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.