Shake hands on it
I arrived in court, nice and early. Too early. “Go up the road to Cafe Loco,” said the woman on security, “and get yourself a decent coffee. That stuff upstairs is awful.” she added in a whisper.
From my table by the window, I glanced across the street from the coffee shop and noticed a familiar car – Mr P’s. My heart sank. I’d been hoping he wouldn’t turn up. Thought he might send his brief like last time (because he’s far too important to attend himself). Anyway, I tried to keep breathing, deep, relaxing inhalations and think of something else. There were no papers or magazines, I played with my cellphone instead (anything to keep my mind distracted).
When the time came, I collected my things, paid for the coffee, exchanged good-humour with the waiter and left for the courthouse, vowing to maintain an attitude of self-assurance. Before I’d left the house earlier, I thought carefully about what to wear; nothing he had bought me – or was the style of outfit he used to favour. I chose a pair of smart, tailored, rustic-coloured slacks (part of and expensive suit I bought myself for work), a pale green sweater, leopard-print silk scarf and tan-coloured Windsmoor coat (which I also paid for myself). He used to go on about how much he had bought me whilst we were together, like it was a justified reason for me to surrender to the physical and emotional beatings. He had indeed bought me clothes and liked me to dress in a particular way I never felt comfortable with. I used to think he made me look like his mother – all buttoned up and uniform. Not the way I naturally dress, which is casual and contemporary).
Having been ushered through courthouse security and finding my way to reception, I noticed him sitting at a table next to a woman of about 30-ish, whom I took to be his brief. Dressed somberly (as they do) in black suit, she busily took notes as he leaned in, talking in a whisper but making strong emphatic hand gestures as if to ram home his point.
She looked up in my direction, briefly. I smiled. She smiled back. I smiled at him too but he looked away. I noticed his red face, which is how I remember him a great deal of the time. He complained constantly of being too hot, was always having to stop and take off a layer of clothing or unbutton his collar or take a cold drink, almost like he was on the point of boiling over much of the time. It used to frighten me, make me clam up or try to appease him (which invariably triggered instant abuse), but today, in a courthouse surrounded by lawyers, police officers and security guards, I really didn’t care. In fact, I was glad because it meant he was feeling uncomfortable.
Having given my name to the court administrator, affirmed I was indeed representing myself, I made sure I sat away from them over the other side of the room.
The woman next to Mr P got up and walked over, introduced herself and sat down beside me. I vowed to be pleasant and display a confident exterior (more for his benefit that hers). She explained that she was indeed representing Mr P and that they were proposing we use the court pledge system instead of pushing for a full-blown case, which would be costly and time consuming. “Mr P totally refutes your claim against him and is prepared to defend himself emphatically should it go to court.” she stated. Making a promise to court, whereupon we both agree the terms and boundaries by which we are to adhere, results in ‘contempt of court’ if the terms are broken by either party, rather than a crime (which is the case when someone breaches a court order). I felt she was being straight with me. She didn’t come across as intimidating or aggressive like some lawyers and I could see the merits in a solution not requiring a return to court. I agreed in principle with the proposal – as long as I was happy with the terms. She assured me she would compile something there and then that covered the points I had outlined. If I wasn’t happy with it, she said, she would ask the judge to hear my concerns first. Okay, I can’t lose I thought and off she went back to Mr P to draft the wording.
Even though I was determined to maintain the ’swan thing’ and keep a calm, serean exterior, inside my heart was pounding. I was starting to shake from the adrenalin and my stomach was in knots. A woman opposite offered her paper, I gratefully accepted (something else to keep my mind busy). Although my eyes were scanning the blocks of Times New Roman line-by-line, my mind was elsewhere. I couldn’t help but think about how surreal it all was. There was my husband, sitting not ten metres away and yet the chasm between us could have spanned the solar system. It seemed odd somehow. How did we get this broken? I desperately wanted to be able to talk to him, to say come on, let’s patch things up and stay friends at least. When all this is done we can go out to lunch. We haven’t done that in ages. But I knew how dangerous that would be with a character like him because, in his world, he would hear something different than was being said. He would interpret it as an admission of my guilt, an apology for being so wrong and a desperate plea to be reconciled with him. Nothing could be further from my mind. My life is sooooo good without him in it and I wont do anything to damage that. But we are, for the time being, still married and still entangled professionally (although not working together). There are still matrimonial and professional issues that need to be sorted out. To NOT be in communication at all (except through solicitors) seems obstructive rather than facilitating. What his solicitor was proposing made sense…….until she brought me the draft:
Point 1) “I, TW, give an undertaking to the court promising not to use or threaten violence against Mr P and not to instruct, encourage or in any way suggest that any other person should do so.”
