Christmas Dance (pt2)

I woke up lying face down on the cold asphalt. I didn't know where I was or why I was on the ground so I started to roll over to sit up. Right away a pair of hands held my shoulders and a man's voice I didn't recognize said, “Stay still. Don’t get up.”

My glasses had been knocked off and I couldn't see anything clearly. All the things in front of me were diffused as if filtered through a rainy windshield. There were a lot of lights but I couldn't see any faces clearly and none that I knew. I also wasn't able to recognize any of the voices of the people holding me down. Then I had a dreamlike vision; I didn't know if it was real: a pair of white shoes, seemingly not attached to anything, rising and falling. Then I heard a woman’s voice, loud and strong, “Don’t move him. I’m a nurse.”

I tried to roll over again to see what was going on, because it still hadn’t dawned on me that I was the one she was talking about. Again the hands on my shoulders kept me down, but this time it felt like there were more of them, and some at my side holding my waist and legs. That’s when I got scared. I heard Kyle’s voice but I couldn’t make sense of what he was trying to say.

I began feeling pain all along my body. Everything seemed to hurt at once, but some places more than others. And I started shivering uncontrollably, which didn't help the things that hurt. It was a cold night, but mostly, I think, I was shivering from adrenaline.

At the hospital I was examined, cleaned up, and bandaged. My foster parents, Roberta and Big John, showed up and the doctor told them I had a concussion and a lot of scrapes and sprains. The right side of my face from eyebrow to chin was one big road rash and my right ear stuck out now, red and swollen. I had similar scrapes and swelling on just about every joint on the right half of my body. They ace-wrapped my knee and elbow, splinted two fingers on my right hand, and a nurse put a butterfly bandage on the cut over my right eye. As banged up as I was, the doctor felt that x-rays weren't necessary.

“Wake him every hour,” the doctor said. “Ask him a few questions when you do. If there are problems, bring him back in right away.” and with that we were off. I was given a pair of crutches and released at about three in the morning.

Back at the Reynolds house, it was decided that I should sleep on the couch so that Roberta, Big John, and Kyle's older sisters, Debbie and Donna, could take turns waking me on the hour. When I woke late the next morning, I was confused all over again: why am I on the couch and why do I hurt so much? Roberta, Kyle, and Debbie were sitting in the living room staring at me which added to my confusion.

Slowly, I remembered what happened the night before, but I didn't remember anyone waking me every hour. “You guys forgot to wake me up in the night.” I managed to croak out.

Roberta laughed that throaty laugh she has (which I always thought was from her pack-a-day habit), “No we didn’t, dummy.”

Kyle said,“We woke you every hour, just like the doctor told us.” He had a big shit-eating grin on his face. As I was his best friend, I assumed the grin as him being happy that I was alive.

“How come I don’t remember?” I asked, trying to get myself into a sitting position.

Roberta laughed some more, “You carried on conversations until we told you to go back to sleep so we could get some rest.” If the Bronx accent wasn't enough, using words like "conversations" and "yous" always reminded me that Roberta grew up in New York.

“I did?” I felt so groggy and confused. I didn't even remember walking out of the hospital.

Later in the day, Roberta asked if I wanted to call either of my parents and let them know what happened. The last number we had for my mother wasn't working and we had no other way of reaching her. It had been a while since we'd heard from her and I knew that she could be anywhere in the state now. I wasn’t sure we should tell her anyway; there wasn’t anything she could do and it would just make her worry.

With my father, I was a little concerned that he would read it in the Los Gatos Daily which might cause trouble. He didn’t seem to take any interest when I saw him in town three weeks ago, but I felt that calling him was the right thing to do.

I dialed the number I had memorized years ago and my dad picked up, “Hello?”

“Hi, dad? It’s me, Jack.”

“Oh, hi. What’s up?”

“I, uh, I just wanted you to hear it from me. I was in an accident last night. I was run over by a drunk driver.”

“Oh?” There was a long pause then and I’ll never know what he was thinking, but what he said was, “How’re you doing in school?”

“Um, fine, I think. We just finished the semester and I'm pretty sure I passed everything.”

“Good.”

