Blood on the Threshold

by Karin Richmond

  “Yes, but he has to agree to do this,” replied Guerra. “I can speak to him about this and begin to ask some of your questions as a way for you to initiate the process. Now, depending on his answers and his attitude, I may call this off. But that is not my intent. If I can mediate a meeting that—based on my twenty-odd years of experience—I anticipate can result in a good outcome for you, then we can proceed to the next steps. You know, you can pull the plug on this at any time—as can Johnson.”

  I searched his face, took a deep breath, and said, “Yes.”

  “Very well, let me meet with him and see what his reaction is. Any questions you want me to ask to get this started?”

  “How about the obvious ones: Why did he try to kill me? What was his motivation? Is he planning to seek me out and harm me when he is released?”

  Officer Guerra shook his head slightly as he said, “Let me share something I have learned from years of talking to criminals, Mirabelle. They tend, generally speaking, to say to you what they think you want them to say. Or say what they think will get them some kind of reward or get them out of a jam the quickest. You have to realize this when you are talking to him. The criminal may appear to be very sincere and very real, but don’t count on his words being truthful. I’m just trying to help you set realistic expectations in my role as mediator in this process.”

  I nodded and replied, “Let me know what he says after your prison visit.”

  About two weeks went by and Officer Guerra and I continued the mediation dialogue. He conveyed the essence of the conversation he had had with Leroy Johnson. The officer first described my assailant’s demeanor as meek and soft-spoken. He spoke slowly, often repeating himself. “He was surprised that you’ve asked to meet him, Mirabelle. He shook his head and told me he can’t see why.

  “Johnson then said, ‘When I was in high school, I was a stupid young punk caught up in drugs and alcohol. I felt trapped and I felt lost. I had built up a rage that night in the hotel.’ When I asked him, ‘Why did you do that to Mirabelle?’ he replied, looking down, ‘Don’t have no idea, man.’

  “His body slumped, then, Mirabelle. He said, ‘I was running with a bad crowd.’ He looked up then and held my gaze. ‘I would never go back to hurt her. I am truly sorry. I jes wanna start over. I wanna live a simple life. Not bring no attention to myself. Wanna play guitar in church. Wanna sit somewhere so’s I won’t be seen. I learned to run a print press. I can work at a newspaper.’”

  Officer Guerra then described that the prisoner paused and seemed to try to collect himself. He sensed that Johnson was trying to express something that he hadn’t expressed in a very long time.

  “When he spoke again, Mirabelle, he said: ‘I’ve paid for my crime every day of my life. And I should, I know that. But I done lost some things important in my life too. I loved my grandmama and she died whilst I was in here. My family done turned they’s back on me. When I first got here, I was a punk and hung out with the wrong crowd. I’m older now. Done learned how to survive in prison and to stay away from bad influences.’”

  Officer Guerra noted that Johnson seemed sincere. But his experience told him to hold judgment.

  Then Guerra conveyed Johnson’s last words at the end of the hour that passed between them. “‘I’ll meet her if my apology through you ain’t enough,’ he told me, Mirabelle. ‘I will apologize face-to-face. I owe her that.’” The officer paused to let this sink in.

  This was potentially a huge step for me and I needed time to pray and think through my next steps.

  Days later, Officer Guerra and I continued the dialogue. Again, he couched his remarks in the context of a criminal’s mind-set.

  “I hope that I never get to understand it the way that you do, Officer Guerra,” I said. “But it’s a fair warning as we go further into this process.”

  Perhaps because I imagine the worst, and I’ve been told not to trust what Johnson says, I am on guard. As I listen to Officer Guerra, his words begin to slowly fill in the vague outlines of an image I have held of Leroy Johnson for all these years. I take his report in, reminding myself to breathe. I have kept up with the Texas prison unit Johnson was in, but that was about it. Frankly, he deserved this punishment, and the bleaker the better. Now I was hearing that he says he’s sorry and did not know why he attacked me. All he could muster was, “I have no idea.”

