THE LONG ARM OF THE LAW

Receiving a letter from the District Attorney of the State of Maine can be unnerving. We get one about every six months. Inside is a $10 check. 

The envelope that arrived last week reminded us that the check is “current payment” from the person who, 14 years ago on a sweltering July night, snuck into our home and the bedroom where we were sleeping, then robbed us. 

Anyone who’s experienced a home burglary knows you never truly get over it. For me, the horror of waking up and seeing a stranger five feet from my bed, using a penlight to illuminate my husband’s belongings on his dresser top, is etched in my neurons. That memory rekindles every time we receive a new check, but the passing years have provided some alleviation.

That long-ago night was unusually hot but, ironically, everything I savor about a summer evening in Maine. Our daughter and family were visiting from San Francisco. We ate dinner on the screen porch — corn on the cob, cheeseburgers from the grill. We took our red-headed grandson to Big Daddy’s in Wells for an ice cream cone. Later, we sat on the front porch, counting fireflies while my husband strummed his guitar. 

At bedtime, we purposely left front and back doors ajar, hoping for a cooling ocean breeze through the screen doors. In our Kennebunk beach community, neighbors are friends. Not everyone locks their doors or windows. Many leave car keys in the ignitions. Until that night, I felt safe and didn’t worry about boogeymen under my bed ... or robbers in the night. 

That changed when, as the police report stated, “at 3:09 AM, the husband woke up to find a male subject standing by the dresser in the first floor master bedroom.” In my sleepy state, I heard Bob ask, incongruously, “Can I help you?” (He told me afterwards he couldn’t think of anything else to say.)

The police log indicated the offender was a 22-year-old white male, five- foot-eight, with brown hair and blue eyes. So normal, I thought. But that night I only saw a shadowy figure dressed in black who fled the minute my husband spoke. 

No jewelry or credit cards were taken, just cash. When the police arrested our intruder a month later, he was charged with 13 additional Class B robberies in our neighborhood and town.

In our house, he left finger prints everywhere. A can of tattoo goo, used as salve for new tattoos, fell from his pocket when he raced out our driveway. The police traced the tin back to a local shop where he’d gotten a tattoo one week before breaking into our home. 

Our Class B robber was sentenced to seven years. He served time at the Maine State Prison in Thomaston, then at a minimum security facility in Charleston. After three and a half years, he was released and placed on probation. 

When we received our first check, I called the Victims Restitution Office. “What’s this?” I asked. They told me that 25% of any deposit made to his account went to victim restitution. In total, he owed $8797 to 14 victims. The clerk said, “He is supposed to reimburse you for $300, the total he took from you that night, but they’ll come in $10 increments.”

No amount of money can ever settle his debt. For months, even years afterwards, I tensed if the screen door banged unexpectedly. I woke up countless times in the middle of the night, breathless, chest tight, heart racing. He stole my faith in humanity, my sense of security, my joie de vie. It took years to regain them, but I have. 

My husband thinks the check is “a symbol of a system that works.”  I hope our robber lives deep in the mountains of Afghanistan or at the Arctic Circle, as far from here as possible. I cash each check but, truthfully, I don’t enjoy the money.