Author's Note: This was written in frustration at our
judicial system, in which there is often no justice at
all.

COME TO MY AID
By
Janet Elaine Smith © 2001

He collapsed in the big brown leather chair behind the
desk. His head fell backwards, hitting the cushion
with considerable force. He reached for the morning
newspaper.

"Miracle Cure Discovered for Aids," the headlines
screamed. Panic overtook his entire being. It couldn't
be! It had been more than three weeks since he had
undergone surgery and he was still so tired. This
couldn't be why. He had always meant to enlist as a
blood donor, but he just never had the time. He had,
he thought now, had a blood transfusion. There was a
possibility, however slight, that the blood could have
been tainted.

He took his Roll-A-Dex, flipping through the pages
hurriedly until he found the number for Dr. Jenson.

I.Will Knott, Judge, the brown wooden plaque read as
it fell to the floor when he grabbed for the phone. He
had to reach the doctor. He had to know.

"Yes, there is a new breakthrough in this Aids
vaccine. Yes, it is still very experimental. Well, if
you are willing to take that chance. The only real
side effect is that it could alter the pigmentation of
your skin, possibly causing a discoloration. If you
are absolutely certain." It was, of course, just one
side of the conversation.

It was such a relief, not having to worry about that
awful disease. Who could guess what people would think
if they knew he had the disease? They might think he
had contracted it by using drugs. Or even worse, they
might assume that he was a homosexual! All of his life
he had been known as a very staid, upright pillar of
the community. Oh, sure, he knew some people talked
behind his back, saying he was prejudiced. But what
did they know? They were just some dumb people who
didn't really matter anyway. He never even laughed at
Archie Bunker when he ridiculed others!

As he wheeled his car around the corner, heading back
to the courtroom, he breathed a deep sigh of relief.
He could accept a little change in the color of his
skin to be rid of this dreaded disease.

The huge Lincoln Continental wheezed and sputtered,
slowing to a crawl, and eventually stopped dead in its
tracks. Judge Knott turned the key in the ignition,
trying to restart the engine. It ground slightly, then
remained completely silent, no matter what he did.

Judge Knott slammed his fist against the door, forcing
it open, and jumped from the car. He shivered in the
cold, pulling his overcoat up around his face, trying
to keep the wind out. He raised the hood, for no
apparent reason, as he did not understand the first
thing about the workings of an automobile. Still, he
thought, if someone saw him standing out in the cold
with the hood raised, they would know he needed help.

Car after car passed by him, making it seem as if he
must be invisible. Why didn't they stop? He climbed
back into his car. At least he would be somewhat
warmer inside, protected from the wind. He turned the
key again, hoping against hope that it would start. It
was useless, and he knew it, yet he could not help
turning it time after time, always with the same lack
of results.

A grimy brown pickup pulled up in front of him. A
tall, slender man walked towards the car. He was
wearing grease-stained coveralls, his hands filled
with black oil. Judge Knott shuddered as he saw the
man reach for his door handle. He knew he could always
have it cleaned, but it seemed so useless. He tried to
lower his window, but he had worked so hard trying to
start the car that the battery was completely dead,
creating no electricity to operate the automatic
windows.

"Can I help ya' out?" the man asked.

Judge Knott turned to look at him, his head still
pulled down into his coat.

"I can't get it started," the judge answered. "Do you
know anything about cars?"

It seemed like a redundant question, judging by the
man's appearance. He resembled a car more than he did
a human being, the judge reflected.


"Sorry," the man replied. "I used to think so, but
somebody told me I was retarded. Said I couldn't
function as a mechanic. Ya' see, sir, I dropped out of
school in the sixth grade. Can't have no smarts if you
don't got no education; that's what the man said. I
reckon he was smarter than me, his bein' a judge an'
all. So, I quit workin' on people's cars. 'Ceptin' for
my friends, of course, but they don't pay me no money.
I just do it 'cuz I'm a good sport."

The judge cringed, recognizing the man who had been in
his courtroom just a few weeks earlier. He had,
indeed, said that very thing to the man. He did not,
honestly, see how anyone who was too dumb to finish
school could know anything about such a complicated
piece of equipment as an automobile. He shuddered,
thinking back to the scene.

"Mister," he had told Judge Knott, "if you was
stranded someplace, I guarantee I could get you goin'
again."

