Monsters are Real

I woke up Saturday morning to a quiet house. I love Saturday’s because it means cartoons. Super Friends and Speed Racer and so many others. I don’t know what time it was, but I was too excited to go back to sleep. I lay still for a second, listening for any sounds. There were none, but I didn’t expect to hear anything. As quietly as I could, I crept to the bedroom door. Gently turning the knob, I open the door, and lightly close it behind me, making sure to turn the knob closed instead of letting it “klatch” shut.

Turning left, I make my way along the hallway toward the bathroom. Hugging the walls, I quickly, but gingerly make my way along. I’m only eight, but I’ve learned how to be as quiet as possible. The middle of the hall creaks the boards under the carpet. Against the walls, with my small frame, socks, and the carpet, no creaks. I’m like a whisper in the wind

I feel like an Indian stalking deer in the forest. I’ve never hunted before, so I don’t know what I would do with a deer, I just know that I have to be absolutely quite to catch one. In my mind, it’s almost like a game, but one with dangerous consequences.

Once I reach the confines of the bathroom, I repeat the process of closing the door, gently twisting the knob so as not to make a sound. I close the door not for privacy, but for the added sound dampening it will provide. Privacy is of no concern in this house where my step-father is a nudist and often walks around naked and has my mother do likewise.

I’m less caution once the door is closed. The toilet seat has a cover that absorbs sound. I can’t be reckless, but I don’t have to be as deliberate and methodical. Once the seat is up, I reach into my pajamas and grab my penis – that’s the word Jim uses when we’re in the bath together – and aim carefully at the side of the bowl above the waterline. It’s a spot I’ve discovered that creates no splash. No splash means no sound. Inside the bathroom, I could barely hear it. Anyone outside the bathroom would have to have their ear pressed against the door, and even then, my excited breathing might be louder. Again, I think to myself, “What would an Indian do?” Peeing out in the forest down the side of a tree so as not to disturb the wildlife.

Billy Jack was an Indian. We have the same name – Jack – but he was tough and strong. He wouldn’t be afraid to make a sound, he’d fight the monster and probably win. I saw part of that movie awhile back, before mom shooed me off to bed. I wish I was more like Billy Jack. I wish I wasn’t afraid of the monster. I wish monsters weren’t real.

As my stream subsides, I’m careful to continue to aim along the bowl, walking it back toward me as it slows to a trickle. Noise is still the enemy right now. I shake my penis a few times to rid it of the last few drops and tuck it away, then close the seat back down as if I was never here. Of course, I can’t flush. The whooshing water and the old pipes in the house could wake the monster.

I know that somewhere past half way on the bathroom door it begins to squeak, so I’m grateful for my thin, eight year old body and how it can easily fit through with the door less than half open. In the hallway, I retrace my steps, hugging the walls again. I make my way past my bedroom, stopping outside my mother’s room briefly listening for any sounds that they are awake.

When I reach the family room, it’s surprisingly dark and empty. It must be earlier than I thought, but I haven’t quite figured out the big hand and the little hand to tell the time. When you have a mother and three older siblings always telling what to do and when, who needs to tell time? I anxious about my next steps. If I turn on the TV and sit close, I can keep the volume down. But if that’s still too loud, it could wake Jim. And even though I can’t yet tell time, I already know that commercials are louder than shows and movies.

If nobody else is up yet, I assume that it’s still too early so I decide to error toward caution and not turn on the TV. But I don’t want to go back to bed. If I fall back asleep in bed, I could miss cartoons. I decide to wait on the couch, hoping that when one of my brothers or sisters wakes, they’ll come turn on the TV. The other thing I know: my older siblings always catch the brunt of the monster’s wrath if we accidently wake him too early.

Laying there on the couch, I think about being an Indian again, making my way through the forest stalking prey. Sleeping outside under the stars. Not being afraid of things like Billy Jack isn’t. As my mind wanders, I drift off to sleep.

Something wakes me. I’m not sure what. I can’t hear the TV, or anything else. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep on the couch, but based on the light in the room, it couldn’t have been long. Suddenly, I sense that I’m not alone. I look down my body and panic. The monster has me in his mouth. I don’t know what to do. If he knows I’m awake, it could get worse. Using all my self control, and all my imagined Indian skills, I pretend to remain asleep. I try not react to what’s happening. I try not to feel anything below my waist.

The feeling of being watched overwhelms me. I look up and see my mother standing at the end of the couch, above my head. I can’t quite make out the expression on her face. Not anger. Not disappointment either, but maybe something in-between. I think she might say something to Jim, so I look down. He hasn’t noticed her; he still has me in his mouth.

I expect fireworks. Rage. Shouting in 3… 2… 1. But it doesn’t come.

