The Chemist's Shop

by Richard Brumer

  “Who is our expert witness?”

  “We bring in a psychiatrist who will testify on your behalf by giving reasons for your action, and if the judge allows, bring out the events about how this evil Nazi officer had destroyed your life by gassing your innocent little girls and torturing and raping your wife until she had no choice but to kill herself. But no promises on getting those things in.”

  “Yes, I loved my family so much. Now, I have nothing.”

  “A psychiatrist may view things in a way that could help our case. Even if it’s never proven that Sanders is Stern, you believed him to be Stern and the psychiatrist may show that this ‘delusion’ brought on your irresistible impulse to commit murder.

  “He may also conclude that you suffered mentally as a result of what happened to your family in Auschwitz, and despite the fact that you’ve gone on to live normally, you have never married again or had any relationships, proving that your mind is still stuck in the past. We can win our case by a preponderance of evidence. We have to put enough pieces together and create a picture to convince the jury.”

  Brenda was unsmiling and all business.

  “David Weisman is a prosecutor with a creative legal mind,” Brenda said. “He’s pretty damn good and will take this case seriously. Those who will testify will be on the prosecution’s witness list. Our defense team will present our defense witness list as well, and the attorneys will share this information and other things during the discovery.

  “Weisman may even have his own reason to bring Stern into the case. You never know, but I doubt it. It would put him on a slippery slope. If he does, then we have the foundation we need to continue testimony about Stern and the Nazis. I don’t want to base our case only on speculation about how Weisman will proceed in this case. I have to focus on our strategy that will get you out of here.”

  Michael said, “I never planned to plead insanity. The truth is, I think I did have an irresistible impulse to kill Stern when I first met him. I started baiting him for a while before I...”

  “Stop right there! We will leave that part out. You never baited him! You were never lying in wait. You never planned to kill him. There was no premeditation.

  “He came to your house to play a friendly game of chess and you knew he was the monster who killed your family. That’s it! You felt this uncontrollable impulse to kill him. Your heart was skyrocketing off the wall, and you knew you had to kill him the moment you realized that Sanders was Stern. What you did was uncontrollable, irresistible. You knocked him out, handcuffed him to a pipe in your garage. You turned on your car engine, closed the garage door, and left. You were obsessed. It could have taken only a few minutes.”

  Michael blurted out, “I intended to report it when I was in town, until I heard the sirens and rushed home.”

  “Yes, you did. That was the moment we’ll say you returned to sanity. So, what do you think?” Brenda asked with a smile.

  “It’s all so complicated, but are we telling the truth?”

  “It’s the story I remember you telling me.”

  Chapter 20

  Michael’s cellmate was Albert Chisholm, a black man, about seventy, with white hair and a short, cropped beard, yellowed with tobacco stains. Chisholm already owned the bottom bunk. Fair enough, since he was there first.

  Michael taught Albert how to play chess and, in return, Albert told him one story after the other about his escapades growing up in Alabama. Most of his stories involved petty crimes, but now he was awaiting trial for something serious—attempted murder. He shot a man who raped his twelve year-old granddaughter. He wanted him dead, but only wounded him.

  “My little girl was never the same again.” His eyes filled with tears. “She started wetting the bed and sucking her thumb.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Michael said, looking into his cellmate’s watery eyes. “You did the right thing. How much time do you think you’ll get?”

  “I know I’m going to end up with a long sentence. You know how it is in this country. Black is bad if you’re in the criminal justice system, and I don’t have enough cash to get the best justice money can buy.” Albert heaved a deep sigh. “I’d be lucky if I appeared before a judge like ‘cut ‘em loose Bruce.’”

  “’Cut ‘em loose Bruce?’ You’ve got to be kidding. Who’s he?”

  “Oh, just a black judge named Bruce Johnson who hated cops and let a lot of black prisoners go free, even if they were guilty. The police hated him. They worked hard to make arrests, and when black defendants appeared in front of Judge Johnson, Bruce just cut ‘em loose.”

  Michael smiled.

  Albert explained that there wasn’t any fairness in the judicial system when it came to black people, “especially for poor man’s crimes.”

  “I don’t understand. Are there poor man’s crimes and rich man’s crimes?” Michael asked.

  “Oh yeah, there’s a big difference. A poor man’s crime is something like auto theft. For example, stealing an old three-hundred dollar jalopy would buy him two years in prison.

  “For the rich white guy, there is a different kind of justice. He embezzles twenty million dollars using some pyramid scheme or stock swindle. What happens? A lot of people get hurt bad and lose their hard-earned savings that took years to accumulate, while Mr. Rich White Guy hides the money he stole. Rich white guy gets arrested, hires a high-priced legal eagle, and ends up with six months in jail. That’s what we call ‘easy time.’ He comes out, grabs his money, goes back to his mansion or his villa in Europe, and soaks up the good life. To me, Michael, that ain’t justice.”

  Michael shook his head. Albert is right, he thought. Discrimination was everywhere and there was no honor in the justice system. He thought again. Maybe the poor men had the honor but the rich guys had the system. Michael smiled to himself.

