The Long Arm of The Law (part 5)

(To catch up, here are parts 1, 2, 3 and 4).

The trial was on a Tuesday morning. I brought a bag with everything I thought we would need for a day spent in the courtroom. We had all chosen our outfits and made sure we looked and felt put together. We had all agreed to be witnesses, so there was a chance each one of us would have to take the stand.

There was no snow on the road and we arrived with ample time to get upstairs and get situated. We signed in with the lawyer, a young looking white guy with dark curly hair and he briefed us on the case. "We offered a guilty plea with probation and a request that he attend an anger management course. He doesn't want to plead guilty." The lawyer added, "The defense is going to say he was 'disciplining a child'."

This was new information. "She's not a child," I said. I couldn't help myself. I had spent all of this time wondering how anyone could argue this wasn't an assault and this was the answer?! The lawyer nodded and seemed to acknowledge the absurdity. We picked a spot in one of the pews closest to the front. We weren't allowed to use phones when court was in session, so we were armed with a variety of word puzzle books.

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I read the name plate on the judge's bench. Allen Oliver. Great, another man. My daughter was going to be disappointed.

She slid into the spot beside me and whispered, "The judge is a woman."

"But it says Allen Oliver."

"No, it says Aileen."

I looked again. My 50 year old eyes had gotten it wrong, the judge was named Aileen Oliver, not Allen Oliver. Court wasn't in session yet so I quickly Googled. As I scanned the first website to pop up, a few details stood out.

AILEEN E. OLIVER, Associate Judge, District Court of Maryland North Carolina Agricultural and Technical State University, B.A. (political science), 1984; Howard University School of Law, J.D., 1987. Admitted to Maryland Bar, 1987; District of Columbia Bar, 1990. Claims litigation counsel, State Farm Insurance Company, 1992-98. Sole practitioner, Silver Spring, Maryland, 1998-2018. Member, Maryland State Bar Association; District of Columbia Bar Association; Montgomery County Bar Association; Prince George's County Bar Association. Member, Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, 1982-. Member, First Baptist Church of Glenarden, Landover, Maryland, 1997-.

My daughter had been paying attention to the race and gender of the judge every time we entered the courtroom because she wanted a chance of facing someone who could put themselves in her shoes.

"It's a black woman," I said. "She went to HBCU's and she's a Delta."

When the judge entered the chambers, the bailiff called out, "All rise!" Judge Oliver was petite and stylish, with a black robe and brown suede high-heeled boots. She took her seat behind the bench. The morning was filled with a parade of different defendants. I noticed many of the offenses were for theft or property destruction; ours was the only case involving a charge for assault. One woman showed up without a lawyer; the judge encouraged her to request a public defendant and provided instructions. She delayed reviewing the case until the woman had legal representation. She was fair.

I filled out word search puzzles while we waited. My younger daughter had a keen eye for spotting the words I missed in the jumble of letters. In the five and a half months since the assault, my best friend and her family visited, my sister visited, my daughter started her sophomore year as a transfer student to the University of Maryland, my youngest daughter entered high school, I had been laid off, we visited a friend outside of Montreal for Thanksgiving, and we visited my sister and her family for the Christmas Break. It felt like a significant amount of time had passed, yet we had spent the duration under the weight of a looming trial.

When we were dismissed for lunch, we reconvened on one of the stone benches in the hallway and the lawyer came out to talk to us. He checked his watch and asked us to return in an hour.

We went outside and across the street to the town center, a spot designed to take your money. We picked a taco shop on the corner and quickly ate our overpriced Chipotle-adjacent lunch. On our way back to the courthouse, we wound up waiting for the pedestrian light with the defense attorney. Fortunately, no one acknowledged each other. The light turned and he quickly strode ahead of us on the crosswalk.

The early part of the afternoon was a succession of various probation officers. Most of the offenders followed the conditions that went with their probation. One offender, a man, used various excuses, to include childcare, as a reason to explain why he had not made the necessary phone calls to check in with his probation officer. The judge bought none of it. "It's a phone call," she said, "How hard is that?"

It was mid afternoon by the time the trial started. The bailiff, an older Caribbean man, gestured for me and my daughters to exit the courtroom. We returned to the stone bench in the hallway. We were not supposed to discuss the case, and we were not allowed to sit in the pews while one of us was testifying. There were moments where I could hear some of the defense lawyer's words, and the judge's reply. At one point, I heard the defense lawyer state that my ex was a West Point graduate, and had a successful career as a captain in the Army.

"That doesn't mean anything," I said, frustrated. I hated when people used a prestigious resume as evidence of good character.

At one point I heard the judge say, "She's a college student! Of course she's going to come home!" I guessed the defense lawyer was trying to argue that my ex didn't know anyone was home when he entered the house.

My older daughter was summoned and she went into the courtroom while I remained in the hallway with her sister. We sat for at least half an hour before I was called to take the stand.

This was my first time testifying in court. I raised my right hand and stated my full name, loudly. I was asked to identify my ex, who was seated close to the witness box, where I sat. "He's my ex husband and the father of our children." During my entire time on the stand, my ex didn't look at me. This time around, his parents did not come to support him, and he seemed to have dropped the cocky demeanor I noticed in the December court appearance. He sat with slumped shoulders, as if he finally understood the gravity of his actions, but I didn't trust this either; he had a way of adopting whatever posture he thought would work in his favor.