“Uh, well, okay. I, uh, I just didn’t want you to read it in the paper and worry, so I called.”

“Okay. Thanks. Bye then.”

“Bye.”

I don’t know what I was expecting, perhaps some worry or concern for my situation, but his attitude took me by surprise. Maybe he assumed because I was calling that I wasn’t hurt, or at least not hurt badly. He didn't even sound concerned about school though - it was just something to talk about. At that moment, I realized that I was truly a foster child now. My mother had disappeared and my father didn't care. Things could only get better!

Christmas Dance (pt1)

Kyle, Andre, and I were together again and it was almost like it was when we first met at Fisher. We’d all grown some, change a little, and had experienced different things since I'd left. Andre and Kyle had drifted apart and hadn't seen each other in a couple of months. Now, however, the three of us were hanging out like we had before. This time, I was the glue of the friendship – a roll that Kyle had two years before.

Since none of us had girlfriends, it was no surprise that we were without dates when it came time for the Christmas Dance that December. For sure there were girls in our lives - Kyle and Andre had been hanging out with Julie and her younger sister Janet. Both girls also went to Los Gatos High. I had met a lot of new people since I moved back to town two months ago, but I was too shy to ask a girl to the dance. So we were all going stag and planned to meet up with Julie and Janet at the gymnasium.

At about seven, Andre showed up at the Reynolds home and the three of us walked the few blocks down to the high school. The girls were there before us, and we all went in together to the dance. Once inside, I may have danced the least of anyone there, but it was fun for me to talk to old friends from Fisher. Occasionally, Julie or Janet would drag me out onto the dance floor, but mostly I stayed off to the side talking with different people.

Almost exactly at ten, the girls' father showed up to take them home. Since we’d lost our main dance partners, we decided to head over to the 7-ll across the street to play Mrs. Pac-Man. Playing video games was something new for me and I was liking it and learning quickly.

Sometime around eleven, we realized that it was probably time to head home. Although Kyle’s mom wasn’t the type to get upset with being a little late, especially from a dance, we knew that if we were really late, we’d be in trouble. Anything after midnight would be considered "really late."

We walked quickly up Los Gatos Boulevard toward the Reynolds house - my foster home. We knew Andre still had about a twenty minute walk from there to his house. As we walked, we bragged about our video game skills and talked about the girls we danced with and we talked about the ones we didn't. Just what you’d expect three teen-aged boys to talk about.

Shortly after the intersection for Highway 9, somewhere near Filmer Street, we stepped off the sidewalk and into the crosswalk to get to Kyle's house. I think that I was on the outside and Kyle was next to me. Andre hadn’t yet stepped off the curb when I had this nagging feeling that something was wrong. The cars that were turning off Hwy 9 would normally light us up from behind before flashing past as they completed their turn, but one set of lights behind us didn’t flash past - they kept us framed longer than they should have.

As I turned to look behind us, I saw a pair of headlights coming right at me. It was the last thing I remember before waking up on the pavement a few minutes later. Kyle and Andre told me later that I went up and over the right front fender of the car. Somehow my leg must have clipped Kyle (he had a huge bruise on his leg), knocking him down and away from danger. Andre said he was untouched by either fender or flying limb and, after his initial shock, went running after the car.

He didn’t have far to run, he said later, the car crashed into a telephone pole half a block further up. Just as he got to the driver side door, the woman stumbled out and fell into his arms. Her last conscious words to him were, “I didn’t hit anybody, did I?” She was the definition of falling down drunk.

Records Room (pt3)

There’s more.  My testimony goes beyond the dates in question and is stricken because it happened outside the jurisdiction of Santa Clara County: “Over objection Jack also testified to an incident in Lake Tahoe in 1974 when Jack orally copulated appellant at appellant’s request… the trial court denied appellant’s motion to strike all of Jack’s testimony… the court ordered the testimony concerning the bathtub incident stricken.”

I feel sorry for this boy and I cry for him.  I remember how alone he felt, how terrified.  He was betrayed by the people who were supposed to protect him.  And I cry for myself because I know that the eight-year-old boy in this document is me, but at the same time, it isn’t me.  Not anymore. 

