I drove to the newly created Victim Services Division and parked between the bright yellow lines on a freshly asphalted lot. Ironically, or perhaps coincidentally, I was part of one of the first groups of victims to be assisted in this groundbreaking effort by the criminal justice system. Yvette was the first director but said her hands were tied. All she could do for me was to give me a copy of the initial parole findings of fact.
I cried and pleaded with her. “I know, I read what the official record states, but how could this be happening?”
Yvette shook her head. She was very familiar with this case and she honestly could not understand what had been going on behind the scenes. She had made some background inquiries, but had come up with nothing. The next file on Yvette’s desk beckoned. I left in tears.
Now, the hypnotic effects of the interstate lines lulled me deeper into my Jaguar XJS’s leather seat. “I love this car, teal with biscuit leather. The burl finishes. Its V12 engine,” I purred to myself.
I was traveling along I-37 at my favorite speed, 88 mph. The horsepower of the engines reminded me of the rides I had truly enjoyed on an Andalusian stallion a little while back. I had met up with an exciting man while still living along the Mexican border. Guillermo—that name really rolled off my tongue. He was a businessman looking for investment opportunities along the Frontera. But far more interesting was his history as a successful and wildly popular bullfighter. His urbane style and piercing blue eyes were magnetic. He whispered to me in more languages than I could understand. I simply could not resist this man—on any number of levels. He was in turn drawn to my intellect and exuberant style. One thing led to another and he soon invited me to his ranch west of Tampico, Mexico.
He sent his plane to collect me for a long weekend. I did not know exactly what to expect but was game to go. I packed a few special lingerie pieces just in case. My motto has always been “better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it.” I was prepared for almost anything, but when I arrived, I was simply blown away. The driver picked me up at the small private strip in a dark SUV and drove me to the ranch. The entry gate was enormous and embellished with silhouettes of black bulls, bulls bred exclusively for the fighting rings wildly popular in Mexico.
Off to my left was an impressive stable and off to my right was a herd of black bulls and white dappled horses. They were from the ancient Spanish line of high-stepping spirited Andalusians. The expansive pastures lay along gently rolling hills as far as I could see! Damn. It was gorgeous. I grinned with the memory. But it was the feeling of riding one of his white stallions on a glove-soft Spanish saddle that drew my memory aside at the moment. The stallion’s powerful haunches cantering at my command. A tiny flick of my heel and a subtle shift of my body weight was all that was needed for the horse to respond. Beautifully. Elegantly. Confidently.
Like the horsepower under my hood. But a black Mercedes sliding up beside me and passing my car on the left pulled me out of my daydreams. I cocked my head to ID the driver, but the windows were too dark.
As he described the scene later, Richard was skimming the black interstate, deep in strategic thoughts regarding a pending merger, when he looked to his right as he passed the Jaguar. He could see her profile. “Cute woman,” he thought. Very nice. He felt a surge inside and did something he had not done in a long time. He mashed the accelerator and reveled in the quiet pickup of his highly refined machine. He smiled to himself.
“Hmm, that driver is aggressive,” I thought. There I was hovering around 90 mph and this black machine was passing me by with ease. Hmm. I let him pull in front of me a few yards up and stabilize his speed. “Well, there is plenty more horsepower at my command.” I checked the rearview mirror and glanced up the flat interstate for traffic. None. My radar detector was silent. I eased my Jag to passing speed and cruised by the Mercedes at 100+. What a great feeling!
Moments later, the Mercedes caught up and passed me again! He was playing with me; I knew it. Takes two to tango, so I eased on up a few notches and pulled ahead of him. This went on back and forth for nearly forty miles. When the refinery stacks came into view, I geared down to enter the city by the bay. I was on my way to the business meeting and was late for the opening presentation dinner. I grinned again. Well, not as late as I could have been going the speed limit!
I entered the tall sleek building that overlooked the gulf waters and punched the elevator button to the top floor. It was a private club. The view of the ocean bay was marvelous right at sunset. “Hey, how are you?” I said, shaking the club president’s hand. I briefly worked the crowd, saying hi to some, giving air kisses to others. I sat down at a table where the salads were being served. Looking around the table, I did not know anyone, but I quickly and easily started chatting up the group. No wallflower in me!
To my right was a good-looking guy—small stature, slick hair—in a dark conservative suit. What really drew my attention to him was an odd thing. The organizers of this young leadership conference dinner had prepared nametags, and below each name was a little hand-drawn cartoon. “Cool cat in sunglasses” was my “emblem.” But this guy had a “small person behind jail bars” cartoon on his badge. Since keeping Leroy Johnson in prison was heavy on my mind, I turned my head toward my dinner companion.
“And who am I lucky enough to be sitting by?” I asked, giving a flirtatious grin. He introduced himself as Richard Benchly. “I’m Mirabelle from south Texas, and I work in economic development—but play anywhere I can.” I am incorrigible. “What kind of car do you drive?” A move to ask a sideways question.
He caught on to my repartee. “I’m partial to German engineering.”
“You wouldn’t happen to drive a Mercedes, would you? A black Mercedes?”
