“You’ll get help,” he said, “these are good folks. Call them for sure.”
I nodded that I would.
On the subway home, Mom asked me to look through the booklet. I did and was glad we’d picked it up. For sure, we qualified for a bunch of helpful services and compensation for Mom’s work loss and medical treatment.
The next day, I left a message on VWA’s answering machine. Nanci Colón, a victim-witness advocate called back and asked if we’d like her to sit with us before, during and after the hearing and trial. I asked what it cost. When she said it would be paid for by the state, I told her I’d ask Mom.
Covering the receiver with my hand, I asked Mom in Spanish. She said, “Sí. Seguro.”
I was relieved, since we knew next to nothing about the justice system. Colón said she spoke Spanish fluently, which would help Mom, and especially Abuela.
District Attorney Ramón met with us two more times before the trial, once in his office and once in our apartment. We shared Dad’s history of verbal abuse and incidents of violence. He told us what we should have known: the stabbing was just the culmination of many years of abuse.
To the D.A.’s credit, he discovered something none of us had known: my father had a record of an assault and battery committed three years before he had met Mom. He’d beaten up his then-girlfriend down in Texas. With no previous record, he had served thirty days and then gotten parole. All this would help to convict him.
The pretrial hearing was a blur. I never once looked directly at Pops, or el serpiente, as we called him. The snake. I knew that he was there and heard Mom call out “the man over there in the gray shirt” to identify him, but I refused to look in his direction.
Mom answered a few questions after she identified him. Given his record, the judge held him without parole.
We splurged on a taxi home.
Time marched on. The trial was a year away. We prayed, mended and tried to enjoy our new quiet apartment.
Mali and I hung out. Miss Reyes’ sessions helped. The school kids calmed down. Mom’s arm healed well. Miss Reyes suggested that we three have a weekly family meeting. It seemed like such a white-bread concept, but we gave it a try.
That Friday evening, we held our first official session. Over cookies and cocoa, we spoke of the future. My tummy fluttered with excitement when I heard both Mom and Abuela agree that they, like me, wanted a fresh start after the trial. We all wanted to leave Brooklyn behind.
Our family meetings turned into planning sessions. We made a list of cities where we had friends or family interests. Philly, Chicago and Houston came up, but we unanimously chose Worcester, Massachusetts. Mom’s closest sister and my favorite cousins lived there. It was pretty, with good schools. Best of all, no bad memories.
The D.A. was sure Pops would go to jail for a long time. Mom filed for divorce, which was finalized six months later. We’d get through the trial and then move on. At a family meeting, we agreed to contribute to a savings plan for our post-trial future.
Abuela and I launched a knitting business, churning out baby clothes, scarves, shrugs, blankets and caps. Abuela did complex items, while I did simpler ones. I knitted nonstop; so did Abuela. We knit and sold, knit and sold.
Mom worked extra hours at the beauty shop and chipped in with the knitting at night. Our savings grew steadily. We’d definitely have enough for a move, once the trial was over.
The neighbors praised our resilience and courage. We were busy and, amazingly, happier than before the incident. Pops was gone; we had dreams and a plan, a future. My grades went up from Bs and Cs to As and Bs.
The trial date grew closer. I was interviewed on tape and asked to testify in court if I could. Mom and Abuela didn’t push me, but Miss Reyes felt I’d be empowered by facing my father. I gave no one an answer, unsure if I could do it. My stomach flipped at the thought.
What if Pops leaped from his seat to punch me, or managed to stab me with a smuggled prison shank? What if he hurt or killed all three of us, right there in the courtroom? Things like this had happened before—I’d heard and seen it on the news.
Now nightmares plagued me. It had been eight months since the almost-murder had gone down, but the thought of us testifying and being in Pops’ line of fire, or even in his sight, scared me sick. I awoke as tired as when I’d gone to bed.
I got skinnier and skinnier. My usual As and Bs became Cs and Ds. All I was good for was knitting, which focused me and steadied my nerves.
