Chapter 8
The county courthouse smelled like old paper and floor cleaner. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and felt the baby press low against my ribs. It was just after nine and the line at the clerk's window already bent around the stanchions.
My dad sat on the hard bench behind me with my daughter on his lap. She wore her yellow dress again because it was the only one she didn't fight me about that morning. He had a small bag of crackers and a sippy cup, and he kept his hand light on her back while she watched the flag by the metal detector.
"Next," the clerk called.
I stepped up to the glass. The window had a half-circle cut out at the bottom, scratched from years of papers pushed through.
"I need information about a protective order," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted.
The clerk didn't look surprised. She slid a packet toward me without touching my fingers. "This is the petition for a domestic protective order. You fill out what happened, when, who, where. Judge reviews it today or tomorrow. If he finds enough, he signs a temporary one and sets a hearing."
I stared at the stapled pages. There were checkboxes and blank lines that suddenly felt too narrow for what had happened.
"What do I need to bring?" I asked.
"Anything that shows what you're saying," she said, not unkindly. "Incident reports, medical records, photos, messages. The more specific you are with dates and times, the better. If you have kids involved, list that you want temporary custody and that he not come to the residence." She tapped the top sheet. "You listing the penthouse as the residence?"
I nodded. "For now. We're not living there right now."
"Put that down. And put where you are staying if you want it kept confidential, you write confidential at the top. Don't sign until you're in front of the clerk or a notary."
My daughter made a small noise behind me and my dad murmured to her. I could feel sweat along my hairline even though the air conditioning was blasting.
"Can I file without a lawyer?" I asked.
"Yes. A lot of people do," she said. "Sheriff's office is down the hall if you want to make a report first. That helps. They'll give you a report number you can put on here."
I tucked the packet against my chest. "Thank you."
The sheriff's window was two doors down, same scratched glass but with a deputy behind it instead of a clerk. He was maybe forty, sleeves rolled up, a radio crackling low on his shoulder.
"I'd like to file an incident report," I said.
He pulled a form onto his clipboard. "Name, address, other party's name?"
I gave him both. When he asked what had happened, I kept my eyes on the form and not on his face. I told him about the penthouse, the locked electronic door, being grabbed and forced onto the sofa. I said it happened in front of our daughter. I said I was seven and a half months pregnant. I said my father had been outside pounding on the door.
He wrote steadily. He didn't interrupt. When I mentioned the phone on the floor and the hospital visit two days later, he looked up.
"You went to the clinic?" he asked.
"Yes. They checked me and the baby. They took notes. They photographed a mark on my cheek and my neck."
"Good. Bring that record if you can get a copy," he said. "And the phone — do you have it?"
I nodded. "It's with me. It has messages too. And a cloud backup we saved."
"Keep it. Don't delete anything. Screenshots are okay but keep the original too." He turned the clipboard around and had me read back what he'd written. It was plain language. My words, not his. At the bottom he printed a number in black ink and circled it.
"This is your incident report number," he said. "Put that on your protective order paperwork. That ties them together. The clerk will file the petition and the judge will decide on the temporary order. If you need to get belongings from the residence, don't go alone."
I swallowed. "That's what I was worried about. My things are still there. Her things."
He nodded like he'd heard this a hundred times. "We do civil standbys for that. You call the non-emergency line, give them this number, tell them you have a scheduled time to retrieve personal property. A deputy meets you there, keeps the peace while you get what you need. Fifteen minutes, essentials only. You and him aren't supposed to argue, just get your stuff and go."
"How do I schedule it?"
"Right here. I can put you down for Thursday at ten a.m. if that works. You bring a list — IDs, medication, clothes for you and the kid, documents. No furniture. You have a key or do you need the lock opened?"
"The electronic lock," I said. "He changed the code after I left. But my dad saw it still locked. The building has management."
"We'll handle the door," he said. "Bring your dad if you want someone to watch your daughter in the lobby. The deputy stays with you in the unit."
He wrote Thursday 10:00 a.m. — civil standby — penthouse — report # 2024-8847 on a small card and handed it to me with the report copy. The card felt warm from his hand.
My dad came up then, holding my daughter on his hip. She'd fallen asleep for a second and woken up cranky, her cheek red from his shirt.
"All set?" my dad asked me quietly.
I held up the packet, the report, the card. "I have to fill this out and bring it back. And we have Thursday."
The deputy gave my dad a nod. "She did good," he said to him. "Tell the clerk you want to file today if you can finish it. The sooner the judge sees it, the sooner you get a hearing date."
May you like
Outside in the hallway, I sat on the bench and started writing on the packet with the pen chained to the clipboard. My daughter leaned against my side, playing with the strap of my bag. My dad didn't rush me. He just watched the door to the clerk's window and let me take the time to get the dates right.
When I signed my name on the affidavit line, my hand shook, but the letters were clear.
