A Chick in the Cockpit (23 page)

“Ma'am, do you have someplace where you can take your children and be safe for at least tonight.”

Brad's head snapped around and he said, “You're not taking the girls anywhere!”

“Sir, I am asking that your children's mother make sure your children are safe. Ma'am, do you have a friend or someplace safe you can take yourself and the children?”

I said yes, I had friends who could help me out. Brad's eyebrows rose, and I could see his anger flash. Maybe because seven years had passed and police were trained differently to handle domestic abuse calls, but, thankfully, these officers saw the situation clearly. With that clarity, I also knew this loss of control over me and the situation would cause Brad's anger to escalate.

I brought the girls to Marcie's house and asked if they could stay with her. Marcie was strong for me, as always, and I asked her if it was okay if I stayed at my neighbor's house. I was housesitting for my neighbor while she was in Texas, and I needed to gather my thoughts and keep the girls away from me in case Brad tried to harm me. I didn't want them exposed to any more of this. I knew this police interaction was a pivotal moment and that I had to prepare for battle. Marcie knew exactly what I meant and she said that after all these years, she would do anything to help set me free.

I was thankful for my neighbor's empty house. The television wasn't even working so I had absolute, terrifying silence. My pilot training of remaining calm in the wake of an emergency abandoned me, and I freaked out at first in the absolute nothingness. But life knew better than I did. It was silence that I needed. All I knew was this was it. Something bad was going to happen, and I needed to protect my girls and myself. I needed a checklist, but what kind of a checklist? I was in a relationship with someone who did things so out of the normal range of behavior, I couldn't guess what his next move would be. His manufacturer did not provide guidance for others trying to operate this particular machine.

I knew I had to return to the barn in the morning to feed the horses and complete all the barn chores, so I sent a text informing Brad that I would be arriving at the barn at 9:00 a.m., and that my friend and neighbor, Leigh Ann, would be meeting me there to make sure I stayed safe. I asked for him to be gone from the property so I could complete my chores.

At 8:59 a.m., I drove down to the barn. Arriving one minute early unknowingly turned my life around for the better. I knew I needed to wait until Leigh Ann got there before I got out of the car and went to work, so I turned off the ignition and looked to the top of the driveway waiting for her car. As I looked down to check my phone for messages, I heard my back driver's side car door open. I turned to see Brad grabbing the children's car seats. “You fucking cunt,” he yelled, “I'm going to get my girls, and you're not going to see them ever again!” In his anger, he yanked so hard that the back of Lindsey's car seat fell off. As he walked to his car, I got out and bent over to pick up the seatback off the ground. Brad ran up behind me and as I stepped back, he was on me. I turned around and he was standing with a tape recorder in his hand. He started yelling into the tape recorder “Ouch! Damn it, stop hitting me!” while I just stood there holding the car seat, dumbfounded.

He smirked, turned around and walked away while yelling into the tape recorder, “Damn it, stop it, stop hitting me, get away from me...I'm calling the police!”

He did call the police. He was standing by the front door, telling the police that I was “out of control and she's hitting me. She hit me in the chest...” while I was about thirty yards away by the barn.

What Brad didn't know was that Leigh Ann was in the driveway and had witnessed the entire scene play out. She watched as Brad ran up behind me while talking into the tape recorder. She watched him stand at the front door, talking to the police on the phone while telling them I'd been hitting him when, in fact, I'd been standing next to my car with a broken car seat, crying, because I thought the nightmare was going to happen all over again.

Leigh Ann, who is a drop dead gorgeous blonde from Texas, walked up to Brad and in her best pissed off mom voice yelled, “Brad, what the hell do you think you're doing. Are you fucking insane? What kind of man does this? No, what kind of FATHER does this? Shame on you.
SHAME ON YOU!
You stop this right now. Enough is enough.”

It was all over for Brad and he knew it. Brad was getting into his car as the police drove in and blocked the driveway. No one was getting away this time.

