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.

The Dollar Tree's finest offerings

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.

The Long Arm of The Law (part 4)

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

We wouldn't return to court until mid January. In between court appearances, we scheduled a week-long visit to see my sister and her family and enjoy the scenery of the Pacific Northwest. In the mornings I would descend the steep driveway to walk along the road that bordered the Puget Sound. Every morning provided a glimpse of different wildlife. In all of the times I've visited, I've seen bald eagles, seagulls, crows, bufflehead ducks, cormorants, harbor seals, harbor porpoises, and during this particular visit, I got to see river otters.

Cute but deadly!

The week we came home, we had to return the State's Attorney's office, this time to provide evidence for the second degree assault charge. We were prepared with a report from my daughter's doctor's office. A week and a half after her father hit her, I prompted her to visit her doctor because she had persistent headaches near the temple of side that he hit. The doctor's note detailed everything my daughter had shared, with the conclusion that she had a "possible concussion." I typed and printed a transcript of the voicemail he left. In December, I had bought and set up a printer so I wouldn't be stuck visiting the nearest a FedEx office every time I needed to print something.

I felt anxious about the possibility of meeting with the State's Attorney's office representative who called us when we missed the trial. In the back of my mind, I imagined he was angry, or at least annoyed that we had wasted their time preparing for a trial that the judge dismissed because we bailed. I knew part of this was my own baggage from being raised by a father who could switch instantly to anger when something went awry. When we returned to the State's Attorney's office with evidence in hand, I mentally prepared myself for the scolding we would receive.

My daughter and I returned to the State's Attorney's office armed with documents (receipts, as the youth say). We signed in and waited. The waiting area had another representative assisting two women. It sounded like a case of someone stalking and leaving multiple harassing text messages. According to the representative assisting them, it was hard to prove the messages were all from the same person because they were sent from different phone numbers. I thought of the ways people could commit crimes and evade charges by using technology to their advantage.

The representative who assisted us in September emerged from the back and we gathered around the same small round table in the glass enclosed room we had before. He kept a clean cut appearance, wearing a suit with a white button down shirt and tie, and wire rimmed glasses. Before we got started, he said "I notice you're emotional. Can you share what's going on?"

He had done his research. He had already checked the court case lookup website and saw there was an upcoming custody hearing in addition to the trial. We explained the history, and how this assualt charge was a way to get this pattern of abuse on the record. The representive seemed to understand that everything tied together and the outcome of this case could potentially impact other decisions. He wasn't angry. He didn't question why we went home before the trial started. I was so used to expecting anger from men that I wasn't prepared for one who wanted to take extra time to understand.

He said, "When I told you the judge dismissed the case, I misspoke." He looked at my daughter and said, "If you still want to file charges for the protective order violation, we can, it just has to go through administrative processing."

She agreed to follow through. The representative began to gather information about the second degree assault.

"Why did you wait so long to file charges?"

My daughter filed charges four months after the assault. She looked at me and I answered.

"She wanted to see if he was going to repair."

Lack of repair had been a chronic problem in my marriage and now I was watching the same problem repeat in my ex's relationships with our kids. People who fail to acknowledge the damage they cause spare themselves from the responsibility of fixing it. I chalked this up to deep shame; my ex prided himself on never hitting women, and he couldn't make that claim anymore. Having to acknowledge his actions, and work to build trust again required a level of capacity he lacked.

The representative turned to mmy daughter and asked, "What do you want to get out of this?" "I just want him to be accountable." The representative nodded. He asked my daughter if anyone else had been in the room when her father slapped her. She said no, and that her younger sister was waiting outside in the car.

"These things can be hard to prove when the two people involved were the only ones there." he said.

I knew he was letting us down gently, in case there wasn't enough evidence to convince the judge.

"There's a voicemail," I said. I nodded to my daughter to play the recording.

...I’m calling to apologize, I’m sorry for slapping you...

