…”He showed me a photo of my mother’s house in the hallway this morning, and said, ‘Tell them it was a misunderstanding.'”
I had about two seconds to decide. Except I didn’t, really. Every court interpreter takes an oath. We interpret everything that is said, completely and accurately. We don’t edit. We don’t keep secrets for anyone, even when they beg us to.
“Your Honor,” I said, “the witness made a statement to me privately. Under my oath, I’m required to interpret it for the court.”
The husband stood up. The bailiff took one step toward him, and he sat back down.
The judge put down her pen. “Go ahead.”
I said it, word for word, in English, in the same calm voice Rosa had used. “He showed me a photo of my mother’s house in the hallway this morning, and said, ‘Tell them it was a misunderstanding.'”
The courtroom went completely silent. Then the judge turned to Rosa and asked, very gently, through me, whether that was true. Rosa looked at the floor for a long time. Then she said, “Sí.” And then she told the rest of it.
The judge granted the protective order on the spot. She also ordered the bailiff to hold the husband until the sheriff’s deputies arrived, and referred him to the district attorney for witness intimidation. The hallway had cameras. They’d recorded the whole thing.
After the hearing, Rosa found me in the hallway. She was shaking. “I asked you not to say it,” she said. “Why did you?”
I told her the truth. “Because you said it to me. That means part of you wanted someone to hear it.”
She thought about that, and then she hugged me, which interpreters are not really supposed to do. I let her anyway. Some things don’t need to be translated.
