Betrayed: Powerful Stories of Kick-Ass Crime Survivors

by Allison Brennan

  Jeanmarie Collins is a member of Actors Equity, a Master Spolin Improvisational Technique instructor, a voice-over artist, and an award winning playwright. In 1987, her adaptation of “Sleeping Beauty” was produced at The Kennedy Center. “Froggie Went A-Courtin’,” a children’s play about racism, won first place in the Deep South Playwrights contest of 1990. Her play, “Life Is a Breath of Fresh Air” received recognition at the Environmental awards in LA in 1999. In January, 2017, five of her plays were included in The Applause Acting Series “5 Minute Plays For Teens”, edited by Lawrence Harbison. Jeanmarie received her professional training in London at The Drama Studio, She divides her time between acting and teaching in five southeastern states, and most recently in NYC.

  Legal Aid

  by Terri Lynn Coop

  The death rattle of the prehistoric air-conditioning system was an annual reminder why management opted for the offices in the center corridor and left the bright, sunny spaces on the east and west sides to the lawyers.

  “I’m so glad The Richardson Foundation loans us this building as a tax dodge instead of repairing or demolishing it. Just another of the joys of working for a non-profit.” Lana, the catch-all miracle-worker paralegal, took a fan off her mail cart and set it on the table by my door. After she plugged it in, the blades hesitated before taking off with enough speed to lift a small airplane off a runway, or all the loose papers off my desk.

  “Um, sorry, boss. I thought you’d like the best one.”

  I adjusted the fan so the jet stream caromed off the wall. At least the warm, dead air was being rearranged.

  “No problem. Do you have my docket for Monday? I can’t find it.”

  “You forgot, didn’t you?”

  “What?” But even as she said it, the reality slithered into my consciousness.

  “No. It can’t be. It’s too soon.”

  “It’s been a month. Ms. Sinclair, you know it’s your turn.”

  That turn meant covering the protective order court docket for a week. It meant I had to represent all our legal aid clients in the hearings for their POs, including those who came in for our daily clinics. Since we were mixed in with all the private attorney cases and the pro se applicants arguing their own claims, it was not unusual for there to be a hundred cases on the schedule. It was rare to get out of there before downtown-traffic-jam o’clock.

  “You enjoyed reminding me of that, didn’t you? I’d blocked it out, like a root canal. Is the cart loaded?” The PO attorney didn’t have a briefcase. Files were arranged alphabetically in milk crates and strapped to a wheeled contraption for transport to and from the basement courtroom.

  “You wound me with that question. Have I ever let you down? Here’s the printout with a one-paragraph summary of the facts. There are some doozies on there. Check out Klein v. Klein. He’s on your in-custody schedule, so they’ll bring him over from county with the rest of the prisoner chain.”

  “Really? We don’t get many of those. Actually, what I mean is that we don’t get enough of those.” My voice reflected my general disgust at the reluctance of local law enforcement to arrest domestic abusers. The sheriff, in particular, believed that what went on between a man and his wife was private. For them to arrest Mr. Klein, he must have really worked for it.

  “And by the way, what’s the over/under in the admin pool?”

  “For Monday, it’s three.”

  “Sounds a little high. What’s your criterion?”

  “It’s going to rain. Too dreary to fight. It’s easier to cuddle and reconcile.”

  I laughed. About a year ago, the secretaries and paralegals began betting on the number of couples that would either call in to drop their protective order petitions or show up hand-in-hand, asking for a dismissal.

  “And I thought lawyers were the cynical ones.”

  “Oh, please, honey, you have no idea. Anything else I can do for you? I need to get these fans passed out before your fellow legal crusaders melt.”

  “Is there any iced tea in the break room?”

  That earned me another indignant paralegal glare.

  “I apologize. Of course there is. Sweet and unsweet with lemon and mint. Have I mentioned lately that you’re underpaid?”

  “Of course I am. Face it, y’all couldn’t afford me otherwise.”

  As her cart creaked down the hall, I turned to the thick, stapled document on my desk to find out what was in store for me Monday morning.

  The protective order docket.

  Dammit.

  * * *

  The first two hours and twenty files went as expected. The facts were so standard I could template most of my presentations.

  Petitioner and Respondent are [husband/wife, domestic partners] who live at [address] and have been together for [years.] On [date,] respondent [hit/kicked/punched/threatened] petitioner, broke his/her cell phone, and called him/her a [you name it.] Petitioner is in honest fear for his/her continued safety and requests the court to issue an order removing Respondent from the home.

  They always broke the cell phone. It was like clockwork.

  In most cases, the respondent didn’t show up and the PO was granted by default. If they did show, it was set for a hearing after lunch, and that meant I’d actually have to read the file.

  At least the courthouse was cool. The judges wouldn’t tolerate anything different. They rotated PO court duty every month, and they didn’t like it any more than we did. Judge Reinhardt ran a tight ship. She never let anybody ramble and either made a quick decision or continued it until the afternoon. She also always called a twenty-minute recess about halfway through the morning session. There was an unspoken use this time to work things out when she dropped the gavel and fled the bench.

