“Yes, ma’am.” She corrected herself. “I mean, yes, Judge.”
“And you indicated that when the defendant inflicted harm upon you, the weapon used was his fists and feet.”
She hung her head—as if the beating was cause for her to feel shame and chagrin. “That’s right. He punched me. Kicked me, when I was down on the floor. Got me in the stomach and the ribs. When I rolled over, pulled up my knees to protect my gut? He kicked my back, kicked me in the butt.”
Her skin tone was as dark as mine. Bruising is harder to see, and it shows up red or purple, instead of blue. But even from the distance of the bench, I could see it. On her face, arms, neck. He’d whaled on that woman without mercy.
I softened my voice. Asked a question that wasn’t on the form. “Did you get any medical attention? See a doctor or go to a clinic?”
She shook her head. “I don’t have a doctor. I used to see Dr. Gaines, but she’s mostly shut down her office now.”
In past months, I’d heard the same refrain from a number of folks in my courtroom. Medical care took a hit in our town when the DA filed his felony case against Bria Gaines.
I was concerned for the woman in court, worried about her physical condition. Felt compelled to come down from the bench, to take a closer look. I couldn’t take the chance that she was neglecting a serious injury.
She looked nervous as I approached. I inspected the marks that were visible, took note of swelling and discoloration, the reddish hue on her battered skin.
“Did you take pictures of yourself? Pictures that show the injuries covered by your clothes? I’ll need to see them, if you have them.”
She nodded. Pulled them up on her phone and handed it to me.
I flipped through the images. My head started pounding as I looked at the pictures. My eyes grew hot. Quietly, I asked, “Did you call the police?”
“No, ma’am. I was too scared, shook up. I just got out, me and my two boys.”
“I see.” That was the plain truth. I did see. “Kids in school right now?”
“Yes, the grade school behind the courthouse.”
I studied her. She looked like she was about to drop, she was so spent. I wanted to show emotional support, to give her a hug, but I didn’t dare. I was afraid I’d hurt her anywhere I touched her.
Gently, I reached for her hand and held it. “I’m worried he might’ve broken something,” I said. “Damaged you more than youknow. I sure do think you ought to go to the hospital. And file a police report, too.”
“Yes, ma’am. Maybe so.”
“This is not your fault. You know that, right? There’s no reason in the world why he’d be entitled to do this to you. No justification.”
“Thank you, Judge. I understand that.”
Her eyes wouldn’t meet mine when she said it, though. She took a breath and said, “Mostly, I just need to get me a court order. So he’ll know to leave me alone.”
Maybe,I thought,we can revisit the issue after the order is entered.I returned to my seat at the bench and continued asking the standard questions.
“Is the defendant the father of the children?”
“No, ma’am—Judge. They not his.”
“All right.” I glanced at Luna, to let her know I was ready to enter the order. “I hereby find that this court has jurisdiction. And that a temporary order is necessary to prevent abuse. That the defendant represents a credible threat to the physical safety of the plaintiff.”
The courtroom door opened, then slammed shut. I ignored it. I was filling in the boxes on the ex parte protection order form. “This court hereby orders that defendant LeRoy Stuart is restrained from committing or threatening to commit acts of abuse; and that the defendant is restrained from any contact with the plaintiff, Ada King. This order will be effective until further order of the court.”
I had my eyes on the paper in front of me, was signing my name in blue ink. I heard the footfalls pounding on the wooden floor. Looked up.
He was stomping down the middle aisle of the courtroom. The defendant, without doubt. Walking with a swagger with his eyesfixed on his fiancée. The young woman was scooting away from him. She clearly believed he posed a threat. I shot a look at my bailiff. Ross was already on his feet.
The chip on the dude’s shoulder was almost visible to the naked eye. Stuart swung his gaze from the fiancée to me. In a belligerent voice, he demanded, “Did I hear you say I can’t have any contact with my own woman?”
“That’s right, Mr. Stuart. You cannot.” I held the form aloft. “You’ll get a copy of this, so you can read the contents.”
