One weekday night, Tom was mulling over his general science notes, trying to plan his lessons for the next few days. In his first few years of teaching, he spent countless hours preparing lesson plans for his recalcitrant students. From his own standpoint, Tom couldn’t quite grasp the notion that most adolescents had little curiosity about the natural world. This apparent lack of intrinsic interest in science forced him to devote time and energy planning the initial practical experiment, designed to grab the attention of his reluctant scholars. Of course, once you got their attention, how did you keep it? Aye, there’s the rub! A forty-minute lesson often seemed to go on forever, especially the last five minutes when the typical teenager’s reservoir of patience was depleted.
Suddenly the young science teacher’s ponderings were interrupted by the harsh ringing of his old-fashioned, rotary dial phone. It was Mary, Amon’s girlfriend, who sounded nervous and scared.
“Amon’s been arrested on trumped-up charges,” she exclaimed in a shaky voice.
Through Mary’s halting words, the story emerged. Following a neighbor’s complaint, police arrived at the Victorian house on Simonson Avenue, where they found marijuana. Amon, plus some residents of the house, had been taken into custody. Immediately, Tom left the house with his checkbook, ignoring his mom’s strident words to stay out of the situation.
“That man is a fool! Taking people off the street and putting them in his house. Your father was the same way. Always helping his alcoholic friends with nothing to spare for his family,” she yelled from the front door as Tom hopped into his old gray Pontiac.
A few days later, Tom and Amon parked on Morningstar Road, adjacent to Mislicki’s bakery, which along with Karisi’s grocery story had been a neighborhood mainstay since Tom and Cara first came to Elm Park a dozen years ago.
Stan Mislicki worked in the family business through high school, college, and law school. When he hung his attorney’s license in a second-floor office above the bakery, Doris Schmidt’s husband, Eddie Pelchanski, worked in his place, as his flour-covered face and clothes clearly indicated.
Before walking into the tiny law office, Amon looked at the square on the opposite side of the street, which also served as the entrance to the Bayonne Bridge and the Staten Island Expressway.
“You and Cara had an emotional encounter with your foster parents that first summer you moved to Staten Island. They had rye bread steak sandwiches for you, which you couldn’t even eat,” he related in a matter-of-fact manner.
“You’re absolutely right. Too bad you can’t market that gift of yours. You’d be a millionaire—living on Todt Hill with all of Staten Island’s rich folks.”
“But if I sold out, what would happen to the people on Simonson Avenue who depend on me?” Amon inquired.
Stan Mislicki welcomed the two young men into his small book-filled office, which had a picture of John Kennedy displayed behind the congenial young attorney. “I remember when you, Joey Caprino, and Mike Palermo played stickball on Pulaski Avenue, along with Harry the Horse.”
“I saw Harry recently. He doesn’t have as much time for street games as he used to,” Tom replied.
“Back in the day I used to follow the exploits of the Elm Park boys in the little league. Joey and Mike played for Tony’s Tigers at that time, but didn’t you play for a different team—the Salvation Army Red Shields?” Stan asked.
“Yeah. The Red Shields took players who couldn’t make the better teams,” Tom mentioned sheepishly.
“But unlike the other kids, you became a teacher, doing something worthwhile with your life,” Stan observed.
“It has its ups and downs. But the reason I’m here is because of my friend Amon.”
Tom introduced Amon to the attorney, and the former related the reason for the their visit to his office. The perspicacious lawyer grasped the situation quickly and offered his services pro bono. An avid reader of the Staten Island Advocate, Stan knew about Amon’s good deeds in Mariners Harbor and realized his financial resources were limited. Writing on a yellow legal pad, Stan asked Amon his surname, which Tom didn’t even know.
“It’s Takoda—Amon Takoda. I’m American Indian on my mom’s side.”
“What does it mean?” Tom asked, recalling that the names of Native Americans had specific connotations.
“Literally, takoda means ‘friendly to everyone,’” the young man replied.
“I’ll get you off those charges readily. But from this point onward, you have to scrutinize any new tenants to your Simonson Avenue house. Secondly, you have to inspect all the rooms of your boardinghouse on a regular basis,” he said.
“I’ve been remiss. But I assure you, sir, I’ll be more careful in that regard from this point onward,” Amon asserted.
“No offense intended. Have you ever been arrested before?” the young attorney inquired, looking at Amon intently.
“As a matter of fact, I was arrested in the Midwest for stealing a loaf of bread from a grocery store. Hunger can drive you to desperate actions.”
“What was the outcome?”
“I was given a suspended sentence for petit larceny. The police labeled me as a vagrant and told me to leave town pronto.”
“So basically, you have a clean record. And you’ve had great publicity from the local papers for your good work with the poor. It should to be an open-and-shut case, depending on the judge we get.” Turning to the young science teacher, he continued, “Tom, make sure you show up with us in court. Most judges tolerate attorneys, but they genuinely like teachers.”
“Yeah. Teachers, nuns, social workers, and moms are favorites nowadays.”
“Do you know any movie stars, Amon? That could help,” Stan said half-seriously.
“Only those celebrities who are down on their luck. There was a man who said he acted in movies back in the 1940s. His name was Adolphe Menjou,” Amon mentioned.
“I remember that guy. I recognized his face right away. He talked about Joseph McCarthy, who was a hero to him,” Tom observed.
“He didn’t stay very long. He left abruptly one day when his agent told him he had a part on a TV show,” Amon said.
“Too bad you don’t know Richard Chamberlain.”
“Who, Dr. Kildare? How about a real doctor, like Dr. Atlas?” Tom suggested.
“Dr. Atlas is a great doctor. He helps everyone who walks in his office, whether or not the person has the money to pay him,” Amon declared.
“Not everybody is driven by pecuniary concerns,” Stan asserted.