That November morning was more than just frigid. It was icy, frosted over, I shivered repeatedly while getting dressed. Even inside the courtroom, I could feel the bite of the cold weather.
It was a large echoing room, with pews that were intricately carved, on the 12th floor of a high rise building in the heart of downtown New York. The room was extremely quiet, it was as if you could hear a pin drop, but there weren’t any to be dropped.
I sat, to the left of my controlling lawyer, anxiously waiting to gut myself open and expose my life and to tell my story to the jury, as they listened to the opening arguments.
“My client isn’t in the wrong-” the prosecution side stated. His lengthy opening statement could’ve been 2 sentences and all the white men in the world would side with him. Carson Histolden, the best lawyer in the county. To go against him might’ve been a dangerous activity, but I needed to win this case against my husband. I needed custody of my child, and I didn’t plan on leaving today without it.
I sat there looking down; twiddling my fingers as other purveyors entered the court room, slightly late, clicking heels on the floor. A trickling of just the few people I cared for, and those that cared far too much for my husband. My father came in. So did my sister and my best friend Naz, plus a few students of mine.
Half of them didn’t know my daughter, but they knew I needed the support.
Shay had just turned 2 years old this past week, and I didn’t get to spend her special day with her. In her photos that my mother in law shared, she appeared with her curly black hair, just like mine, a horror to run a comb through, but beautiful as ever. Her bright smile could light up my whole world, breathe new life into me, heal the bruises placed upon my heart, and would likely do the same with those upon my skin if that was possible.
“Drea.” My lawyer interrupted my thoughts, with a solemn face he looked at me. I looked at him, waiting for his statement.
“You can leave the room when your father is placed on the witness stand. I understand if it’s too much,” he said, concern coating his voice. I stayed quiet.
I straightened my back, and glanced toward my father, who waved. I did not attempt a wave back. I did not want him to think that he was forgiven. I wasn’t sure how I would respond to my father’s witness statement. It was crucial, yes, but it had just as much of a capability of unsheathing far too much anger from me.
But he was on my side today. That doesn’t mean I forgive him, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need him here, so I’d allow it out of necessity, for my baby girl.
“My client, a loving husband, who is appreciated both outside of the hospital as well as inside, and adored by his loved ones, his daughter, his friends. My client wouldn’t do this to his wife. It’s absurd to even think so. I hope that you will see that through his character and his actions, that the notion he would lay a finger on Andrea Chilowne is a dreamt up idea, one that cannot be confirmed by anyone.” the prosecutor finished and moved toward his desk. My husband sat next to him; smug.
I took a deep breath, my world was crumbling before me. They would side with him. I’ve given up before the trials even started. My will was at the lowest it had ever been.
“Ahem” my lawyer said clearing his throat. He stood up, moved to the jury, his audience for this grand speech.
As he began my mind started to wander. All the bruises, all the heartache, the hiding ,the verbal slander. God, could it have been my fault? A lump began to form in my throat, growing, as if a tumor, but I held back , blinking back tears I glanced over at my husband, who seemed to be falling asleep, as if he was attending a lecture in his second year of medical school.
His carelessness over the years has become more noticeable. After all, how else would’ve people discovered that he was constantly bashing me — both literally and figuratively.
I stared down at the table. This little wooden table is my territory now, likely for the entire day and perhaps more, depending on the evidence presented.
“My client. Drea. She’s a mother. She’s a teacher. She’s been hurt and in a cycle of abuse for the past 4 years of her marriage. For so many years of her life, she’s been bartered. She’s been bruised. She’s been yelled at. She’s had things thrown at her. And yet she stayed, for the sake of her daughter. But now she needs to reclaim her strength and get out of this situation. And she can’t leave her 2 year old daughter behind — how would she function without the care and kindness of her mother?” My lawyer finished, the jury sat stalefaced, not one glance toward me from any of them.
Evidence presented. Witness statements. It was all a game. A roll of the dice to determine whether or not my daughters health and well being matters.
His lawyer rose. My soon to be ex-husband looked over at me, a scowl etched into his face, as it has been for the past few months. I pick at the skin on my elbow, looking down, careful as to not meet his eyes.
Around the courtroom, papers shuffle as my eyes shift between my two feet and his lawyer begins.
I’m not sure how we ended up here. I don’t believe either of us expected this day to come. Our vows were to have each other forever to hold each other to be each other’s warmth. And yet. He’d changed.