Well, Judge Knott thought, now he had his chance to
prove it. He removed his glove, holding the keys out
to him.

"Okay," he said, "go to it."

The mechanic reached for the keys, then let out a
blood-curdling scream. "Man, you're green! Ain't no
way I'm gonna stick around some green guy! You go find
your own mechanic." He ran to his pickup, jumped in
and left in such a hurry he left a portion of his
tires behind him.

Judge Knott looked at his hand, stunned by what he
saw. The man had been right-his hands were green! Not
just any green, but a bright, glowing fluorescent
green.

The judge adjusted the angle of his rear view mirror,
giving him a clear image of his face. He could not
believe what he saw; his entire face was that same
hideous green. He tucked his head back into the
turned-up collar on his coat. The doctor had warned
him that his color might change. But this! He was not
prepared for this!

Judge Knott sat inside his car, shivering in the cold,
waiting, hoping that someone would come to his aid.
Finally, he opened the door and went to the front of
his car and began moving several wires and shaking
various things which he hoped would offer some miracle
for him. As he slid his hand farther down, he tried to
reach a wire which he could see was dangling freely.
He could not reach it, so he removed his glove, trying
to retrieve the loose cord. His hand slipped and he
saw the blood come spurting out rapidly and fiercely.
He reached into his pocket, extracting a handkerchief
and tried to stop the bleeding. It seemed as if it
only bled harder than before.

"May I help you, sir?" the woman asked.

"I have trouble with my car," Judge Knott answered.
"Besides that, I cut my hand quite badly and I can't
seem to control the bleeding. Do you know how to get
it to stop?"

"I used to think so," the woman replied, her voice
revealing a distinct Spanish accent. "I was a nurse at
Mercy Hospital, and I was up for a promotion to head
the emergency unit. But this man on the hospital
board, he said I didn't know enough English. So, I am
sorry, sir. I used to know how to nurse people back to
health, but "No hablo ingles, senor. I don't know
enough English."

Judge Knott stared at the woman in disbelief. Why was
she here? She should be working at the hospital. He
had felt so good about being able to cast the deciding
vote at that hospital board meeting. It had been a tie
vote, and he, as chairman of the board, had the power
to ruin that woman's career. She had done a good job,
as far as he could tell, and she deserved the
position. But she was a "chicano," a low-class Mexican
woman. She did not have the right to be reigning over
an entire department of other peole. There were life
and death decisions to be made every day-every hour.

Judge Knott lifted his face to the woman, pleading
with her for some help. "Please," he cried out.
"Please help me!"

The woman stared at him. "Ay, ay, ay! Not even a
gringo is he! He is so different! He is a man of
green! He is not one of us!"

The nurse jumped into her car and hurried off into
nowhere. She could not help him; he had told her she
was incompetent. Now she had proven it.

Judge Knott sat alone, so alone, waiting for someone
to rescue him. He had always been so resourceful, so
self-sufficient. He had never needed anyone before. He
looked into the mirror, rubbing his skin, trying so
desperately to remove the color from his body. He took
off his gloves and scraped frantically at his hands,
wishing he could once again be white. Other people did
not have a choice in the color of their skin; he had
made this decision himself. He had been warned. He
knew people were biased about people of other colors.
He knew how those people felt; he had been one
himself. Now he also knew how the victims of such
prejudices felt.

Finally, unable to just wait and do nothing, the judge
got out of his car and began to walk towards a row of
houses he had sat watching, wondering if anyone in any
of them would help him. He knocked on door after door,
not finding anyone at home. Finally, almost at the
point of surrender, he was greeted by a tired-looking
Native American woman. There were three small children
hanging onto her about the knees and legs. He
purposely kept his head down, grateful that it was
dark inside the house.

"Ma'am," Judge Knott began, "I have trouble with my
car. I wonder if I might use your phone. Also, I have
been there-waiting so long-that I am very hungry. Do
you have a slice of bread you could spare for a
starving man?"

"I would be very happy to provide for your needs,
sir," the woman answered. "There is, however, one
small problem. I have been left alone with my children
and I have not been able to find any assistance for
them. The government tells me I must wait nearly sixty
days before they can give us any food. I would like to
help you very much, but I was told that I should go
and sell my body. It is much better than stealing some
food for the children. Any woman who wants to can
always find some way to provide for her needs. Even if
it means that she will sex to make a living. It is
more honorable to do that than to steal. Just because
we Indians were here first, that does not mean that
society owes us a living. They stole our land, but we
cannot steal anything from them-even if our children
die of starvation."