  How does one respond to that? Was I just simply in the wrong place at the wrong time? Even though I paid for a hotel room I thought to be secure? That they were responsible for keeping me safe? And failed?

  But my mind keeps wandering to that still place Lynda suggested years before. Was this a chance meeting or was the assault determined by a Higher Power?

  According to Officer Guerra, Johnson was far more animated during the second interview he conducted with him a few weeks later. The two-hour talk in a tiny office revealed a nervous and anxious prisoner. He seemed hesitant to express himself. Johnson had clearly thought about the mediation process and perhaps had sought advice from his prison peers. Officer Guerra speculated they were older and wiser inmates, but still he had to question what, if any, motives his peers might have had making the suggestions they did—which Johnson had seemingly swallowed hook, line, and sinker.

  “Mirabelle, I asked Johnson point-blank, ‘Do you think they want something from you when you get out?’ He did not reply. He either had not thought that far ahead or did not want to answer. Distrust was still hanging between the two of us.

  “‘I jes don’t wanna think about it,’ he said. ‘I want to forget about the whole damn thing. Don’t wanna go back to that time and that place ever again. I wanna move on with my life.’ He reiterated what he’d said during our first session. ‘I don’t wanna harm her. I jes wanna live a quiet life.’”

  Officer Guerra said he pressed on, not wanting Johnson to take the easy way out just because the thought of seeing me was uncomfortable. “I asked him, ‘Do you recall that you broke a bottle of Tabasco on her face?’

  “Johnson slumped and replied, ‘Yes.’

  “‘Did you know that the injuries you gave her still have not healed? That she had an operation just this past year to regain the sight in one eye that you took from her?’

  “At that moment, Mirabelle, Leroy Johnson collapsed emotionally. He broke down at the desk in that stuffy little room. He sobbed. His composure left him for at least ten minutes. Then he regained himself. ‘I really don’t wanna go on with this less’n I know for sure that she wants to do this.’

  “I got a burr under my saddle then, Mirabelle, and fired back at him, ‘What, you think I’m inventing this whole thing? Why should you ask anything of her, anything at all?’

  “‘Because I’m nervous, man, and I wanna know from her—through you—that she honestly wants to go through with this, ’cause I don’t. I guess I owe her that much, if she really wants to do this. I want something to show she really wants to do this, like reassure me she’s sincere.’ His eyes met mine directly, then, and he put it to me straight. ‘I don’t wanna know why she wants to meet, jes that she wants to meet.’”

  Officer Guerra then went on to explain that one thing I could do, which is a step in this process anyway, is to complete the standard mediation form first. Part of the form includes questions that probe each party’s motivations. “Maybe if you fill it out first and sign it, and I show it to him, your assailant will take this as assurance you want to proceed,” he speculated.

  “Why do you suppose he’s doing this?” I asked.

  “I can’t know what goes on in a prisoner’s mind, Mirabelle, but I can tell you Johnson seemed sincere. There was no hint of a punk attitude. Maybe he really doesn’t want to relive that event he has spent years trying to forget. I am sure he has only thought about it from his side, though. Thinking about what you have endured has not been part of his mental state, if I were to extrapolate from what I heard and saw.”

  I needed a few more days to think about this request.

>   But while he was in front of me, I steered the conversation to an idea I had broached with him only tentatively: Why is a female victim registered with the Victim Notification System in this state not warned in real time if her assailant gets anywhere near her? As parents, we can keep tabs on our kids with GPS smart apps 24/7.

  “Good question, Mirabelle. I’m not sure why we can’t provide that service. I just know that we do not alert victims in real time in our present system. Not that it’s a bad idea. I can see some merit in the possibility.”

