She was wearing stockings without a snag or run. She kept her face averted from me, although she had given me a good enough look when I’d first come in. But other than that she didn’t act like your usual humiliated upper-middle-class victim.
What a difference from the scene I’d visited last week. Basically a couple trying to tear each other to shreds. The technique of separating them and defusing the fight wouldn’t be necessary here. When that couple made eye contact, it set them to spitting-spitting!-at each other.
This woman, in her stocking feet, poking at the fire, with the husband nervously shifting his weight from side to side, was a different setup altogether. But the reason I was there was that phone call, and the cut above her eye. As in all these cases, I had to get her alone.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions; could we speak privately?”
She nodded and slipped on her black pumps, which were neatly paired by the skirt of the sofa. She led me down a hallway into a phony English library setup, with leather books and leather furniture. We settled into wing chairs, but I didn’t want to be too comfortable. I didn’t want her to be too comfortable either.
“I assume there’s some sort of injury here.” I pointed with my pencil to the cut beneath her eye.
“You assume correctly, I fell down the stairs.” Her tone was too measured, I thought; this woman was too smart not to know that that is the cliché. She was almost throwing it in my face.
“I’ve never seen an eye cut like that from a fall down stairs, ma’am, A blow to the face is usually what causes this sort of thing.” I could hear irritation in my voice. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
I sighed. What a waste of my time and the taxpayers’ money. And the laws have changed in California too. Used to be they’d have to press charges. Hire a lawyer. Still hubby would get out the same night. Now all we have to do is get her to admit that he hit her and we can cool his heels in jail, at least overnight, until he can get before a judge. But this woman wasn’t going to help herself out.
“You sure about that? If you can just confirm that he hit you-that’s all you have to do-”
“He didn’t.”
“And the bruise on your arm?”
She looked down and moved the skin on her upper arm around to see a purple spot. She looked surprised. She hadn’t noticed it. So maybe she just wasn’t even feeling pain.
“Must have happened on the stairs.”
“Looks a few days old.”
She shrugged.
I shrugged. “That’s all, I guess.”
Later I thought, maybe if my social skills had been better I could have charmed the words out of her. But now I was getting hungry. Kevin and I were helping each other out with our diets. I wondered who would try and talk whom out of the late-night salad bar this time.
We stood up and walked back into the living room. She had her head tilted up high, but not with the pride of the humiliated or the pain of a broken jaw, I liked the tilt of her head and something else, some strength I couldn’t place. Or maybe she was just crazy.
I watched her eyes settle upon her husband as we walked into the room, and saw how much space she chose to put between them. She’s not afraid of him, I thought. Maybe she did fall down the stairs, It didn’t matter anymore.
Kevin had a crush on the hamburger joint waitress with great repartee and I was dating a paramedic with awesome social skills. That’s the way it was with night work. Your society becomes waitresses at all-night restaurants, nurses, lap dancers, paramedics, and criminals. Couples with Malibu lighting were the exception.
Kevin and I made our polite good-byes and went back to the car to call in and write up a report.
“My feeling is, we won’t have to go back there again tonight.”
“I’ve never seen a DV so calm after the storm.”
“If everybody’s so copacetic, what can you do? I’ll bet that guy doesn’t ever have to be up before the judge.”
But what I was thinking was, I hope he doesn’t cut her up into little tiny pieces either.
We settled on hamburgers and drove to a neon-lighted, late-night part of town.
They were right. Things got much easier after that. It became so simple to fuck up. I not only burned your shirts when I ironed them, I developed a cowering posture, lowering my eyes that darted only over to your shoe soles. And I knew that as things became worse for you, as the pressure started to mount, you’d beat me.
But you were dependent upon me. I was the only thing you could control in your life. Or so you thought. You had no idea how out of control you really were!
I went to several doctors, under assumed names, but I never wore sunglasses. I looked them straight in the face. And I introduced memorable topics with the receptionist at every appointment.
Of course, I had to show some kind of escalation. But I wasn’t about to rent slasher films for your at-home video entertainment (besides, I was afraid the video places would have receipts). But I didn’t know how to time it. It was like taking a wishbone and pulling on it, hoping that it would break in the right place. The place that would be in my favor. And that’s what I wanted to do. I didn’t want to get broken anymore.
But I didn’t know then how easy it would be, once I’d remembered what they’d told me.
When I showed them the photos (probably not admissible in court, but nevertheless interesting), it was emotionally upsetting for them. To see the photos. The pictures traced bruises with bilious yellow centers that blossomed into purple and black. Or red welts, like bars across my back. It brought back memories that were not pleasant for them. And they expressed sympathy for me. They encouraged me to finish the work soon.
I knew I would get all the elements right. It was Christmas again (I’d disconnected the heater in your car) and you were worried about losing the rather menial lectureship that you had finally landed. After you arrived, with nearly frostbitten fingers (I’d hidden your gloves), I arranged for my cousin to stop by, blow marijuana smoke in your face, shout loudly at you some story about a sports victory, and slap you on the back.
We were having a dinner party (read potential job prospect) and I lied to you about the arrival time of our guests. So you were caught off guard when they came half an hour early. I managed to bum the roast anyway.
Later I made insipid comments and quite frequently had no opinion at all (although four times I managed to contradict you over matters at hand: the brand of the oven, the age of Alexander Dubcek, and the cost of pouring a cement patio last summer). You bickered with me publicly until you remembered where you were and with whom. You were hating me really good by the time your no-longer-potential employer left.
Patrol Officer Laura Deleuse:
It’s easier to take on a violation of a restraining order. These women don’t want to be hassled and have made their demand public record. They don’t cover up for someone that’s causing them corporal injury.
I put personal interest in carrying out violation of restraining orders. One particular weasel was calling a woman twenty times a day at her work. Her boss had sympathy for her, but after a few months it was getting seriously in the way of business. What could he do? She was going to lose her job.
I got to know her, going over there and taking reports quite often. She had a daughter and two kittens. Two kittens! She was just trying to raise her kid, a working mom, and here was some jerk ruining her life. Hanging on her doorbell. Standing outside her window at night. And the stupid bastard had his timing down right. She’d call the station, but he never lingered more than three or four minutes after she’d noticed him. We can’t make it in less than five minutes and he knew it. He was always gone before we made the scene.