"How did you reach that conclusion?" Judge Knott
asked.

"A very smart man told me that. Then he put me in jail
for ten days because I stole some food for my
children. So you see, I do not have any food in the
house. Nor a phone."

One of the children pushed the door open, causing the
light from the hallway to illuminate the judge's face.
The children ran, screaming in horror and fear, and
the woman slammed the door in his face upon seeing
that it was indeed green.

The judge turned, slowly walking back to his car. He
was beginning to realize that these people all had
legitimate reasons for the way they lived their lives.
He had good reasons for his actions, too. No one
seemed to understand him. He was a minority. He was
not contagious, just because he was different. He
could not help the way he looked. It was not fair!
People would not accept him, just because he was not
the same as they were.

A woman passed by on the opposite side of the street.
He opened his door and called out to her. She seemed
so tiny, so fragile, yet perhaps she could give him
some assistance. She began to come towards the car. At
last, Judge Knott thought, she will help me. I will be
very kind to her.

As the woman got closer, he gritted his teeth. Her
skin was yellow-not green like his. The hatred for
these people raged throughout his entire body. He had
watched them kill his best friend during the war. He
would never forgive them. He could never forgive them!
Not after what they had all done to his buddy. Would
he have to stoop this low to find someone to help him?
He trembled as he begged the woman to go find a garage
to come tow his car.

"I am very sorry, your honor. I once belonged to this
community, but don't you remember? You told me
yourself that I was a despicable piece of humanity. It
was because of my people that thousands of Americans
died during the war. Well, now you will die for want
of my help. My people do not lend assistance to people
of your color. We do not tolerate the actions of green
people!"

The Asiatic woman's laugh seemed to echo from all
corners of the world as she went on her way, through
the empty streets, filling the earth with the scorn
she felt towards this man.

Judge Knott heard the loud roar of a motorcycle. A
young man, perhaps in his twenties, pulled to a stop
beside his car.

"Got a problem, Big Daddy?" he asked, his voice gruff
and harsh. "Kick on the key. Let's see what you got,
man."

Judge Knott turned the key as the man stuck his head
under the hood. In less than thirty seconds the engine
was purring like a well-fed kitten.

"What did you do?" the judge asked, keeping his face
well-hidden.

"Not much," the man grinned, most of his mouth buried
beneath the scraggly beard he sported. "The wire was
pulled off your battery. Should be good as new now."

The judge watched as the man roared away on his
motorcycle. He wondered if he had remembered the day,
just two months ago, when he had sat in his courtroom
and the judge had found him guilty of peddling drugs.
There had not been any hard evidence, but Judge Knott
had just known instinctively that he was guilty.

"I know your type," he had said. "You are all alike.
You don't even know enough to keep your body clean;
you certainly don't care what you put into your mind
or your mouth. Thirty days and five hundred dollars!"

As Judge Knott drove to the courthouse, he wondered
why that man had not paid any attention to his color.
Was the man blind? Never mind, it was better this way.

Judge Knott suddenly saw the young woman who had
applied for the position of court reporter yesterday.
She had all the necessary qualifications. She was very
neat and well-mannered. She had come home from New
York City to care for her aged father. She should have
gotten the job.

"I will call you," Judge Knott had told her, knowing
that she would go to the bottom of the list of
applicants. She was not the right color. Her skin was
black. She could never handle the pressures in the
court room. Never! Never!
"Never! Never!" Judge Knott screamed.

Miss Porter rushed into the judge's chambers.

"What is it, sir? Are you all right? What happened?"

Judge Knott was frantically pawing through the papers
on his desk. "Where is that phone number? I must get
a hold of Miss Barton immediately!"

"Miss Barton?" Miss Potter asked. "The black woman?"

"The right woman!" Judge Knott answered. "I must find
that number."

The wooden plaque lay on the floor, just where it had
landed before he had dozed off. "I. Will Knott,
Judge," it still read.

He looked around for some evidence of what had just
happened. He looked at his skin. It was as white as
ever. The green was gone. He rubbed his eyes, trying
to erase the dream from his memory. But it was there,
and it would be there forever, deep in his mind-and in
his heart. A dream such as this could cause a man to
have a heart attack. Or a heart. He opted for the
latter.