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 was locked-in and this adrenaline wasn’t going to be wasted. I didn’t have time to question that this sort of thing 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 a prosecuting attorney is always to win, but it’s different for them. One of the main reasons cases are accepted is that it’s a slam dunk, there’s proof and the odds of winning appear clear, despite still building a case. The more wins, the better, and greater chances of re-election.
After giving the go-ahead to the detective in charge of my case, it was moved forward and we officially pressed charges. Somehow, my case made the initial cut with the PA’s office and within a week, I found myself sitting in an unused section of the old, dingy government building downtown with the thick stack of evidence neatly 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 quiet retribution that might eventually burn inside him. I tried to keep it all business. It was a matter of compiling and providing facts, documentation, making phone calls, having meetings, making noise—standing my ground.
When I look back on this time, it’s clear 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 in head-first felt like a sense of normalcy, in a way. Something I’d been working towards 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 that I’d pulled from the dumpster, of the fake W-2 and of the forged signature on the back of my retirement disbursement check.
In this initial meeting, the large room 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 floating in the light and was momentarily calmed by it.
The attorney sat down in an old, yellowed plastic chair across from me and leaned far back. The two front legs of it hovered an inch off the ground and his round belly stretched the bottom two buttons of his shirt to their limit. It was the hundredth time I’d gone through my story to someone, and I recounted it all again 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 started to appear at his armpits.
“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. Is that really as far as we are here? I thought. Shouldn’t we be asking bigger questions? Shouldn’t you be condemning him?While I was eager to get moving, a sense of embarrassment crept in; as close as I was to the situation, I still 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. 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.