Magnolia Mexicana

Originally published years ago, this story feels just as important now. I share it again, with edits, as part of my Magnolia Mexicana journey.

October 12 2020

Last month our city was shaken by the headline that three brothers were accused of raping a ten-year old girl. Two of the brothers were arrested and a photograph of the third was circulated all over social media and all local news outlets. Sadly, the incidence of rape in our community seems to grow every passing day. While I do not have exact figures, I encountered numerous cases while working as an interpreter at a criminal defense law firm. There was one case I worked early in my career that haunts me to this day.

The case began like so many others. Someone called saying they were looking for an attorney to represent a family member in a criminal matter. The person calling would be needing an interpreter and so would the client. We would be meeting with the “Maria” that same day to discuss the case of her good friend “Pedro”. She told us all about “Pedro”, who was being falsely accused of the rape of a minor. Having worked on a similar case, I immediately knew how delicate the situation was. However, I was not prepared for the emotional toll it would take on me personally. 

As Maria spoke, I studied her closely. Her eyes were screaming for help. She seemed like a hard-working, honest woman who would never be on the side of a rapist. I interpreted everything she said to the attorney as he took notes on his laptop unfazed by any of the events she described. Maria painted a picture of a highly unjust situation. The alleged victim was “Pedro”’s stepdaughter. Apparently, “Pedro”’s wife was in the habit of getting rid of her husbands by getting them into trouble with the law, knowing full well that they would eventually be deported back to their native country. 

The very next day, I was instructed to accompany one of our associate attorneys to visit 

“Pedro” for an initial interview. As strange as it may sound, I enjoy doing jail visits. It is much more interesting than being at the office, in front of a computer. While I had been to the Jefferson Parish Correctional Center many times, that morning was different. This visit would mark me in more ways than one. 

We signed in and waited to be called up to the attorney-client meeting rooms, which were on the second floor. Fifteen minutes and a pack of M&M’s later, we were called up. The corrections officer informed us that the public elevator was broken and that we would using the service elevator. The service elevator was exactly as you would imagine:  dirty and smelled like a mix of cafeteria food, dirty laundry, humidity, and sadness. I cannot say that I detected regret.

Pedro was a soft spoken, Hispanic male in his early 30’s. We met with him for about two hours. He narrated the story as Maria had told it, adding that he was severely bitten by the police dogs on the night he got arrested. He showed us his scars and began crying as he 

described everything he had been through thanks to this no-good woman who was falsely accusing him of this unspeakable act.

I maintained a professional demeanor but internally, I genuinely pitied him. I have asked myself several times why I felt so sorry for him, each time coming up with a different theory. Maybe it was the fact that he was Hispanic and I felt a connection with him on that level. Maybe it was the amount of injustice that was being described to my rookie ears. Maybe it was it because it has always been my nature to feel empathy or maybe it was because seeing a grown man cry made a big impression on me. 

We informed “Pedro” that we would be at his next court hearing and would work diligently on his case. He ever so graciously shook our hands but failed to make eye contact. We walked out, and I was glad to breathe fresh air.

A couple of weeks went by and “Pedro” sporadically crossed my mind. I remembered the tears running down his face. I thought of how surely it must be the lowest point of his life. I even felt fulfilled by my job in helping the people who needed it most, people who were being wrongfully prosecuted. 

Then one morning, I was asked to listen to his jail calls and was warned that there were hours of them.  I anticipated it would be a boring and time-consuming but relatively easy task. I grabbed a drink, a bag of chips and the white beat-up headphones that everyone in the office used, sat down in front of the computer and pressed play. The first few minutes went by and I was tempted to play with my cell phone. 

Just then, as if the universe had conspired to shake me up emotionally, an unforgettable exchange came on. It was a conversation between “Pedro” and a woman. The woman turned out to be his wife and mother to the alleged victim. The call caught my attention because I was under the understanding that they were not supposed to have any kind of communication. In broken Spanish, she was trying to explain this to him. In broken English, he was responding. Then suddenly, with a heavy accent but clearly enough to be understood, she asked him why he had done this to her daughter. His response? “It was only one time.” It. Was. Only. One. Time. My heart sank and my stomach turned. I felt a strange combination of the need to vomit and the need to cry but neither prevailed. I yanked the headphones off and sat there, too upset to speak. How could I have believed him? Was I that bad of a judge of character? Had I not learned anything from life?

For a long time, I held this against myself as if I had let myself down. The feeling that plagued me can only be described as disappointment. How could I continue to trust people when life showed me over and over again that people lie? For the next few months, I did much soul searching.  I can now say that I have processed these feelings and learned from them while 

getting to know myself a little bit better.

We cannot allow others to rob us of our faith, whether that faith is in God, love, politics, or human decency. I choose to have faith in people and that will never change. However, it is my sincere hope that together as a society, we do a better job at, detecting predators, educating our sons, and protecting our children because one story about rape is one too many.