Miss Reyes said I might need medication and called the VWA. They found me a kid shrink who’d be paid for by the state. We met only once, and he prescribed a nightly sedative. I took my pill eagerly. The nightmares went away, and I could finally sleep again.
We joined a free support group for victims and witnesses. The other members were all ages, shapes, sizes and colors. It was good to meet others who were struggling with issues like ours. Some spoke of their courtroom experiences, attacks, emotions. We mainly listened, but it helped.
A week before the trial, I agreed to testify in person. Once my decision was made, I felt relief. Ramón congratulated me on a brave decision.
On the morning of the trial, Valdo drove us to the courthouse. We pulled up, and I shivered. Mom, Abuela and I entered the old, ornate building. Just inside the door, we had to pass through a metal detector after putting our belongings into a container, which went through an X-ray machine that displayed everything on a monitor.
After security, we met the D.A. and our advocate, Nanci. We greeted each other quietly and went in a cluster onto an elevator. First, we filed into the D.A.’s little office for some last-minute tips.
We weren’t allowed to hear each other testify. I thought this was strange, but had no choice in the matter. Ramón handed cups of hot coffee to everyone, even me. I put three sugar packets in mine. He passed around some Oreos, but I couldn’t eat.
Next, we went with Nanci to the the courtroom on the fourth floor. Mom, Abuela and I hugged and kissed. Then, they were shown to their own small, separate rooms behind judge’s chambers.
I followed Nanci to mine, where she’d keep me company. I grabbed her hand, prayed silently and breathed as deeply as I could. Then, it was time for my testimony.
I walked out steadily, quickly striding up six steps into the witness box. I felt fairly strong. Judge Carson, a serious-looking woman with a stiff gray helmet of hair, asked me to raise my hand and swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Out of nowhere, I broke down. My sobs and gasps echoed throughout the courtroom.
I tried to calm myself, but the flood of tears kept on and on. The judge asked if I wanted water. I nodded, and the bailiff handed me a glass. I tried to sip the cold water, but couldn’t drink it. I couldn’t calm down.
The judge asked me if I needed a moment. I nodded yes.
Judge Carson announced a brief recess, hitting her gavel once. I went back to the little room behind her chambers. Nanci hugged me. Shaky and mortified, I filled her in. She told me things like this happened all the time.
I was drenched in nervous sweat and surprised by my own reaction in the courtroom. Nanci showed me to a tiny restroom. I gulped down two small paper cups of water, blew my nose and chewed a stick of Doublemint Nanci had handed me. Soon I was called again.
I marched out, sat and was sworn in quickly. Then, I identified my own father, the would-be killer. I pointed in his direction, but avoided his gaze. I sensed Pops trying to get me to look at him, but resisted.
I answered the questions in a robotic voice that sounded nothing like my own. I told the whole truth and nothing but the truth. That was plenty. I could hear members of the jury letting out what sounded like sighs of sympathy. Finally, it was over, and I headed back to my mini-room and Nanci.
Mom and Abuela were questioned afterward, while I waited behind chambers, snapping gum, both wired and tired. Our neighbors, including Valdo, testified, but I heard none of it.
There was a quick, early lunch brea
k, and food was brought in for me. I didn’t touch it.
After the defense put on some witnesses, a recess was called. We were allowed to go out, but instructed not to discuss the case among ourselves or with others.
We were told that the jury might deliberate for hours, or days. The D.A. took us to a nice restaurant next door. I looked over a huge leather-covered menu and ordered a Shirley Temple and tuna salad. I sipped the drink but couldn’t eat, despite the urging of Mom and Abuela.
We sat there in near silence, nervous, for two solid hours.
Then, the D.A.’s cell went off, and he said, “They’re back.” Ramón tossed down a fifty, then led us out, down a half block and through security once more. We rode the elevator in silence.
All three of us sat in the courtroom together, along with Nanci. Neighbors filled many of the benches nearby. I held Mom’s hand and Abuela’s, gripping tightly. The foreman came out. After clearing his throat, he announced the jury’s verdicts, “guilty as charged on all counts.” Sentencing would come later.
