“These are questions I don’t have the answers to, Roy. These things are also incomprehensible to me.”
“I mean, they could have separated,” he said, thinking out loud. “It was in the eighties, people got divorced.”
“I really don’t know,” I said. “I wish I understood more.”
The atmosphere became uneasy. “OK, we need to get moving,” he said. I finished my drink and got up.
“You know, I would like to know,” I said.
Roy nodded and opened the door to the car for me.
23
I came home from the office late the next day after trying to finish the work that had accumulated on my desk. It was seven o’clock in the evening when I got home. Ten minutes later there was a knock on the door—soft at first, but when I didn’t answer, they became stronger and more demanding. Finally, I asked who it was.
“Attorney Shapiro.” George’s lawyer.
“Are you alone?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I opened the door. A man about thirty years old, with a round face and rosy cheeks, stood before me. He reached out to shake my hand and introduced himself. His voice was deep, in complete contrast with his baby face. I invited him to sit down and asked if he would like something hot to drink.
“Thank you, I’ll settle for a glass of water.”
“Are you allowed to be here?” I asked. “As far as I know, according to law, the defendant’s lawyer isn’t allowed to meet with the plaintiff.”
“You’re right,” he said and his plump body sank into my patched-up sofa. He took a sip of water and continued, ignoring my comment. “You must be wondering what brought me to you two weeks before the trial date.”
I nodded.
“Well, I don’t know if you’re aware of the fact that the trial won’t be easy. George and his friends intend to make it as hard as possible for you.”
“What do you mean?”
He moved around on the sofa to adjust his bottom and said, “Well, they intend to show up in court en masse and make a lot of noise.” I waited for him to continue. “You know George. He’s a stubborn man; he won’t back down easily.”
“What does he have to back down about? I don’t understand what you mean.”
“He won’t let go of the opportunity to show you in a negative light.”
“Meaning?”
“He claims that you lured him to your home.”
“And how exactly does he say I did that?” I asked. The indifference of my tone covered up the anger that was boiling inside me.
“You asked him to come and fix your window.”
“So?”
“He claims you insisted that he be the one to perform the installation.”
“What?”
“He claims that he suggested sending one of his employees, but that you asked for him explicitly. He claims you tried to seduce him when he got to your house.”
“That I seduced him?”
“Yes.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This story was so grossly distorted, and this man was sitting in front of me making it sound like I was the one on trial.
“George claims that you complied with him and that if the neighbor hadn’t come in when she did, you would have continued in mutual consent.”
“I don’t believe it,” I mumbled. Dizziness hit me. My mouth was dry, so I got up to get myself a glass of water. The man is just trying to scare me. Calm down. There’s no way the facts could be distorted that much. Suddenly I was frightened. What if the judge believed this slanted story? What if the judge himself belongs to this gang? Disturbing thoughts ran around in my head and made me realize that the trial wasn’t going to be simple. How naïve of me—I have barely met with my own lawyer. He must think the same thing—he hasn’t contacted me since our first meeting. He only said that he would work on it, told me there was nothing to worry about, and asked me to leave things for him to handle. Now this man, with his misleading outward appearance, is sitting here. And he has the nerve to threaten me? I walked out of the kitchen with my glass of water and asked him to leave.
“Don’t you want to hear why I’m here?” he asked. He continued to sit on the couch, ignoring my request.
“Not especially,” I answered.
“I’m going to tell you anyway. George is prepared, despite the misunderstanding between you, to compensate you with an amount of money decided between the two of you. He is prepared to forget the whole thing. He just wants to go back to his routine and leave this incident behind him. What do you say?”
The lawyer’s round face suddenly turned into the face of an animal on the prowl for his prey. His venomous tongue moved smoothly, trying to entice me, the victim, to get closer to his mouth so he could swallow me up.
“I say that you can tell that scum of a creature you are protecting that I don’t intend to sign any deal with him. Tell him that the truth is stronger than any of his and his friends’ threats and manipulations. And besides, isn’t Shapiro a Jewish name?”
Mr. Shapiro got up from the sofa, looked at me with a vague expression, and left the house, slamming the door behind him.
I collapsed onto the sofa. My hands were shaking and an intense nausea hit me. I ran to the bathroom and emptied the contents of my stomach. The mirror above the sink showed me the terror written all over my face. My courage thus far had been phony. Who am I to fight these grownups when violence is their way of life? Suddenly the real danger I was in became clear to me. This was like David fighting Goliath. Young, inexperienced in life, naïve to the point of stupidity, with my false show of bravado and adherence to the truth—but the bravado was only a mask that helped me feel worthy and valuable. What should I do now?
The threat filled up the entire room and succeeded in undermining my self-confidence. I got into the shower, feeling like I had been raped—like George’s attempt had now been completed. The lawyer’s words echoed in my ears: “George is prepared to forget the whole thing and return to his routine.” It would be so simple, I told myself, to just drop the whole thing, take the compensation and move on. So why not just agree?
I scrubbed my body with a sponge until my limbs were scratched and red. I had to rid myself of this visit. But instead, when I left the bathroom and sat in the living room in clean clothes, I was still left with the fear.
