moved to Lockheed.
ANA was far more familiar with the TriStar.
When reporters raised this point, Deputy Prosecutor General Yusuke Yoshinaga immediately banned the reporter.
He also threatened, “Newspapers that write whatever they want will be barred from briefings.”
Then Hori went to the United States to obtain evidence.
The Americans happily provided questionable documents but absolutely refused to allow testimony from key Lockheed officials who would have been the bribers.
If they admitted guilt officially, they would be arrested immediately.
But testimony was still needed.
Hori asked, “Then conduct the questioning on your side.”
This was the so-called commissioned testimony.
He even agreed to conditions: no cross-examination, and no perjury charges even if they lied.
“In short, feel free to fabricate whatever story you like.”
Meanwhile, the Special Investigation Department asked the Supreme Court:
“Please admit this testimony as evidence even without cross-examination. That way we can arrest Tanaka.”
I had believed Japan was a nation governed by the rule of law and evidence-based justice.
But the Supreme Court issued a declaration recognizing this “mere rambling”—which had no legal validity—as evidence.
It was the moment Japan ceased to be a nation of law.
Yoshinaga was confronted about this at a press conference.
Reporters asked whether Japan still qualified as a rule-of-law state.
Yoshinaga puffed up his chest and replied:
“In America, witnesses place their hand on the Bible. Americans do not lie.”
Reporters wondered why perjury laws existed, but questioning him would mean being banned, so they stayed silent.
In fact, Hori also said, “Indians do not lie. Americans do not lie.”
Thus, three days after the declaration, Tanaka was arrested using the American “fruit of the poisonous tree” evidence.
A once-in-a-century political leader had his career cut short.
After that, Japan stopped resisting the United States.
When Japan attempted to enter Vietnam, Secretary of State Baker barked once, and Japan backed off.
The U.S. stripped Japan of its semiconductor industry, turned the yen into wastepaper, and even forced LGBT ideology upon the country.
Kishida simply kept silent and obeyed.
The origin of this obedience lies in the arrest of Tanaka.
What the Special Investigation Department did at that time—
Now is the time to examine it.