A Violation

They came to the back door that beginning-of-fall evening, two of them in wife-beaters, jeans and work boots. Joe had a Red Sox hat on, back to front; his buddy’s dirty jeans were ripped at the knee. Looking like thugs, perhaps petty criminals, this grubby duo entered my house.

“This is, Frank – he’s here with me,” Joe announced, gesturing over his shoulder. The potential customer, Joe, chatted with my husband Ernie. Frank stood awkwardly, looking around the room, his eyes drawn to the late-season game broadcast on the large-screen TV.  Ernie joked with them, talked baseball a bit, offered them coffee, water.

“Nah, we’re good.” Joe said. Frank, silent, shrugged, his eyes glued to the game.

“So, d’you want to see the car?” Ernie asked,

Joe nodded, and with that, the three men went out to the garage.

Ernie buys and sells used cars. He’s known around here as the Subaru Guru, those solid, safe workhorses being his stock-in-trade. A couple of years back, on a big birthday, he had surprised me with an almost-new blue Infiniti sedan – my first “not Subaru”.  Some weeks ago, two years after that birthday surprise, he arrived home one evening with a newer model of the same car, filled with all the latest toys, but in silver.

“I’ll advertise them both – whichever sells, the other is yours, El,” Ernie had said earlier in the week. I had some affection towards my older blue sedan, and a reluctance to let it go, always a sucker for my favorite color, but I was good either way. Joe was at my house to buy the older model.  On the way in, he and Frank had passed the newer car, parked outside on the street.

“Wish I had the money for that other one – that sweet grey one outside the fence.”

 “You can have it for another eight grand,” Ernie countered.

“Too steep for me. Let’s take a ride in the blue one.” A while later, long enough to test-drive a car, the three men returned. Ernie led them into our family room one more time.

For some reason, a premonition perhaps, I was uncomfortable with these two men sitting on my sofa. Ernie’s usual customers, ones he invited into our house to finalize a sale, were Subaru lovers – a very narrow slice of used car buyers. My husband’s business generally catered to educated suburbanites, perusers of Consumer Reports, appreciative of the unsexy but safe used Outbacks that he refurbished and sold.  Joe and Frank came from a different world.  

Nevertheless, I understood my role and played it as I usually did – make nice to the customer, chat a bit, offer a snack or two and help clinch the deal. Joe and friend were chatty with Ern, but not interested in my attempts at conversation. They clearly preferred to talk to another guy. I turned away, happy to leave the men alone.

“Yeah, wish I could afford the newer one, but no can do,” Joe sighed, looking out the window, once again, where the pricier model was parked,

The sale of my blue car was finalized and Joe handed Ernie an envelope with one hundred and thirty well-worn $100 bills. Not the normal way my husband was paid, but the bills looked legit. Ernie glanced into the envelope and handed it to me. “It was your car, dear.”

Joe sniggered. “Hey, Frank,” he said as the two walked across our deck, “remember to grab a couple of six-packs on the way back.” Laughing as they approached their cars, they high-fived one another.

The next morning, I went out to the grey Infiniti, now officially my car. I clicked the fob to unlock the driver’s door, looked down and saw, from back to front, covering both doors and fenders, a drawn out, deeply etched scratch creating an elongated, sideways figure eight.

A neighbor was outside when I noticed the damage. Some years back there had been a spate of vandalism in our neighborhood and the victim, this neighbor, had installed cameras outside his house.  “Ellen, maybe I got this on video,” Steve said, “wait here.” He went inside, returning a few minutes later, grinning, with a thumb-drive. ”See what’s there. Keep the drive.”

My stomach dropped when Ernie and I viewed the blurry video. In the dark of night, a car drove by my parked car, once traveling westward and then returning again, minutes later, from the east. Its taillights matched the Infiniti’s. From the driver’s window, you could make out a stick or narrow pole extended and scraping the door of my grey car. The license plate on the car was clear and readable, the image of the driver, fuzzy. It looked like Joe, the customer from last night, leaning out the open window of a shadowy Infiniti.

With the evidence on the thumb-drive, the police were able to track him down. A few weeks later, even with some bumbling police work slowing the wheels of justice, Joe was cited for committing a criminal act of vandalism. In time, we received the $300 deductible from him and our insurance covered the car repair. My once pristine automobile, however, was no longer re-sellable for what Ernie had paid for it wholesale. Ernie decided to sue Joe in small claims court for the difference and a date was assigned for a hearing several months later.

Days before we were to appear in court, nearly a year after the sale of the car, we were served with a counter-suit from Joe for an amount just under our claim against him. He averred that the blue car was sold under false pretenses and had hidden damages that rendered it nearly undrivable. This was unexpected and curious news to us. Under state law, he had a 30-day window to seek repairs for unexpected problems. Joe had never once been in contact with Ernie after the original sale.

Reluctantly, not wanting to see Joe and Frank again, I went to court with Ernie to support him, and perhaps, provide a statement. Over the previous year, I had experienced moments of paranoia regarding the two. I was worried about them reappearing and doing more damage, especially after our decision to sue. I felt threatened by the assault on my property, and late at night, when I lay awake in the dark, imagined other indignities planned and perpetrated by Joe and friend.

The court clerk suggested arbitration that could take place just before our hearing. We were led to a room were Joe and Frank, now dressed as if they were going to a bar or on a date, were sitting. I was hyperventilating, holding tight to Ernie’s hand. Our time with the court-appointed volunteer arbitrator was wasted trying to reason with these two and an hour later we appeared before a magistrate.

Almost immediately, the judge handed the ruling to us. Joe was to pay the damages, and both men were served with restraining orders. I sat next to Ernie, across from Joe and Frank. The judge watched me, noticing my shakiness and that all color had drained from my face. She ordered the bailiff to escort the two men to the parking lot, and to leave forthwith. “Stay here until they’re gone,” she cautioned.

Pure hatred, coupled with a good dose of fear, and finally relief, ran through my body and I regained my composure, as we walked to our car. I turned to my husband and asked “Why would anyone do this? What sort of people are these?”

“I don’t know. Jealous drunks maybe?”

Joe and Frank had stolen my sense of security in my home. They had violated me. Now, two years later, whenever I see a blue Infiniti, my stomach drops, as it did that morning as I watched the video of the crime.

I’m ready to get back to driving a Subaru. 

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