Blood on the Threshold

by Karin Richmond

  When I got to the room, I was taken aback at the crowd inside. Standing room only. “Wow. I didn’t expect this. What bills are up for a hearing besides mine?” I wondered. I scanned the room for a friendly face, and yes, he was there. A close but silent confidant who would provide emotional support. He was a high-powered mergers attorney and he had encouraged me to see this through.

  Mike also saw me enter the room, and nodded my way. He had held a seat near the front of the room for me, and I weaved my way through the crowd and shook Mike’s hand. He took me to the dais and introduced me to Representative Blair and Chairman Bill Carter very briefly. The meeting was called to order.

  HB 142 by Representative Blair was not first on the list, so I had a few minutes to collect my thoughts. There were several criminal bills up for consideration that day. “That must be why all the reporters are stacked in the back,” I thought. The committee went about its business and bills were called up and discussed. Some had witnesses; some were procedural, with an occasional agency staff registered for information purposes only.

  I was nervous. I twisted the short hair strands at the back of my neck. I tried to stay calm and evaluate the committee members as I would for any bill I was about to testify on, either for or against. There were nine members, seven men and two women. But only six were present that day. Three were Republican and three were Democrat; the others were absent. The committee clerk called out the bill number and Representative Blair was recognized by the chair as author of the bill. The crowded room quieted down. Some of the news reporters knew what was coming. Representative Blair formally introduced the bill and provided some background on why he and other cosponsors had drafted the legislation. He reminded the committee that the language was permissive, not mandatory.

  “Today, committee members, we are considering a bill which might prevent crimes of the most heinous nature in a hotel room. Patrons of hotels have the expectation of privacy and safety when they enter their rooms. It is their home for the night. You may be surprised, even astounded, that under current law hotel management may not seek criminal background checks on their personnel. These employees are security staff, maid staff, room service staff, maintenance staff, and even management staff. So today, when you enter a hotel room and close your door, you may think the staff—and indeed may hope the staff—is part of the protection the hotel provides for your lodging. This, however, is not the case.” He paused for dramatic effect.

  “I am going to ask Mr. Scott Thurmond, executive director of the Texas Hotel Association, up for a little background on the subject.”

  The man next to me got up and approached the table with a thick file in his hand. I did not know who he was. Normally, the lead lobbyist would have had a pre-hearing conference to orchestrate the testimony, but Mike opted not to stress me. He knew my willingness to participate was tenuous.

  Mr. Thurmond came to the front table and adjusted the microphone. He provided his name and address for the record. He knew he was not the primary witness for Representative Blair, but he had his role to play to provide information to the committee on what hotel management in Texas could and could not do in the hiring process. He also speculated that if this bill were to become law, insurance companies would require hotels to submit criminal background reports on any persons with authority to enter a domicile provided by the hotel. That was the technical term. He also expressed that from his experience and knowledge, he would very much expect that hotel hiring practices would embrace this new law and willingly use this new information source if they could do it legally. “It would be for the safety of our guests and would make good business practice,” he concluded.

  Chairman Carter resumed control of the hearing and asked the room to quiet down.

  “I am going to ask the next witness to provide her testimony for the committee. I want to warn you in the audience that her testimony will be disturbing for most, if not all, of you. The story has strong violence and you may want to leave the hearing room.”

  The sitting crowd grew very still. No one left the room.

  He nodded to me to step forward.

  For a moment, I was unable to move. “Have I really done the right thing by being here? Can I go through with this? There are so many people in the room, what will they think about me if I tell them my story? Will some of them think I deserved it? Will they think I was raped?” The eyes of the chairman beckoned.

  I sat alone in the chair along the oblong table. I adjusted the microphone. I had done this exercise many times in economic development legislation, but now I personally was on the stand as a victim, open for critical and sympathetic appraisal.

  “My name is Mirabelle Garrett and I reside in Austin, Texas. I believe that had this bill been law nine years ago, I would not have been brutally assaulted by knife and bludgeoned within a hair of my life.” I took a deep breath and plowed on.

  “I work in the field of economic development and was in Austin to provide testimony on a bill for tax incentives involving job creation. Much like I am doing today. But unlike this day, I did not make it to the hearing. I was staying at a hotel nearby, and the night before the hearing I was assaulted by a hotel room service employee.” I stopped again. I felt all eyes on my back. I felt like they could see my scars searing through my suit coat. I felt weak and exposed.

  Seeing his witness falter, Representative Blair pulled me along. “How did you know he was an employee?”

  “I had called down to the front desk because I had sent a silk blouse to be pressed in order to look my best for my testimony the next morning. When I arrived at my room after dinner, the blouse was not there. So I telephoned the front desk and inquired as to its whereabouts. Moments later, someone tapped on my door. I was expecting my blouse, so I opened it. I saw that the man had a hotel uniform on. But he did not ask me about my blouse. He forced himself into my room. He had a large commercialsized Tabasco Sauce bottle in one hand and he slashed it across my face. The bottle broke and cut me. My eyes soaked up the sauce and were chemically burned. I could not see. What I did not know at that moment was that he also hacked my nose from my face with the jagged glass of the bottle.”

