PSA Guest Column: “Tokyo Vice” Author Examines the MDMA Smuggling Case against “Emily in Paris’ Actor in Japan

Editor’s Note: Jake Adelstein is an American journalist and author who has spent most of his career in Japan. He is the author of Tokyo Vice: An American Reporter on the Police Beat in Japan, which inspired the 2022 HBO Max original streaming television series Tokyo Vice, starring Ansel Elgort as Adelstein. His latest book, The Devil Takes Bitcoin: Cryptocurrency Crimes and the Japanese Connection was released earlier this year to rave reviews.

In this special guest column, Adelstein weighs in on the ongoing legal saga in Japan surrounding Actor and Playwright Jeremy O. Harris’ recent arrest, detention, and potentially-pending indictment in Okinawa on alleged drug trafficking charges.

Read more about Harris’ case over at Lucid News

What is known so far is straightforward: Jeremy O. Harris was detained at Naha Airport in Okinawa on November 16, 2025, after customs officials say they found 0.78 grams of a crystal substance containing MDMA in his tote bag. Customs later filed a criminal accusation with prosecutors, and he was released from custody while the case was passed on for review.

In my view, the real story here isn’t Twitter outrage or celebrity heat—it’s how this incident sits inside Japan’s zero-tolerance drug enforcement and what critics call “hostage justice,” where the pivotal question becomes whether prosecutors decide to indict.

Multiple outlets report that Harris, 36, was stopped at Naha Airport on November 16, 2025. The travel route described in coverage is Heathrow → Taiwan → Naha. Customs officials allege they discovered approximately 0.78 grams of MDMA-containing crystal material in a carry-on tote bag.

Procedurally, Okinawa Regional Customs then filed a 告発—a formal criminal accusation—around December 4 with the Naha District Public Prosecutors Office, on suspicion of violations tied to customs law and Japan’s Narcotics and Psychotropics Control Act. The prosecutors’ office accepted the case, which is the standard handoff once customs decides it is pursuing criminal handling rather than an administrative outcome.

As for custody, English-language reporting indicates Harris was released after detention while the file moved to prosecutors for review. What remains unclear in open reporting is the next step: whether prosecutors have issued (or will issue) a formal indictment. That uncertainty matters, because in Japan the difference between “referred” and “indicted” is the difference between a case moving forward as a public prosecution and a case that may be resolved quietly through prosecutorial discretion.

Japanese reporting tends to keep this in the lane of bureaucratic criminal procedure. The wording is consistent: 密輸入 (attempted smuggling/importation) and 関税法違反で地検に告発 (a customs law violation referred to prosecutors). It is typically presented less as a “party drug” narrative and more as a border-control and enforcement matter.

Articles frequently highlight the travel route (via Taiwan to Naha) and describe the stated purpose of travel as 観光 (sightseeing), which usually reflects the kind of basic information customs releases in briefings. And as is common in ongoing investigations, reports often note that authorities are not disclosing whether the suspect admits or denies the allegations—認否を明らかにしていない—which is standard language and not, by itself, meaningful evidence in either direction.

Why this case fits Japan’s drug-case machinery so tightly

Japan’s drug policy is not built for nuance. The country’s enforcement posture is famously unforgiving, and the criminal procedure system gives investigators leverage early and often. Legally, a suspect can be held for extended periods pre-indictment—up to 23 days under the typical arrest/detention cycle—while interrogations proceed without defense counsel present. Human rights advocates and legal groups, including the Japan Federation of Bar Associations, have long criticized this structure because it can create intense pressure to conform to an “admission-shaped” narrative. That is the logic behind the “hostage justice” label: the deprivation isn’t just punishment—it can be used as a tool to produce compliance.

This case also matters because Japanese reporting frames it as an importation/smuggling issue rather than mere possession. In Japan, importation allegations can carry significantly heavier consequences than simple possession, and the prosecutorial theory—how the act is characterized—can matter as much as the small quantity involved. People fixate on “0.78 grams” as if quantity alone determines seriousness; in practice, what prosecutors decide the act was often drives exposure far more than what the act looked like to a layperson.

