The officer glances up from his desk. “You’ll need to wait until the court opens in the morning.”
“But he’s acting crazy. What if he comes back and hurts me tonight?” I ask, desperation seeping into my tone.
“Just call us and we’ll come right out,” he shrugs. “Or you could go to a shelter.”
“You can’t issue me something in the interim to prevent him from entering the apartment?”
“No ma’am,” he shakes his head. “Just be ready to dial 911 and we will be there.”
I nod, though their reassurance feels hollow.
There’s no safety net here, just a promise to interveneaftersomething happens.
I return to the apartment, dreading the moment Timmy walks through the door. My hands shake as I pour myself a drink, hoping to dull the edge of my terror.
I’m terrified of what state he’ll be in when he gets back, but I also feel like I have practice handling him. That seems preferable than going to a shelter and leaving Sabre here, defenseless, along with all my property.
A while later, the door beeps. Timmy’s back.
He bursts in, screaming, his voice a thunderstorm of fury.
I grab my phone and dial 911, my heart pounding as he rages.
By the time six officers arrive, he’s vanished.
I explain his erratic behavior, his threats, his abuse, and about my attempts to secure a TRO. I muster the courage to tell them the truth about what happened last night. “He’s been having sex with me while I’m asleep, after I told him not to.”
One of the officers scoffs at me. “No detective is going to take your statement while you reek of alcohol.”
My jaw clenches. My chest tightens. I feel like ripping my hair out.
I went out earlier to try to get a TRO—like the police advised me—and I couldn’t.
I just told the police I’ve been raped—and they shamed me for drinking alcohol.
I want to scream at the injustice of it all.
I turn to a female officer. “Look, I’m not a criminal for having had a drink. Your colleague is being extremely unprofessional. Can I speak to you instead?”
She nods, listening as I recount everything. She confirms that I can speak to a detective the following day if I want to pursue charges.
The officers leave, and the silence is deafening.
I put Timmy and his parents into a group text. My fingers fly across the screen, shaking with a mixture of rage, despair, and determination:
Me:
Timmy—you have 48 hours to move out your things.
If you become violent, verbally or physically, I will be calling the police.
They are already aware I am asking you to remove yourself from the premises.
I will be filing legal claims against you, as discussed, for the $20-25k in malicious damage you have caused in the past year.
I reserve the right to file future claims as they become apparent and as as advised by my attorney. I have a great attorney.
Your lack of recognition of your son’s behavior is really shit, Phil.