The representative's eyes widened. "HOLY SHIT," he said, "that's an admission of guilt!"

As the rest of the message played, the representative asked, "Does he always talk like that?"

"It depends on the circumstances," I said.

The representative's buttoned-up demeanor changed completely after listening to the voicemail. "Send me that file," he told my daughter, who immediately emailed him from her phone. I gave him a typed transcript of the message, and my daughter handed him the medical report from her doctor's visit. When he asked if we had any questions, my daughter asked if she would have to take the stand alone.

He was gentle with her. "Yes. I won't be there this time because I have to work here, but you'll be up there by yourself."

Out of everyone from the court system, he seemed to understand that my daughter was a legal adult, but still needed reassurance and support in navigating the adult world. Before we left, the representative told us he would not be in the courtroom, but that the case was solidly in my daughter's favor. The trial was in one week and this time we would be prepared.

The Long Arm of The Law (part 3)

(part one is here and part 2 can be found here)

The trial for the protective order violation was scheduled for early December, which was two and a half months after meeting with the represenative from the State's Attorney's office. I didn't hear much from my ex until he texted me in mid-September asking if the court had made a "clerical error." I didn't respond.

The day before the trial, the lawyer handling the case called and left a message. I tried the number four times but it didn't work; I couldn't even leave a voicemail. We were supposed to be there by 8:30 in the morning. I factored in rush hour and we left around 7:45. It was snowing, and there were no school delays. An inch of slush had accumulated on the ground and due to traffic, Google maps directed me to the most off-the-beaten-path route it could find. I told my daughters I would drop them off near the courthouse and I would park (in a spot that was not limited to 2 hours), and meet them inside.

My oldest daughter sent a text letting me know her grandparents, my ex's parents, were both there. In the months between pressing charges and the trial, they made several attempts to dissuade my daughter from following through. First they attempted to shame her for using "profanity." Her grandmother called another time to voice her fear that my ex would lose his job. They had tried explaining that "the divorce was hard on him." Finally, the last time they spoke, her grandmother dusted off the Old Testament, referring to Leviticus 20:9 as a way to put the fear of God into my daughter and convince her that she had committed an offense worthy of death. She bought none of it.

"I was wrong for cursing but you're acting like what I did is worse than him hitting me!"

If they admitted their son was wrong for hitting their grandddaughter, it would mean they would also have to consider they were wrong for times they hit their son, her father, and this was not the type of family built for reckoning, accountability, and genuine apologies. If they could manipulate their granddaughter into thinking she was wrong, and deserved to be hit, we could all sweep this under the rug and move on with our lives. This kind of move was exactly the type of family dynamic my daughter could never stomach. If there was an elephant in the room, she was going to be the first to point it out, loudly.

When I arrived at the courthouse and met my kids, there was crowd outside of the courtroom. My kids told me their grandparents had asked my younger daughter why she wasn't in school. They mainly ignored my older daughter, with the exception of taking the opportunity to shoot nasty glances her way. When I got there, I walked with them into the courtroom. The lawyer handling the case stood at the end of the aisle. I noticed the representative we had spoken to in September was also there, but seated with his back to the wall in the area where the judge's bench was. The lawyer checked off our names and said, "We're going to ask to extend the protective order to a year and ask him to take an anger management class. He's not going to take the guilty plea because he doesn't want to lose his job. So this will probably go to trial."

When I told him I tried calling the day before he said, "Oh yeah, they changed the phone system yesterday and some numbers don't get through."

We shuffled through the crowd and edged our way through one of the pews until we reached the open spot near the wall.

My oldest daughter looked upset. "He cares more about his job than he cares about me."

When you're divorced, you're spared from the task of propping up the other parent. I wasn't going to badmouth him, but I wasn't going to insist she was wrong, either.