  As the representative of legal aid, I got the coveted space on top of the newspaper machine in the hallway to spread out my case files and conference with other attorneys.

  “So, what are you going to do about Marty Klein?” Dan Gold of the public defender’s office was the one guy in the courthouse with a bigger docket than mine. His cart merited an intern.

  “A pleasure to see you too. Why do you ask?”

  “I have him at three, or whenever he’s done down here. The DA wants aggravated domestic battery with twelve months. I’m trying to deal it to misdemeanor battery with credit for time served and probation. Klein wants to know if she’ll drop the PO in exchange for him giving her the mobile home in the divorce.”

  My well-honed bullshit detector pinged right to the red line. I liked Dan. We’d even flirted around at the happy hour bars where lawyers congregated. But this was business. Sharon Klein was my client and Marty Klein was his. We were adversaries.

  “Let me pull the file. That’s the case with the letter.”

  “Yes, the letter. He’s really sorry about that. He says he’s been praying for her forgiveness every night he’s been in jail.”

  I stifled a laugh. Being able to repeat whatever bizarre things our clients uttered and keep a straight face was part of the job description. The original letter, written in pencil on notebook pages with the ragged strips of the spiral binding hanging off the side, was in evidence for the criminal case. I had a photocopy. During a lull in the courtroom proceedings, I’d highlighted a few passages.

  “Dan, did you read this shit? Not only does he confess to acts that are clearly aggravated battery, well, the rest is just creepy. I can’t in good conscience advise her to drop the PO. I’m not going to ask her to back off on her position in the divorce or the criminal case, either. This isn’t on her. Most of what we see down here is the typical bullshit, but if even half of this is true, then it’s the real deal. Marty Klein is dangerous.”

  He ruffled his blond hair and gave me an exasperated overly dramatic sigh.

  “She cold-cocked him with the divorce and asked for full custody of the kid. He went a little nuts. If anything, that letter is evidence of his altered mental state. I’ll tell you right now, he won’t consent to
the PO. He’ll want a full-on trial and he’ll want to call witnesses about her mental state. Not to mention the brick she took to the side of his head. This is mutual combat.”

  “Are you trying to threaten me? With a bench trial? Ohhh, I see we’ve got a bad ass here. Try again. It’s called self-defense. He does know that every word he says in the PO trial will be used against him in criminal court and the divorce, right?”

  Before he could answer, a small voice said, “I don’t want the trailer. It’s an evil place now. Marty can burn it down for all I care. But I won’t let him hurt Rhino . . . I mean Ryan. Rhino is what his father calls him.”

  I’m not sure what I expected of Sharon Klein, but a statuesque woman who vaguely resembled Ripley from Alien wasn’t it. My memory flashed on her file. She was a construction worker. However, there were two things about her I easily recognized—the purple hand prints on her throat and the haunted, hunted look in her eyes. Even the biceps bulging against the sleeves of the circa-1995 polyester blouse hadn’t protected her from the devils that lived behind closed doors.

  Dan Gold moved to greet her. I grabbed his arm and injected some venom into my voice. “You aren’t thinking of speaking to my client, are you? Tell me you’re not.”

  His muscles going slack under my hand told me my message was received.

  “She’s pro se in the divorce. I was just going to convey her husband’s property settlement offer.”

  Fuck you, Dan.

  And fuck any thoughts I’d ever entertained of making a really bad decision some Friday night.

  I turned to the client I’d never laid eyes on before. “Mrs. Klein, is it true you don’t have a lawyer for your divorce?”

  “No money for it. I got the papers off the Internet.”

  I scooped up my files with a flourish and opened the courtroom door. “You met the financial qualifications for help with your protective order. As far as I’m concerned, you meet the qualifications for help with your divorce. I’m your lawyer now. Mr. Gold, this discussion is concluded and all future ‘offers’ will be directed to me. Mrs. Klein, if you’ll follow me please?”

  When the doors closed behind us, she started to speak, but I put my finger to my lips.

  “We only have a minute before the judge comes back. What are you doing here so early? The in-custody docket isn’t until two o’clock.”

  “I tried to stay home, but couldn’t relax. It seemed easier to be here. What do you mean that you’re my lawyer now?”

  I softened my demeanor and tone. This woman was fragile and spider-sense told me she was going to need a lot of strength in the next few months. I needed to get her ready for the ordeal to come.

  “I’m a senior staff attorney for the local legal aid office. Although with the turnover there, senior means I’ve been doing this for about eight years. I have a lot of leeway in the cases I can take. Yours has piqued my interest. We have a lot to talk about, but we need to get through today. Do you have plans for lunch?”

  “Not really. I have a sandwich in the car.”

  “Well, I don’t. Do you like Mexican? Chico’s is right around the corner.”

  She shuffled her feet, clad in cheap pumps, and said, “I can’t really afford it.”

  “Neither can I, but the owner comps me a couple of trips to the taco and salad bar when I’m on PO duty. It’s not something I spread around because it technically violates the ‘no gifts or gratuities’ rule. He insists and who am I to refuse? I cleaned up a little problem for his family a couple of years back. By lunchtime, I’m going to want to sit down for a few and we can talk about your case.”

