A Town by the River

By Eva Fischer-Dixon

After serving ten out of her fifteen year sentence for assisting her parents suicide, Dr. Miriam Goldberg was finally paroled from jail. As part of her parole deal, she was to follow her sponsor, Judge Edward Masterson from California to a seemingly idyllic place in New Hampshire, the location of her new job. Miriam not only falls in love with the town where she was immediately accepted by the towns habitants, but she also stirs up passion between herself and the Judges devastatingly handsome sons, Liv Ed and Jeremy. Miriam is intrigued by the town itself; she cannot understand why there are no animals or children in the seemingly heavenly town. Miriam slowly, but surely learns the shockingly fascinating and devastatingly dangerous truth about the town, and the Dante Principle. Her gained knowledge leaves her with two options; to learn to live with it or die from trying to escape from it. Being loved by sons of the Judge, there may be still hope for her, but she must choose the right man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479759200

Eva Fischer-Dixon

I came into this troubled world during the early morning hours of June 17, 1950, in the city of Budapest, Hungary. I was the first and last child of my 41-year-old mother and my father who was 45 years old at the time of my birth. As I did not know any better, I could not possibly understand that we were living in poverty, as I was growing up with loving parents and there was always a bite to eat. My childhood was poor and saddened with tragedies. As a six-year-old child I witnessed the bloody 1956 revolution and received the first taste of true prejudice by those of whom I thought liked us, yet turned against my family. That tragedy did not match the untimely death of my beloved father when I was not yet seven years old, on February 14, 1957. My mother remarried in 1959 and our financial situation was upgraded from poverty to poor. After finishing elementary school I made a decision to earn money as soon as possible to ease our financial situation and I enrolled in a two-year business college (high school diploma was not required). I received my Associate Degree in 1966 and I began to work as a 16-year-old certified secretary/bookkeeper. During the same period I began my high-school education, which I completed while working full-time and attending night school. I discovered my love for writing when I was 11 years old after a movie that my childhood friend and I saw in the movie theater. We were not pleased with the ending and Steven suggested that I should write a different ending that we both liked. Voila, a writer was born. With my family’s encouragement, I entered a writing contest given by a youth oriented magazine and to my genuine surprise, I won second price. My desire to live in a free country and to improve my life was so great, that in 1972, leaving everything, including my aging parents behind, I managed to escape from Hungary during a tour to Austria, (then) Yugoslavia and Italy. I spent almost nine long months in a rat infested refugee camp, located Capua, Italy, while I waited for official permission to immigrate to the country of my dreams, to the USA. In 1975 I met and married a wonderful man, my husband Guy. Thanks to his everlasting patience, he assisted me in my task of learning the English language. He is truly my partner for life and I remain forever grateful to him for standing by me in some tough times. It is difficult for me to describe my love for writing. I cannot think of a bigger emotional joy for an author than to see a published novel in somebody’s hand and to see a story come alive on the screen. I yearn to experience that joy.

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Prologue

FORGIVING is not something everybody can do, or should do. I was most certainly one of those people who needed forgiveness, but neither that I asked for it, or wanted it. I actually wanted to be punished, in some ways, somewhere, somehow, to the full extent of the law. I got what I wished for ten years ago to be exact to the day of my first parole board hearing.

Throughout the ten years of my, according to a lot of people, well deserved incarceration, I have learned that I was actually not a bad person, despite the fact for what I had done. There was a saying, "small details could make a big difference", and I do believe in that because of what happened to me. I was judged by my actions alone, regardless what led me to commit such a horrendous crime when my learned profession was to heal people.

As the time of my parole hearing approached, I began to get dressed. I recalled, and it made me smile, my mother’s words as she encouraged me to wear my Sunday’s best. Am I looking forward to this parole hearing? No, not at all. Do I hope that I will regain my freedom? Absolutely not.

