Blood on the Threshold

by Karin Richmond

  This was the first time my mother had ever been in a courtroom. Sure, she had gotten one or two traffic tickets, but that was the extent of her experience with legal proceedings. She had arrived within minutes after the judge had walked in, having had great difficulty finding a parking place near the courthouse. She was wearing a dusty rose coordinated separates outfit, definitely fashionable, definitely comfortable. Jeanette—Dr. Cole as she was formally known—ascribed to the dictum “form follows function.” Her stylish home reflected that philosophy, as did her outlook on life. She was practical in nature and that influenced all of her life choices.

  But some situations were foisted on her. Like the one she was going through at this very moment. She had known her daughter to be a very independent thinker and doer. She had been a difficult girl to raise during her teenage years, both in California and in Oklahoma. Jeanette and her former husband had not parted well, and she noted that he was not present in court that day. “I would be surprised if he was here,” she sarcastically noted to herself.

  The past six months had been exceedingly hard for Jeanette to endure. She had kept her daughter close to her in her home and cared for her. When Mirabelle Garrett came home to heal, the lacerations on her body and her face distorted with swelling and stitches were almost more than a mother could endure. Mirabelle could do nothing for herself other than barely walk a few feet from one room to another. She was listless and barely able to eat on her own. Jeanette bathed her and cleaned the oozing from her scabs every day. Slowly, her physical wounds healed and she thanked God again for allowing her daughter to live and survive this attack. That son of a bitch needed to be put away by this jury. He could be put to death as far as she was concerned.

  Jeanette looked at the judge and the lawyers who were quietly conversing at the front of the courtroom. The lead attorney for the prosecution had an air of authority about her, and Jeanette took some comfort in that. After all, it was she who was going to convince a jury to convict this … this animal who had maliciously attacked her daughter and nearly killed her.

  A door opened and the courtroom stirred. A handcuffed man in an orange prisoner uniform was led to the table where the defense attorney stood. Jeanette did a double-take. “My God in heaven, he hardly looks human … more like a … a … some subhuman species.” She had already grown to hate this man, but now that she saw him in person, she recoiled deep, deep down in her soul.

  “Your Honor, may we approach the bench?” The district attorney confidently strode toward the seated judge. Straggling behind her, looking fairly out of sorts, was a younger man, counsel for the defense. There were some inaudible murmurs for a few minutes, and then the judge declared loudly to proceed with the case. Dr. Cole felt much better about the situation now that she had sized up the opposing counsel.

  Leroy’s mother shook her head. She might be uneducated, but she was a good judge of character, and this—“What they call it last time … pro bono?”—young attorney man was going to be no match for this hussy attorney woman. Martha sighed and settled back on the hard bench. “Lord, my boy needs help and this man does not look like much help to me.” She stole a glance at the white woman across the aisle. There was something about her, but she could not put her finger on it.

  Across the hall from the courtroom, I sat in an anteroom. A guard stood outside the door to ensure that I was sequestered. I was flipping through the most recent issue of The Economist, my absolute favorite magazine. It wasn’t so much the heavy economics indicators I liked as it was the sly British sense of humor sprinkled in the stories and the perspectives about American politics from across the pond.

  I was fidgeting, anxious. My muscles still hurt inside my body. My skin wounds had closed and the stitches had recently been removed. But I felt itchy and uncomfortable every time I twisted, turned, or moved even a little bit. I felt alone and vulnerable in that air-conditioned room. Too cold, but the chill made my scabs a little more bearable. I was nervous and checked my face powder often to do what I could to cover up the really nasty scar over my nose where it had been sewn back on. Damn, it still hurt. So tender.

  And I had to face the court, the judge, and all those people who were strangers. But most of all I was deeply frightened about finally facing him, the assailant, eye to eye. Nailing his ass in court. But even with all the protection the court officers could deliver, I was deeply terrified of seeing him again. My primal fight or flight instincts were on high alert. I took a deep breath, and absently flipped through more pages.

  The district attorney began to call her witnesses. She was methodical in the persons she called to the stand: the police at the scene, the ambulance attendees, the emergency room nurse, the hotel human resources manager, the hotel general manager, the hotel security, the hotel bartender, the front desk manager, and the banker who interceded. The questions were matter-of-fact, impersonal even.

  When she called the banker to testify, he was nervous. Martin Daniel did not make eye contact with Leroy or his family at all. He hardly glanced at the jury. “Can you please state your name and address for the court?” asked the attorney. Martin hesitated. He knew what this man was capable of and feared that his family might be capable of desperate retribution. Martin had a wife and family to protect—what if they came after him? “Would you please state your name and address?” insisted the attorney.

  Martin took a little gulp and answered the questions. One by one, the examination drew out the story of how he heard a scream from the hotel room next door, and threw on his shoes, then ran out his door. Together with the bartender, he kicked in the adjacent door and saw Leroy, moving away from a mutilated woman. A large broken Tabasco bottle with jagged edges lay on the carpet. Leroy made no attempt to escape, just slumped against the wall and slid to the floor. The men stood over the woman and ensured that Leroy remained on the scene until the security staff and police arrived.

