Monday, November 13, 2006

Sweet dreams are made of these…

There is an ego issue involved in blogging that sometimes gets the better of you. I mean, you get to sit here and ramble on about all kinds of issues without the bother of having other people's egos get I the way. And believe me, this is great. With blogging, you get to win the argument every day. "I am right damn it and now everybody knows about this!" Ah blogging is good drugs, good drugs. Pure endorphins some times. And those moments one can slip into good dreams, grandiose and satisfying dreams…

I have such dreams sometimes. Sometimes my dreams are of times past, of people whom I no longer see, things that happened long ago that I like to relive- and some that I don't. But sometimes I like to dream of the future, of what might be. Yea… I am having one now…

We are in the courtroom; the place is packed to the brim with reporters, bikers, cops; the big time politicians from Poland, maybe the American ambassador. Spotlight on Zaremba and his wife. His daughter conspicuously absent; she now under the care of a psychologist trying to come to grips with what her family did to her over this incident. Why are we here? Vindication; finally and with as much weight as such a thing can have. "This is not only for Mr. Goodman." Reads the front page of the Warsaw Respublika that day, "This is for all bikers, all tourists, all of Poland; even for all of the world. Today is a day of truth. Today is the day we stand up and say we were wrong, that we forgot our responsibilities, that we caused great pain to too many people and corrupted our loves to the point that life here became not worth living. We are doing this for all of the Poles who have since left for Europe rather than stay and rebuild- we are doing this today to show the world that we have learned from our folly, that we have agreed that it is time to become better and that this one man, who was willing to give so much of his own life for no other reason than that his principles told him to do the right thing- was not in any way a criminal, but was in fact a hero! A real hero and that we need to show the world, the whole world, the we see this now clearly and that we acknowledge that this was and is and must be forever the truth."

Meanwhile the other newspaper, the Gazetta re-plays the issues of the original case using computer diagrams showing the incident and even some of the documents I had written for the courts (but that had been ignored). The stories, taking up almost two thirds of the paper even include a story about the Critical Mass Riot in which th police, because of Zarmeba's lies, attacked and beat a group of riders and about the arrests and disbarment of the prosecutor Stanislaw Wiesniakowski, Martin Boris, Wojciech Tomczyk, Apprentice Judge Zurawska and Irena Krzaczek.

Zaremba stands there alone now. We all know that that he was the one who started all of this. All of Poland and most of Europe and America know his name now. Parents are now using his name as a euphemism for children who do things without a thought as to future repercussions. "Don't be a Zaremba!" they scream now, "If you don't do your homework you won't get good grades. If you don't get good grates, you won't get into the university. If you don't get into the university, you won't get a good job. If you don't get a good job, you won't have money. And if you don't have money, you will end up doing stupid, petty criminal acts to try and get some! Think ahead a little, you little schmuck!"

And there I am- still defiant. I look right into Zaremba's eyes, just like I did years before. I look into his heart, into his soul. "Who's the lair?" I hiss at him? "Who's laughing now?" He of course makes no reaction other than that you can see the slightest spark of electricity behind his shifty eyes- he is still trying to weasel out of it, trying to find an angle. Even with the weight of the whole world now so completely resting on his shoulders, even as he has become and example of corruption, stupidity and greed to his own country and to at least a dozen other countries who have now read all about him. Even though his life's legacy will be nothing more than that he was one of the biggest asses that Poland or even the whole of Eastern Europe has ever produced, he still tries to snake his way away, he still does as would a common thief, waiting for the moment when he feels no one is looking.

But there is no hangman's noose here. This is not Nuremburg. Yes they have stripped his uniform of the emblems, taken his badge and his gun; his paycheck, his pension- and there will be some jail time. Time equivalent to the time he took from me. He is a symbol now, an archetype, a poster boy for a greedy ruinous time which the public needs to acknowledge before going on. He is the scapegoat, he is the straw man who must be sent down so that the world can again go further. But there won't be a hanging, he will live on.

The other cop, the arresting officer who could "not recall the incident", the chief witness Yucha is in the front row. His eyes never leave his hands. His penalty is also harsh- a year's suspension without pay, a criminal record with a suspended jail sentence hanging over his head. He was an accomplice to a crime, a fool, a stooge but when the indictment came, he simply agreed to all. In interview with the new prosecutors, the righteous prosecutors who are not thinking with their wallets like those of the old times but rather with the thought of the good of all as their driving force, he was simply asked why? Yucha only nodded that he understood. It was a crime and he knew it. To his credit, he never even indulged in an "I only did it because this is what we all were doing". He takes it like a man. He understands that it is no longer an "understood thing", there are no more simple, under-the-table handshakes; the old ways are really not going to be the county's future. "We blamed it all on Russia. We blamed it on communism. We blamed everything on everyone but ourselves." Admits the president in the papers that day, "We said that this is what they had made of us but really it was all crap. We were the ones who were the black soul of our country. We were the ones who thought we could just take and take and take without the slightest thought of giving. We were the ones who should have known better, who should have been responsible for our actions." And Yucha acknowledges this. Yes, he knows. He knew everything what he was doing was wrong. But he lives now for a future where there might be a second chance. He will have to wait for it. His mantra now is: "I will someday regain my place, my uniform and my social position. And when I do, I will honor that place and those clothes and make them a symbol of good and not the joke it was before."

The judge enters the courtroom flanked by his two co-judges and the court reporter. A blizzard of flash bulbs go off as they make their way down the isle. All are asked to rise and another shower of light ensues. The judge assumes his position at the head of the court, looks into the faces of all in attendance and bids us to sit. Before speaking, he takes a moment to slowly look into the faces of the principles of the case. None of those who had been a party to what is now known as the "BEING HAD" corruption hearings will hold his gaze, all avert their eyes but for Zaremba. Only he stares on blankly, mindlessly- only he has never been able to figure out that what he had done was wrong nor has he even come to the understanding of how many people have suffered because of him. The judge stares back at the former cop and allows the slightest smile to cross his face. "Yes," he thinks "we were all this innocent once; as innocent as babes and without a thought in our heads." And then he glances over to me and looks straight into my eyes and nodsslowly two times.

"Yes, Mr. Goodman" this glance says to me, "today is indeed your day at last. Thank you for what you have done." And with that, he brings the gavel down.

More soon…

1 Comments:

Anonymous Klaus von Mahr said...

coincidence ? i think not,

while i was sitting in a wi-fi cafe in the fair city of Cheb, CZ and reading this section of your Blog my dear Adam Goodman, the song that started at that very moment was - you guessed it - Sweet dreams are made of these...

baby , i'm amazed. is there a loving God or is religion just an equation payable with blood and guilt.

kings to you Adam ;-)

:: the Baron of Cheb

Friday, November 24, 2006  

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