CHAPTER One

THE PAROLE BOARD

THE parole board was made up by five people, three women and two men, all of whom were facing me with stoic, in-compassionate faces. Files, about a dozen rested in front of them; obviously I was not the only one up for parole, but the first one to be called. One of the guards, who perhaps broke the rules by explaining to me who normally makes up these boards, also explained what sort of questions they are going to ask from me. It’s not that I cared, being free that is. I was labeled a monster by some for what I had done, and what parole board would let a monster lose to do further damage to society?

According to my unofficial prison guard friend, that particular parole board was chaired by a retired judge, two psychiatrists, and two other people who had something to do with the legal system.

I walked in with a guard close behind me and I was pointed to a chair to sit on. I sat myself down and whispered a quiet good morning to all of them. They murmured something back; I just assume that they wished me the same.

All of them were reading, or at least acted as if they were reading my file in front of them. It was the monster’s file, the one, who according to the newspapers, coldly took the life of those who give the monster everything she wanted. Little did they know, but it was useless to argue with those who thought that knew everything, when in reality, they knew almost nothing at all, or very little.

There were the usual questions by the parole board members, such as; did I try to rehabilitate myself? Have I attended counseling and such? And then, came what they considered the most important question that would make or break the chance to be released.

Do you have any regrets about ending their lives? Asked one of the women who was just a few years younger than my late mother at the time of her death.

Yes, and no. I replied truthfully.

What does that mean? You either regret taking your parents’ life or not? The man on the right side of the long table asked. He had so much cologne on that it stank up the place.

Yes, I do regret taking their lives because I loved them, and now I miss them, more than I can express with words. No, I do not regret taking their lives because they were suffering from ailments with no cure on the horizon. I was speaking the truth. I missed my parents with all my heart. I came late into their lives and then I had to watch them suffer through incurable ailments that destroyed their bodies and their minds.

There were a few moments of silence as the parole board members tried to digest what I had said. The second woman on the right who had Psychiatrist written all over her facial expression, put her glasses down and stared at me for a long moment before she addressed me with her question. I noticed that you have taken courses in criminal law. How far did you get? I tried to smile but I knew that it must have looked as if I was grinning, so I quickly wiped that off from my face. I have already taken the California bar exam and passed. She looked at me with a surprised expression on her face, and then all of the sudden all five of them were flipping through pages. YEAH, I thought, there it is, right in front of you.

The retired judge in the middle focused his vision on me as if he was taking an eye exam. The other four parole board members looked at him and waited for him to say something, anything. I stood his stare without blinking. It was a gift that I practiced and perfected while I had to deal with some of my patient’s relatives when I delivered good or bad news.

Do you think that by becoming a lawyer, you could become an asset to society? He asked. I thought now that wasn’t that hard was it? For some reason I just knew that he was going to ask me something like that.

I thought about his question for a brief moment before I replied. I believe that I can be an asset to society as a lawyer, although without a doubt I would rather heal people than advise them with legal matters. I meant what I said as I loved being a doctor. I was becoming known in the world of medicine as an up and coming heart and cancer specialist until the day when I was arrested for killing my parents.

The entire parole hearing took less than fifteen minutes. It made me wonder what made those five people qualified to make such an important decisions as to have someone remain in jail for the rest of her or his life, or to go free.

As I was about to leave the room, when I heard my name called, a name that only my parents used since I was a baby Miri. As if lightning struck me, I turned around just to look into the retired judge’s steel cold blue eyes. He was staring at me. His lips were moving but I no longer heard his voice. As I mentioned, my childhood nickname that was only known to two people, other than me, were cremated after their deaths. My name echoed in the room, Miri, Miri, Miri . . .

CHAPTER Two

THE MONSTER

THE Monster, that is how the media named me after my arrest that was announced across the nation by various major and minor newspapers. According to the media, I just had to be a monster who took the Hippocratic Oath, yet took the life of her own parents. Perhaps I was a monster in a shape of a human who sacrificed private life to study medicines, who unlike others in college skipped participating in parties in lieu of taking care of my already ailing parents. Where was the media when I had rushed from the school’s library to home so my mother got her medicine on time because the nurse was unable to make it? Where was the media when I had to clean the permanently installed tubes in my father’s side to drain the excess fluid from his lungs? Where was the media when I had wrenching pain in my back after lifting my parents into and from the bathtub, so they can be cleaned and still feel normal? While others enjoyed social activities like dating, going to movies and concerts, I was trying to catch up with my studies that I had to put aside so I can do my chores around my sick parents.