Had the phone number worked properly, I would have asked what to expect. From what I know now, the morning is used to run through everyone who had to report to court. If they accepted a plea deal they could spare themselves from going to trial. As names were called off, people entered the courtroom either alone or with their lawyers to state whether they were accepting a plea deal or going to trial. Some were coming from jail and arriving handcuffed in jumpsuits with their lawyers. When my ex's last name was called, his lawyer, a shorter middle aged Asian man, marched down the aisle, stated they would not accept the plea deal, and agreed to go to trial. The judge, an older white man, nodded and the next case was called.

What I failed to understand was, the trial would be happening that day. Whether it was the fog of war, the lack of being able to call and ask questions, or shaky nerves that began with navigating rush hour traffic on an indirect route in the snow, the idea that a trial was something to be scheduled for another day solidified itself in my head. After my ex's lawyer made his appearance, my oldest daughter kept asking if we still needed to be there.

"Let's get out of here," I said.

We left the court room and there were people milling outside. My ex walked past us and nudged my youngest child. He was doing that thing where he exuded confidence by maintaining a larger than life presence -- hair freshly cut, custom suit on display, and the demeanor of a person without a care in the world. After that encounter, we made our way to the elevator.

"Are you sure we're allowed to go?" my oldest daughter asked.

I wasn't sure, but everything in me wanted to get out of that crowded courtroom for more comfortable surroundings. I understood why some people didn't press charges if it meant they were spared from having to go to court and provide evidence beyond reasonable doubt that the crime occured.

We went to the high school to drop off my younger daughter. Fortunately I had the court summons, which meant she would be excused. When I made it home with my oldest daughter, there were crows in the trees across from my house. For over a year I had wanted to befriend crows in my neighborhood. There were clusters of them that gathered at separate points in my morning walk. I had even bought in-shell unsalted peanuts in anticipation of the opportunity. Out of everything that transpired that day, I this considered this a win. I grabbed a handful of peanuts and when I walked oustide, I made eye contact with one of the crows and said, "This is for you!"

Crows in the snow!

Back inside, my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number but I picked up.

It was the representative from the State's Attorney's office. "Ms. Richards? The trial is starting."

Shit.

I quickly explained that we had come home. Wrong answer.

"Who told you you could leave?" Then he paused and asked how long it would take for us to return.

"I can be back there in thirty minutes," I said. A stretch, but still possible if I was heavy on the accelerator. The morning snow had melted from the roads, and traffic was light.

"I'll check with the judge and call you back." When I talked to my oldest daughter, she said she suspected we weren't supposed to leave because her father was still at the courthouse, since we had seen him right before we left. I asked her if she still planned to file charges for the assault. She did. While we were at the high school to pick up my youngest daughter, the representative called back.

"You don't have to return. The judge dismissed the case."

"We're going file charges for second degree assault."

The representative paused. "Well," he said, "be safe." He hung up.

"Does that mean it's done?" my daughter asked.

"Yes. The judge dismissed it."

Not only had I failed to protect my daughter from abuse, I fumbled her day in court. She wasn't upset with me, but I was upset with myself. We headed back to the courthouse that afternoon so my daughter could complete the paperwork for the assault charges. My mistake was not going to become her defeat.

The Long Arm of The Law (part 2)

(Part 1 of this story is here)

I did not hear from my ex until he called to ask if our youngest daughter could go with him to visit his parents and celebrate his mother's birthday the following weekend.

"I'll check with her and see if she wants to go."

"She doesn't have a choice, she's a minor."

Late in the game of parenting I was discovering my ex-husband had interesting ideas on the limits of what our kids had the right to decide for themselves. Apparently the idea of making his kid a hostage for a visit to her grandparents wasn't problematic to him.

This was a conversation where he did most of the talking, which I preferred. If I could avoid an argument by listening and saying less, it was a win. He talked about "smacking" our oldest daughter and went on to voice that he was surprised that, as her other parent, I didn't support him slapping her in the face for cursing at him.

