By my second decade of living in Costa Rica, I had begun to ‘pay it forward’ with newcomers to Costa Rica. Just as I had once been a rookie and had sought the advice of long-time expats and worldly Ticos about life here, so it became my turn to assist recent arrivals navigate the life-changing decision to relocate to a land where both the culture and language were foreign. From the best dentist to the lawyer who would not rip you off to the best place for pizza, to the bus schedule – I was ready to answer any and all inquiries. But I can’t say I was ready for the problem that was brought to me by a guy I will call George.
I had met George some months before at our local feria, where I sold baked goods. My ‘brown bread’ was popular with Euros, and George became a regular customer. He was a small, compactly built man from eastern Europe, and his intense gaze and accented English reminded me of the actor who played Dracula – Bela Lugosi. He liked to linger and chat each week, and I had the feeling he did not know many people locally. I learned through conversation that he was retired, had lived and worked many years in Canada, and had never married.
I did not see him for some weeks until he arrived one evening, bought a loaf, and then told me he had a problem – a legal problem – and needed help writing a statement in Spanish for the local court. We set a date and time, and I gave him directions to my house. He arrived promptly, carrying a folder with copies of documents printed on the official legal paper used by the court. As I slowly read through all the legalese before getting to the accusations, he said to me, “I was only trying to help this woman. They are making it all up to extort money from me.”
The charge was an ugly one – attempted sexual abuse of a minor. George explained his situation – The woman was his empleada, and she had three children, the oldest of whom was a twelve-year-old girl. He had a car, and helped them with errands and on occasion, dropped off and picked up the 12-year-old from school. These were the only times he was alone with her. The case was her word against his. As I labored to translate his statement of innocence into Spanish, he told me had already been subjected to a psychological exam, and had to draw a picture. “My drawing looked like a little kid did it,” he said.
I finished the translation, and he thanked me and left. I hoped we were done. I worried that he might ask me to be a character witness. Did I even really know him? I was unsure of his innocence. Comparing his drawing to one a little kid might have done – a revealing statement, or simply an accurate comparison? I remembered something else: George had once met my sister-in-law, a tall healthy campesina, who towered over him. He later commented that he found her to be ‘scary’. Fear of a woman larger than him, or just an odd observation?
A couple weeks later I saw him at the feria. He said they had lowered the amount they wanted from him in order to drop the charges, but he would not give them a colon because he was not guilty of anything.
I never saw him again. I had kept the copy of the charge, which had his full name and passport number. Months later I became curious, and went to a friend I had who worked in the immigration office. He ran a check on George and said, “Your friend left the country almost 3 months ago. He hasn’t returned.”