  I again paused to regain my composure. I held onto the tissue in my hand.

  “Then he rammed a plastic garbage sack down my mouth and throat to stifle my cries. He raised his knife twelve times and stabbed me repeatedly.”

  I sobbed. I could not help myself.

  The representative intervened again. “Was this man caught?” he asked, knowing full well the answer his staff had provided.

  “Yes, sir, he is in the Texas prison system. I expect him to be incarcerated for a very long time.”

  “How long?”

  “Sir, the jury found him guilty and sentenced him to ninety years. However, I understand that he may be paroled after twenty years. That will depend on the deliberations of the Texas Parole Board.”

  “Why have you come forth with your testimony today, Ms. Garrett? This is obviously difficult for you. So why put yourself through this?” The representative knew what answer to expect from me at this point, nearing the end of my testimony. It was a question that I had insisted he ask me.

  “When women travel from home and their safety net, we are vulnerable. We feel vulnerable—even if we carry on doing our business commitments. We are more apt to be victims of violence than men. But we expect and indeed hope that our hotel rooms are safe and will keep us from harm’s way. It is my sincere hope that this bill will provide the ability for hotels to conduct criminal background checks on their employees. It is my deepest trust that your bill will prevent another woman from violence at the hands of a hotel employee.”

  “Why do you feel this bill would prevent your assault from happening again, Ms. Garrett?”

  “Because, sir, this employee had a criminal history before he was hired. He tried and failed to kill another woman in his home town.”

  The chairman scanned his fellow committee members, then the silent
crowd in the room. He knew he had made his point with this witness.

  “Thank you, Ms. Garrett. I am sure the committee has no questions. We are grateful that you have come forth today to testify.”

  When I turned around to retake my seat, the people close by could see that my makeup and mascara had run down my face. Thankfully, the man next to me extended his handkerchief. Gratefully, I wiped my face.

  The committee clerk called for a vote on HB 142. I was surprised how close the vote was. Four in favor, two opposed. The committee chair called for a recess. As I was weaving my way back down the room, several reporters approached me. Mike had anticipated that and warned them away from me. However, he did let one of the committee members approach me as I was breaking for the door.

  “Ms. Garrett, I want you to know that I was prepared to vote against this bill. But when I heard you and learned what happened to you, I changed my mind. Your story made the difference for me. I thank you again for sharing your terrible, terrible experience with us today.”

  HB 142 successfully was approved by both chambers of the Texas legislature. But it was stopped cold by Governor Ann Richards’s veto. The explanation provided by her chief of staff was that she felt the bill fell too far from the privacy rights of Texans.

  It would take the next governor and future president of the United States to sign an identical bill approved, again, by both chambers in the next legislative session. It is now the law in Texas that a hotel employer may seek a criminal background check on its prospective new hires.

  27

  THE LIGHT OF THE GROTTO

  “Ugh—do I really have to get up?” I peered through the small round window of my cruise cabin. “It’s not even light yet!”

  My roommate, Jennifer, offered no encouragement; she was still lightly snoring in her very early morning sleep. The best kind.

  Our ship was docked on the Greek island of Patmos. I could not see much of the craggy rock perimeter because the sun was taking its own sweet time about peeking up above the horizon. Or maybe I was just taking my own sweet time in getting out of bed. Our cruise group had been up late the night before, dancing, drinking cocktails, and having a little casino action. Regular fare for a Christian tour group retracing the “Footsteps of Paul” around the Aegean Sea, don’t you think?

  Our leader was a remarkable man by any measure. Pastor Gerald hailed from a West Texas background and was an enthusiastic Baptist in a well-established church in downtown Austin. He, his wife, Louise, and a small group of energetic, visionary congregation members saw the need for a different kind of church. A church for people who didn’t want to go to church. Didn’t have a church and probably didn’t want a church. The band of believers broke off from the downtown church and established Riverbend to start a fresh new common sense approach to sharing God and Jesus. For the bruised, the battered, the broken, and the bored.

  The trip provided lots of inspirational bits, with an equal share of historical ones. As Pastor Gerald put it, “I will speak and teach not only from Paul’s writings but also from the ideas of the Greek philosophers who challenged Paul. As we always do, we will blend spiritual growth with a downright good time!” And so it was. I even managed to find a cute Greek guy on Rhodes and took off with him on his moped for the afternoon. White table wine and a delightful detour were over all too soon before the ship schedule beckoned me back on board.

  Our group excursion to Ephesus the day before had provided a funny incident. As the group was walking along the ancient road toward the amphitheater, our pastor gleefully pointed out a carved inscription on the road. It was a sign of sorts, a billboard in antiquity on the highly trafficked marble road heading to the center of the city. The “inscription” was a man’s foot pointing directly ahead to what used to be the “cat house” of Ephesus. He really chuckled at that one. His wife rolled her eyes at her husband’s antics.