"If someone else had slapped her, would that have been okay?"

"I'm her father."

"If someone else had slapped her, would that have been okay?"

He continued, insisting that if the situation had been reversed, and I had hit her because she cursed, he would have supported me. I wanted to say there was no scenario where I saw myself hitting our kid for something like that. I asked him to answer the question, and he finally admitted that no, anyone else hitting our daughter would not have been okay.

Then why did he make it okay for himself?

After I hung up and went inside, my youngest kid agreed to visit her grandparents. At least there wasn't going to be a fight over that. I reminded her to set up a pick up location with her father, since our oldest daughter was going to be home for the weekend, and he wasn't allowed near the house; even pulling into the driveway was a violation.

All of this was new to me. I'll admit it, I always associated protective orders with other people. I never envisioned a scenario where I would have a front seat to the process, and at the same time I didn't want my oldest daughter to believe it was acceptable for anyone to hit her, especially not a man, and especially not the man that is supposed to be the first example of a man in her life. Now, in the eyes of someone else, we were the other people.

Later in the week, I checked if my youngest daughter had set up her pick up location with her father. I didn't want to give any impression of setting him up for failure or creating some kind of gotcha situation. In normal circumstances this would be a simple operation but now it felt more like the riddle about the chicken, the fox and the grain.

Saturday morning arrived and the pick up didn't happen as planned. Instead, my ex called to see if our daughter was ready.

"Yes, but you can't pull into the driveway."

"Aww, come on."

"Pick her up at the entrance of the neighborhood."

I sent my daughter outside to meet her father. I felt vigilant the entire day, waiting for them to return. I hung out with my oldest until I decided to go to bed, and we turned off the lights. I had not heard anything from her dad about when he would be home with my youngest.

I woke up to both of my kids at my bedside half an hour later.

"Daddy came into the house!"

My youngest had entered the house to get something she needed to return to him. After she unlocked the door and went upstairs, he came in and used the bathroom. While he exited, my oldest peeked down the stairwell and spotted him. My youngest went downstairs to say goodbye, and he left.

If I said there was no part of me expecting this to happen, I'd be lying. What I learned over the course of a four and a half year separation was the level of entitlement my ex had; entering my house while knowing there was a protective order forbidding him to do exactly this was not going to be enough to stop him. To quote Charlie Murphy, the man was a habitual line stepper. The protective order wasn't serious to him, as evidenced by his reaction to me telling him he couldn't pull into the driveway. The test would be whether or not we did anything about the violation.

My daughter called the police the following day. The same officer that recorded the assault took notes, but informed us that we had to go to the commissioner's office to file charges. This was new information, or at least, information I had missed during the first rodeo. The address was the same as the District Court, but the court was closed on the weekends. The police officer explained that there was a door to the left of the main entrance to the building, and that was the office we needed to visit.

The County Commissioner's office was not some big deal like we've seen in Gotham City. There was no rooftop Bat Signal or public figure that put a face to the title. I parked in one of the 2 hour (with no option to extend) spots close to the courthouse and we walked to the entrance. Perpendicular to the row of glass entrance doors was an unassuming industrial looking primer gray metal door. You would miss it if you looked at the building from the wrong angle.

See what I mean?

The Commissioner's office had its own little security area complete with guard and metal detector and once we were through, the guard directed us to a windowless office with a desk partitioned off with plexiglass. There was a large table and a few chairs, as well as a unisex restroom, contained in a space that felt suffocating. My daughter collected the forms she needed to complete her statement, and we sat together to decipher what needed to be filled out within each block.

She turned in the forms and got a sheet of paper with specific dates for her to follow up with the State's Attorney's office. This was another necessary step; if she failed to show up at this meeting, the case would be thrown out. Several weeks later, my oldest daughter took the metro after her last class for the day, and I drove to Rockville from work, parked and walked to the Circuit courthouse to meet her.