Richard returned an amused smile. “Yes, actually I do.”
Now it was my turn to smile. “I was driving the Jaguar XJS this afternoon.” Together, we both laughed out loud! What were the chances of meeting each other after that little chase action on the interstate? That was rich.
Catching my breath, I settled down a bit and asked, “What do you do? Why the jail bars?” I pointed to his name tag.
“Well, what I do for a living is that I am a business attorney in Houston, mostly mergers and acquisitions. Pretty dull stuff most of the time. But what seems to take almost all my attention is my work in the state criminal justice system. I was appointed to serve in an advisory role.”
Now I was doubly intrigued. “What do you know about the parole system?”
“What don’t I know is more the question. I have worked in that policy area for a few years now.”
I gazed at him intently, the rest of the room disappearing as my attention was riveted on this man. I had not met this person until a few moments ago, but my gut told me to make a move. “Well, then, I have a story to tell you,” I countered.
Richard was an intense person in his own right. He had clear eyes and a clear mind. He listened to my plight with gathering interest.
“What year did the assault take place?”
“What was the charge?”
“What is his name?”
“What exactly was his conviction?”
“What was the sentence sent by the jury?”
“Is he incarcerated now?”
“Where?”
“And who sent you this letter advising you of his potential release?”
“When did you get that letter?”
My answers appeared to strike a chord. Richard was thoughtful for a few moments. He had been asked for help from strangers many times in the past. Most situations were run-of-the-mill, and others were truly gut wrenching. This decision was easy to make. Mirabelle “cool cat” needed help and it was easy for him to ask for information.
The entrée arrived and he shifted his attention to others around the table. Taking his shift as a cue to back off a bit, I let him absorb my tale. The trout almandine was a little bland and needed some lemon juice. I stole a wedge fr
om my iced tea.
When dessert and coffee were served, Richard turned to me and said, “I will be in Austin next week for a meeting.” He asked me if I knew where a certain bank building was downtown. “You come by right before noon. If the meeting has not finished up, you have someone come in and get me out of the meeting. Let me look into this for you.”
The following week, I arrived as instructed at the first floor of the tallest building downtown and let a receptionist know who I was and the person I was meeting. The staffer was prepared for me and gently knocked on the door. In a few moments, Richard eased his way quietly into the foyer.
He brought another senior staff member with him. I did not know this official, nor were we introduced. In his hand he carried what appeared to be a file. I did not see the contents of the file, nor did I ask what it was.
“It was a clerical data input error, Ms. Garrett. The crime he was convicted of carries a twenty-year flat time in prison. He is not up for parole now, and won’t be up for another thirteen years. We have verified the clerical error. We are very sorry for your emotional distress.” His tone was perfunctory and dismissive.
I looked into Richard’s face and his expression told me his assistant was telling me the truth. He imperceptibly nodded and turned back to his bank meeting behind closed doors.
After the door clicked shut, I slumped in a nearby leather high-backed chair. Tears welled up. My neck muscles began to relax. My whole body melted into the oversized chair and I sat there—still, barely breathing—until I could regain my composure.
Walking outside into the bright noonday sun, I thought, “Now what were the chances of my meeting that guy at that time in my life when everywhere I turned there was no one to keep this guy in prison?” I had seen more than my fair share of the work of divine intervention in this ordeal. There was no other explanation—the chances of resolving the parole situation through the regular channels proved to be nil. I turned my face toward the sun and gratefully beamed a prayer of thanks.
And, indeed, I did not receive another such letter for thirteen years.
26
SO OTHERS MAY NOT ENDURE WHAT I HAVE ENDURED
After all these years, I am still pissed that Governor Ann Richards refused to sign the bill that had cleared both bodies of the Texas legislature.
It was early March 1991, and the legislature was back in town. The Texas sky was big and clear and I still marveled at the tallest capitol dome in the country. The pink granite dug from quarries by slaves encased the building with a hue not found anywhere else. Well, at least not anywhere else on this continent.
As I was walking up the long hill from Main Street, I recalled looking at tall pink granite pillars in Egypt, wandering around on a very hot day in the renowned ruins of Luxor. At first, I did not pick up on it, but once inside the Karnak Temple within the Luxor grounds, I kept feeling that I had seen that granite before somehow, somewhere. When I returned home, I reached out to one of the geological professors at the University of Texas and asked about the similarity in color. It turns out that Luxor and Austin lie along about the same latitude and he was not surprised that the granite was so similar. I smiled, recalling my hot-air balloon ride with Charles over the Nile and the Valley of the Kings and Queens. But enough of that. Keep striding—I have work to do this afternoon.
In fact, I was apprehensive about this particular meeting at the capital. It had been almost ten years since my assault and I was still emotionally vulnerable. My scars on the outside had healed quite well, for the most part, but it was very hard to bring that day up to the surface. I had received a call out of the blue two weeks earlier with a completely unexpected request.
A prominent lobbyist had called. I knew Mike and I was a little surprised to hear from him because we worked different issues in the legislature. But politics makes strange bedfellows and the “circus” was in town, and I knew just about anything could happen during session.
