Leibowitz smiled and invited me in. I told him about the case. He raised his eyebrows every time I tripped over a word, but never said a thing about my speech impediment and then proceeded to outline my entire defense.
The next day I stood before twelve people in a court of law, with the life of Henry Larkin in my hands, or more precisely, in my misfiring mouth. Then something strange came over me: not fear, but confidence.
My own troubles vanished, replaced by the far greater problems of Henry Larkin. He was a good man who had never broken the law in his life. It was up to me to convince a jury that he had acted in self-defense. I talked for four hours that day, remembering everything Sam Leibowitz told me as I pled for Henry Larkin’s life. The jury took three minutes to decide he was “not guilty.”
One thing missing from the next day’s newspaper report is that I had not stammered once during my entire argument. I tried to call Sam Leibowitz, but he had left town. Needing to share my multifaceted victory with someone, I called Rod and told him about the miracle of my untangled tongue. He exuded elation, and then grew serious. “Ellis, it’s a sign! You’ve found your place in time. You were destined to speak for the innocent and oppressed. Never forget that!” Rod was quick to see some unexplained, universal phenomenon in practically everything. In his eyes, what happened was the result of what can only happen in The Twilight Zone.
For whatever reason, Rod’s words have stayed with me throughout my life. I’ve been in thousands of trials and have always tried to do my best to defend the “poor and defenseless.” Some people, including my wife, feel I’ve overdone it. I have spent a great deal of time on “pro bono” cases.
I’ve also had my share of wealthy clients, including celebrities, rich businessmen, doctors, and a billionaire Arab oil sheik. Payments come in many forms, such as a handshake, a hug, a baby’s smile, a holiday card, a home-cooked meal, a friendly face in court, even a picketer carrying a sign outside of jail. Henry Larkin, my first client, came by every Friday for the rest of his life and handed me an envelope with a five-dollar bill in it. He never missed a week.
Ellis Rubin As told to Dary Matera
Dary Matera is the author of fourteen books, including Get Me Ellis Rubin!, John Dillinger, Most Wanted, Quitting the Mob, What’s in It for Me?, Taming the Beast, Childlight, The Stolen Masterpiece Tracker, and the New York Times bestseller Are You Lonesome Tonight? Mr. Ellis Rubin passed away in December 2006. He was eighty-one. Dary lives in Chandler, Arizona. E-mail him at
[email protected] “My imaginary friend says ‘get real.’”
Reprinted by permission of Jean Sorensen and Cartoon Resources. ©2005 Cartoon Resources.
You Didn’t Give Me a Turn
A winner is someone who recognizes his God-given talents, works his tail off to develop them into skills, and uses these skills to accomplish his goals.
Larry Bird
“Welcome to the parents, family, and friends of our 1998 graduating class . . . As your name is called, please step forward to receive your diploma.”
Looking at the somber faces glowing among the sea of blue and gray caps and gowns, I am overcome with nostalgia. It seems like only yesterday that they were my active and inquisitive first-graders. As the almost-adult girls totter forth one by one in newly purchased heels, and the boys shuffle by in their self-conscious gaits, the public-address system announces their names while I find myself immersed in memories.
Another name is called, and suddenly I am consumed by a vivid flashback of a little, freckle-faced strawberry-blond named Adam. He was a smiley, quiet kid, a conscientious student with beautiful penmanship and detailed, creative artwork.
His mother and I bantered often. She always joked and laughed a lot. She wasn’t laughing the night she called to say that Adam might not be in school for several days.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Well, he’d probably have trouble zipping his pants. He cut his fingers off,” she replied.
Appalled, my immediate response was, “That’s not funny!”
“No, but it’s true,” she said.
Adam had been at his grandfather’s farm. The family had butchered a cow and was making hamburger. Adam, trying to be helpful, stuck his hand into the meat grinder, severing his fingers and part of his thumb.
I could tell you about the challenges this presented— wearing sweatpants to avoid zippers, anchoring his paper as he learned to cut and once again become the neatest printer in the room, the curiosity and questions his peers asked. But, instead, I want you to meet the little boy who was not willing to accept help. It was the end-of-the-year picnic. I had set up an obstacle course with seven stations to test their athletic abilities and coordination (boys against the girls). All activities except the overhead horizontal ladder were done. The score was tied three to three. Ten girls tried, and eight made it across the “alligator-infested pond.” Eight boys tried, and all eight made it. I declared the score tied, everyone a winner.
Adam said softly, “You didn’t give me a turn.” How could I explain to him that he couldn’t do it? He had no fingers on his one hand to grasp the rungs. “It’s my turn!” he repeated a little louder and climbed the ladder. I stood below to catch him when he fell, ready to hug him and tell him I was proud of him for trying.
I watched with barely contained tears as Adam hooked his left wrist over the first rung. His feet came off the steps, and for a second he was suspended in space. Then with a jerk, his good hand grabbed the next rung. He hooked his wrist over that one and began to advance, one rung at a time.
At first, the class stood frozen silent, almost like a picture. Then one boy chanted, “Go, Adam, go!” He was soon joined by the whole class, all competition forgotten, as their classmate and friend grasped and advanced, grasped and advanced. His little body swung from side to side. “Go, Adam, go!” Clapping, chanting, “Go, Adam, go!”