The lawyer for the state questioned me first. He asked what happened on the day of the protective order violation and I explained that I told my ex to pick up our youngest daughter at the entrance to my neighborhood. I added that I told him not to pull into the driveway.

The defense attorney cross examined me next. "When my client was coming back to drop off your daughter in the evening, did you tell him where to drop her off?"

I knew what he was getting at; I had told him where to pick up our daughter but I didn't inform him where to drop her off. I thought about the advice from the representative when taking the stand: only give an answer to what you're asked. I wanted to inform him that the onus was on my ex; he was the one who had to follow the protective order, and if he cared enough to do that, he would have made sure he didn't do anything to give anyone the idea that he had violated the order. Instead, I answered the question.

"No."

In my head, I looked like this.

"No further questions, your Honor."

I was dismissed from the stand. I exited the courtroom and returned to the stone bench, where my daughters waited.

Eventually the bailiff emerged from the courtroom and gestured for all three of us to return. We chose the pew in the second row and sat. My ex was on the opposite side of the courtroom, seated beside the defense attorney.

The defense attorney made his closing argument, and produced a letter showing that my ex had attended a four hour anger management course over the weekend. He claimed my ex was "disciplining his child." He went into a meandering argument that the state of Maryland had no clear definition of who is a child, and that even he, the defense attorney, no matter what age he was, he was always going to be his parents' child. What he was doing felt like the equivalent of an actor chewing the scenery.

The judge stopped him. "She is not a child."

With that argument squelched, the defense attorney moved on to defending the protective order violation. He tried every excuse:

-my ex didn't know anyone was home; the lights were off and there was no car parked in the driveway (my default practice is to park my car in the garage)

-I didn't tell him not to pull into the driveway when dropping off my younger daughter

-He had to use the bathroom, it was a medical emergency and the alternative would have been indecent exposure, after all, this is what happens when men reach "a certain age" (no kidding, he tried yucking it up with the judge here, and she did not crack a smile or even smirk at his antics)

Every argument the defense attorney tried fell flat. When the judge addressed my ex, she said our daughter was not a child, that college students come home for the weekend, and that the lights were out because "everyone was asleep!" She told him when our daughter was fussing at him, he should have escorted her to the door and collected himself. She said his education and status meant he should have known better.

The prestigious resume tactic had backfired!

She told him he was guilty of both charges, and closed by saying:

"You seem to think the law does not apply to you."

In approximately two hours she had seen and heard enough identify the root problem. This was a person who didn't believe he had done anything wrong, first for hitting our daughter, and then for violating the protective order. This wasn't a misunderstanding or simple mistake, this was the consequence of feeling entitled to do what he wanted while counting on the victim of his abuse to do nothing.

The judge reviewed the terms of the protective order, noting that there were instructions that texting was okay, and that the order included instructions for my ex to arrange and pay for family counseling, something he had offered during the hearing for the final protective order, as a way to look like he was willing to work on his relationship with his daughter. He had done neither. The judge checked with my daughter that it was still okay for him to text her, and told my ex to set up counseling.

Reader, I dare you to guess if he's made any attempt to book a counseling appointment. I'll wait.

The judge offered my ex time to make a statement. He began to cry and through his cracking voice stated that he loves his daughters. I sat on the wooden pew, shaking my head. Love wasn't compatible with abuse. Given everything I had seen from this person, it was hard to accept anything he chose to portray was sincere.

When the judge addressed my daughter, she emphasized to my ex that he shouldn't come anywhere near the house. She told my daughter to call her directly if he violated the order.

Since he was a "first time" offender, the judge sentenced him "probation before judgment" instead of a guilty verdict. He had a five year sentence for the assault, and a 90 day sentence for the protective order violation that would immediately go into effect if he committed any other crimes during his one year probation. I held both of my older daughter's hands and made eye contact with the bailiff, who looked back at me with a subtle nod.

Epilogue

In the weeks after the trial, I felt so angry that he didn't receive a harsher punishment. I thought of how many offenses went unchecked, and how he had escalated his actions as a means to control, first with me, and now with our daughters. I questioned my usual thinking that justice should be restorative and not punitive, and acknowledged that we have a long way to go if anyone believes a four hour anger management course is going to change an abuser. For two weeks straight, whenever I drove my car, I listened to the Cocteau Twins on rotation to calm myself. I've landed on the conclusion that the judge was fair and unbiased; she didn't carry decades of history with this person, in two hours she had reviewed evidence and testimony for two charges, and produced a judgment that was appropriate, given the surrounding circumstances.

I wasn't there when they played the voicemail in court, but according to my daughter, my ex leaned over and and said "Sorry" to his attorney when it played.

My youngest daughter never testified. She was willing, but nervous, and I appreciate the lawyer sparing her from being on the stand.

Someone can go to court, be told by a judge that they are guilty, and still not be accountable for their offense. When I spoke to my ex a month and a half after the trial, I asked if he would have slapped someone at work for cursing at him. "Of course not," he replied. "I was disciplining my child." Apparently he was the only person to fully buy into his defense attorney's argument.

He's texted our daughter on occasion. She feels no obligation to respond. I notice his messages are worded to say he hopes she doing well, instead of asking how she is, or inquiring about how she likes college after transferring. This gives the appearance of care without demonstrating it. More recently he has asked about her grades. In her words, "He doesn't get to know that." Cutting off a living parent is the consequence of that parent believing their role entitles them to be abusive and call it "discipline."

This was my version of events from my perspective in a supporting role, which, as a parent, is exactly where I plan to stay.