When I told Roy about what had happened, he lost control. It was the first time I had ever seen him lose it.
“Listen to me,” he said. “You have to get out of here. You can’t stay in the house alone. As the trial gets closer, they’ll increase the pressure on you.”
“I don’t know what to do,” I said. I didn’t argue this time. I didn’t play the hero.
“I want you to move in with me,” he continued.
“What?”
“You have to get out of this house. You can’t stay here.”
“But Roy, your parents—”
“My parents will handle it.”
“I mean, your mother hates me…”
“She doesn’t hate you—she’s just like that… Not nice.”
“Roy…”
“Eva, right now you cannot indulge in ‘I won’t feel comfortable.’ Your life is seriously in danger. These are people who have no boundaries and no conscience, and they will stop at nothing to prevent you from getting to that courtroom. Your life is more important than that.”
There was a lot of logic to what he said. Besides, in the state I was in, I was easy to convince.
“I’ll come,” I said finally.
Roy came up to me and this time hugged me tight. “Don’t worry, everything will be fine,” he whispered in my ear. “I won’t leave you alone.”
Somehow his words were calming, and so was being in his arms.
I moved some of my things into his room over the weekend; his mother passed by, muttered a reserved greeting, and went on her way. These are difficult times, I thought to myself. Roy moved into the living room and I sl
ept in his bed. He was always there when I got home from work—he didn’t leave me alone for one moment. Donna stopped by every once in a while for a visit. She was angry that I didn’t come to live with her, but she also looked relieved.
***
The day of the trial arrived. It was hot. The flowers were bowing their heads and the people were moving slowly as if they were carrying the burden of the sun on their shoulders. It was eight o’clock in the morning when Roy and I left for the courthouse. Donna met us there. The courtroom was packed—a few faces were familiar from my encounter with the neo-Nazi group. Above them all was the figure of their speaker, the one that called me “dear child.” His eyes searched for mine and he wouldn’t relent until our eyes met. My eyes fell first. My lawyer told me he had arranged for me to testify after George. “That’s a good thing,” he tried to reassure me. “The jury usually remembers the last person to speak.” His words did not mollify me. I was terribly tense, and for a moment I was sorry to have gone forward with the whole process. I should have given in, I said in my heart; George is known all over the city, and there’s no way they would decide against him. I imagined him waving hello to one of the jury members and receiving a nod in return.
I sat down on the chair designated for me and my lawyer shook my hand and promised it would be all right. Of course, I didn’t believe a word. I looked around. People were coming to see the show. Nobody was really interested in the truth or justice; they wanted a show that would interrupt the routine of their lives, and George provided exactly what they wanted. He got up on the stand with a smile and before he sat down he waved a number of times to his acquaintances. He glanced over at me once, a mocking smile on his face. Every one of his movements testified to his self-confidence, as if he already knew the outcome of the trial.
His lawyer, Mr. Shapiro, with his questions, was able to paint a completely different picture from what really happened. Although at my house he had moved with confidence, here he seemed more tired, maybe even defeated. He approached the witness stand where George was seated and leaned against it like a leaf hanging on to a tree trunk. Every once in a while he would return to his table, sit in his chair, look over one of the sheets of paper on the table, get back up, and return to the witness stand. George wasn’t pleased with his behavior and from time to time scrunched up his face in anger. One time he even asked his lawyer if he would like him to go into more detail.
Finally, his testimony was finished and it was my turn. Would my body respond—would I be able to get up from the chair? I heard my name being called, but I remained seated. My attorney squeezed my hand and urged me to go to the witness stand. I turned my head around and caught Donna’s worried expression. Roy sat next to her looking at me and smiled in encouragement. I got up and with hesitant steps, went up to the witness stand.
“Are you Eva Brown, the son of John and Maria Brown?” asked the court bailiff.
“No!”
There was complete silence in the courtroom. I knew every eye was focused on me. The judge leaned forward and asked the bailiff to repeat the question.
“I am the daughter of John Brown and Sonia Schwartz.”
The silence was broken all at once. People who didn’t know me personally, but knew my parents, thought that perhaps I had lost my mind. I saw George smile and then become serious.
“My dear, you must speak the truth,” the judge whispered to me.
“Your honor, my mother’s former name was Sonia Schwartz. When she married my father, she changed her name to Maria Brown. I would like to use her former name.”
The judge gave the order to the court clerk to write down my words. I looked over to the table where George sat with his lawyer. It appeared to me that the attorney looked a bit smaller. His face suddenly took on a more serious expression and he fidgeted in his chair uncomfortably.
When the words left my mouth, my fear left me. I was no longer afraid of the questions posed to me and I knew exactly what I was going to say. The words came out as if they were written on a sheet of paper in front of me, but they came from my heart. I walked off the witness stand taller by several inches. Roy had a broad smile on his face and an expression in his eyes that had never been there before. More witnesses took the stand after me, among them Donna, whose testimony was concrete and concise. George’s lawyer called a number of his friends to talk in his favor.