  Would there be justice for me?

  Michael looked at Albert’s dark-colored skin. It was only a thin covering on his body. Everything underneath was the same for everyone, yet his dark skin made a difference to society and it could make a huge difference between life and death in court.

  “‘Liberty and justice for all’ doesn’t apply to me. It’s just a lot of catchy rhetoric and doesn’t have any meaning for me. The truth is, some people are just more equal than others, and money can change things for the better for a defendant, sometimes even for a black man. There’s something wrong about that.”

  Michael wondered how his cellmate was able to adapt to such inequity. It was all about hatred because he was the 'wrong color.' His thin covering of black skin showed nothing of the sensitive and caring person he was underneath.

  As if Albert could read Michael’s mind, he asked, “How did you deal with hatred, Michael? You’re a Jew, right?”

  Michael hesitated. “Yeah, I always felt sorry for someone who is filled with hate. It’s his problem. He has no life, no humility, but when his hatred destroys my life, my feelings about him change and I become angry.

  “I’m in jail because I killed a depraved Nazi. He murdered my family. People like him should have been exposed before they committed their crimes, but when it came to Jews, he was not seen as an executioner. Many felt he was doing a job that some viewed as necessary. Anti-Semitism is too widespread. I want to get the horrors of the Holocaust into my trial to let generations that follow know how a few extreme radicals can destroy so many. I know you understand. You’ve been a victim.”

  “We’ve both been victims,” Albert said. “Hatred puts fear into people. When I’m alone in an elevator with a young white girl, I can see the fear in her eyes. She looks away. I know what she’s thinking. Will I attack her? Rape her? I’m used to seeing that look in the eyes of white people. I mean, the color of my skin is obvious. It isn’t like being a Jew.” Albert smiled. “So, it’s hate at first sight when many people look at me. And for you?” He paused. “It would take a few minutes longer. Jews don’t wear their religion on their skin.” Albert laughed.

  “What abo
ut our noses?”

  Albert smiled and shook his head. “Yeah, that’s a dead giveaway.” They both laughed.

  “Some people look at my black color and it makes them see things that aren’t there. I want to scream out, ‘Hey, I’m just like you,’ but I got used to the idea from the time I was knee high that I wasn’t just like them. Michael, you could be in that elevator with the same young girl and everything would be normal for her. You might even end up in conversation. I have never experienced anything like that, never.

  “I’m not a jailhouse lawyer, but I can tell you this. Bringing the Holocaust into your trial ain’t gonna be easy. Out of a jury of twelve people, at least one of them is going to hate you, maybe more than one, not because of the color of your skin—they can see you’re white—but because you’re a Jew.”

  “Yeah, Albert, Jews are minorities too, but my gut feeling is they don’t commit many crimes. I think young black men commit a disproportionate number of crimes compared to whites.”

  “That’s true,” Albert replied. “Did you ever wonder why?”

  “Is it something in the black culture?”

  “That’s partly true. We’ve been beaten up so much from the time we were slaves that our culture has become violent. People who are oppressed rebel. It’s natural. More of us have become defiant and end up in jail, but it’s about being poor too. Poor people in crowded urban areas are more likely to become criminals regardless of race. I don’t have the answers.”

  “It’s sad,” Michael said, looking down at his knees. “Hatred is always there, but money can still buy you a rich man’s justice.”

  It was 10:30 p.m., time for lights out. The prison cells were plunged into darkness, but they were lucky to have each other for conversation.

  Albert spoke in a quiet tone. “I’m sorry to hear about your family. I feel bad for you.” He said he would pray for Michael and quoted a passage from his favorite book, The Alchemist.

  “There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure.”

  ***

  The next morning, Michael awakened and remembered a dream he had. He lowered his head to the bottom bunk and saw Albert lying on his back, reading a thick book he held above him: Criminal Law Procedures.

  Albert peeked above the book. “I can see you’re not up yet, boy,” Albert said with a casual glance. “Your eyes are half-closed and you look like shit. What’s up?”

  “I had a dream.”

  Albert sat up and smiled. “So did Dr. King, Michael. Come on down here, I gotta hear this.”

  Michael climbed from his bunk and sat next to Albert. “You were in it,” Michael said, pointing his finger at Albert.

  “Well, that’s a plus. I hope I’m the hero in your fantasy. So, come on, tell me. You want to get your mind going first, or do you want to talk about it before the dream drifts out of your head forever?”

  “Okay, here goes. We were both in this jail cell, right? The one we’re in now. Only the bars were a glossy white instead of black. You sat on a stool, reading as you always do, and I had my hands on the bars of the cell door, looking out.” Michael paused, trying to remember what came next.

  “My hands rested on the white bars for months as I looked through them. I held on to the bars until, for no reason, I pushed my hands against them, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. The door sprung open, just a little at first, but as I pushed, they were wide open. I stood, staring. Nobody was there, no guards, no one. Everyone had disappeared. It was just you and me. I walked out and looked behind me. I stared at you as you continued to read a law book. You glanced up at me, then down at your book and remained silent. That’s all I remember.”