Surprisingly, I still don’t feel anger or hatred for Jim.  He’s a sad pathetic character whom I imagine cannot control his attractions.  I feel sorry for him too and for everyone he's hurt.

“The Records office will be closing in 15 minutes.”  The cute blond stands at the counter behind the Plexiglas and makes the announcement.  I glance at the clock on the wall behind her: 4:45.  I’ve been here two hours?  I check my watch not believing.  I’ve barely read the first packet of documents.  I feel like I’ve just scratched the surface and I haven’t made a single note.

“How do I get copies?” I ask the woman opposite the glass in the cubicle.  I’m in a rush now as I want copies of everything but know I don’t have time enough for it.

“Give me what you want copied” she says.

I pull the top documents, the transcripts, and slide them under.  “This.”  Flipping quickly through the rest of the pages, I pull a few more; arrest reports, doctors letters, more court transcripts; and slide them under, “And these.”  I flip some more.  When I’m done, I’ve copied two-thirds of the folder.

“That’ll be $15.00.”  She tells me.  “Do you need a receipt?”

I hand her fifteen in cash.  “No.”  I look at the clock on the wall.  It’s now 5:15.  Coping took half an hour and I’ve kept the cute blonde and her coworker late.  “Thank you,” I mumble as I stuff the copies into my Airborne bag.

Later at home I spend several hours reading and re-reading the file.  I wonder what I left behind because I didn’t copy it.  Should I go back?  There’s plenty of evidence in the documents I have now and I see no need to open up every old scar, so I decide to accept what I already have and leave the rest.  I know that soon, those records too will be destroyed as too old and then they will be gone forever.  I feel as if I’m burying something, but it’s an unknown something, and I’m strangely peaceful with that.

Included in my packet are two reports from psychologists that were brought in to examine Jim.  The doctors, both men, interviewed Jim in the Santa Clara County jail.  Neither doctor states how long they spent interviewing Jim. 

 Dr. Stein was first to visit Jim and he concluded his two page assessment in this way:

“This case can be view from two vantage points. From one point of view, an argument can be made for classification in the Mentally Disordered Sex Offender category. This is particularly so in view of his prior commitment to Atascadero State Hospital.  His present offenses would then be in the nature of recidivism, and this then could lead to his classification as a sex offender.

On the other hand, the present offenses apparently occurred within the context of the family as they did originally. This, therefore, tends to make this case more of an incest type of case. Ordinarily, such cases of incest are not classified in the Mentally Disordered Sex Offender category. While there is thus some contradictory element in this case, I am inclined to lean in the direction of Mr. M not being classified as a mentally disordered sex offender.”

They called what he did a simple case of incest?  He pursued and married a woman with five children all under the age of ten and molested each of them.  From day one he began training us to keep his secrets.  He isolated us from our mother and from each other.  He moved the family whenever the neighbors or the schools asked too many questions, or the wrong ones.   It was all calculated and systematic and two doctors spend an afternoon talking to him and determine, “He is not a threat to society?”  Were we all that naive in 1976?  As a people, as a country, were we blind to it, did we not see?  Or did we see and just refuse to believe?

Two years later, Jim would be free to walk the streets again.  The law wouldn’t start to crack down on sex offenders for at least another decade.  Media attention and public outrage lead to a series of laws and penalties for sexual predators and eventually to an offender registry and database.  All of that was much too late for me and my family.

Records Room (pt2)

Jim was my step-father.  He knew my parents when they were still married to each other.  They all belonged to the same bowling league in San Jose.  Mother and dad were already having issues and I think Jim was able to convince my mom that she should leave dad.  Just about a year after the separation, only days after the divorce was final, Jim and my mother were married in a small ceremony in Reno where we were living at the time.

I can still picture my mother in her wedding dress; her natural blond hair spilling out underneath the veil. She was just 34 at the time, still young and beautiful, not worn down by life as she is now.

My siblings and I all protested her marriage to Jim, but mom dismissed our complaints, “You’re all upset because you want your father back,” she told us.  “Most of you are too young to know what your father was really like!”