Brad told them his version about my hitting him and said he had a tape recording to prove it. With this apparent proof in hand, the officer motioned for me to come over and listen to the supposed evidence.

“Where did she hit you?”

“She punched me in the chest.”

“Lift your shirt please.”

I could see Brad hesitate and press hard on the front of his chest as he raked his shirt up, but there was nothing there. “Well, I have a recording! Just listen!” We all listened to Brad's robotic claim he was being hit.

In the meantime, Leigh Ann spoke to the other police officer and told him what she'd seen. The officer kept shaking his head as he heard what Brad was attempting to do. This same officer came over to me and wanted the whole story, from the beginning. I gave him the highlights and explained he threatened to take the kids. I explained what happened seven years earlier and that his pattern of behavior wasn't changing, but his anger was rising as his plans to have me arrested fell apart.

I also mentioned he'd threatened to make me disappear, and the officer's face melted with concern. I couldn't believe that finally a police officer believed me. If I hadn't lived it, I would have thought it all a complete fallacy. What kind of man manipulates his wife by repeatedly lying to the police in order to have them control and abuse her for him and through him? The officer said that it happens all the time, but it is usually the woman who sets up the man.

The officer clenched his teeth in anger at Brad. “Look, this situation is volatile. If you remain here with him, you're going to end up dead. I'm not a lawyer, but if it was me, I'd go get a restraining order. Today. Right now. After we leave. I'm not giving legal advice, but I'm just saying what I would do.”

For once in my life, I was one step ahead. I told the officer that I had already met with my attorney after Brad threatened to take the girls the day before and that we'd gone to the courthouse and received a temporary restraining order. It had been approved and filed, but we hadn't received the order and paperwork, yet. It was probably waiting for me in my email. The officer said that was enough verification for him.

The officer walked up to Brad and, this time, it was Brad who had to leave. By force. Right now. But it wasn't enough for Brad to pack up his things and get out. He stole the children's school pictures, clipped the ignition wires for the furnace, and took all my personal files, as well as the financial records from the file cabinet.

He never lived there again.

He moved into his mom's house and gained a collaborator to scheme how to take even more from me. After all, they knew they'd stolen my heart and soul.

The judge approved the temporary restraining order. I would learn later that even though it's just a piece of paper, its strength is giving the victim confidence that the offender needs to go away and stay away. It's a bit like thinking that if you close the hangar door, the tornado won't harm the aircraft inside. In reality, the hangar door now has a chance to crush what it is protecting.

It took six months and three court dates to wade through the temporary divorce orders. During this time in limbo, Brad lashed out whenever I was within striking distance. The first time I dropped the girls off in an exchange of parenting time, Brad yanked off and stole the trailer hitch off my car. And that was just the first day. It was a constant barrage of minor cuts while waiting for the next court date.

On the first day of court during temporary orders, it was finally time to appear before a judge to let her begin the arduous task of untwining two lives. We were told in the very beginning that the judge would not decide custody issues. For now, I was primary caregiver and Brad had visitation every Wednesday and every other weekend, which is the standard formula. Brad had already stated he no plans of paying child support, and he expected 50/50 custody. Now that the children were older and easier to care for, he wanted them back. His view of women was so distorted, how could I ever trust this man to care for two growing girls? His anger always on the edge, and I constantly feared for their safety—emotionally and physically. He already admitted he suffered from disassociated amnesia, even though he called it blacking out from anger. What was going to happen when these girls became teenagers and started sassing back? They were already trying out their talk-back skills with me, so I could only shudder what he'd do to them.

I presented my case first, and drew upon my flight engineer skills to explain the mechanical failures. It took most of the day to lay out the years of abuse (physical, verbal, mental) along with the slow, grinding theft of all my financial assets over the years. The dysfunction in the marriage was relevant to the dissolution of the marriage, and it all had to be presented.