The turbulence inside of me took on a tangible shape. It was maybe the first time in my life that I felt proud of myself. I hadn’t planned my words in advance; they were there waiting for the first opportunity to come to light. I felt as if a huge burden that I had been carrying for a long time had been lifted, and I could now breathe easier.
Roy and Donna greeted me after the testimony phase. The verdict would be given within a week. Roy didn’t say a word. He hugged my shoulders with one arm and walked me out of the courtroom. In the car, while driving home, he still didn’t speak. But when we arrived, he didn’t get out of the car right away. He turned to me and said only four words. “I’m proud of you.”
I wanted to go home, but Roy asked me to stay with him until the verdict came down.
Exactly one week after that day, we were called back to the courthouse to hear the jury’s decision. When we walked into the courtroom, I walked toward the table where my lawyer was waiting. Mr. Shapiro suddenly approached me, put out his hand to shake mine, and said, “Good luck.” He then returned to his table, sat down next to his client, and looked forward toward the center of the room. He and George didn’t exchange one word between them.
The judge entered the courtroom and sat down. Murmurs spread throughout the room. A group of skinheads came in and sat down next to George’s friends. The judge asked for silence and turned to the jury.
George was found guilty of attempted rape. When he heard the verdict, he pounded the table with his fist and I heard him hiss, “Whores.” The judge turned to him and asked him to calm down, but he was already out of his chair and beginning to scream. “Whores, that’s what they are, a bunch of whores.” His lawyer didn’t try to stop him. He continued to sit in his chair and let George yell. The courtroom security guard approached him, but George pushed him away and he fell on his back. The spectators were hysterical. Some were encouraging him and others were gaping in shock while enjoying the scene playing out before them.
The judge pounded his gavel on the table and demanded quiet in the courtroom. George wasn’t calming down. He threw everything from the table up in the air, grabbed his chair, and threw it into the center of the room. Suddenly the door opened and policemen rushed inside. They tried to get near him, but it was difficult because George was ranting like a rabid gorilla. His arms were flailing about. He was shuffling around heavily until it looked like he was about to collapse any minute. The policemen were finally able to grab him and, with great effort, handcuff his hands behind his back. George was removed from the courtroom to the sound of repressed chuckling coming from people who had remained in their places to see the humiliation of a man they had recently admired.
Roy again asked me to stay until the sentence was given, but he reluctantly agreed to let me return home. I packed up my few belongings and he followed me to my house. Before the car was even parked, I saw what they had done. On the front of the house the word “Whore” was sprayed in huge red letters. The front door had been broken down. When we got closer to the entrance the strong stench of feces overpowered us. The entrance hall, floor and walls, was covered in some kind of animal feces. The door to the basement was detached from its frame and lying on the stairway. The living room wasn’t any better. The powerful stench of urine rose from there, and it was impossible to go inside. I ran from the house, feces from the floor smeared on the soles of my shoes, unable to take the humiliation and the cruelty. I sat on the grass and wailed loudly. The watery tears washed over my face as if they were trying to purify it from defilement. I took my shoes off and threw them far away from me. The stink was still too heavy to ta
ke. Everything was contaminated and filthy. The insult stung like poison oak.
Roy was by my side. He stroked my head and said, “I hosed the house down. Everything is wet. I suggest we come back tomorrow and take out the furniture to let it dry. In the meantime, there’s nothing we can do.”
“Let’s go,” I said. We made the drive to his house in silence. There was nothing to say. His mother met us at the entrance. Her eyes expressed surprise. I didn’t have the energy to deal with her unpleasantness. I walked past her in silence and went into Roy’s bedroom, which I had vacated less than two hours earlier.
I tried hard not to give in to despair. My earlier satisfaction and pride had disappeared without a trace. The bold threats had succeeded in deflating me, turning me back into a little girl who wanted her father by her side, who needed his strength to feel safe. That night in bed I spoke to him, asking for his help like a little girl asking to hold his hand when learning to take her first steps. My equilibrium was gone, and all the talk about change, about newfound strength and courage, did me no good now. I needed a grownup—somebody to tell me that everything would be OK, that he would watch over me and protect me. One more abusive action would devastate me completely. Lying on the bed with only underwear on, unable to bear the touch of clothes on my skin, I heard Roy knock softly on the door and came into the room. He sat at the edge of the bed and asked me how I was.
“Depressed,” I answered.
“From what?” he asked.
“From what? From not being able to see an end to this,” I answered sadly.
“Eva, don’t give up. You’re holding yourself together heroically. You can’t back down now. It will be over soon. The sentence will be given in the next few weeks and then there will be nothing left to do. Be patient, but don’t give up on me.”
“Oh, Roy, I don’t have the energy to be strong anymore.” I was on the verge of tears.
“Come here.” He pulled me into his chest. As he did so, the blanket slid off, revealing my chest. Roy lowered his head and looked at me. I made no effort to cover myself and remained unmoving in his arms. His eyes looked at my breasts for a moment, then he hugged me to him again as he whispered my name in a hoarse voice. He leaned back and covered me with the blanket. My heart was beating like crazy. Roy looked into my eyes, then bent down and kissed my lips with a tender, almost indiscernible kiss. He got up and gently closed the door behind him.
Life in a Box Page 19