  After the questioning, Martin quickly left the courtroom. He was still deeply affected by the trauma, the horror of what he had seen and felt when he entered that neighboring room. That shocking memory would never leave him in the years to come.

  As the prosecutor proceeded through the list of questions she had prepared to ask Catherine, the ER nurse, her mind was racing ahead. “There isn’t another opportunity for the court to hear how she knew Leroy before,” she said to herself while she flipped the pages of her legal pad. “Maybe I could simply ask if she knew Leroy prior to seeing him today in the courtroom.” But the prosecutor knew the defense would object and the judge would agree—and might even slap her with a warning. Catherine had made no eye contact whatsoever with Leroy in the courtroom. She was visibly anxious. And as the prosecutor was winding up her cross-examination, she noted that Catherine was more jittery than when she had first taken the stand. “Nope,” she decided. “I’ve got this case on other solid evidence.” She concluded questioning the witness with nary a mention of the horrible stabbing in Crockett.

  After the witnesses had each been called and perfunctorily cross-examined, the district attorney asked the judge for a brief recess. There was one final witness to call to the stand.

  The prosecutor’s stride was confident as she left the courtroom and nodded to the guard posted by the anteroom.

  I was pacing the floor now, my magazine rolled up on the table. She had to prep me for the stand. I was anxious and tense. I needed to settle down and focus. So the D.A. went through her questions, and I practiced my responses. Thankfully, the questions were few and direct. No emotion involved. At least on the surface.

  “All rise,” repeated the bailiff. The lawyers were in their places and the judge sat down and looked across the crowded room. He nodded to the attorneys to proceed.

  “The prosecution calls Mirabelle Garrett.”

  “Can you state your name and address for the court?”

  “My name is Mirabelle Garrett and I live at 800 Pinnacle Drive, Resaca, Texas.”

  “Where do you work?”
/>   “The Resaca Chamber of Commerce. I am the Director of Economic Development.”

  “Were you staying at the Waller Hotel on the evening of April 6, 1983?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Can you briefly describe to the court why you were a guest of the Waller Hotel that evening?”

  “I was staying at the hotel because I had been invited to provide testimony to the Senate Finance Committee the next morning on a legislative bill regarding economic incentives for businesses in enterprise zones.”

  “We will not go into details, but would you describe your planned testimony as that of an expert witness on business tax incentives?”

  “Yes, that is a fair summary.”

  “Were you in your hotel the entire evening?”

  “No, I had gone to dinner with a group of south Texas business and political leaders who were also involved and supporting this legislation.”

  “What time did you return to your room?”

  “About eleven thirty that night.”

  “Had you been drinking alcohol?”

  “Yes, I had two glasses of wine at dinner before walking back to the hotel.”

  “Can you briefly describe to the court what happened after you returned to your room?”

  I began to sweat. My scabs hurt and itched. The attorney saw I was hesitating, but she was patient. This part of the testimony was rough for me, but it was crucial to the state’s case.

  “One of the members of our dinner group, a chamber president from a nearby community, walked me to the room and ensured I was safely in the door. I immediately looked for the silk blouse I had left with the hotel staff for ironing, as I needed it first thing in the morning. It was not in the room closet. I called down to the front desk and inquired about my blouse. The night manager asked me to hold a moment and he would check in the back.” I paused again to gather my courage.

  “While I was waiting for him to return to the phone, someone knocked on my room door. I thought it was my blouse being delivered, so I dropped the phone receiver on the bed and opened my door. There was a black hotel employee standing in the doorway—I noted his employee name badge—but he did not have my blouse. He asked me if I ordered Tabasco sauce. I told him no, and he pushed his way into my room and proceeded to attack me violently. He raised the Tabasco sauce bottle and struck my face. The force of the hit and the hot sauce blinded me and I fell to the floor. He began punching my back over and over again. I did not realize at the time that he was stabbing me.”

  “Objection!”

  “I think the court has understood that this woman was stabbed repeatedly—no new information is being presented.”

  “Overruled. Proceed, Ms. Garrett.”

  “At some point, he pushed something down my mouth, I guess to muffle my cries for help. Then I heard some voices outside my room door. He stopped pounding my body and then the hotel door was forced open. He said to me, ‘Lady, can I help you?’

  “I did not know who had entered the room, but with what little breath I could I said, “Do not let this man go—he did this to me!’

  “That is all I recall until I was in intensive care at the hospital.”

  “Would it be fair to say that you were physically attacked and suffered injuries to your nose, face, eyes, back, and internal organs and otherwise suffered traumatic and significant injury to your mental and psychological health?”

  “Yes, ma’am. At the least.”

  “Can you identify the man who assaulted you for the court?”

  I hesitated and kept my focus on the prosecutor, not wanting to waiver.

  “Mirabelle, will you identify the man who assaulted you?”

  I slowly turned on the witness chair toward the defendant and stared into the eyes of my nemesis. Our eyes locked for a moment. I raised my arm slowly and pointed my finger toward Leroy. He did not move or flinch. “That is the man who tried to kill me.” The courtroom drew a collective breath.