Brad's attorney had already asserted that I should not have the children because of my arrest for assault and domestic violence. However, the letter that Brad had written to me and our therapist, Lynn, became his downfall and set the stage for my ability to disprove all of his lies. His own words worked against him, and treated the court to the truth of how he had lied to the police to have me wrongfully arrested. It was his own words that explained the extent of his abuse. He hadn't bothered to tell his attorney about the confession because he'd taken my folder that contained a copy of the letter when he was forced to leave our home. What he didn't know was I had the original letter in my fire box behind my dresser. Even his attorney was stopped short when I read his letter in open court.

When Brad got up on the stand after lunch, determined not to be outdone by the truth, he told lie after lie. He ended his performance on the stand by testifying that I routinely got drunk at the book club I ran, then drove home. Hearing this outrageous lie was the final straw. The truth was that it was a rare moment that I ever had more than a glass of wine. But behavior and emotional intelligence were the character traits the judge was basing custody on. If I couldn't prove him wrong, I ran the risk of losing custody of my children.

Brad's blunder was that there were over forty women in my book club who had known me for years, and they don't take shit from anyone. It had been painfully easy to threaten his wife, but he had no comprehension what it meant to threaten a woman of the pack and the children she was raising. Like pilots who band together to fight off an FAA representative doing a surprise ramp check, these gentle and benign women of my book club became a force to be reckoned with.

I asked if one or two of them could appear as a character witness for me. They shrugged and said they'd figure something out for me. I really wasn't expecting anyone to show up.

On a cold Valentine's Day morning, unbeknownst to me, twenty-two women quietly changed the course of my life. These women got up before dawn, sent their kids to school, then drove down, or sent their affidavit, to the courthouse to refute Brad's statements, and to be character witnesses for my life.

These book club warriors had known me for years, but many weren't close friends, and some I only saw at book club. They didn't know the details of my situation, they didn't have to. They understood that I was being judged by strangers and that the outcome would decide custody of my children. The same children I used to bring to book club when they were babies.

Most importantly, after hundreds of hours spent discussing our lives through the books we read, they knew my intimate philosophy on life. Through our books, they knew my morals and values. None of them knew of my abuse or my arrest, but these strong, proud women simply knew what it meant to be kind and to devote everything to their children. Like me, they had adventures and careers before children. We all quietly gave ourselves up without having to explain that to each other, because we all understood. They simply knew that someone was trying to take my children from me—the nightmare of many women—and by showing their support for me in court, they were able to show the world.

I sat alone on the stiff wooden bench outside the courtroom, sick with fear and anxiety. My attorney was late, so I was listening intently for the
ding!
of the elevator announcing a new victim. I heard the elevator door open and the determined click-click of high heels across the tile floor. I looked at the face approaching me. It took a moment to comprehend that a member of my book club was here. It felt out of place until I realized they had always been a part of my story. Suddenly, the elevator began to continually chirp a happy
ding!
followed by muffled voices that raised when they saw me sitting there. “Hi Erika! We're here! Tell us what to do.” As captain, I was suddenly extraordinarily proud of my crew.

By the time the tenth woman turned the corner, I was in tears, overwhelmed by their quiet support. For the first time in years, I felt a sense of pride. I had been raising my children alongside these women, and none of us asked for or received recognition for the sacrifice and devotion. We just did it, and here they were, doing it again.

The judge was a bit miffed, as well as Brad and his attorney, when we all walked into the courtroom. Brad looked at all those faces, and I could see the disgust in his rolling eyes. Every woman there was ready to get up and testify that I was a good mom and that I didn't go to book club to get drunk. I went to book club to share my life, my ups and downs, frustrations and victories, with a group of women who were as diverse as the books we read. We came from all backgrounds, socio-economic living conditions, and geographic location, but we all had one theme in common: we are women and mothers. Sometimes the common denominator is so simple, it's overlooked.