In the past year I've learned more about the state court system than I ever intended. It's a side of reality I'd prefer to avoid, and avoiding things I don't feel like doing is so familiar to me it's almost comfortable. While my oldest daughter was home for her summer break, she and her younger sister drove to the other house to spend time with their father for a few hours. In a moment while they were alone, she asked her younger sister if she still loved their dad. She said no, which set off an alarm in my older kid's head. When they were getting ready to leave, she sent her sister out to the car, my car, to wait while she had a private talk with their father.
That conversation, in which my older kid tried to get him to care about how her younger sister felt fell flat. He rolled his eyes and acted dismissive. Out of frustration, she cursed at him, which he took as permission to slap her across the face. Cursing counted as "disrespect" and to some parents, that's open season for enacting corporal punishment. She left the house, drove to mine, and came upstairs, crying, to tell me what happened. The left side of her face was red.
This was the third instance of my kids going to visit him, and my oldest kid being physically abused. These outbursts never occured while was there. In the aftermath, he usually altered the story to tone it down, or change the narrative. It was unlikely that this time was going to be any different.
"Do you want to do something about it?" I asked from the hallway side of her bedroom door. She was 19, an adult. It wasn't up to me, but it was my responsibility to support her. In this case, she seemed stuck in replaying the moment to consider if there was something she could have done differently that would have prevented him from slapping her.
This is the damage of abuse -- not only are you responsible for your own actions, you believe you're responsible for the actions of the abuser. I've heard it explained as a way to convince yourself you have more control over events and circumstances than you actually do. I told her even though she cursed at him she did not deserve to be hit, and that there was nothing other than self defense that made it acceptable for him to hit her. Shortly after that conversation, her father called and left a voicemail.
...I’m calling to apologize, I’m sorry for slapping you; you understand why, um, but again, I do appreciate the topic and the conversation and bringing up how (your sister) was feeling. I’m very sorry that I hit you and I shouldn’t have. Um, I hope you have a good night. Bye.
His voice was slowed down to a plodding pace, his pronuniciation deliberate, which I suspect he believed would convey sincerity. "You understand why," canceled any real significance to the "apology." We were incredulous at his hope for her to "have a good night." I told her to save the voicemail and send a copy to me.
We called the local police department the following afternoon. Less than 15 minutes later, two black and white Ford Explorers badged with the logo of the county police pulled up and parellel parked on the street in front of my house. Two officers, a man and a woman, in their black uniforms and bullet proof vests arrived to record my daughter's statement. The male officer informed us that their body cameras would be on, and he pulled a small notepad out to capture details. My daughter recounted the story, played the voicemail and noticed the female officer's eyes go wide at the words "you understand why." "That's second degree assault," the male officer said. He produced a sheet of paper with key information for reporting through the county court system. He told my daughter she had a year and a day from the incident to file criminal charges, and separate from that, she could also file for a protective order.
We drove to the district courthouse to file paperwork the following day. I had already taken the day off from work, since the contract was ending and I had time off to burn. We pulled up to the District courthouse, a building I had never entered. It was a block away from the Circuit courthouse, which I was familiar with after serving jury duty ages ago, and again when I had to file the will after my mother died. Unlike the brutalist architecture of the Circuit court, the District dourthouse was airy and open, with a corner facing facade of glass windows. Unlike the carpeted hallways of the circuit court, the flooring was hard, and there were a few stone benches on each floor. We entered and went through security, with bailiffs tasked to ensure we were not carrying weapons or anything unsafe.
The second floor had an office with a long counter with several desk positions for rental disputes, traffic tickets and other inconvenient but not hard core criminal offenses. To the right was a smaller office partitioned with a separate door that had a sign that said "Domestic Violence." My daughter entered, collected the forms she needed to fill out to initiate the protective order and we huddled together to figure it out.
Figuring it out was going to be the recurring theme as we wandered through the legal process. The legal world seems exclusive to our everyday life, even though laws are designed to protect us. There's no clear "How to" manual. I get the same feelings about the financial world, this entity that relies on money, our money, to exist and thrive. These realms come with their own language and processes that feel out of reach until you need them, and when you get there, there is a new language to learn, and distinct steps to take that can feel confusing and intimidating.
We completed the forms, and were told to report to one of the courtrooms. This was also not expected. We took the elevator to the fourth floor, picked a spot among the rows of wooden pews, and waited.