Over the course of a few months, he’d gone from waking me with a kiss, to waking me with anger, frustration, often times a slap in the face a little too hard, blood rushing into my cheeks spreading across my face as I burst into hot tears.
How could the person I love hurt me so?
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God?” the bailiff asked my father, his palm faced me, but our eyes did not meet.
“Yes, I do.” he sat down on the witness chair, and wriggled in the seat as if it was uncomfortable for him, difficult to be under analysis by a jury of his peers.
I winced, I could not bare to look at him long.
“In your experience, has Nicolas treated your dear daughter well?” my lawyer began.
My father cleared his throat.
“With all due respect Nicolas is a piece of shit-“ he began, raising his voice. I wanted to shove my head underwater, oh God. “He’s done nothing but terrorize my daughter,” he turned to the jury.
My lawyer continued: “Do you recall any instances where you can specify this behavior?”
My father glanced around the court room, and when his eyes locked with my ex-husband, i could tell his teeth were grinding behind his lips. He always ground his teeth in anger.
He opened his mouth as if to speak then stopped himself. Then he began again. “On her last birthday, he threw a party for her. But he did it for himself. He wanted us all to see she was okay. But she wasn’t. I walked into her bedroom to find her putting a cardigan over her strapless dress, and it revealed bruises all along her back, dark purple.” He whispered the next part: “He did it to her.” he pushed his glasses up on his face and put his face in his hands.
What was he writhing about? I drew my eyebrows together in frustration. My father was defending me for the same thing he had done to me.
Back on my 14th birthday, I remember walking towards my father, showing him my dress. I twirled for him delicately, excited about the lillies lining the skirt of the yellow gown.
The night before I had been washing the dishes and a champagne flute had slipped out of my hand, shattering on the tile floor of the kitchen, the shards lying everywhere around my bare feet.
I rubbed my thumb and bit my lip. My father’s testimony wouldn’t be believed. I wouldn’t get to see my daughter again.
“Now to the jury I say…,” My lawyer turned to address them. Hakim was a strong young man whom I trusted with my case. He seemed to believe in our victory, when I couldn’t bring myself to do the same.
“Would you let an abusive, manipulative, harmful man stay around this woman, let alone her 2 year old daughter?” he sighed and put his hands in his pockets.
“Please… don’t do this to them. Don’t leave her with this monster.”
I looked down at my lap, if I looked at the jury I might throw up.
I started picking up the shards of the flute when my father came in.
“What did you do? What did you do!? You thought you’d get away with it?” the anger in his voice rising, it was as if steam were about to come out of his nostrils. I knew what was coming and tears began to well out of my eyes. It was this same look that my ex husband gave me. That same look that told me I needed to go, to get out.
In the courtroom it was quiet. We waited for a moment. Perhaps to let the jury dwell on this. It amazes me how these people will decide if I get to see my daughter anymore.
His rough, calloused hands gripped my right arm and pulled it toward him, I closed my eyes as he lifted his arm and brought it down on my back with the force far too strong for the body of a four year old girl. She would be battered, bruised and she would take it.
I wasn’t taking it anymore. That’s why we were in the courtroom.
The tense air settled as moments passed and the jury was excused to deliberate.
I let out a deep sigh and turned to my lawyer, a look of worry and gratitude melded on my pale face. He looked at me with a smile, bringing warmth to the stale air that surrounded us.
When the jury came back, they all looked ghastly, floating into their seats with such a silence. Many of them were slack jawed, solemn, of the same or older age. They didn’t understand what they held in their hands — the ability to see my own child, the child I spent time nurturing and caring for, while her father didn’t.
I held my breath as they settled into their seats.
“Has the jury reached a verdict?” The judge said looking up through their glasses.
“Yes, your honor.”
The air stilled as I glanced toward my ex husband, then quickly turned toward the jury foreman.
“The jury finds the defendant guilty….” He said, and sat back down.
The rest of his words phased out. I heard what I needed to hear. Suddenly it felt as though I could breathe.
I turned toward my lawyer, beaming with pride, nothing mattered more to me than this moment. I couldn’t wait to hold my baby girl when I got home tonight. To never have to give her up.
I glanced toward my father in the pews. He smiled and waved. I smiled. But I didn’t wave. There was a lot of mending to be done in the relationship before I could forgive him. But this was a start.
