In it to Win it
Googling the phone number for the prosecuting attorney’s office isn’t exactly what I call a fun time. Calling them is much less fun, in fact, but I had my moxie back and it wasn’t going to be wasted. I didn’t have time to question the fact that this was part of my daily life now, but, admittedly, there was something deep down that was screaming “how did I get here?”
The goal of the prosecuting attorney is to win, but it’s different for them. One of the main reasons cases are accepted is that it feels like a slam dunk, there’s proof and the odds of winning appear clear, despite it still being a great amount of work. One of the goals of a prosecuting attorney (an elected position in Michigan) is to get as many wins as possible–to keep getting elected. For my case, I had the assistant prosecuting attorney, which meant he had even more reason to push.
After giving the go-ahead to the detective in charge of my case, it was moved it forward and we officially pressed charges. Somehow, my case made the initial cut and within a week, I found myself sitting in an unused section of the old, dingy government building downtown with a thick stack of papers on my lap. As I sat there, it didn’t feel emotional. It was emotional, but I didn’t have time or energy to admit it. I’d turned off as much as I could and was still in some level of disbelief that I was prosecuting my own husband—and the potential anger and plan for retribution that he might be letting burn inside him. I tried to keep it all business. It was a matter of compiling and providing facts, documentation, making phone calls to check the status, having meetings—standing my ground.
When I look back on this time, it’s clear that I was fighting for much more than justice or to repair my credit. I had boots on the ground, defending the life I’d been trying to grasp since I could remember. Security, love, compassion. Ease. Diving head-first felt like a sense of normalcy, in a way. Something I’d been working towards for my whole life–even if just internally. I wanted people around me that loved me and hearing my parents, of all people, tell me that he shouldn’t be in my life–and knowing it myself–took me to a primal place.
I’d printed out every document, every letter, every email. I’d made copies of the fake money market statement I’d pulled from the dumpster, of the fake W-2 and of the forged signature on the back of my retirement disbursement check. I was organized.
In my initial meeting, the large room Ari and I waited in was only lit by natural light as the sun streamed in through the tall, arched windows. I noticed tiny flecks of dust in the light and I was calmed by it momentarily.
The attorney leaned back in a plastic chair, the two front legs of it hovered an inch off the ground and the bottom two buttons of his shirt were stretched to their limit from his round belly. It was the hundredth time I’d gone through my story to someone, and I recounted it all while he sized me up through his thick glasses.
“So, what did he do with the money?” he broke the brief silence, habitually pushing his wire frames back up the brim of his nose. A line of sweat ran down his left cheek and half-moons of sweat started to appear at his armpits.
“I don’t know,” I said. I shrugged my shoulders, feeling slightly frustrated that this was as deep as we’d gotten so far while also embarrassed that as close as I was to the situation, I really didn’t have many answers.
He eyed me with the suspicion you would expect from a prosecutor. Reading my non-verbals, listening to the tone of my voice, watching my eye contact–all the things that could give someone away, if the other knows what to look for. He could see the determination on my face, hear it in my voice, and could capture it in the essence of every detail I’d told him. I was still raw, like a seeping wound.
He decided in that dim, musty room that he would officially take the case and wanted copies of everything I’d brought with me.