I didn't know the full purpose of this meeting until we sat down with the representative. The entire fifth floor of the Circuit Court building is the State's Attorney's office. We signed in, sat in the waiting area, and a representative in a suit and tie emerged from the back to greet us. He ushered us into a room surrounded in glass with a small round table and three chairs. We introduced ourselves and he gave us his business card.

My daughter described what happened, the representative asked if we were all willing to testify, and he asked if I thought my youngest daughter would testify. I said no, and we agreed to follow up with him the next day. This was all going to result in a trial, but we did not have any dates scheduled yet. We left the building, I drove my daughter to the metro stop and I headed home.

What I kept thinking was how abusers, and those who seem to believe it is their right to cause harm, count on victims doing nothing. I knew the path of least resistance was the one that allowed rest and letting events fade into the past. There was a part of me that thought, we don't want to subject another black man to the biased legal system. And I also know that when you let something slide once, you've opened the door for that offense to be repeated indefinitely, and you've provided an opportunity for things to get worse. I had seen how emotional abuse crept into my marriage and how I gradually came to believe I deserved it. I saw how abuse slipped into arguments when the house was empty, when he stood with his body flexed and hands clenched. He wouldn't punch me; the point was for me to consider the possibility. I had been in an argument that resulted in him punching a hole through the headboard, inches from my face. I did not want my daughter going down the slippery slope of dismissing offenses, even something seemingly innocuous like someone entering a house to use the bathroom.

We were not the ones who committed the crime but I suspected he was still going to act like the victim.

The Long Arm of The Law (part 1)

This isn't a fun post. If you were here to see more comedic takes on the world of online dating, or catch a few laughs on some other absurdity, skip this one. While I don't want this blog to be a compilation of aired grievances, I also don't want to remain quiet and plaster on a happy face in a superficial attempt to keep things positive.

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 pronunciation 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.

She 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.

When the Battle Picks You

A few weeks ago, when Trump posted that video of Barack and Michelle Obama to social media, the reaction was palpable. One Facebook friend noted that "This was a new low," (I thought, Is it?) Plenty of non-black people denounced it. Discussions took place about not wanting to give the image any more attention, even when speaking up to say posting it was wrong. I noticed not much reaction from black friends, because really? Cartoon apes? In the larger scheme of terrible things about Trump, using a tired old, elementary school level insult dressed up with A.I. is not shocking, or even damaging in comparison to racist laws, being killed by police, or any number of other atrocities from the entire history of this country. Getting angry felt like a waste of energy and it felt like a way to distract us from other horrors unfolding in real time. What are we going to say, exactly? The racist is being racist?

A friend of mine, a white woman I know who leans liberal and tends to be vocal about her political opinions, posted this:

I don't want to include her name because it doesn't matter. She believed the senators on the list should have spoken up to condemn a racist meme. This person was a former coworker, and someone I considered a personal friend. In the two years we got to know each other, we bonded over our shared experiences of getting divorced and raising our kids. She is 15 years older than I am, and she encouraged me, and shared some stories of her own. All that said, I felt compelled to challenge her. That list above, which is cropped, included every black senator who had ever served, to include Barack Obama. The list is pretty short when considering the total number of U.S. senators who are currently serving or who have served in the past. There have been 14 black senators out of a total 2,018 senators to serve this country -- percentage wise that is just shy of 0.7 percent. Against my better judgment, and my usual rule not to get into an argument on Facebook, I said, "Why just these particular senators?"

I got the answer I suspected.

Because they are black.

I appreciate the outrage, but it is futile when we have been trying for decades to tell everyone the racist is racist. New Yorkers tried with the Central Park 5, and housing discrimination. Black people tried to point out the myriad of ways criticism of Barack Obama was unfair, and racist. What happened? We gave attention to a failed businessman turned reality TV star who demanded to see his birth certificate. He won an election after a debate where he proclaimed Haitian immigrants were eating cats and dogs. Without even acknowledging the countless other horrors we have had to witness with this guy, how is anyone surprised he'd post that video? Why should anyone waste their time addressing this?