As beads of perspiration formed on his forehead, determination etched his face. He never gave up. He made it to the other side, dropped to the ground, raised his mismatched hands in a victory sign, and beamed!
Tonight, once again with tears streaming down my face, I applaud loudly as he steps forward to receive a scholarship to pursue a degree in engineering.
Yes, graduation and commencement are an ending— and a beginning.
Mary Henderson
Mary Henderson taught for the public schools of Calumet, Laurium, and Keweenaw (in Calumet, Michigan) from 1967 until 1999. She truly loved all of her “little people” and tried to always teach with patience, humor, and respect for the individual differences each child brought to the classroom. Although she had a soft spot in her heart for many of her children, Adam was special. She followed his accomplishments and successes, and cheered him on as a starter on the varsity basketball team. Mary has been published in Guideposts, Reminisce Online, Reminisce Extra, I Love Cats, International Library of Poetry, and self-published a book, Out of the Mouths of Babes.
I’m a Dancer
Be the change you wish to see in the world.
Mahatma Gandhi
It was my first dance-team performance, and I was so excited! My entire family came to my school to watch me dance. This first dance program was so important to everyone in my family—even the whole school!
I came early to the school, and I went into the girls’ bathroom to change into my new dance-team outfit. The other girls on my team were already there changing. As I put on the outfit, I began to think how beautiful my outfit was and how it looked on me. It had silver, blue, and black pants, and a top. The collar on the top was made with silver sequins that itched and made a red place on my neck that hurt. The top was blue and black with silver sequins across the bottom with blue fringe. The pants were black and shiny with one blue stripe at the bottom. My shoes were black, but they were too little. They hurt my toes! It bothered me a little because I had to curl my toes to dance.
My mom helped me fix my hair with a brown hairpiece. She curled
the front of my hair with a hot curling iron. Then she pulled my hair back in a bun and put in the hair- piece. It was really curly. I looked so beautiful!
It was finally time to dance. I felt fine and ready. We lined up in the hall. I looked in the gym. Many people were there, and the players were sitting with the coach to watch us dance. My heart started to beat really fast. We walked into the gym. I knew I must look at the other girls as we went into the gym. I looked at my mom, too. We walked in the gym and stopped in a line in the middle of the floor.
We waited for the song to start. My head was down when the music started. I could feel the beat in my feet, and I could feel when it stopped. I felt the song start, and I started to dance. Mom sat on the first bleacher and pointed “right” and “left,” and signed “jump” and “turn” for me. I didn’t watch the other girls; I always watched Mom! When the song stopped, I saw the people clap! I could see Mom smiling and clapping, too. Mom was proud of me. I knew because she was smiling.
We marched out of the gym. As we got off the floor, I felt very happy and proud of myself that I had finished the dance and done a good job.
People from the other school did not know about me, and why this dance was so special. My family and teachers did. When I looked at the crowd after the dance, they were crying. Why? I’m deaf. I hear no sounds. I did the dance by watching the other girls’ positions, watching my mom sign the directions to me, and by “feeling” the beat. I was the first deaf girl ever on our school’s dance team!
Briana Hobbs
Briana Hobbs is in seventh grade. She likes to swim and talk with her friends on the Internet. Briana loves animals and wants to be a veterinarian. Her large family is very proud of her accomplishments in and out of school.
One Special Olympian
Setting goals, following dreams, giving it all you’ve got, making it happen . . . these are the things that make all the difference in your life!
Dominick Castellano
It was the final attempt in the competition.
CJ had successfully completed eight out of eight lifts and, amazingly, all his efforts were performed with the power and control of a hydraulic lift. As always, he was well prepared. Still, his face was drawn and showed the fatigue of a long day of competition. His 350-pound squat lift and 220-pound bench press lift eclipsed the world records, the most anyone had lifted in his weight class and division in history. He still had one final attempt left in the dead lift. I told him he had truly earned the respect of everyone and had done all he needed to do. His performance was 150 pounds more than the winner of the last world event! If he really did want his final attempt, it would be his decision; I felt he was spent, and injury was a concern. All the noise and excitement of the final attempts of the other lifters in heavier weight classes made it hard to communicate. CJ was lifting the same amount of weight as competitors twice his body weight. The cheers of the crowd, and the voices and the clanging of plates, produced a surreal bubble of atmosphere, sound, foggy images, and haze. I impatiently awaited his decision. CJ carefully thought for a moment, much more composed than I was. He softly said, “One more attempt, please.” I went to the control desk and told the official that CJ Piantieri would take his final attempt at 420 pounds. She abruptly looked up at me as if I could not be serious, but confirmed my request, repeating, “Piantieri, 148-pound weight class, 420-pound final attempt.”
