by Robert Westfall

Created on: November 16, 2011   Last Updated: November 20, 2011

IROQUOIS JUSTICE 

Lawrence Alexander Smith was in his mid-eighties, he said, and lived with his granddaughter in a large, Colonial-style house called, by the locals, Albi Cottage. He’d placed an ad in the local newspaper for a “History Coordinator” and I, being a retired history teacher and eager to have something to do, arranged for an interview. I rang the doorbell and was cordially greeted by Elizabeth, his care-giver and grand-daughter.

She appeared to be in her late twenties with long, flowing locks of brilliant red hair parted in the middle and lying on her shoulders. She had the most charming smile and kindest, blue eyes that I had ever encountered and she made me feel warm and welcome almost immediately. I gave her my card.

“Ah yes, Mr. Klee, we’ve been expecting you. Come in before you catch your death,” she said as she moved quickly to allow my escape from the January air. I shut the mammoth, oak door as fast as I could and started to remove my scarf, toboggan, full-length wool coat, both gloves and my cardigan. I hate to be cold 

“Thank you, Elizabeth I presume?” 

“Yes, sir, that’s correct. And may I address you as Martin?”

“Certainly, my dear” I replied as I hungrily accepted her hospitality and the steaming cup of hot chocolate that came with it.

“Martin, please follow me into Grandpa’s studio.”

I complied quietly and found myself in a very large room of at least twenty by twenty feet of length and width with ten foot high ceilings. Two walls were covered with full-length book cases and ladders attached to access the top volumes. On the huge dining table were photo albums, legal looking documents and empty, clear plastic eight by ten picture sleeves. As I stared in disbelief at the horrid mess this man’s past life was in I heard footsteps accompanied by another noise that reminded of a...squeaky bicycle? He stood in the doorway with a patriarchal air about him.

“Mr. Klee, it’s so nice to finally meet you.” He moved slowly towards me with his wooden walker, steadied by old rubber wheels in front and tennis balls on the back legs to keep his hardwood floors safe from scratches. He did look eightyish, with a full shock of snow white hair, wire rimmed reading glasses with a cotton strap around the earpieces so as to hang loosely when not needed. His posture was slumped and his face was lined and weathered that testified

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