  The day was clear; the afternoon sun was getting hot. Pastor Gerald was describing how Paul wanted to address the Ephesians in the amphitheater but the local sheriff dissuaded him as the crowd was unruly and in no mood for Christian dogma. As we mounted the stage and looked up the hill to the semicircle of seats, Pastor Gerald drew in a breath, stretched his arms wide and softly shared with the gathered, “This will be the style of our new sanctuary, seats rising up from the stage at the bottom.”

  (Years later, the Riverbend Home for Hope was completed. I continue to sing in the church choir even today.)

  Late the night before, Pastor Gerald had reminded his tender flock to get their butts out of bed early the next morning if they wanted to witness a singular spot on this planet—the place where the Book of Revelations was written. Or, as I refer to it, “channeled” by the Apostle John and captured with ink by his scribe.

  Steadying myself with the waves and the gentle rock of the ship, I felt my way to the tiny head. No time to wait for hot water, so I splashed my face with cold water and ran my fingers through my clipped brown hair. “Hmmm, my left eye is not so bad this morning, a little red is all.” I self-consciously peered at my facial scars and confirmed, yes, they were still there. I secretly wished that one day I would wake up to find my scars gone, my eyesight returned. But not today. Not today. And certainly not now.

  I threw my toothbrush in and out of my mouth, slid out the narrow cabin door, and bounded down the corridor. I saw our group gathering together at the appointed table in the dining room. After a few clumsy morning hugs—everyone was a bit of a grumbler at that hour—Pastor Gerald pulled the group together with a quick overview of the grotto we were about to visit.

  “It’s a steep walk up to the cave and the monastery, so grab some coffee. We will take it slow, but we need to keep moving. A sect of Greek Orthodox priests oversees St. John’s Grotto, enclosed as it is by the Monastery of the Apocalypse, which was built more or less around the cave more than 900 years ago.

  “Remember, this is their Easter season. Generally, the grotto is not open until later in the morning, but the leadership has granted our special request to come as a group and visit the grotto by ourselves,” he announced with a smile.

  “Pastor Gerald rocks!” I thought. Now pumped up with excitement and caffeine, off we went in the early dawn. The road was crude, steep, and lined with whitewashed eucalyptus trees. The morning scent invigorated me.

  The steady ground of the rock island was a welcome relief from the sea sway on the boat. I was a little out of breath as we traipsed up the narrow road. Misty air hung near the ground, so I could not quite make out the tall walled structure perched on the top of the island. There was not much chatting going on, and the dampness of the early morning softened the sounds of our footsteps. Roosters sporadically jabbed the morning silence. Our group ascended at a slow pace.

  Naturally curious, I picked up my pace and spirit as we approached the church and the famous cave. As we came into the grotto, the mood became even quieter and more reverent. The interior was made of gray stone with arches overhead. The occasional geranium flowerpot provided some cheerful color and pungent fragrance. The air was still and humid. The sky had turned to a brilliant blue.

  Our group filed slowly into the grotto itself. It was small and very cramped. A few simple worn wooden benches were set into the rock floor. Inside the cave was the spot where St. John the Apostle had lain on the hard floor, a hole carved from rock serving as his pillow. Both it and the place in the wall where he put his hand to pull himself up are lined in silver. Pastor Gerald pointed to a crack in the ceiling of the cave that is said to have been made by the voice of God. I settled on a bench with two other companions, and each of us sat very still in contemplation. When all were gathered, Pastor Gerald led us in prayer. Then all was silent as we each communed with our own thoughts.

  And that is when it hit me.

  I was deep in contemplation when WHAM! I found myself knocked off the wooden bench to the floor. Of course, I was startled, as were my companions who had been sitting on either side of me on th
e bench, where they had firmly remained. “Are you all right?” they said in unison as they gently pulled me back up to the bench. I shook myself, like a dog might shake its body after a rain shower. “That was weird,” was all I could think as I resumed my seat.

  What I had “seen” the moment before I fell to the floor was a forceful, brilliant white light coming at me, opening itself up right at my face. It looked like a million zillion fiber optic cables fused with a great light. It had energy—forceful energy, God-like energy. I realized with dawning amazement that I had seen that light before. Yes! It was the same light! The Light that had dropped down to me on the hotel floor. While that had been almost fifteen years earlier, I recalled that moment with clarity and confirmation.

  “Wow, now that was impressive …” I caught my breath and remained quiet. My companions looked at me with wondering eyes. I thanked them and kept my vision to myself. I still was not really sure what had happened. “But what if I asked the Light to come back to me? I wonder what would happen. I wonder how long I could feel the Light.”

  I centered myself back on the wooden bench and breathed deeply. Closing my eyes, I focused on the little spot under my left lung that had become my portal to prayer—the tingly spot. I prayed for the Light to return and envelope me. It didn’t take long. This time the Light was a little slower in coming on, but within a second, the huge circle of fiber optic light wires returned. The diameter of the Light circle was well over three feet. The radiance was softly pulsating. White, very white. Strong light.