I Knew I Was Innocent But...

The detective who questioned me said I was the prime suspect

Relocating to a non-English speaking country is sometimes a real-life game of charades. Imagine trying to solve a Rubik's Cube while blindfolded; you know people are saying something important, but you just can't crack the code. Learning a new language at my age is akin to teaching an old dog new tricks, except this dog has memory issues and a slight hearing problem. In Spanish, they say "poco a poco," which means "little by little." The more accurate translation? "Good luck, buddy!"

In Mexico, things move at a different pace. Back in the US, we have the patience of a toddler on a sugar rush. "Where’s my food? How soon will my car be ready?" Much of American life is lived in fast forward. Here in Mexico, things are a slow-motion scene from an action movie—without the action. But the food is good, even if you have to wait for it sometimes.

I've done some tough stuff in my life, but learning Spanish? That's a new level of hard. Before my relocation I thought in two or three years, I’d be fluent. Well, it's been two years, and now I'm thinking more like ten. I’ve got the basics down. I can navigate a simple conversation, but vocabulary? That’s my kryptonite. Expressing myself and understanding others, which is particularly important, just isn’t easy. It’s a worthwhile investment, though. The conversations I do have are heartwarming and full of life because that’s who Mexican people are.

Here's the kicker: because I can put together a few words into a sentence that makes sense, Mexicans think I’m fluent. Then they switch to turbo speed. Suddenly, I’m in a linguistic NASCAR race but I’m driving a tricycle. I just nod my head, say "sí" or "no" occasionally, and hope I’m not agreeing to something crazy. It’s frustrating.  Happy to report I am making progress—poco a poco.

These sorts of challenges are part of life’s twisted game show. Some are quick and painless, others linger, testing patience at every corner.

Thirty years ago, I encountered a different sort of challenge. One that was frighteningly difficult to overcome but ultimately had major rewards.

I was living in Somers, New York at the time, at the top of Westchester County. Somers wasn’t a very big city, in fact, it was hardly a city at all, but Manhattan was an hour’s train ride away and there was a great Buddhist monastery in the area.  I liked living there.

Writing was my principal activity so I was home quite a bit. The O.J. Simpson trial was on the telly, and of course, that fascinated me. I followed it very closely, learning quite a bit about the American system of jurisprudence and forensic science.

One day I found out that my next-door neighbor had been robbed. She was a very nice woman in her thirties and it was upsetting because it happened so close to my home. The police were at her house investigating and my curiosity got the best of me, so I went over there to see what was happening. Outside the house, a policeman filled me in and mentioned there were some detectives inside trying to get to the truth. He suggested I return home and one of the detectives would come back later to ask questions.

When the detective did stop at my house, I started questioning him in detail perhaps because I was armed with new knowledge about DNA, etc. I told him I’d been watching the trial. He told me that the motive for my neighbor’s case hadn’t been established, nor were there any suspects. But he did reveal the details of the case.

Someone broke into her house through a back window, and made themselves a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Then, they went into her bedroom, grabbed some basically worthless jewelry, took the comforter off the bed, and proceeded to masturbate on the bed itself. WTF?

"We've got the suspect's DNA from the dried semen on the linen," he told me. The detective was a middle-aged Black man wearing a Columbo-style trench coat, seemed miscast. Before I could continue my questioning, he asked me where I was at the time of the robbery. I told him I was home, in my office, working. Did I hear anything? No, it was hot that day, and I had the AC going. I was the only one home.

There were two other neighbors whose houses were within spitting distance. One was an elderly man who kept to himself. On the other side, there was a family with a troubled early teen, who was adopted and had a history of malfeasance. Could he have done it?

The detective asked if I minded coming down to the State Police Headquarters, stating that since I was the only one in the neighborhood home at the time, I should probably file a report. No problem, I thought; I don’t have anything to hide.

We drove down there in separate cars. I’d never been to the New York State Police facility before but it was tiny, with no real technology that I could see—just desks, phones, and a blackboard. He suggested we sit in the conference room.

I sat down, and he closed the door. Then he began to interrogate me. He said that since I was the only one around, I was the most likely suspect. Suddenly, I was the bad guy in a film noir. I loved the genre and had probably watched two hundred such films. But this was very different; I was now the antagonist in a nightmare situation. After reading me my rights and asking if I wanted a lawyer present—I didn’t—he grilled me as if I were a Tuna Melt, up, down, and all around. It was frightening. I knew I was innocent; I certainly had no motive. Yet as he badgered me, I could easily picture myself as the innocent man imprisoned for a crime I did not commit.

After forty-five minutes of pure hell, I volunteered to take a DNA test, which would prove my innocence. He was still extremely suspicious and asked if I was sure I wanted to do that. I gave him my phone number and asked if he was going to charge me. Not at this time, he said. So I left.

I went home and realized I needed an attorney immediately. This was before Google, so I turned to the Yellow Pages to find a lawyer. I located one nearby, called him, and was in his office within thirty minutes. After hearing my story, he assured me he could help, but it would require a two-thousand-dollar retainer, equivalent to four thousand dollars today.