Point 2) “Not to intimidate, harass or pester Mr P and not to instruct, encourage or in any way suggest that any other person should do so.“
Point 3) “Not to contact or attempt to contact Mr P by any means other than letter or email. Any communication to be limited to the separation of the parties’ joint business, joint matrimonial interests and other non-social communication relevant to the separation.“
An alarm sounded in my head. I felt myself being manipulated all over again. What had started out as my application against him had been turned on me, just like when we were together, each complaint about an episode of abuse would be hurled back as a steel bar of blame – well you hit me too! And here it was again. He had managed to twist the process, deflecting the missile right back at me and hijack my application. If I didn’t know him better I would have congratulated him on his creativity.
“I cannot agree to this.” I turned to his brief who was watching me nervously. “This is making me admit to something I have not done and promising never to do it again and I cannot do that as I haven’t done any of those things in the first place.” She then showed me his piece of paper, which contained exactly the same wording except where it said “Mr P” was my name. “You see,” she said, “it’s the same for both of you. But if you are really not happy then I will ensure the judge lets you air your concerns.” Damn right, I thought, as she toddled back to her seat.
An hour went by before we were called in, during which time the courthouse burst into a flurry of activity. A woman ran out of one of the court rooms swearing and screaming MURDERER! FUCKING MURDERER! SHOULD BE LOCKED UP AND INSTEAD HE GETS A FUCKING SUSPENDED SENTENCE! Everyone looked up. No one said anything. My initial thought was to condemn her as an imbecile, loud, aggressive and rude. Then I turned and caught a glimpse of her face, pale and drawn. I could see underneath her rage lurked a sorrowful heart weighted down by loss and with no relief from justice today. A few minutes later a young woman, dressed in jeans, smock top and voluminous scarf like a yoke around her neck, came and stood by the window and started talking on a mobile phone. I deduced she was a journalist and was speaking to her editor, caught snippets of conversation but no detail only single words and bits of sentence like “rape“, “gun“, “blood“, “but he said he didn’t rape her” and “that was why he had the gun“. My mind flashed back to an incident when my husband had grabbed a walking stick from the hall stand, raised it above his head and screamed “DON’T DEFY ME YOU FUCKING BITCH – I’LL KILL YOU”. On that occasion, I’d managed to run upstairs and lock myself in the bathroom until he left the house but it became his weapon of choice from then on. I identified with this woman’s injustice, remembering how I’d gone to my brother-in-law’s house after a particularly violent incident and showed him the bruises his brother had inflicted on me. Rather than responding with shock and disbelief and promising to ‘talk to him about his unacceptable behaviour’, he just stood there, wordless. I could feel a drawbridge being lifted between us. He could not get me out of his house quick enough. I heard nothing from any family member for days – not even my sister-in-law with whom I regularly communicated by email and phone. All communication stopped – just like that. My husband attended a family conference, at which I hoped they would tell him to get his act together and that his behaviour was totally unacceptable. Instead, from that day forward, I was the one ostracized.
At 11:45am, we were called in to court number 5, today presided over by Judge Forster (made up name) – a woman! (my lucky day. Number 13 has always been lucky for me). Sagacious though she was, Judge Forster was welcomingly open, unofficious and non-judgemental – surprisingly. She listened, explained and didn’t once advise. She heard my concerns and assured me that this was not an admission of guilt for something I have not done, merely a process by which the court system tries to proffer a speedy and inexpensive solution. “But,” she emphasided “If you are feeling compromised by it and are not happy, I am in no way going to force you into it so you can be assured of that.” She explained it to me in a way that made it palatable. She said to look at this way: you have already sent out a very strong message to Mr P that any sort of unreasonable behaviour is unacceptable and will be responded to in the strongest terms possible. The promise is just a way to clearly communicate where the boundaries are. Put like that, I was happy to sign.
So, my husband has now promised to the court that he will not do any of those things to me. I have promised the same. That promise is in place for 12 months, which hopefully will give us enough time to sort out the divorce. More than that, at least now he has witnessed my true strength and maturity, seen how I can hold my own – on my own – without him squashing me into a meek, weak, lost and overwrought soul and that I WILL take all necessary steps to protect myself and my interests. I still wish, though, it had not come to this. But that’s abusers for you; they thrive on driving close to the edge.
He will be at his parents house now, showing them the form (a copy of what was agreed) and saying: “So, she can’t harass me anymore. She admitted it, there and then and the judge said I should apply for an order myself given what I’ve had to put up with but you know what, I can’t be bothered. And they will be saying “Well done son. You did great today. Poor you having to deal with all this from her.”
Sometimes I wish I was a fly.