Yet, I never complained, nor that I have kept a secret diary so somehow I could express the feelings that I have. I took everything with a grain of salt. They were my parents. They raised me, they have loved me, and I desperately tried to give them back something in return, while others of my age were having fun and even falling in love. No, I did not have to make a decision which avenue I wanted to take. It was always clear to me that my parents came first, studying second, and there was no time for anything else. And all that was alright with me.

While I received some assistance from the state, we barely made it from my father’s disability retirement and my mother’s small pension. I should have taken a job to ease the financial burden, but there was simply no time. I took out so many student loans that I lost track, but I made it through pre-med and medical school and faithfully fulfilled my residency requirement. It was no surprise to anyone that I was hired at the very same hospital where I took up my residency.

From my earnings I managed to hire a middle aged woman who lost her job and subsequently lost her home. She was a health care provider who moved just a little bit slower than the others, and that was enough reason for the hospital to let her go. Mrs. Martinez was perfect for the job and she was very grateful when I helped her to move into my parents’ home. Both of them took an immediate liking to her, as much as they were able to express themselves. She was efficient, and she didn’t have to rush as if she was working on an assembly line. Mrs. Martinez became a true blessing for me as my job required longer and longer hours at the hospital.

I helped as much as I could with the grocery shopping on my rare days off and with the housecleaning, if it was not done yet. When I hired her, I explained to Mrs. Martinez that her primary job was to take care of my parents, to make sure that they took their medicine, they ate and bathed. Anything else, as I told her was an option for her to do, and that I would be there on my time off to catch up on the laundry and any other household choirs. Without asking me, or without telling her, she did most of those things on her own.

My parents health was deteriorating rapidly shortly before their deaths. My father couldn’t breathe; he fought for every single breath. The machine helped, but only for a while, and he finally asked the servicing technician to turn it off. He was able to breathe on his own, although only with difficulties. The fluid in his lungs and around his heart cumulated more rapidly than it was able to drain. My mother’s ovarian cancer spread to her liver and her breasts. She refused any surgeries, another round of chemotherapy, and radiation therapy, no matter how hard I begged her.

One night, after an excruciatingly bad day in hospital, when our department lost three cancer patients, as I sat next to my mother’s bed, she took my hand and kissed it. I looked at her questioningly; usually I was the one who was doing that, kissing her hand. Her face was narrow, her skin darker from past therapies, and her entire body did not resemble who was once a carefree, giving and loving person that I knew. Miriam, she whispered. Come closer.

I did as she requested. I knew that what she had to say was serious because it was the only time she called me by my full name. Miriam, she said my name again with pain reflecting from every syllable. I love you.

I love you too, Mom, I replied and desperately tried to smile.

I know, and that is why you must do what your father and I asking you to do, she said still holding onto my hand.

What do you and Dad wants me to do? I asked her with a horrible suspicion in the back of my head.

We want you to end all of our suffering, she said those words that I dreaded to hear. My father said the same thing to me each and every time I stepped into his room, which I tried to avoid but was impossible to do so.

As usual, I shook my head. Mom, I can’t do that. I am a doctor; I spent years to learn how to help people and not how to take lives. I tried to argue with very little success. It was the same argument that was going on for months.

Miri, we heard you loud and clear, but what’s enough is enough, she said and squeezed my hand with that little energy she had left. Her eyes got wider, her breathing heavier and her squeeze even more painful. I glanced up on the IV stand but the medication was faithfully dripping from the plastic bag, full of medication mixed with fluids. I knew that it did not help much as a new wave of pain rushed through her exhausted body from her toes to the top of her head. A few minutes later, she somewhat relaxed, another episode just passed.

Miriam, she said after sipping from the juice I helped her to drink. Miriam, she repeated my name. Please call Rosa in, she requested. I got up, went to Mrs. Martinez’s room and knocked on the door. She opened it seconds later.