Mike was representing the Texas Hotel Association, and his client wanted the law to be changed to allow hotel employers to seek a criminal background check on any new potential employees. Mike was a native Austinite and recalled my assault and the newspaper accounts. He also seemed to recall that my assailant was a hotel employee—but the hotel management denied this. He was vague on the details after that.
“How are you, Mirabelle?”
“About as crazy and tired as you are in this session, Mike! How are you?”
“Hey, it’s only getting started. Say, I wondered if I could speak to you a moment about a bill I am working on.”
“Sure, of course.” I quickly scanned my mental file of active bills within my stewardship. Nothing came to mind.
“I’m representing the Texas hotel and apartment industry this session.”
I clinched up inside. I thought I knew where this conversation was probably going.
“They want to get a bill signed that would let them check out a prospective hire’s criminal background. They can already do an employment history, but are prohibited from digging into criminal histories. I know this might be a tough request for you, and I completely understand if you want to pass, but I was here when you were attacked and several other folks around here recall that as well. Your testimony would make a compelling case for hotel security background checks. Representative Blair is one of the cosponsors and he would be deeply grateful for your testimony, if you think you could do it. He completely understands if you think this is too much to ask.”
I shifted in my mauve office chair. I did not answer directly. I looked out at the slow-flowing river of the capital city. I was not prepared to answer … not yet.
“Mike, that is a tough one for me. I know it’s been nearly nine years, but I have never been public with my story outside of the courtroom, and I’ve shared it in only a few private conversations. I can tell the story, but I don’t know if I could hold up in public testimony. I’m gonna have to think about this. When do you need an answer?”
“The committee is scheduled to take up the bill in two weeks’ time. Since the vice chair of the Committee on Public Safety is supportive, he can be a little flexible in the actual scheduling of the bill to be heard. I also wanted to let you know that the association is prepared to pay you a consulting fee for your services.”
He paused and looked out his own office window with a full view of the capitol dome a mere block from where he was sitting. His reflection reminded him that he needed to take his daily run along the river downtown. He had to stay fit and healthy during session as the demands of late night dinners and cocktails were part of the job. He did not rush me. As an experienced persuader, he knew when to talk and—most importantly—when to listen. He glanced at the sheaf of draft bills on his desk. Lots of calls yet to make today, but he was patient.
“Mike, I don’t know if you realize this or not, but the hotel did not do any background check at all on my assailant. Is this proposed language permissive or mandatory on the background check?” In other words, I was asking if the bill would force the hotels to do a background check on each prospective hire, or would it allow hotel management to do such a search if they opted to do so?
“It’s permissive. The bill would allow management to investigate to a deeper level than they can do now, but we won’t force the issue. One would hope that given the opportunity the prudent thing to do, for any hotel, would be to secure the background of any employee who could enter the domicile of its guests. Other states have implemented such a step and the insurance industry is beginning to ask for this.” He paused for a moment.
“Mirabelle, I’ve been given the authority to offer you a significant consulting fee for your testimony. You will not have to prepare a written statement, only provide verbal testimony to the committee. Tell your story. What you choose to say or not say will be completely up to you.”
I knew my reputation preceded me with this last statement. Mike had seen me testify on other bills and was confident that I could deliver a
punch if I decided to go through with it.
“Let me think about this, Mike. Can I call you before the end of the week?”
“Of course. Take care.” Mike hung up the phone. He thought there was a better than even chance I would do it but did not want to call his client yet. His secretary interrupted his speculation with another urgent call holding on line three.
I was shaken. I left my office and went to the ladies room down the hallway. Good, no one was there. A stall offered privacy and I sat on the toilet seat to collect my emotions. “I think I am over this whole ordeal, then something like this smashes up against my world and here I am back in the hotel room all over again.” I started to cry. I stayed there in the stall with silent tears. Grabbing some tissue paper I wiped my face and gathered myself. There was a sadness splayed on my expression in the mirror. A bit of cold water and paper towels held tight to my face helped me revive before I returned to my office.
That had been three weeks earlier. I agreed to do it, but on the condition that I would not accept a fee for my testimony. However, he agreed to donate the fee to our community shelter for women. I decided that this was going to be my way of “giving back” to the world. Karma, if you please. If this proposed legislation became law and prevented anyone from enduring the pain I continued to endure, then my effort might be a good thing. My nobility of purpose was fading precipitously as I strained up the hill toward the capitol. This was not going to be a pleasant experience. I anticipated that much.
I climbed the granite steps striding in my low-heeled black Italian pumps. I used my body weight and pulled open the oversized door and brass handle to the capitol building, nearly bumping into a group of tourists fresh from a guided discussion of the building provided by a Texas Ranger.
I moved through the entry hall to the circular area directly under the dome. I knew where the committee room was but had to assess the crowd and the rhythm of the business before selecting which way to go. I knew of a private elevator over to the side that I could use if the Senate was not in the process of voting. Not hearing any bells, I spied the dark metal embossed elevator door and punched the call button. Thankfully, there were no other passengers in this tiny portal.
Blood on the Threshold Page 11