That may have been, but there was still something about Jim we didn’t like.  We just didn’t know what it was until it was too late and by then we didn’t know how to stop it.

In the Records Office, the paper-shuffling and the talk in the room suddenly fade to silence.  From the far end of the room, a lone phone rings unanswered.  The blonde’s eyes, open wide at first then look at me intently, trying to gather meaning from my words.  Another Deputy behind the cubicles jerks his head my way, “That’s a hell of a thing to say in here.”

I search my mind replaying what I said.  I felt no anger or hate when I said I wished he were dead.  In my mind, I picture Jim, 70 or 75 years old, having a tea-party with the neighbor’s daughter.  I can see him walking, hobbling, to the local ball field, and befriending a young boy whose parents are 15 minutes late picking him up.  If he’s still alive, he’s still hurting someone.  I want him to be dead so no one else has to go through what I did.  But I don’t explain myself to the Deputy or to the cute blonde clerk, who suddenly has an interested smirk on her face.  I’ve become interesting.

She finds the records entry in her computer, takes my form from underneath the Plexiglas and writes a number and letters in the DOCUMENT ID field.  She looks at the records again and her face scrunches up quizzically, looks intently at me for the second time, then back at the computer screen.  I think the report tells her the criminal code of the trial and if she’s worked in Records for any length of time, she probably knows what it means.  She gives me a knowing look but doesn’t say anything about it.

“The original trial records were destroyed but we have the appeal.
She says.  "They’re in storage, so we’ll have to pull them out.  You can come back next week to view the records.”

“What day next week?”

“Leave your number and we’ll call.”

I write my cell number on the form.  “Thank you.,” I say as I walk away.

I’ve been gathering the official records of my past for several years now trying to put all the pieces together.  I have a document from the Portland Public Schools District listing the four schools that I attended in that city from 1976 to 1978.  I have a news article from the Modesto Bee about the four months we spent homeless in 1982.  I have other school records from Reno, Nevada and Ridgecrest, California showing my brief attendance in those two towns.  Online, by phone, or letter mail request, I’ve sent off for the official documents that map my life.  I’m still trying to get school records from Stockton, Modesto, Oakdale, San Jose, Felton, Santa Cruz and Los Gatos.  In all, there are nine elementary schools, four middle schools, and seven high schools.  The documents I’m looking for today however, are by far the most significant and the most painful and I have put them off to the last.

The next week, the blonde is there again.  She remembers me.

“ID?”  I pull out my wallet and hand her my driver’s license.  She writes my name and number down in her log and hands it back.  Then she turns to a long row of file cabinets lining the wall behind the counter and pulls a thick folder from a drawer.

“Take one of the cubicles,” she says as she nods toward them, pointing with her chin, “we’ll give you the folder there.  You’re not allowed to take this out of the room but we can make copies of anything for $.10 a copy.”

There’s a woman in the fourth cubicle, closest to the door, the other three are empty.  I choose one and close the door behind me.  It’s a small crowded space.  I realize now that the glass topped walls are to make sure I don’t take anything I’m not supposed too.  There is one plastic chair in front of a small work table which has just enough to open the folder.

Another Records employee sits behind the glass on the opposite side and slides my folder through the slot barely looking at it or at me.

I prop my Airborne bag on the floor against the door , there’s no other place for it, and sit upright and stiff in the chair, staring down at the folder, as yet, unopened.  I take a deep breath, then another, and open the folder. 

“Defendant James Metternich (hereinafter appellant) appeals his conviction and sentencing on one count of violating section 647a and two counts of violating section 288 of the Penal Code.  For the reasons hereinafter stated we affirm the judgment of the trial court.”

The appeal is dated Jan 25, 1978.  Reading further, I discover that 647a is “Child Molest” and 288 is “Lewd act with a child.”  Suddenly, the feelings I was missing last week come rushing up and I can't stop myself crying.  I’m forty years old and I’m in the Superior Court Records room and I’m crying like a baby.

I’m ashamed of my tears and my feelings.  I thought I’d left these far behind me years ago, but I was wrong.  Wiping my eyes with my sleeve, I look about to see if anyone has noticed.  The woman opposite the glass wall, still at her desk, goes about her business and pays me no mind, so I read on.