Can I help you Dr. Goldberg? She asked. Although I told her a number of times to call me Miriam, she never did.

My mother would like to have a word with you, I said and she followed me into my mother’s faintly lit room.

Mom, Mrs. Martinez is here, I told my mom who had her eyes closed, a sure sign that the pain revisited her again. She opened her eyes and motioned to us to step closer.

Rosa, said my mother. I want you to witness what I am saying and then I want you to go my husband’s room to do the same. Mrs. Martinez nodded that she would. I am asking my daughter Miriam to end my life. She is objecting, she is claiming that her oath to her profession does not support euthanasia. I do not want to go on living like this because this is not living. If I could take my own life, I would but I cannot. I want you to witness that I made this decision on my own free will in case there will be any questions. My mother said her wish out loud that was to be repeated a few minutes later by my father.

Mrs. Martinez nodded that she understood, but my mother wanted to hear them out loud. It was then that Rosa Martinez, my parents care taker, a true believer in Christ in a Jewish household, gave my mother her solemn promise that if I fulfilled their wishes and helped them to end their miseries, that if I get into any trouble, she would gave a witness statement that I had done it because it was their own wish. My father asked her to do the same, sensing that I would need all the protection that I could gather.

In the kitchen I leaned against the counter with a cold wet towel pressed to my forehead. Although my eyes were closed, I could feel Mrs. Martinez’s stare as she set by the kitchen table, turning a cup in her hand around and around. Dr. Goldberg, she said softly. I looked at her. I think it is time for you to let them go.

I normally shook my head when I heard my parents make that request, which was daily for the past few months. I love them, I murmured.

That reason alone should make your decision even easier, said Mrs. Martinez.

I could spend the rest of my life in prison, I whispered but she knew that it was not the real concern to me. My work was important, my patients were important, but the most important people in my life were my parents. I took a deep breath. Alright, I said that word that I thought that I would never say regarding the devastating subject.

That night, with Mrs. Martinez’s help, we moved my mother back into my father’s bed so they could spend the last moments of their lives together, and then we said everything we could possibly say to each other.

When I think back on that faithful hour when I did the unthinkable, prior to that, I always thought that the presence of death was going to be felt, but there was the opposite, I felt love in that room, nothing but love.

I asked Mrs. Martinez who had no relatives in the area, to go to the store and buy things that would take a long time to find. I did not want her to be home and be accused of being an accomplice.

She kissed my parents and I ushered her out from the house. At the door I squeezed an envelope into her hands with instructions, in case something would happen to me, including imprisonment. Mrs. Martinez was a good person, she deserved a better life that destiny dealt to her.

There was no small talk as I opened my medical bag and took out a small box that was clearly marked Open Only in Case of Absolute Emergency. It was locked with a tiny key that was on my key chain. There were three small containers in the box filled with different barbiturates, combined they were a deadly force, even in smaller doses.

After I prepared the syringes to inject them into their individual IV tubes, I looked at my parents and my eyes became clouded with tears. I had never seen them so determined, so ready to depart their pain ridden lives as they were that night. They both smiled at me and they nodded simultaneously that go ahead. I had difficulty finding the interconnecting opening on their IV as my tears blurred my vision. My thumb hesitated with pushing the syringe down, but when I glanced at my parents, they were still smiling at each other. In that moment, I became at peace with myself and with what I was doing, regardless of what consequences I was to suffer.

I kissed both of them a few times and I told them how much I loved them. I requested from them to look over me from heaven. They assured me that I did the best thing for them, and that they had never loved anyone, other than each other, as they loved me. My parents became sleepy as the deadly cocktail kicked in, and their heart began to slow down until it finally stopped. Their faces became peaceful, but most of all, for the first time in years, pain free.

As I sat there, just watching them as they slipped away, the ringing of the doorbell jerked me back to reality. As I approached the front door, I noticed the red and blue lights were flashing on the top of the police cars parked by the curb side. How did they know so fast what I had just done? I intended to call them but I wanted to change clothes first to get ready to be arrested.

