then throwing up repeatedly on the floor. At J.I. Case, meanwhile, for no reason Gurmej Khattra could figure out, Dhillon became increasingly aggressive toward him, the insults turning violent. Several days after the lunchroom incident, Dhillon strapped a sharp piece of pressed metal from the factory floor, slightly longer than a knife, under his pant leg, right in front of a co-worker.
“Dhillon, what the hell are you doing?” He grinned. It was for Gurmej. After work, Dhillon followed Gurmej to the gate. He pulled out the weapon. “ Teri ma noo !” he shouted in Punjabi, using the worst slur in the language. (“Come on, motherf—! Come here, I’ll kill you!”) A co-worker stepped between the two, told them to stop it, they would get fired. Gurmej got in his car.
“I don’t want to fight,” he said out the window. “I don’t want trouble. I’m not union here, I’m not going to get fired.” Dhillon marched to the car and Gurmej rolled up the window.
“I’ll wait for you at your apartment!” Dhillon shouted. “I’m going to kill you. Teri ma noo. ” Dhillon knew where Gurmej lived. How far would he take the act? Gurmej went home, but Dhillon never showed. A few days later, on a Saturday, Gurmej, his wife Cathy, and their little daughter Angel, got out of their car in the parking lot of a supermarket at Centre Mall on Barton Street.
Walking toward them, two grocery bags in his arms, was Dhillon, Parvesh alongside him holding one bag. Dhillon used the opportunity to berate Gurmej, confident that the two wives and the little girl would insulate him from a real fight. He marched purposefully toward Gurmej, put the bags down on the pavement. “ Teri ma noo . I’ll kill you. You bring your slut wife to protect you?”
It was too much. Gurmej felt fire in his chest. He met Dhillon’s approach, cocked his arm, and swung. His knuckles cracked against Dhillon’s eye socket. Dhillon staggered, and Gurmej chopped down on his nose like an axe. Dhillon was on a knee when Gurmej swung again, and now Parvesh said, forcefully but composed, “ Veerji ! Brother! Don’t hurt him!” Gurmej paused. Parvesh was a gentle woman, honest, a hard worker. He respected her so much. “ Veerji , let’s talk about this, let’s talk this over in the community,” she said.
“He won’t talk,” Gurmej muttered. “He won’t listen to anything.”
Dhillon stood, blood flowing from his nose over his lip, yelling at Parvesh, his voice a guttural, raging shriek. “Call my brothers and get them down here! We’ll kill him right here, right in the parking lot!”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Parvesh said.
“Do whatever you want,” Gurmej said.
“F—ing bitch!” Dhillon screamed. “Call my brothers, call my f—ing brothers!”
“No,” Parvesh said evenly.
Monday night at 7 p.m., Gurmej answered his door. It was a police officer. Dhillon had pressed charges. Gurmej was taken to the station, sat four hours in a cell. He filed counter charges. Later, Dhillon dropped the charges and a man named Budh, a leader in the Indian community, served as mediator between the two.
“ Veerji ,” Dhillon pleaded with Gurmej, “I am sorry. You were a good friend in the past. When I broke my leg, you drove me around, took me to the doctor’s. It’s—it’s those guys, at work. The others, they forced me to say that stuff, told me what to say.”
They made me do it : it was a refrain Dhillon used time and again. He was not to blame. He was a simple man. A victim.
CHAPTER 5
CASE CLOSED
Dhillon stopped making an honest living on February 18, 1991. That day, he told his boss that, while working on the paint line, he had fallen off a moving trolley and hurt his back and head. He applied for and received Worker’s Compensation benefits. His back was killing him, he claimed, and he couldn’t bend over. That year, he received $18,838 from the Worker’s Compensation Board. The next year, he received $19,000, then $22,554 in
“Dhillon, what the hell are you doing?” He grinned. It was for Gurmej. After work, Dhillon followed Gurmej to the gate. He pulled out the weapon. “ Teri ma noo !” he shouted in Punjabi, using the worst slur in the language. (“Come on, motherf—! Come here, I’ll kill you!”) A co-worker stepped between the two, told them to stop it, they would get fired. Gurmej got in his car.
“I don’t want to fight,” he said out the window. “I don’t want trouble. I’m not union here, I’m not going to get fired.” Dhillon marched to the car and Gurmej rolled up the window.
“I’ll wait for you at your apartment!” Dhillon shouted. “I’m going to kill you. Teri ma noo. ” Dhillon knew where Gurmej lived. How far would he take the act? Gurmej went home, but Dhillon never showed. A few days later, on a Saturday, Gurmej, his wife Cathy, and their little daughter Angel, got out of their car in the parking lot of a supermarket at Centre Mall on Barton Street.
Walking toward them, two grocery bags in his arms, was Dhillon, Parvesh alongside him holding one bag. Dhillon used the opportunity to berate Gurmej, confident that the two wives and the little girl would insulate him from a real fight. He marched purposefully toward Gurmej, put the bags down on the pavement. “ Teri ma noo . I’ll kill you. You bring your slut wife to protect you?”
It was too much. Gurmej felt fire in his chest. He met Dhillon’s approach, cocked his arm, and swung. His knuckles cracked against Dhillon’s eye socket. Dhillon staggered, and Gurmej chopped down on his nose like an axe. Dhillon was on a knee when Gurmej swung again, and now Parvesh said, forcefully but composed, “ Veerji ! Brother! Don’t hurt him!” Gurmej paused. Parvesh was a gentle woman, honest, a hard worker. He respected her so much. “ Veerji , let’s talk about this, let’s talk this over in the community,” she said.
“He won’t talk,” Gurmej muttered. “He won’t listen to anything.”
Dhillon stood, blood flowing from his nose over his lip, yelling at Parvesh, his voice a guttural, raging shriek. “Call my brothers and get them down here! We’ll kill him right here, right in the parking lot!”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Parvesh said.
“Do whatever you want,” Gurmej said.
“F—ing bitch!” Dhillon screamed. “Call my brothers, call my f—ing brothers!”
“No,” Parvesh said evenly.
Monday night at 7 p.m., Gurmej answered his door. It was a police officer. Dhillon had pressed charges. Gurmej was taken to the station, sat four hours in a cell. He filed counter charges. Later, Dhillon dropped the charges and a man named Budh, a leader in the Indian community, served as mediator between the two.
“ Veerji ,” Dhillon pleaded with Gurmej, “I am sorry. You were a good friend in the past. When I broke my leg, you drove me around, took me to the doctor’s. It’s—it’s those guys, at work. The others, they forced me to say that stuff, told me what to say.”
They made me do it : it was a refrain Dhillon used time and again. He was not to blame. He was a simple man. A victim.
CHAPTER 5
CASE CLOSED
Dhillon stopped making an honest living on February 18, 1991. That day, he told his boss that, while working on the paint line, he had fallen off a moving trolley and hurt his back and head. He applied for and received Worker’s Compensation benefits. His back was killing him, he claimed, and he couldn’t bend over. That year, he received $18,838 from the Worker’s Compensation Board. The next year, he received $19,000, then $22,554 in
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