Confused, I look above me again, to where my mother was. She’s gone. A quick glance around confirms she’s not in the family room either. I’m alone with the monster again.

San Jose, CA – June, 2006.

I took a day off work to come down here in the middle of the week. The courthouse, as they’re designed to be, is imposing. Through the doors, I’m blocked by the security desk. Four sheriffs’ deputies turn to look my way as I’m the only one entering and the building appears near empty. I can’t help but give the deputies number names: One, sitting behind the x-ray machine; Two, behind One, facing the wall, writing reports; Three and Four near the back of the security area deep in conversation. Well, Three is talking, Four is nodding with the occasional, “uh huh.”

I place my messenger bag on the conveyor and One advances the belt so my bag is in the box. I remove my belt and empty my pockets – cell phone, belt, wallet, watch, and car keys all go into a basket on the counter. After studying the x-ray screen, One advances the bag out the other side, then picks up the basket and, using a pen, pushes around the contents looking for anything dangerous. Finding none, he puts the basket down on the counter on the far side of the machine next to my bag, then watches closely as I step through the metal detector. Nothing beeps and I can see One visibly relax.

As I’m lacing the belt through my pant loops, I ask Three and Four, “Records?” Three doesn’t stop talking, but Four cocks his head to the left, “Around the corner.”

“Thanks.”

A few feet past the lobby a brass-framed sign near the top of a doorway 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 am now a few feet away from a year’s long search to find the truth about my childhood. I’m afraid of what I might find but 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 of memories that I'm not even sure are mine. I’ve come looking for answers - for proof - so I push my fears down and step into the Records Office.

The 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 security station 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, but don’t know why it should be.

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 the blonde must have won out as she starts to ask questions before I’ve even completed writing 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.”

In the Records Office, all the paper-shuffling and conversation suddenly fade to silence. From the far end of the room, a phone rings unanswered. The blonde’s eyes open wide in surprise then narrow to look at me intently, trying to gather meaning from my words. A Deputy behind the cubicles who was talking to another clerk turns his head quickly in my direction. He growls, “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 Jim were dead. In my mind, I picture him, 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 to befriending a young boy whose parents are 15 minutes late picking him up. If Jim'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. We share a look but she doesn’t say anything about it and neither do I.

“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.

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 bulging messy 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 confining space. I realize now that the glass topped walls are to make sure I don’t take anything I’m not supposed to. There is one plastic chair in front of a small work table which has just enough space 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 me.

I prop my messenger 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 which I have yet to open. I take a deep breath trying to settle my nerves, 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.”

“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.” Two years. The term prescribed by law in 1976 was only two years.

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

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

“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, leaving me gasping for breath.

Suddenly, my feelings come rushing up and I can't stop myself crying. 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.

My testimony that day 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.”

Danny and I would have to take baths with Jim. He would “wash” us. He taught me (I don’t know if Danny remembers) how to masturbate him and he would masturbate me and showed me how to do it myself. The “bathtub incident” was a long running pattern and part of my conditioning.

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

Surprisingly, I don’t feel anger for Jim. I hate what he did to me. More than the abuse, he stole my family from me. We had to keep his secrets and we learned that so well that we kept them from each other. My siblings and I, now 30 years later, are so far apart from each other we might as well be strangers. I’ve gone stretches of five or six years without talking to anyone in my family. Jim is a sad pathetic character whom I imagine cannot control his attractions. I feel sorry for him too and for everyone he's hurt, but I don’t hate him. Maybe that’s part of the conditioning too. Stockholm syndrome I think they call it.

The cute blond stands at the counter behind the Plexiglas and announces, “The Records office will be closing in 15 minutes.” I glance at the clock on the wall behind her: 4:45. I check my watch not believing I've been here two hours already. I’ve barely read the first paper-clipped 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 thanks.” 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 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 information in the documents I have now and I see no need to open up every old wound, 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 spent more than a hour talking to Jim.

Dr. Stein was first to visit Jim and he concluded his two page assessment (as for that, both doctors seemed to make similar conclusions) in this way:

This case can be viewed 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.

San Jose, CA – September 1976.

After the trial, Jim would call mom daily trying to convince her that it was all a misunderstanding. Asking her to wait for him. Gaslighting her. When that didn’t work, he recruited some of his long-time friends, convinced of his innocence, to speak with mom and pressure her.

Surprisingly that didn’t work either. Somehow, she found the strength to resist. She listened to the testimony of her children. But she didn’t come away unscathed. The guilt was rotting away at her from the inside and she did what she knew: she fled. Looking for a fresh start, she fled to Portland Oregon where her sister's husband was pastor at a local church.