Dr. Goldberg? Asked for confirmation one of the two police officers.

I am Dr. Goldberg, I replied.

Do you know a person by the name of Rosa Martinez? Inquired the second officer.

Yes, she lives here. She is, was, I corrected myself. My parents’ caretaker. Did something happen?

I am sorry to inform you doctor, but Mrs. Martinez was a victim of a hit and run accident as she was crossing the street by Wal Mart, he informed me.

Oh, that is terrible, I whimpered.

Dr. Goldberg, may we come inside? One of the officers asked.

Yes, you need to anyway, I said and pointed down the hallway.

What do you mean by that? Inquired the taller police man.

I just ended my parents’ life, I said calmly. The two of them rushed into the room I pointed out to them and when they confirmed that my parents were indeed dead, they called it in. Minutes later a second police car arrived, followed shortly by the Medical Examiner’s vehicle.

The Assistant DA was the next one to arrive and ordered one of the policemen to read my rights. When I told them that I understood, I was officially detained for killing my parents. Someone from the DA’s office leaked the news of my arrest, a prominent up and coming doctor killing her parents was a juicy piece of news, the media grabbed onto it as if they were piranhas.

According to the media and the state prosecutor, I ended my parents’ miserable life because of the very same reasons I mentioned above. They said that I was tired of taking care of them and I found the solution for all of my personal problems by ending their lives. Talk about a lot of bull crap. Unfortunately, the only person who could have helped me, Rosa Martinez was dead, although neither my attorney nor I were convinced how her testimony would have affected the outcome. Despite the fact that she was there and clearly heard what my parents wanted, still, I was responsible for administering the lethal dosage of barbiturates that ended their lives, regardless they wanted to die or not.

My trial took over a month due to the lengthy cross examination of dozens of witnesses from both sides. My lawyer, over my objections, insisted on bringing some of my patients, whom I may add were willing to testify how professional and caring doctor I was, and how deeply I was concerned not only about them, but about their families as well. Finally, the day arrived when I was sworn in on the Bible, despite the fact that I was Jewish, that I will tell the truth and nothing but the truth. So help me God, oh yes, I most certainly needed that.

The prosecutor drilled me and grilled me for two whole days with frequent objections from my lawyer on questions that he found were judgmental or non-relevant. There were no photographers allowed to be present during the trial, it is something my lawyer requested and was granted. So, my pictures as a cold hearted monster were drawn by pencils and shown in newspapers and on the television.

Eventually, after the closing arguments from both sides were heard, the jury got their instructions from the judge and they were sent to discuss and deliver their verdict that would determine my future, my life. I looked at each one of them when they left the jury box, some looked back at me, some avoided any eye contact, and yes, there were two of them who actually smiled at me. Did I have hope that they would find me innocent and set me free? No, I most certainly did not. This society was not ready to acknowledge euthanasia, unlike some other countries in the world, and the memory of Jack Kevorkian was coming back to haunt me.

I spent the time while the jury deliberated with remembering the last days of my parents’ life. My father, who was always a big robust man, full of life, full of energy, humor and love, laying on the left of the king size bed and wheezing so loud that I was sure that it was heard by the entire neighborhood. He looked at me while he reached for my hand. Help me, Miri, please, help me to die. I remember how the tears rushed into my eyes as I shook my head and called for an ambulance, again. A week later my father was released from the hospital and sent home to die.

The jury came back and the foreman handed the note with their decision to the bailiff, who in turn gave it to the judge. He read it and without a hint of what he had just seen, he handed the note back to bailiff who gave it back to the foreman. They found me guilty of involuntary manslaughter on both accounts and on the sentencing hearing, the Judge gave me seven and a half years for each murder, served consecutively, therefore fifteen years with possibility of parole. According to my lawyer, who assured me at the time of my sentencing that he was going to appeal, that I was lucky. I remember thinking that perhaps I made a mistake by hiring him, as how could I be lucky when I was sentenced fifteen years in jail, lost my parents and my medical license all at the same time.

CHAPTER Three

THE DECISION

DOC, you have a visitor, said the guard and a few