1996 to 2000, Milwaukee, Wisconsin

By Brandon Krajewski

The late William Rehnquist, Supreme Chief Court Justice who was born in the same city as I, once remarked that the Miranda Rights were “embedded in routine police practice to the point where the warnings have become part of our national culture.”

He’s right, isn’t he? Most of us know about our right to remain silent from the prevalence in which cops use them while arresting fictitious criminals on TV and in film; the words are an expected part of criminal procedure.

Unfortunately, the first time I heard those words was at the age of 13.

As with any clichéd story, mine begins with a rainy night. My parents, who were by now divorced for a year or two, said they had to take me somewhere that we had to keep secret (how exciting, huh?). My guess was as good as yours is now, but I’ll spoil the ending: The police station. They themselves had no idea why I had to come in, but they asked me if everything was OK and if I knew something. I did not.

I have never liked soda. Maybe I have one for dessert or at a barbeque or tailgate, but I immediately regret it once my heart starts burning a hole through my esophagus; I’m a tea and water lover. Sitting in one of those rooms you see in the movies, the one with a single fluorescent light overhead, a simple table and a large “mirror,” I was offered a soda no less than three times during my two hour interrogation.

This soda business is important to note since: 1) it shows my incredible willpower as a 13-year-old to resist a police officer’s empty-calorie offering, and 2) the detail was later noted in court as something to be suspicious about because there isn’t a guiltless child who doesn’t like soda.

So what was I arrested for? Sexual harassment. It’s hard for me, even now, to imagine what kind of harassment a 13-year old Midwestern Lutheran grade-schooler could be capable of. As I listened to the charges brought against me by a classmate, I was astounded; I’ll spare the gory details, but it was more than a little hanky panky. It was strange to hear that one of my very best friends, let’s call her Jane Doe, was making up all these stories and turning me into a monster.

The cops didn’t help; they thought I was guilty from the start, grilling me (under bad lighting!) without my parents. And to think, they wanted to dehydrate me and hop me up on sugar so I’d tell them anything (those plotting, good-for-nothings!). Alas, there was little I could tell them. Jane had spent the night at my house the weekend prior, and I had seen her in school about three days ago and she was as friendly as usual. If she thought me a monster, she certainly wasn’t afraid of me.

There had been some casual spanking, sure, the kind most 13-year olds do to everyone, not just this author. There was certainly no grinding, no boob squeezing, and I definitely did not watch a porno and brag about it to Jane the next day. For the record, the first porno I ever watched was about four years later and I’m completely turned off by the stuff, thank you very much.

I never saw Jane Doe again. She dropped out of school the day after I went to the police and her family stopped attending church. There were many days where I’d have to leave class so I could attend court. It was strange to sit next to the urban kids who were waiting for a hearing regarding their robbery, homicide, and/or general delinquency. Was I as bad as these guys? The Doe family never showed up in court but I was always accompanied by my supportive parents who, while we waited, taught me patience, humor, and how to spin one finger clockwise and the other counter-clockwise simultaneously. I’ve retained all lessons.

For legal reasons, my classmates and their parents had to be informed of what was going on in case their kids were pulled into court to testify. Their pious, religious head-shaking when I walked near their children, however, was worse than any caffeinated beverage interrogation I could dream up. Something unexpected did happen: A wonderful friendship with the former best friend of Jane blossomed (she was interrogated by the same cola pushers), and we’re best friends to this day.

As many court dates came and went, information about Jane Doe began to surface: She had been kicked out of two schools before arriving at mine for suing two other boys for the same thing. She lost, nonetheless, and my grade school principal received a letter from one of Jane’s previous principals warning him that the family should be watched carefully. Somehow this didn’t happen despite the Doe’s living in social and academic trouble for the duration of their enrollment.

Following nearly two years worth of my family’s wasted money and time, and the Doe’s continued failure to appear in court, the case was dropped. After being shoved around by more police, judges, and attorneys, I began to feel pretty bad about myself. I got to hear how horrible I was and that I should be locked away while my parents would have to pay for it. Although we had some semblance of a victory, things weren’t over just yet.

Two years passed and I was a sophomore in high school when my mother asked if I had been calling Jane and making threats. I had not kept Jane’s number after 6th grade and I didn’t even know if she was living in the same place. Another year in court passed and it was hard to believe that Jane and the Does were taking even more money and time away from me. Toward the end of the ordeal, another accusation surfaced that I had been stalking her “around town.” The town of Milwaukee is nearly one million strong and I had no desire to use even more of my resources to follow someone I had come to hate.

Around this time, it was revealed that Mrs. Doe had bolted, Mr. Doe shot himself in the head, and Jane was twice pregnant from two different unmarried fathers. My lawyer successfully argued that Jane was just seeking money and her case was not legitimate.

During the situation, it was hard for me to feel sorry for Jane. How could she say I did all those horrible things to her when I had hardly hit puberty? Did she have me mistaken for someone else? I was her friend! In retrospect, I imagine her very scary parents (they had always creeped me out) convinced her that I had done those things and goaded her along long enough to sway the right people. After all, according to reports, she had done this twice before; the story must have been familiar to her.

But do you know what the worst part is? This is a secret so try to keep it to yourself: I can’t really remember if I did do those things. Ten years have passed since I first visited the police and I’ve tried to block out a large part of a horrific three years. I often wonder how anyone could make up such extravagant stories out of the blue. Is it possible that I did those things? Yeah, but not very probable given both of our past histories. I reassure myself by looking at the evidence: No one else in the class saw or heard anything, Jane bounced from school to school with the same troubles and I had no idea what her number was or where she lived. I didn’t even have a vehicle to stalk her in and believe me, I was not about to take the public transportation system to find her.

Still, on occasion I’m gnawed by the idea that I ruined someone’s life. Of course I’m not responsible for Jane’s mother’s abandonment or her father’s suicide or even her two pregnancies, but it only takes a spark to start a fire, right?

As with any clichéd story, this one ends with me becoming a stronger person. There’s nothing like a good sexual harassment lawsuit to really weed out the people who aren’t going to remain your friends. I had some quality moments with my parents as we spent most of our time waiting to talk to lawyers and their ilk rather than actually doing so. I also became extremely self-conscious about the things I did or said to anyone; I kind of closed myself off to females in case one of them turned out to be like Jane.

I’ve found all of these to be positive things as I’ve become closer to my friends, supportive of my parents as they move on in their separate relationships, and I’ve never been sued since. Oh, and I refuse to drink soda, won’t touch a drop, and that has to count for something.

Brandon Krajewski is an aspiring screenwriter who recently moved to Los Angeles after earning his BA in Film and Theatre & Drama. He is currently working on several writing projects, including a novel adaptation and a horror film about killer cheerleaders.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Tuesday, March 27th, 2007 | Email This Post

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