There is also a broader climate issue. Japan’s revised cannabis regime that took effect in December 2024 tightened drug control overall by criminalizing use and reshaping the framework in ways that signal “hardening” rather than liberalization. This case involves MDMA, not cannabis, but the policy mood—political, bureaucratic, and prosecutorial—matters. The direction of travel is toward stricter control, not discretion.

A detention followed by release while the file moves to prosecutors can be consistent with a case where authorities believe they have enough to refer the matter but prosecutors are still weighing how to proceed—what charges, what theory of importation, and whether to exercise discretion. It can also reflect strategic caution: officials have taken the formal procedural steps, but they are not telegraphing the endgame.

It’s also notable how non-tabloidy the Japanese coverage feels. The cadence is customs → 告発 → prosecutors. That tells you the system is treating it as a routine enforcement matter with a famous name attached, not a morality play that needs dramatic flourishes. In Japan, that bureaucratic calm can be more ominous than loud outrage, because it signals the machine is simply doing what it does—slowly, formally, and with a heavy thumb on the scale.

Finally, a word on bias. Xenophobia is always part of the risk context in high-profile foreigner cases in Japan, and anyone who has covered the system honestly knows it can shape decisions at the margins—especially when a case is high-salience, visually easy to package, and tied to drugs at an airport. But what can be demonstrated here, on the public record, is something more structural: a system that rewards clean narratives, punishes resistance, and often equates truth with compliance. That systemic pressure is dangerous on its own, even before you factor in prejudice. The hinge point now is simple: indictment or no indictment. Everything else is noise until that decision is made

But, it's complicated!

When prosecutors won't clarify if someone has been indicted or not, that's unusual. In Japan, the decision to prosecute is normally communicated in fairly clear procedural terms—either a case is sent to court (起訴, kiso) or it is not. What complicates public understanding is that Japanese practice uses several labels for not moving forward in the ordinary “full trial aiming at conviction” way, and those labels can be blurred in casual reporting. The key is to separate two questions: has the prosecutor reached a final decision? and if so, what is the reason the case is not being prosecuted? Once you keep those two questions in view, the terminology stops feeling like a shell game.

The broad umbrella is 不起訴 (fukiso), “non-indictment.” This is a final decision not to file charges in court. In plain terms, it means: no indictment, no trial, and therefore no conviction and no criminal record (前科) is created. That said, “fukiso” is not one meaning; it’s a category name, and the nuance lives in the stated reason. A non-indictment can reflect that the suspect is clearly not the perpetrator or the conduct is not criminal (嫌疑なし, “no suspicion / innocence clear”), or that the prosecutor does not believe the evidence is strong enough to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt (嫌疑不十分, “insufficient evidence”). In both situations the legal result is the same—no prosecution—but the implied factual story is very different, which is why careful reporting tries to identify the non-indictment reason rather than treating “fukiso” as a single outcome.

A particularly important subtype of non-indictment is 起訴猶予 (kiso yūyo), “suspended prosecution” or “prosecution waived.” This is still not an indictment, and it still leads to no trial and no conviction. The difference is that, in effect, prosecutors are saying: we believe an offense occurred and could likely be proven, but we are choosing—by discretion—not to prosecute. Factors that commonly push cases into this lane include a first offense, relatively minor harm, demonstrated remorse, apology and restitution, settlement with the victim, stable circumstances, and a low assessed risk of reoffending. To a lay reader it can feel like “not guilty,” but the prosecutorial signal is closer to “we’re declining to pursue punishment in court, even though we think we could.” That distinction matters socially and practically, even though the formal legal endpoint remains “no conviction.”

The third term that often appears—especially when information is limited—is 処分保留 (shobun horyū), “disposition pending.” Unlike fukiso and kiso yūyo, this is not a final decision at all. It means the prosecutor is holding the file open without deciding yet whether to indict or to close the case with a non-indictment. In practice, the suspect may be released, but they are not “cleared,” because the case can still later become 起訴 (indictment) or end as 不起訴 (non-indictment) depending on how evidence, policy priorities, or other circumstances develop. 

That is why “shobun horyū” is often experienced as the most unsettling outcome: it creates a limbo status—“released, but not resolved”—and it can also explain why officials may speak cautiously, since the legal position is literally “decision not yet made.”