  I needed more time to think about this request, so I waited a few days to absorb the implications of taking the next step. “Who the hell does he think he is asking me to do something for him?” I asked myself. This attitude stomped around my mind until I realized that if I truly wanted to see him to try and sense any anger he might be harboring toward me, I was going to have to bend my ego and try to turn my fear into energy toward keeping the mediation open. So I took the form and answered the questions as the officer had suggested. My responses were short, simple, and direct.

  Apparently, this was not enough to move Johnson to proceed. When Officer Guerra took the forms with my signature to the prison and for the third time attempted to persuade him to meet me, Johnson’s demeanor had changed. He was backing out before he even glanced at my responses.

  “Mirabelle, he hung his head low and wouldn’t look me in the eye. Said, ‘Officer, thinking ’bout this meeting done made me sick. Can’t sleep. Am depressed. Always nauseated. I jes don’t wanna see her. The one person in my family who still talk to me tells me not to do it. Don’t think I can handle it. Or should have to. Cellmates done told me not to too. I get out in a few months. Don’t need to do this. Ain’t gonna do this. But tell her she got nothin’ to fear from me.’

  “I wasn’t surprised at his change of attitude, but I challenged Johnson on your behalf. ‘Leroy,’ I said, ‘I’ve driven out to this here prison facility three times now, and each time you’ve told me that meeting Ms. Garrett was the right thing to do. Now you’re backing out. Isn’t the real reason why because you can’t face the person you harmed?’

  “All he could do, Mirabelle, was to nod his head real slow in agreement with everything I’d said. And the mediation was over.”

  Officer Guerra relayed this message by phone two weeks after the meeting just in case the inmate had a change of heart. He was surprised that Johnson’s cellmates discouraged the mediation because in his decades with Victim Services, most inmates had been positive about the mediation dialogue program. “But I have to tell you, Mirabelle, I’ve been concerned about his mental state all along. He’s been unable to clearly articulate much of anything. He really does seem to want to live a quiet life, and certainly he does not seem to want to see you or interact with you in any way, shape, or form.”

  I tasted fear bile in my throat. Now I would not know the facial lines of Leroy Johnson. I would not know how he holds himself, his posture, nor would I recognize him by his gait or movements. I would not know him walking down a sidewalk. And, the very worst, I would not recognize him with any of my senses should he approach me. I would have to rely on his repeated declarations to Officer Guerra that he will not harm me. Small comfort when I have been advised to recognize that an imprisoned criminal will say whatever he thinks will get him the best reward at the moment. I cannot rely on Johnson’s declarations no matter how sincere they appear to the officer.

  I think a concealed handgun license is in my future. My very near future.

  30

  FORGIVE, NOT FORGET

  There is never too much forgiveness to go around. The act of forgiving is instilled in most societies since early childhood. Raised in a Methodist family, I had heard the mantra ever since I could remember. I had not ever been big in the forgiveness department. It was a hard lesson for me to learn—much more demanding than “love one another” or “do unto others.” Strength, ambition, and fortitude are my strong suits. And those traits did not often sit side by side with forgiveness.

  I had not—in all honesty—really forgiven my father for failing to lend a hand up the big rumbling bus steps so many decades before. Or all the missed celebrations—birthdays, graduations, and community recognitions—that had an empty seat and an empty hole in my heart when Dad, once again, did not show. I had many opportunities to practice forgiving him, but instead, I leaned on my strong suits and gradually became numb to the slights from him, which ran unabated through my everyday life. When I thought I was strong enough to confront my father about his refusal to help me onto the bus, his reply was pretty predictable from a man raised in the Depression. “Just tryin’ to teach you a little character, to get you to get up and do things on your own. I can’t believe you even remember that!” End of conversation.

  Over the years since the hotel room attack, I had pushed back, struggled, and shoved into dark recesses the prospect of forgiving the angry man who became my enemy. For many years, no great strides were either ventured or gained. But one night an unexpected opportunity for forgiveness sat right down beside me, literally.

