Chapter 7
The county courthouse smelled like old paper and floor cleaner, and the air conditioning was turned up too high for late summer. I pulled my cardigan tighter over my shirt and felt Jake's hand on the small of my back as we went through the metal detector. I was seven months pregnant and the deputy at the scanner waved me around it instead of through, his voice soft when he said, take your time.
We hadn't slept much. The photos from urgent care were in a manila folder in my purse, next to the deputy's card and the discharge paper that said fetal heart tones normal, maternal neck contusion, monitor for contractions. I kept touching the edge of the folder to make sure it was still there.
The victim advocate's office was on the second floor, a small room with a frosted glass window and a box of tissues on a low table. Her name was Diane. She had short gray hair and a navy blazer and she didn't start with forms. She started with, are you safe at home right now?
I nodded, then said, my husband is with me. My voice sounded thinner than I expected.
Jake sat beside me, his maroon sweater gone, now in a plain gray shirt he'd put on that morning. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. She's staying with us, he said, meaning Linda was still at her house outside town, not ours, and he said it like he was making sure Diane heard him take ownership of the line.
Diane pulled out the petition packet and turned it so I could read it. Temporary protective order, she said. What it does is it makes the boundary you already set into law. It says she can't come to your house, can't come near the nursery, can't contact you directly. It's temporary until a judge hears both sides.
I stared at the word petitioner next to my name. My handwriting looked shaky. Where it asked describe the incident, Diane said, use your own words, but stick to what happened. I wrote: On August 23, my mother-in-law Linda put her hands around my neck over the crib rail in the nursery and choked me while I was 28 weeks pregnant. My husband pulled her off me. Police came. I went to urgent care.
Diane clipped the photos behind the form. The one the nurse took showed the red marks still dark against my throat, and another showed the faint fingerprint shape near my collarbone. She added the medical summary and the deputy's report number. She didn't flinch at any of it. She just said, this is enough for the judge to see.
We waited on a bench outside Courtroom B. The hallway was full of people in for traffic tickets and custody dates, and the fluorescent lights hummed. Jake held the folder on his lap because my hands were cold. When the clerk called Sarah M., we both stood.
The judge was a woman in her fifties with glasses on a chain. She didn't do speeches. She read the packet, looked at the photos, looked at me standing there with my belly showing under my cardigan, and then at Jake behind me.
She said, Ms. Sarah, is this what happened as written?
I said, yes, your honor.
She asked if Linda had tried to contact me since. I said no. She asked if weapons were involved. I said no. She turned a page and tapped the deputy's narrative with her pen.
I'm granting the temporary order, she said. The respondent, Linda, is to have no contact with you, to stay at least five hundred feet from your residence, and to stay away from your person. Service will be done by the sheriff today. We'll set a full hearing in fourteen days. Do you understand you need to be there?
I said I did. My knees felt strange, like they might give a little. Jake put his hand lightly under my elbow, not pulling, just there.
Outside the courtroom, Diane walked us back to her office and explained service. A deputy would drive to Linda's address and hand her the papers. Once served, if she came near us or called, it would be a violation and we were to call 911. She gave me a certified copy with a raised seal and a hearing date stamped in blue. September 6, 9 a.m.
Jake folded it carefully and put it in the folder. Thank you, he told Diane.
In the parking lot, my phone buzzed. Unknown number. I almost didn't answer, then did, because Diane had said the sheriff's office would call to confirm service.
It wasn't the sheriff. It was Linda's sister, Carol, who'd been at the dinner two nights before. She didn't yell. She said, Sarah, honey, the deputy just left Linda's. She's crying. She says you are trying to put her in jail over a misunderstanding.
I didn't know what to say. The heat came off the asphalt in waves and the courthouse flag snapped in the wind. I looked at Jake.
He took the phone gently. Carol, he said, this wasn't a misunderstanding. She choked Sarah over the crib. We have photos. A judge saw them. Please don't call Sarah again. If Linda needs to talk, it goes through the court.
When he hung up, I felt both things at once, exactly like Diane had said I might. Relief sat heavy and solid in my chest because the paper in my purse meant Linda couldn't just walk into the nursery again. And guilt prickled right beside it, sharp and familiar, because Linda had taught Jake to tie his shoes and now a deputy had handed her a court order on her porch.
May you like
Jake opened the passenger door for me. You did the right thing, he said.
I sat down and put my hand on my belly where the baby was turning, slow and strong. I wasn't sure if I believed him yet, but I believed the paper. For fourteen days, the house was legally protected, and I didn't have to decide in the moment whether to open the door. The court had decided for me.