Mom, Abuela and I burst into tears of relief. When he heard the verdict, Pops kept his head down. I felt he was no longer family. He was not my father, but el serpiente. Our relationship, such as it had been, was severed.
We praised Ramón for his excellent work and thanked Nanci, who hugged all of us, urging us to call her any time and to keep attending the victim-witness support group. Valdo and Blanca pulled up outside; we squeezed into their car and rode home.
Our lives went on: We continued to knit, collected money for our goods and had Tía Lucy on the lookout for an apartment in Worcester, Massachusetts.
At the sentencing, we gave victim-impact statements. Mom didn’t want to do hers in person, but Abuela and I went for it. I convinced Mom to write a letter about how she felt, which I was allowed to read for her in the courtroom, after my own. People cried. I didn’t. Pops got the max.
Mom, Abuela and I packed up, took our savings out of the bank in cash, and headed for Worcester on the Amtrak train. On our ride up there, I stared at New England’s autumn foliage, so orange and yellow. To me, it signaled a bright future.
Tía Lucy picked us up, and her kids, my cousins, piled out of the car to greet and hug us. They ranged in age from five to fifteen. We were thrilled to be together.
We stayed with Tía Lucy at first, but within two weeks found and moved into a cute apartment, bigger and cheaper than the one we’d left in Brooklyn. We turned it into a cozy, feminine refuge.
Mom found a job in a Grafton Street beauty salon. Her customers and tips are terrific.
I started school, just a three-block walk away. Friends came my way, and none knew I was the daughter of a would-be murderer. It felt good to build a new identity based on my real self, not on my circumstances or violent father.
I have one Anglo best friend, Jane Mary, and one Latina, Irma, as well as my cousins. My social life is good. I make all As and Bs. I started writing to Miss Reyes weekly, and she writes back.
Once every month or so, Mali comes up to visit, but we don’t talk about the past.
Pops is in jail for twenty-five years to life. He’ll be an old man, if and when he gets released.
I talked to my confessor, Father Ryan, at our new parish, St. Steven’s. He urged me to consider forgiving my father. I thought it over and wanted to give it a shot. I could forgive Pops and still never see him again.
I decided to send him a letter; just one. In it, I forgave him, but asked him not to contact me. To my surprise, I felt relief after mailing it.
How does it feel to have your dad try to kill your mom and go to jail? Not good at all, but way better than us being together for even more years, worried sick he would snap out and kill us.
I feel as if God directed Pops to go crazy, for real, so that we could all be free.
Pops, despite my request, sent me a letter through the D.A.’s office, saying he’d converted from Roman Catholic to Pentecostal and was what he called “a real Bible thumper.” He said he was “saved” and, along with his letter, sent me Christian brochures and a mug he made in ceramics class.
I read the letter and had a strong urge to rip it up and toss everything he’d sent into the trash. Instead, I stuck all of it into a locked jewelry box on the top shelf of my closet.
Pops thinks Jesus loves and forgives him, and wants all of us to do the same. I have, in my heart, but I’ll never visit him, as he wants me to. I can’t and I won’t. It’s my decision.
Recently, Pops sent a second letter, a real apology, saying he’d joined AA in jail and was a model prisoner. He wrote that he’d been drunk, jealous, stupid and wrong, but had never meant to hurt Mom or any of us.
I stuck that letter in the closet, too.
Last year, Mom met a great man, Jimmy. They’re planning on a June wedding. He treats Mom like a queen and me like a princess. Jimmy loves and respects Abuela, too. He works construction, lifts weights and doesn’t drink. He’s Irish-American, but that doesn’t bug me.
Mom and Jimmy asked me how I’d feel about them giving me a baby brother or sister. I told them I’d love it and gave them my blessing. I’m glad Jimmy’s a big guy, over six-foot-four, and fearless. He’ll protect us from Pops, in case he ever gets out.
Mom has the right to notification if Pops gets out. He doesn’t have a chance at parole for many years, and, even if he gets it, Pops won’t be allowed to leave the state of New York.