  Albert said, “You know, Michael, if I had trouble falling asleep, I’d try to remember what you just told me.” Michael laughed and rolled his eyes.

  “Come on, let me know what you think,” Michael said, leaning forward.

  Albert put his hand to his beard and stroked it. “So, what do you make of it? What were you feeling?”

  “You’ll never believe this. When I stood on the other side of the bars, a feeling of serenity swept over me, just knowing I was free. I just stood there thinking that it was so easy. Everything went from bad to good. I thought I should have done it months ago. It struck me that the cell door was unlocked the whole time. What do you think of that?”

  “Hey, you’re the dreamer, professor, not me,” Albert said with a shrug and a wide smile.

  “I don’t know.” Michael hesitated. “I guess I was free all along but didn’t know it.”

  “That is,” Albert said, pointing his finger at Michael, “until what?”

  Michael shrugged, not knowing how to answer.

  “Damn, Michael! Until you tried something you never thought to do. You were finally ready and desperate. That allowed you to push the barred door open. You never expected it to open. What were you feeling? Tell me, professor, what were you feeling at the exact moment when the door opened for you?”

  “I felt I could do anything, and I felt relieved and peaceful. I felt free.”

  “Okay, professor. So, before you felt free, you made your own prison.”

  “Yes, yes!” Michael shouted.

  “Stay cool, relax. It wasn’t the bars that imprisoned you. It was your mind. As far as the bars went, well, you just put them there.”

  “Why? Why, Albert,” Michael pleaded.

  “Hey, I’m no shrink. Maybe you felt some deep guilt about something that happened a long time ago. You imprisoned yourself for something you did or didn’t do and built a jail for yourself to live in. It was about punishment, Michael. Guilt always has to be punished. I learned that a long time ago from bein’ punished for my bad judgments.”

  Michael reflected on his last moment with Ilona. What guilt did I bear? Why do I have to be punished? He searched deeper.

  Ilona asked me to protect her, but I couldn’t.

  “Okay, Albert, I made my own prison. I get it, but there must be more. Just let me know what you think.”

  Albert took a deep breath and leaned forward. “You still don’t get it. Think about it. Your dream was giving you some good advice. It told you that whatever it was that made you feel this guilt had to end, or you could never be free. You had to have a change of attitude. I thought I changed mine and didn’t end up in to jail for a few years. Then I shot that man and thought I needed another change of attitude, but you know what? I would have done it again and aimed better. So, you see, life is too complicated for us to think we can figure everything out.”

  “I don’t know, Albert. The idea of the bars. I don’t know…”

  “You created the bars. The advice you got was that you finally had to take action and push the bars open. It was telling you to let go, but you had to be receptive to be able to hear it. Only when you were desperate and ready were you able to find the power to open the door. Before then, you were powerless. You felt free because you finally let go of the guilt and realized it wasn’t your fault. You no longer had to endure the never-ending pain of what you did, whatever it was.”

  “I did let go of some of my guilt when I killed Stern. A weight was taken off me.” Michael held his head in his hands. “Why am I alive? Why is it only me?”

  “Forget the why. You did nothing wrong. You were a prisoner in a concentration camp. Evil men with guns surrounded you. You made a choice to survive in the hope that one day you would wreak vengeance on those who killed your family. Stop beating yourself up. You can’t change the past. Tell me, what was I doing when you opened the cell door and walked out?”

  “Nothing. You just sat there and continued reading and you didn’t try to follow me.”

  “And why was that?”

  Michael thought for a moment. “You were already free?”

  “Bingo, professor. You got it! I carry my freedom with me wherever I am.”

  Michael smiled and stayed silent for a long time, deep in thought. “Why did I stand there for
months before I pushed the door open?”

  “Easy. As I said, you made your own prison with strong bars in your mind, and you were a tough warden, hard on yourself. Let’s run through it again. The door was always open, but you weren’t ready. Your dream told you that you had to wait for the right time to let go, so you stood for months just holding on to the bars, waiting. When you knew you were ready, you pushed on the bars and found your freedom. Your dream was a gift. Freedom is something you feel inside, wherever you are, but it can only happen after you let go of the guilt.”

  “Albert, fate must have brought us together. The things you said helped me understand that my feelings of guilt are unwarranted, but I still feel them.”

  “Here’s the deal. You were a prisoner at the time. Did you feel you had a choice, a choice to survive? I think the reason for any of your inaction was to buy time until you found a way to help your family. You’re human, and in the back of your mind you knew that anything you could do to help your family would most likely end with your death. It’s hard to choose your own death.”

  “I would die for them.”

  “I know. I was just thinking out loud.”

  Michael and Albert sat on the bottom bunk, their backs against the wall, and talked. Their conversations were getting a bit deep for both of them, but Michael felt Albert had helped him see things in a new light.

  Michael looked at Albert and smiled.

  “Tell me, ‘Dr. Chisholm,’ why were the bars so glossy white in my dream. Did it have anything to do with racism?”

  Albert laughed and kept laughing. He couldn’t control himself and slapped his hands on his thighs. He pointed at Michael, shook his head, and continued to laugh.