“On appellant’s motion the prior 288 conviction was stricken as constitutionally invalid, Count I was dismissed and Count II was reduced to a misdemeanor…  Both sides waived a jury trial…  Appellant was found guilty on Counts II, III, and IV… He was sentenced concurrently on Counts III and IV to state prison for the term prescribed by law.”

“Count II … molesting 13-year-old Tom…”

“Count III… Lewd and lascivious acts upon 11-year-old Paula…”

“Count IV… lewd and lascivious acts upon 9-year-old Jack…”  I see my name in print for the first time and it hits me like a punch to the gut, taking my breath.

Records Room (Ch1 pt1)

Four Sheriff's Deputies turn and stare at me as I enter the building.  I lay my olive green paratrooper bag flat onto the conveyor belt, patches up. The patches are from units I've served with - 9th Infantry, USAFS Sinop, San Jose State ROTC - and my name badge and airborne wings all sewn on the flap. It's my favorite bag, but the real reason I brought it today was to try and establish a bond with the Deputies, as if to say, "I could be one of you."

From behind the Plexiglas, under the close observation of the first Deputy, I remove my belt and watch.  Carefully I reach into my pockets and pull out all the loose change, my cell phone and car keys.  All of these go into a plastic basket that waits for me on the counter.  With his pen, the Deputy prods around the contents of the basket looking for weapons, and I quickly give myself a pat-down to make sure I haven't missed anything.

A second deputy motions for me to step through the metal detector.  Nothing beeps or flashes as I pass under the arch and the officers watching visibly relax a little.   A conditioned response, I think, and not because I look threatening.  One of the Deputies at the back of the counter nonchalantly glances at the contents of my basket before sliding it to me.  His conversation with the forth Deputy carries on uninterrupted as he does this.

I feed the belt through the loops and slip on my watch, then drop my keys and change back into my pockets.  I ask, “Records Office?”

The other Deputy in the conversation, the only one who hasn't actively searched through my stuff, turns slightly and jerks his thumb to the right, “Around the corner.”  I grab my bag, check the basket one more time, and then walk to where the officer pointed. 

Around the corner, a brass-framed sign juts out away from the wall and in stark government fashion has the word RECORDS in small white print on a wood-grain background.  I stop outside the entryway and suddenly my pulse races and I find it hard to breath.  I’m afraid of what I might find; what it might say; and what that might reveal about me, my life, and my childhood.  I’m also afraid I won’t find any of the records I'm looking for and I’ll be right back where I was, not “knowing” anything but what I’ve been told and the brief scraps that I think I remember.  I’m not sure which of these fears is more paralyzing but I’ve come looking for answers - for proof - and I push my fears down and step into the room.

The Records room is a large space that I can tell stretches the whole length of the building on this side.  The plain wall on my right is the wall opposite of the x-ray machine I just passed through.  In front of me is a small lobby area.  Four small cubicles with half-doors topped in glass line the left side.   Behind the cubicles, the Records employees sit at various desks surrounded by file cabinets which are scattered about like sentries.  The wall on the right and the cubicles on the left form a path to a counter, also topped with glass which I assume is bullet proof.

A young blonde woman gets up from her desk and walks to the counter.  I surprise myself by noticing how attractive she is.  But this isn’t the place to flirt, nor the time. The blonde looks at me but doesn’t say anything.  The look on her face is a mixture of impatience and boredom as only a government employee can do.

“I’m looking for court records from 1974 or 1975.”

She turns slightly and grabs a sheet of paper from a stack, “Fill this in.”

I glance at the form, a request for records search, and begin to write.  The impatience in her must win out as she starts to ask questions before I’ve even written in my name.

“Name of the defendant?”
            “Metternich.”  She looks at me funny and I spell it for her as she begins to type on the computer.

“M-e-t…” she starts.  I spell it again only a little slower

“First name?”        

“James.”

“Date of birth?”         

“I don’t know.”

“What year did you say?”

“1974 or ‘75 was the trial.”

“Do you know if he’s still alive?”  She asks.
            “I hope he’s dead.”