As I chalked his hands, my own focus cleared to what he faced. I explained that he would need a supreme effort to make this lift. The bar would likely stall halfway up, he was tired, and he had to stay with it and keep it moving. He would have to pull with more force than he had ever put forth in his life. The massive weight was loaded onto the bar. The crowd grew quiet, sensing the intensity of the moment as the announcer proclaimed this the final lift of the entire competition. CJ approached the bar. His 143-pound body was small but muscular. The bar seemed ominous and defiant . . . so many plates, so much to lift. With the focus of an Olympic champion, he placed his feet, adjusted his grip, took a huge breath, lifted his head, and with eyes on fire, he began to lift. The crowd erupted as the bar rose from the floor and slowly began to rise. Slowly, surely, the bar gave way to CJ’s will. I screamed at the top of my lungs . . .
“Stay! Stay! Stay!”
CJ held on, but the bar’s ascent slowed. The crowd’s screaming was ear-wrenching. With inches to completion, the massive weight almost overcame him. The crowd was now in a frenzy! CJ strained with every fiber of his being for every quarter-inch of movement. I was helpless and could only watch in awe as he again showed the courage of determination. Each second was agony. CJ refused to give up, refused to submit, refused to fail. Gravity was saying no, but he was not listening. The final effort was intense and painful to watch. I could not accept this was happening. It was too much to ask of any athlete. I wanted it to end. Forget the lift; I didn’t want him hurt. I thought out loud, “I am going to stop this . . . he can’t take it anymore!”
But on this day, he would not be denied. With a resounding yell heard round the auditorium, CJ found something deep within himself and conquered the weight. The crowd erupted.
Dominick Castellano
Dominick Castellano is a world champion power lifter and participated in eight varied sports. He is an Olympic trials rower, marathoner, ironman triathlete, swimmer, and kayaker, racing all over the world! But what defines him is thirty years of motivating and coaching people, especially his speaking and coaching for Special Olympics, schools, city programs, cooperation, colleges, police/fire departments, prisons, and the U.S. military. Contact Dominick at
[email protected] CJ deadlifting 415 pounds. He is now close to 450, weighing only 140 pounds! He is working hard to bring home the gold for the United States in China at the World Special Olympic Games!
[POSTSCRIPT: At birth, CJ had a stroke that caused neurological damage, seizure disorder, learning disability, and physical disability. These are just a few of the things that CJ has lived with throughout his thirty-one years. His training is as intense as you would expect of any world-class athlete. ]
Reprinted by permission of Dominick Castellano. ©2006 Dominick Castellano.
5
COMMUNITY
One should guard against preaching to young people success in the customary form as the main aim in life. The most important motive for work in school and in life is pleasure in work, pleasure in its result, and the knowledge of the value of the result to the community.
Albert Einstein
An Appalachian Miracle
The differences are great, and the differences are small. That’s just part of the beauty of it all. . . .
Red Grammar
Jimmy Beckley, born on a 1973 winter night in a small town, did not breathe for the first seven minutes of his life. It might have had something to do with Deborah Mae Beckley’s drug use during the late stages of her pregnancy, the town’s ladies gossiped in hushed tones. No matter the reason, those first seven oxygenless minutes carried a heavy price tag. Jimmy suffered extensive brain damage.
In the next two years, Deborah birthed two more children, and Jimmy’s needs quickly overwhelmed the teenage mother. Social services placed Jimmy in the care of Walter and Margaret Beckley, Deborah’s parents. Though they lavished the child with love, the senior Beckley’s were limited in their abilities to tend to Jimmy’s increasing physical needs. Both had arthritis, and as Jimmy grew larger and heavier, caring for him became a nearly impossible. By the time Jimmy was eight, they were providing care for three more of Deborah’s children and had to make the heart-wrenching decision to sever legal custody of the child.
Tears did little to wash away the pain, but they were consoled with limited information provided by the authorities. Jimmy was adopted into a good home in a faraway state. The years passed quickly, but the Beckley’s never forgot the smiling little boy in the wheelchair.
As is often the case in Appalachia, the church became a haven for Walter and Margaret. R
ising to the position of deacon in the local Baptist church, Walter was a true believer in the power of prayer. Walter and Margaret began to think about Jimmy more and more during 1996, the year Jimmy would turn twenty-three. The doctors had predicted since Jimmy was an infant that he would not live beyond twenty-one. Walter and Margaret began to pray fervently, asking the Lord to intervene in their pain, which just would not go away. Soon the entire congregation took up the cause for the ailing deacon and his wife’s prayers.
And what had become of the little boy in the wheelchair? Jimmy raised in a small town in Michigan, his doting parents had instilled in him the spirit of independence, teaching him to challenge his physical limitations. As he grew, he became an adept driver of his electric wheelchair; he moved into his own apartment, assisted by daily visits of skilled nursing professionals. Weather permitting, Jimmy went on short solo jaunts throughout the neighborhood. On one such trip, he rode into a local 7-Eleven and encountered a dozen bikers, a motorcycle club quite unlike the stereotype.
One of the scruffy Harley riders noticed that the young man in the wheelchair was riding on rubberless steel rims. Unable to ignore Jimmy’s indomitable spirit, the bikers decided to help—first, by repairing his wheelchair wheels, and later by making him an honorary member of their club. Blazened with his own vest and colors, encased in a sidecar, Jimmy joined the club members for his first-ever motorcycle ride.