  Henry Gonzales was getting ready for an informal meet and greet with a possible new employer, who was actually a friend of his from way back. So they chose a local bar near the capitol complex. Henry slipped into his Dockers, loosened his belt a notch, and grabbed his dark brown jacket. He was getting older and disliked that his midsection had gotten wider over the years. But he was still fit overall and had plenty of experience and training in his field. He still looked good.

  Henry kissed his wife good-bye and gave her a little wink as he strode out the door. Loving her after all these years was his best fortune in life. She had given him a good family and raised his four children, now, praise God, all grown and out on their own. (He made the sign of the cross and mumbled, “In nomine Patris …”) He had stood by her throughout her bout with breast cancer. Thank the Lord that he had been employed with a hotel back then that offered great health insurance benefits. Thank the Lord that she survived and was fully recovered. (Henry again made the sign of the cross.)

  It was early—about five o’clock—even for happy hour, but he wanted to scope out a good seat with a surrounding view. Henry always wanted to know who was coming in a place and kept his back to a wall if at all possible. In his line of work, anything could change on a dime; besides, some habits die hard.

  He sat in the end chair of the bar and ordered a beer. Tall, in a frosted glass. He had a moment to himself, so he settled in to a little reflection. His prospects were good. He was on the shy side of middle age and had kept up his marksman skills on a weekly basis. He was still employed, but the company he worked for was downsizing in this rotten economy and his department felt the pain. It was generous that he had been given sixty days’ notice.

  Catching the glint of the changing light at the glass entrance door, he looked up to see an attractive professional woman entering the bar.

  I swept into the room with an air of confidence and familiarity. I was an accomplished lobbyist and could not begin to remember all the stories that had unfolded here. It was a legislative hot spot, and during session, I could easily meet an elected official here in the cool hip space. Meet and drink, that is. My companion was not yet to be seen; in fact, the place was pretty empty—I checked my watch again—and it was still on the early side of happy hour. But there was a guy sitting at the bar. A quick upand-down look told me he might be good company while I was waiting a bit.

  “This seat taken?” He was a little caught off guard, but managed a quick grin.

  “Well, young lady, I am waiting on a fellow to join me, but until then, the seat is all yours.”

  “That makes two of us.” I returned the smile. “Hi, my name is Mirabelle.” He returned my firm—very firm, in fact—handshake and gave me his full attention. “Henry Gonzales.” He was formal, but quick on the comeback,

  A Cosmopolitan quickly came up, so an amicable chitchat easily rolled off my tongue. “Henry o
r Enrique?” I asked.

  “No, not me, but it was my father’s name.”

  We politely bantered back and forth, but the conversation slowed down when Henry shared with me that he was in the security business, mostly with large projects as a team leader. He used to be in the hotel security business but had moved on from that line of work some time back.

  I looked into his eyes, hard. “Were you here, in Austin, in 1983?”

  “Yes ma’am. I’ve been here some twenty-five years now.”

  I glanced at the front door and around the bar to make sure my companion had not slipped in. All clear. I decided—rather impulsively—to share my story. Using a hushed tone and leaning toward him, I unwound the story of my brutal attack. Where it was, the year, the employee having a list of the guests who were women on their own in a single room, and him “wanting to kill a white woman.” Henry’s eyes grew wider at each turn of the story. His attention was rapt. I noticed that his body language was very still, too still. Something was off.

  “It was me,” he stammered. “I was in charge of security that night at the hotel.”

  I gasped. “What?!”

  “I was supposed to be there that night. I had gone through all the checkpoints, made sure all of the security equipment was on line and working—which it was. I rarely asked for a night off, but my wife was in the hospital. She had cancer then and I wanted to be with her. I spoke with my deputy guard and he was fine taking over, and the night manager said no problem with me going. I left about eight o’clock.

  “I got the call from my deputy about midnight. He had just left your room. He was nearly hysterical. After he calmed down, he told me what he had seen and that he had called the police and an emergency vehicle. The weird thing was that the bartender was already there and there was this other hotel guest there in boxer shorts and laced-up wingtips!”