I noticed in her response she caught herself by acknowledging the white senators needed to speak up. But the main point: the black senators, who comprised not even one percent of the total number of people who had served in the U.S. Senate, had to take the lead. To his credit, Senator Van Hollen understood the assignment:

"In the same way that men need to speak up when women are being victimized," goes completely counter to her original point -- white people weren't being called to speak up, only the victimized black people. I suspected when something happened to women, she wasn't posting that women had to be the first ones to speak up and condemn the mysogyny, so I said this:

She got it. My friend also happens to be the mother to a daughter who is transgender and another child who is queer and nonbinary. She understands the concept of allyship. Why was it hard to extend that thinking to black people? Why was the expectation that they had to lead the charge on speaking up? Why this? In the grand scheme of all of this dude's actions, this A.I. video, to include the gaslighting that a staffer sent it, and that it was a spoof on the Lion King, is pretty minor.

To her credit, my friend owned her mistake and updated her post:

I'd be lying if the side of me that appreciates dark humor didn't laugh over this:

My friend texted me as well, again asking me to please educate her if she was wrong. I don't mind anyone wanting to learn, and I appreciate that more than someone who is content to remain willfully ignorant, but I felt annoyed. Did she not see how it looked to be a white woman demanding that very small group of black people (at least one of whom was dead) speak up over this?

Confrontation feels uncomfortable and can result in exhaustion with no guarantee of understanding. It's a gamble when one's energy is limited and needs to be used wisely. As I get older, I gain a deeper understanding of the saying "Pick your battles." In our texting conversation, I expanded on my point.

Obama was president, so why single out black senators as who *should* speak out?

Why should black people be burdened to point out Trump is racist? We’ve been pointing it out since he was in NYC in the ‘80’s with housing discrimination and the Central Park 5, and again when he made a stink about Obama’s birth certificate. Has anyone listened or cared?

Having white people police their own ranks and be the first and loudest to call it out seems more effective and likely to be heard me than demanding the black senators do it. If someone already thinks we are subhuman, black people declaring racism and begging others to see our humanity is a waste of time and energy that could be used to accomplish other things. And it puts us into the trap of being seen as “the angry black.” Not worth it.

Senator Van Hollen used his privilege to speak up and call it out. Telling black people to call out racism? Have we not been doing that repeatedly and consistently? This is where allyship matters.

Asking me to educate you — you’ve been on this earth longer than I have, you claim to be an empath, you can’t step into my shoes and understand how this looks to me?

To her credit, my friend listened. She owned it, she apologized. I asked her to watch "Becoming" on Netflix. I had recently watched it myself, and I cried watching the sheer number of people who showed up to Michelle Obama's book readings, seeing the high profile people who seemed excited to interview her, and feeling the pure joy of each person who spoke to her as she smiled and signed books. We don't acknowledge often enough that the existence of the Obamas is offensive to every openly (and closeted) racist person that believes they are out of their place. Their success, their joy, their appreciation of, and affection for each other, and the sheer number of people who were buoyed by their time in office summons certain people to react with vitriol. We do not have to accept every invitation to a fight, legitimize every demand to see a birth certificate, or prove we have rightfully earned our place to anyone who has the audacity to ask.

In the end, Barack Obama eventually did respond.

"There's this sort of clown show that's happening in social media and on television," Obama added, describing much of the noise around Trump's presidency as a "distraction."

So did Tim Scott, though I question his assessment that this is the "most racist thing" he's seen out of the White House.

I have had other friends voice their fatigue at being expected to educate others when it comes to race or intersectionality in this country. I have not been put in that position until now, and I'm figuring out how I feel about the entire interaction. My friend followed up by sending a video with a song, which I briefly opened and quickly closed. Along with the song, she texted, "You're more than the struggle."