I worry sometimes that Jimmy will change after they’re married, like Pops did. I asked Mom what she’d do if he started yelling at her or took up drinking. Mom says she trusts Jimmy completely and that I’ll come to trust him, too. It isn’t easy, since I know that love can start out as something good but end up rotten and scary.
Mali’s dating back in Brooklyn, but I’m not ready for that. I don’t want some boy bossing me around. Single, for me, is good.
Today, I’m not the kid whose dad stabbed her mom. Not the witness, squealer, the crazy man’s daughter. I am me. A New England fifteen-year-old girl with a whole new life.
Abuela and I have a knitting business here, but we’re not all frantic like we were in Brooklyn. When Mom’s out, I hang with Abuela. We watch television and knit goodies for a whole new group of girls and ladies.
Abuela babysits for my cousins when Tía Lucy’s at work. I watch them on weekends when Tía and Mom double-date.
Pretty soon, I bet we’ll be knitting baby clothes for Mom. She wants a baby with all her heart. She’ll get her happy ending—all three of us will. We pretty much have one already.
Be So Pretty If …
I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard somebody say to me, “You’d be so pretty if you lost some weight,” or another version of the same thing, usually said to my parents or friends, “She has such a pretty face, but she’d be so pretty if …”
Despite actress América Ferrara doing her show Ugly Betty and that movie, The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, as well as JLo, with her famously big booty, no one really thinks that being, or seeing, a fat girl is cool.
I’ve tried dieting, but it’s a real yo-yo thing with me. I lose some, then gain more, lose some, then gain more again.
Between genetics and my extreme love for food, chocolate and fried things, in particular, I am a “big girl.” I have the large, rounded behind of my mother and the jutting belly of my father.
Until I was eleven years old, I was pretty much just an average chubby kid. Then, at twelve, once I stopped growing—vertically, that is—the only inches I’ve added have been in width. I just got fatter and fatter. I mean, I’m not an elephant or anything, but, still, I’m not too far from becoming obese.
When nutritionists come to talk to girls at school every year, I can always feel them eyeballing me. They might act as if they’re speaking in general about the health perils of being an overweight teenager, but it’s just me and a few other fat girls and boys they’re actually hoping to get through to.
In Phys Ed,
I surprise everyone by running every bit as fast, or even faster, than my way-skinnier friends. People are always commenting, “Wow, she can move so well for such a big girl.” They’re right, too. I’m quick and I can jump and dunk a basketball right into a hoop easily, despite being short.
My muscles are strong as can be, and I do a lot of walking. I ran track for three years. I’m only off the track team now because I’m a senior and it’s been a wild, busy year, with college applications and nonstop activities. I’ve stayed active, but I’m still fat. It’s simple: I eat too much of all the wrong foods.
When I look in fashion magazines, so many of the regular models and starlets on those pages look ready to drop dead of anorexia, just totally starved. They are way skinnier than even the very thinnest girls in my school. Even the plus-size models look slender, compared to me. So I don’t buy magazines much.
I stand out in a crowd of people my age, even in my mostly Latin-and-black high school. The truth is, though, it’s pretty likely that the majority of my Latina girlfriends will end up being overweight, just like most of our mothers, after they get married and pop out some babies.
Boys around here don’t act bothered at all by my weight. I’ve never had a shortage of dates and novios. Teasingly, more than one of them have said there’s “more to love” with a girl my size. Still, I know I’d look way better if I’d slim down, and I intend to do it.
Diets make me crazy, though. Whenever I go on the kind where you eat veggies and salads mainly, I feel like a hungry bear who can’t think of anything but meat. I’ve been a carnivore since birth. Taking chicken and beef away from me doesn’t work.
A bunch of times, I’ve tried the Atkins Diet and other zero-carb or low-carb ones. For a few days, I’ll feel full and as happy as can be. I might even drop a few pounds, despite eating a really bizarre amount of meat, fish, eggs and cheese. By the fifth day on those programs, though, I get such a craving for sweets that I cheat on something like a candy bar, and then totally blow it.
The Almost Murder and Other Stories Page 7
