the hearing
When the man in baggy orange prison scrubs and handcuffs shuffled into the hearing room, I looked down at my hands in my lap. I took a deep breath and focused on stopping my handwringing, on staying calm. The bailiff seated him on the opposite side of the table from me and then returned to his position to the left of the judge, seated at the far end of the T-shaped table arrangement. I sensed the prisoner’s eyes on me, but I could not look at him. I felt nauseated just being in the room with him, and I didn’t want him looking at me. My attorney, seated to my right, reached her hand under the table and patted my leg, offering this small measure of comfort. It helped, knowing she was beside me and had this all under control.
The prisoner, in his mid-50s, was disheveled, with a long, thin face framed by shoulder-length brown hair that looked as if it had not been washed in a week. It probably hadn’t, as he’d been in jail since his arrest one week earlier for violating the temporary injunction order that prohibited him from any contact with my mother. This man was one of the two men who moved onto my mom’s property shortly after my grandmother died in March 2018. The second man would be brought into the hearing room soon, once this first part was over.
We were sworn in, and the judge began the hearing. She read the details of the injunction to him – a final injunction for protection against exploitation of a vulnerable adult. He mumbled his consent to it and an apology, but I continued to look only at the judge or her clerk. The clerk occasionally looked my way, and I believed I saw compassion in her eyes. When the judge stopped talking and paused to sign three copies of the injunction order, the man spoke again, clearly directed at me this time, not just to the judge.
He told me he was sorry, and he said it several more times, in slightly different ways. I ignored him. He was speaking, these apologies coming out of his mouth, but I did not look his way. I could not look at his face. I pretended he wasn’t speaking, wasn’t even in the room. My heart raced and my breathing quickened. He continued to apologize as the bailiff led him out of the room. When the door shut behind them, I let out a sob and covered my face with my hands. I will not forget the judge getting out of her seat and walking to the adjacent bathroom I had not known was there to grab some paper towels. I won’t forget her kind smile as she handed them to me.
One down.
The second man, B, was soon escorted into the hearing room, taking the prisoner’s place across the table from me. For this hearing, though, my mother wanted to be present. As the victim – the vulnerable adult – she was allowed to there, but the complicating factor was that she liked this man. He was her friend. He took her places and had the only vehicle on the property. He took her out for lunch and for drinks. She wanted him to stay.
What a heartbreaking ordeal. It had to be bittersweet writing this post. Thanks for sharing and as always I’m impressed with your capacity to do what you do with grace and strength. Hugs and prayers.
There, but for the grace of god, go any of us. I’m hopeful for you and your family, that this is behind you for good. I’m sure I’m not the only one who has missed your posts.
How horrible. I’m so sorry this is what you are going through. It’s a difficult season of life to be between still caring for children and having parents that don’t make good decisions and all the terrible repercussions from these bad decisions.