With no other options, I agreed. I just wanted this nightmare to end as quickly as possible.

“I have to assume you are guilty, even if you are innocent. That's the best way to protect you.”

“But I am innocent.”

“That doesn’t matter. And don’t take the DNA test.”

“Why not?”

“If there’s a problem with the test, you’re fucked.”

“I’d rather take the test.”

“Well, think about it. But don’t talk to the police again. They talk to me, not you. Legally, you have the right to remain silent from now on.”

“Okay I get it.  But I’m taking the test.”

“Even though as your lawyer, I advise you against it?”

“Yes.  What I’ve seen on the OJ trial, those things are pretty accurate.”

He called me the next day to tell me we whould meet at the Westchester Hospital in Mount Kisko in two weeks, for the test.

Of course, those were longest two weeks of my life.  He said that in addition to the DNA test, they’d do a drug screening as well.  I didn’t tell him was a cannabis enthusiast but I did decide to refrain from getting high during the two weeks.   I really could have used something to chill me out, but why take a chance.  That unease added to the tension.

There was a small theatre/arts center nearby, The Schoolhouse, that I’d never been to, as I’d just moved to Somers a short time before that.  Seeking diversion, I decided to check out a one man improvisational comedy show at the venue a couple of nights before the test.  The guy was terrible, just not funny.  But when he called for a volunteer from the audience, I stood up.  Within a couple of minutes, I was getting big laughs with my responses to his questions.  The audience loved me.  They probably thought I was part of the show.  When I got those laughs, I looked around the theatre I realized there might be an opportunity for me at the venue.

I had been researching a idea for a play, about Ben Hecht and had just published a book about him.  Hecht was an American screenwriter, playwright, director, producer, and novelist, known for his significant contributions to the entertainment industry during the early to mid-20th century.

During World War II and the years following, Hecht was deeply involved in raising awareness and funds for Jewish refugees and the Zionist cause. He used his talents and influence to create propaganda plays, articles, and advertisements to garner support for the dying Jews of Europe, and then for Jewish independence.

His activism and writings made him a controversial figure, admired by some for his dedication to human rights and criticized by others for his militant stance and provocative methods.

On the day of the DNA test, I met my lawyer and the detective at the hospital, took the test, and smoked a joint as soon as I got home. I knew the worst was over, even though I had to wait another three weeks for the results.

In the meantime, I discovered there was a playwriting group that met weekly at The Schoolhouse. I joined them and brought in a scene for the group to read every week. A year later, I had the first draft of my play written.

The leader of the group liked the play and suggested we do a staged reading at The Schoolhouse, which he arranged. He also introduced me to a director for the reading, an intense fellow named Howard Meyer.

The reading went well and Lee Pope, an heiress who ran The Schoolhouse, decided to produce a full production of my play. I was a long way from bright lights of Broadway but getting this off off off Broadway production was a major step for me.

Howard directed what became "The Pariah," which focused on Ben Hecht’s efforts to save the Jews of Europe during WWII. Learning how to write a play was challenging but rewarding.

At the same time, I had recently started working as a consultant on one of the first major websites, Jazz Central Station, at the infancy of the web. By day, I was part of the dot-com world, and by night, I was writing a play that was soon to be produced.

And I was no longer a suspect in the unusual robbery that had transpired a few feet away from my home. That was certainly a relief.

Howard, who had already worked in New York as an actor, teacher, and director, connected me with his girlfriend’s father, Athol Fugard.

Mr. Fugard is a renowned South African playwright, novelist, actor, and director celebrated for his powerful plays addressing the complexities and injustices of apartheid and the human condition. His work has brought international attention to the struggles against apartheid and continues to be relevant in discussions about social justice and human rights.  During the days when apartheid was at its height, he was jailed for his outspoken beliefs.

We met at the Brewster Diner, and when he learned I was involved with the web, he offered a Master Class in playwriting in exchange for some lessons about using the internet. Of course I agreed.

A few months later, "The Pariah" had its world premiere with a three-week run at The Schoolhouse in Croton Falls, New York. It was received favorably but during the run, I realized I was just a beginner. I needed to keep writing. The New York Times wrote about the play: Read about the Pariah.

Three years later, Howard Meyer and I co-founded the Axial Theatre, creating original theater with our ensemble of writers, actors, and tech people. I wrote four plays that we produced before I moved to Tucson in 2001.

More than twenty five years later, the Axial Theatre is still going strong, now in Pleasantville, New York. Howard still has an acting program and continues to direct. We’re very close friends. And after my big pay days in the 90s working in the dot.com world, I became the Jazz Video Guy, focusing my creativity on filmmaking.

Going to the theatre for a break from the struggle of proving my innocence ended up initiating one of the greatest chapters of my life.

Thankfully, the beat goes on. But I know there are more challenges on the horizon. That’s just part of life.