  “No!” Martha exclaimed. “It’s not my son!”

  “Order!” The gavel went down.

  The judge stated, “Let the court record show that this witness identified Leroy Johnson as her assaulter.”

  “No more questions. Pass the witness.”

  The defense attorney had nothing to say. No objections. What could he say?

  “No questions, Your Honor. Pass the witness.”

  “The prosecution rests.”

  “The defense rests.”

  It was in the hands of the jury now. And while the twelve men and women knew the facts of this case, they had no clue about what had happened a year before in front of the convenience store at the phone booth. But the sentencing proceeded despite their ignorance.

  The next day the jury returned with its verdict. I had already departed the city where I was nearly murdered. I did not want to stay there and face my assailant another time. I had to escape the memories. My flight instinct was calling the shots.

  The jury returned in about four hours. “Not too bad,” thought the district attorney. It came as no surprise to anyone in the courtroom that the guilty verdict was handed down to the judge. What surprised the onlookers was the sentence.

  Assault with a deadly weapon carried a maximum sentence of ninety-nine years. The jury did not want to appear to the public to give a “knee jerk” response and dole out the maximum, so Leroy Johnson was sentenced to ninety years in the Texas criminal justice system. When one of the jurors was told later about the earlier assault, she was mortified. Turns out that the previous sentence had been plea-bargained to a misdemeanor charge. Leroy was a well-behaved criminal and the county jail had already exceeded the number of prisoners it could hold by law. So he walked with barely a hand slap, free to make his way to the capital city and try it again.

  Ironically, he almost beat the system when he came up for parole only seven years into his sentence. But that time, luck was not in his favor. He had created a foe—Lady Luck and my team of angels—he could never vanquish. But would the foe forgive him?

  24

  NEPAL

  In early 1989, six years after my assault, I had emerged from physical healing for the most part and had done enough psychological counseling to establish for myself and others that I was of sound mind and not a risk. (Depression often befalls a victimized woman.)

  But something else beckoned to me. A small stirring grew into a goal, pulling my soul across the Pacific to the tiny country of Nepal. Can a person put a finger on when a feeling becomes an idea and planning becomes real? My girlfriend Nicole agreed to be my traveling companion, and my office team of nearly three years were eager to prove their mettle and run our projects for almost a month.

  Perhaps it boiled down to a moment of abandon. Nicole and I committed ourselves to embark on a 100-mile trek around the foothills of the Himalayans, known locally as the Annapurna Trek, led by Journeys Expeditions. Their brochure “ranking” of this excursion was “slightly above going on a long picnic.” The reality unfolded quite differently.

  We landed in Kathmandu and stayed a few days to get our bodies adjusted to the altitude. The pair of us rambled into the Shangri-La Hotel late in the afternoon. The porters grabbed our oversized green canvas army duffel bags and scurried down the tiled hallway.

  Collapsing in some bamboo chairs in the reception area, we gave each other a long-eyed look, rolled our eyes, and exclaimed, “Can you believe we are here?!” We both started to grin and laugh out loud in unison. “Let’s check in and find the bar,” Nicole offered up. That was the last “normal” thing we did for the next three weeks!

  Coming from the Rio Grande Valley, which is really a swathe of a broad delta in the southern tip of Texas, we were immediately impressed by the striking vertical landscapes. And the sheer effort it took us just to climb the first hill to reach the beginning of the Annapurna Loop. The trail was narrow, just wide enough for two abreast. We kept thinking we would see a horse or a mule, but we only met Nepalese carrying everything imagina
ble on their backs and shoulders. Up and down the rough-hewn rock steps. Ten steps, up and down, down and up—“There is no flat land in this place!”—as we reached yet another magnificent ridge with cascading mountains reaching ever farther into the horizon. We wore out moleskin patches on our feet, replaced them, and kept walking. For weeks.

  I was too damn tired most of the time to reflect much on what “soul purpose” drove me here in the first place. Sometimes when you are immersed in the sheer work of the present, there are just too many distractions to reflect, but in years afterward, I realized that lessons were coming to me every day, just not in the way I expected them to arrive.

  “How far to the campsite, Ming-Ma?” I asked our English-speaking Sherpa. He was a small, compact man with slighly protuberant teeth and a wide smile.

  “Not far, only little bit more over the next ridge.”

  “You always say that,” Nicole exclaimed with a wide toothy grin.

  We kept going up and down, and down and up. “Climb every mountain,” I began to sing out loud. I know all the lyrics to The Sound of Music songs from early piano lessons. “No, no no! That’s too sad. Let’s sing ‘Do Re Mi’ instead,” and Nicole started off the song. I joined in to start the musical round, and to our surprise Ming-Ma joined in too. So we sang and sang until we couldn’t sing another refrain, and what do you know, our campsite appeared out of thin air!

  We threw down our backpacks, loosened our boots, and poured water over our faces and arms.

  The sun was low in the sky; the colors began changing hue with the late afternoon light. Kids from nearby villages began to gather at the perimeter of our campsite and were really excited to see us and our camp gear.