There were a case ahead of us that seemed to be a dispute between a renter and tenant. When my daughter's turn came, she had to go up to the stand and explain why she wanted the protective order. The judge, an older black man, listened, and granted the order. He explained that this order was temporary, and would be valid for one week. We had to go to the nearby sherriff's office to file the temporary order, and return to court if she wanted to file for a protective order with a longer term.
We came home and had a quiet weekend. My sister would be visiting in the upcoming week and the timing gave us something to look forward to. She arrived early on Wednesday (gotta love a SeaTac to BWI red eye!) and we went back to court that Friday.
My daughter spotted her father locking his car as we drove around the courthouse in search of a place to park. He was already seated in the courtroom when we arrived; we chose a row further back, on the opposite side of the aisle. I had to leave to get to a hair appointment. I'd be lying if I didn't admit I was grateful that the timing of my sister's visit allowed her to take my place.
By the time I finished with my haircut, the case was over. I parked and as I made my way back to the courthouse I spotted my ex's car. I also spotted a parking ticket on the windshield, left by the parking enforcement officer who I had seen making his way down the row. I quickly noticed the street parking in the immediate vicinity of the courthouse was limited to two hours with no option to extend. My inner cynic thought, A-ha, it's a trap to drum up business! Based on my limited experience, even the simplest courthouse tasks took longer than two hours. When I reached the door to the courthouse, my ex was leaving, and in his usual way of maintaining the illusion of civility he said something like, "Nice to see you." I don't remember if I said anything back. I went in, went through security and found my sister and my daughter waiting for me outside of the courtroom.
"He charmed the judge, Mommy," were the first words I heard. I was able to share the small victory of the parking ticket he would find on his car, and we cackled and jumped up and down for a few seconds until a man came around the corner and saw us. We collected ourselves and on the drive home I got the rundown.
For each of these court visits, my daughter always hoped the judge would be a woman. The judge for this case was a white woman. My sister chimed in that my ex had put on his boy scout act, and I knew exactly what that meant. Humble, respectful, referring to the judge as "Ma'am," using all of the basic etiquette we learned at West Point. My daughter wanted the order to last eight months, while her father asked for three. The judge had to inform him that he didn't get to decide the term; that was up to his daughter. He also asked about shielding, a process that obscures the court record from public view. My sister noted that the previous case, shielding occurs only after the term of the protective order expires.
"He only cares about protecting his image," my daughter said. I knew what she meant; there would be no true repair, no admission of wrongdoing, no real apology. His concern was focused on erasing any proof that he was on the wrong side of the justice system.
In court, he offered to go to family counseling, and my daughter agreed that it would be okay to stay in contact with him through texting. My daughter also reduced her original request for an eight month term, and went with six months instead. The judge asked how old she was, and she said 19, and with this admission, the judge reminded my daughter to see the good in her father. He also asked to be excused first, bucking the custom that the plaintiff gets to leave before the defendant. He had to return to work. The judge allowed it.
Of course, I thought.
"It's probably better you weren't there," my sister said.
She was right. We're told to give the benefit of the doubt, or that "everyone makes mistakes," but how many trespassings should we allow before calling it a pattern and doing what's necessary to protect ourselves? And what was my daughter supposed to take from this "advice" from the judge? Forgiveness is possible, but for a relationship to survive, accountability and repair is necessary. Where was her advice to him?
We rarely discuss the emotional toll of addressing abuse, the questioning whether we could have done something to achieve a different outcome, the replaying of events to see if the things we contributed warranted the offense. Should you choose to stand up for yourself, you're met with forms to fill out and submit, the task of navigating offices and courtrooms within the court house, and the time it takes to manuever through each step. All of this culminates in an endurance exercise that requires a support network and the ability to ration your own energy appropriately.
I can understand why it can feel easier to do nothing, especially in cases with family members. What happens when you're abused by someone who lives in the same house? Do you "keep the peace" by remaining quiet, and is it really "peace" when your silence is required to survive under the same roof as the person who hurt you?
I didn't think of filing for a protective order, my sister kept saying. There was some healing in her being there; she had not been able to do the same to protect herself against our father when she still lived at home, but she was able to be a stable presence in the courtroom so her niece could feel safe enough to speak up.
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