Shackled

By the time I was sentenced for my crime, I had already agonized over two prior court dates.

I spent my first visit to court in a cold sweat, wanting to represent myself (without a lawyer) and plead remorsefully for mercy from the judge.

A friend of mine came to that first court date with me. She insisted that I have a public defender and that I attempt to foist the blame for my actions onto my partner as the alleged catalyst of my rage. I did not believe that such a defense could get me off, mitigate the punishment, or even be considered permissible in court, but I still listened to her attempts to convince me that the court would understand how he had "pushed" me with words to my breaking point.

The best advice she gave me was to get a public defender. On my first court date, he convinced me (and her) that the charges weren't going to be dropped, that I was facing a mandatory three years probation (with a no alcohol stipulation, because I'd been drinking the night of my crime), and would be required to attend a 52-week "batterer intervention program."

"It's like anger management," he explained. "In a group setting with a therapist."

I actually liked the idea of therapy. I was often fascinated by the possibility of revealing my innermost thoughts to a professional who might possibly get me closer to an emotional epiphany. A longtime fan of Woody Allen films, I pictured my therapist indulging my narcissistic fantasy to talk about my childhood, my guarded fears and secret desires, at length. What I dreaded was the thought of having to share that therapist (and my delicate psyche) with a group of unknown, possibly dangerous, women.

***

Just before I was sentenced, a lawyer defending an absentee client pleaded for his client's case to be dropped. The prosecutor scoffed at the idea of dropping the charges. It was a domestic violence case.

After a heated rally, in which the prosecutor detailed a horrifying, bloody scene, she caved. Despite having what sounded like a solid case, all charges were dropped because the victim had repeatedly refused to answer calls from the prosecutor. She remained silent, and her attacker/boyfriend walked away from all consequences for his actions.

***

During recess, I was given a copy of my probation officer's report on my case. Details of my crime that I had given to her in an interview were twisted beyond recognition. If she had been a reporter, I could have sued for libel. As it was, I knew of no recourse for her mangling of my honest statements.

I felt shackled by an unjust system of imbalance.

A man walked free after bludgeoning his girlfriend solely because she was too afraid to tell the truth of what he had done to her, and I had to return to that courtroom to be sentenced for the same criminal charges (a rap that my public defender had told me was impossible to beat).

What's more, the details I'd given to my probation officer regarding what I didn't do were construed as acts I had willfully committed. My attempts at clarifying the situation led to a report that was partly a work of fiction.

***

I wanted to cry foul for that man getting off for a crime far more violent than mine.

I wanted to avoid a final plea until I could get my P.O. to admit to misinterpreting my statements in her report.

Most of all, I wanted to get it over with.

I submitted to a flawed justice system. I cringed at the thought of three years of heightened scrutiny, unwarranted searches and seizures, and being banned from entering bars.

I wondered how I was going to keep a roof over my head and pay off all of those court fees and fines at the same time.

The only thing I was slightly hopeful about (despite it being an additional financial burden) was that mandatory batterer's intervention program. I was hopeful I would find a good therapist, reach an epiphany or two about myself, and maybe learn to open up to the hardened thug's I thought for sure would flesh out the rest of the group.