I don't even know how to respond.

Unhinged

I have once again dipped my toe into the online dating experience; my aim is not to hurry up and go on dates, or land another husband, but to observe, as if I were conducting a social research experiment. This time around I am armed with the "Burned Haystack Dating Method," created by Dr. Jennie Young, which, as the name implies, teaches one to find the needle in a haystack by burning the haystack.

The idea of eliminating as many men as you can based on keeping a keen eye for possible red flags, things that seem icky, and personal preferences seems to go completely against the way women are socialized to keep the door open to any man paying attention to us. It disposes of the ol' "give him a chance" mentality, and encourages being picky. In college, I used to always get accused of being "too picky" as if it were a crime to have standards. Even in my "pickiness" I still chose someone who was widely known as a good guy who has shown himself to be something else. Being picky does not always protect us from choosing wrong.

I set up my profile on Hinge with the the required six photos and chose my prompts. Within a day I had 39 notifications alerting me that different men on the app had left comments on photos or prompts. As I attempted to sort through the profiles, I got a pop up saying my viewing would be limited because I was not using the app with a paid subscription. Gotta love capitalism!

That's the conflict with these things, it's the dating version of LinkedIn pushing you to the premium membership so you can see the 16 people who viewed your profile. Curiosity is supposed to entice you to pull out that credit card and sign up, and if setting up a subscription is the expectation, do they really want any of us to meet up and delete the app?

With a much more discerning eye, I am using this experience to fine tune what profiles are acceptable. Acceptable isn't the same as good, it means there are no red flags on display given this first glance at a very small amount of information provided.

In no particular order, here are some of my "Do not pass Go, Do not collect $200" criteria:

* Multiple car selfies

* Bathroom selfies

* Unflattering photos. One man posted a photo of himself in a bed wearing a hospital gown and sporting an oxygen tube. A+ for transparency, but what in the seeking a nurse with a purse is taking place, here? There was another who posted a shot of his torso -- no head, no lower legs and feet, which I'm guessing was an attempt at going beyond the basic selfie/headshot, but really, this was the best he could do?

* Every photo includes them wearing sunglasses, a hat, or other accessories of disguise

* Obviously fake names (I kid you not, one man listed himself as "beach bum," and a countless number of black men have gone with the name "King")

* Anyone mid-40's and up "looking to start a family"

* Political views consisting of "conservative," "moderate," "other," "not political" or not making their political views visible. It astounded me how many black men claimed to be "not political." Sir, have you seen the news? Being Switzerland is not a luxury you can afford in 2026. Anyone who doesn't care about (or is committed to) electing officials bent on eliminating the rights of selected segments of the population is a no for me, dawg.

* Any references to their love language being "physical touch" (and 99.9% of the time, those responding to the love language prompt will mention "physical touch"). Also grounds for dismissal: reference to "a woman's touch," "passionate hugs in the kitchen," "cuddling/snuggling," and any declarations that they like good kissing or sex. There is nothing wrong with liking these things; however, this is a dating site profile. Would it be appropriate to declare any of this to a dating prospect when introducing oneself for the first time?

(nice try, I'm not choosing this particular "Bear.")

* Nonmonogamy or "figuring out my relationship type" or checking off all of the relationship options in what should be a single answer

* Low effort, to include poor grammar and spelling, one word responses to prompts, incorrectly responding to prompts, text talk in the age of everyone having easy access to a full keyboard (only Prince could get away with substituting "U" for "you")

You go crazy for Burger's what? What does a burger possess that makes you crazy? Oh the suspense!

* Using prompts to tell me who I should be, challenging me to message you because no one texts on the app, any reference to "No drama." The ones doing this seem to forget the intention should be for them to inform me why I should be interested in them, not a checklist of what I need to be to win them over.

* Anything that has the slightest whiff of fetishism (looking at you, white dude named Jerome, for stating that you "prefer dating outside of (your) culture and race,)" and you, other dude who answered the prompt "I go crazy for..." with "FEET!" Again, is this appropriate to mention in a basic introduction?

Win me over by accepting my fetish which shall not be named

* Anyone lying about his age. Looking at you, Barry, who states he's 58 on his profile:

and then shares within a prompt that he's actually 64.

Can ya believe it folks? Barry saw nothing wrong with lying and attempting to lighten the mood with the ol' aw shucks, but I'm young at heart defense and sealing the deal with a "Woot!" as the youths say. If you'd seen Barry's profile photos, it was not that hard to believe the man was his actual age. The deeper message is that he thinks he's entitled to be a prospect for anyone who filtered out his real age. Barry believes he can convince women who purposely filtered out the 60-somethings to make an exception for him. That "Woot!" is sure to charm the ladies into reconsidering their age limit. Good luck with that, Barry.

A lot of men seemed to be more focused on describing what they want in a woman instead of telling women about themselves. Quite a bit of ordering from the menu style descriptions show up in these prompts, as if they are stacking a bacon double cheeseburger with their favorite toppings. You'll see the words "loyal," "drama free," and "feminine," repeated, along with menu orders for "playful," "fun" and "doesn't take herself too seriously." There are very few asking to meet curious, intelligent, and funny women. Many of them want women who will smile and laugh at their jokes, cuddle on the couch, and join them in their hobbies, to be the cheerleader to their life while not offering to provide the same type of support themselves. They may have better luck adopting a Golden Retriever instead of expecting a constant one directional flow of adoration from a mentally sound adult human being.

"Intellectual Alpha" isn't asking for too much, right? A big booty woman of any race will do.

Or, you know, be a smiling *or* laughing woman dancing freely barefoot -- because that's not in any way unrealistic or delusional:

If those were too much, try being a non-argumentative lady who wears dresses and skirts. At least one man will go crazy for you if you can match his not-too-demanding request.

Or, you know, be a grown up Powerpuff Girl:

Sometimes the descriptions, which, if I understand the concept of these prompts correctly, are intended to show why we should be interested in these men, do the opposite.

I'd have to ensure we have the same understanding of "fun." Is dating like waiting in line or is it the actual ride? Did he really think this was the ideal metaphor to describe dating him? What works for a three minute thrill ride may not be what I want to experience for the duration of a relationship.

And then there's this:

Would I want to date someone who feels like preparing for a test? Is the prompt itself the test? Life is hard enough and in the end, we're all gonna pass anyway (bah-dump-tshhh!)

Speaking of tests, I'd have to "win" this guy over by doing something I hate? Who enjoys subjecting someone they should like to activities they hate? If someone is joining me for something I enjoy, I'd feel terrible if they were enduring something they hated only because they like me. I wouldn't even be able enjoy myself knowing I was burdening someone like that. What is with these sadists men who think suffering and self abandonment are signs of love? This isn't something potentially painful but productive like, say, couples therapy, this is a scary movie, sir. Why wouldn't you just seek someone who, I don't know, actually likes scary movies?

Some descriptions of greatest strengths are not the flexes they think they are.

So you aren't a good listener. Sign me up, said no woman, ever.

So you will always play Devil's advocate when nobody asked for that. Noted.

Some describe themselves and in doing so lapse into telling us what kind of women they like, even if it has nothing to do with the actual prompt.

And he closed it out with that old "as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside" cliche. Does anyone actually mean this when they say it, or are they trying to sound like they aren't superficial?

This morning I realized one of my favorite current comics, Candy Hearts by Tommy Siegel, uses this type of interpretation in the panels where he mocks dating apps. For years I've been laughing at art imitating life without understanding these very jokes would eventually become a part of my personal reality.

Based on my research so far, I have little expectation that I'll find a match anytime soon; until then I'll burn hay till the needle shines.