  “Okay, I guess. If you want.” Her tone told me this was a person who wasn’t used to receiving kindnesses without strings attached. At that moment, I vowed that Marty Klein would pay—one way or another.

  I patted her arm and glanced at the clock. Only about a minute left. I pulled out my cell phone, another courtroom perk of being with Legal Aid, and punched a number. The usual clatter of dishes and the heavily accented greeting told me I was speaking to the owner.

  “Mr. Rojas, this is Jill Sinclair. Can you save one of the tables in the back room for me? Thank you.”

  I ended the call just as the bailiff entered. “Sharon, grab a seat and watch. It’ll give you an idea how this works.”

  She dropped immediately into the nearest chair and worried the straps of her purse with her big hands. Her manner wasn’t someone getting comfortable; it was that of someone following an order. I quelled my rage as I headed to my seat at the front.

  * * *

  I brought two heaping plates back from the taco bar. Sharon had only taken dabs of salad, but I could tell by the speed she cleared her plate that she was hungry. I did something I didn’t like to do, but sometimes it was necessary to apply a little force. I put a touch of authority into my statement and didn’t frame it as a question.

  “You need to eat. I have a client or two pass out every month. The judge is required to call 911, and it’s almost always hunger or dehydration. Plus, you don’t want Mr. Rojas to think we don’t appreciate his hospitality.”

  After asking for permission with her eyes and receiving my nod, she picked up a fork and dove in. I kept the conversation light until I heard cutlery scraping on china.

  “We need to talk about your case. Tell me what happened and tell me about the letter.”

  She detailed a story I’d heard many times before. A fight escalated into blows. She tried to use her above-average strength to shield her face and body, but she’d had to flee into the yard. A neighbor heard the tumult and called the sheriff. When the deputies arrived, she was unconscious on the front lawn with her five-year-old crying and pulling on her hand. Her husband was nowhere to be found.

  “How’d you get the letter?”

  “It was on the front porch the next day. I called the sheriff again, but they wouldn’t do anything. The lady on the phone suggested I call you for a protective order.”

  I knew the rest of it. Marty Klein wasn’t arrested for strangling his wife within an inch of her life. He was arrested during a bar fight at the VFW hall in their small town. Luckily, he couldn’t make bail and a sharp-eyed intern in the DA’s office put the two cases together.

  “I have to ask because they will. What about the brick?”

  “I was on my back and he had his hands on my neck. I reached around and found it—the garden is edged with them—and klonked him to get him to let go. It cut his forehead. I’m really sorry for that.”

  “Don’t be. Did he let go?”

  “No.”

  * * *

  I got my first look at Marty Klein when court reconvened after lunch. Sitting in the jury box, hobbled and shackled with a belly chain, he seemed small and inconsequential. Until he raised his eyes and bathed me and Sharon in a blaze of rage and hatred. She trembled as I put her in a seat in the back row and asked a bailiff to stand in Klein’s line of sight.

  It was game time.

  As the docket droned on with short hearings, it pleased me to no end to think of Dan Gold stuck on the third floor waiting for a client who was unlikely to show any time soon.

  It was after four when the judge announced, “In the matter of Klein, parties, please state your appearance.”

  “Jillian Sinclair of Legal Aid for the petitioner Sharon Klein.”

  Silence.

  Finally, the judge said, “Bailiff, is Martin Klein present in the courtroom?’

  “Yes, Your Honor, he’s in custody, in the jury box, on the right side.”

  “Mr. Klein, your presence is noted for the record. Do you have an attorney?”

  Silence.

  “Mr. Klein?” The lilt at the end made it very clear she expected an answer.

  In a voice so low and tight I had to strain to hear it, he said, “I do not recognize the jurisdiction of this court as an arm of the bankrupt corporation of the United States over a sovereign citizen.”

  Oh fuck no.

 
; It takes a lot to make Judge Reinhardt angry. From the counsel tables, the flex of her clenched jaw told me we were about five seconds away from a contempt citation. Instead, she turned to her clerk and said, “Does Mr. Klein have an attorney appointed in his criminal case?”

  “Yes, ma’am, Dan Gold of the PD Office.”

  “Well, Mr. Klein, you apparently don’t have any problem with the United States on the third floor. I am appointing Mr. Gold to represent you in this case as well. I’ll continue this until Friday at three. I don’t need this frippery bogging down the rest of the week’s docket. Ms. Sinclair, do you have any motions?”

  It was hard to hide the smile. I may be stuck here, but Mr. Golden Boy was going to be right here with me. Just him and Mr. Sovereign Citizen.

  “Yes, Your Honor. I know he is in custody, but I ask that the temporary orders continue and be strengthened to enjoin Mr. Klein from any contact with Mrs. Klein; the minor child, Ryan Klein; and to not set foot on the marital property, including casual contact such as driving by, parking across the street, or being within one thousand feet of any child care where Ryan Klein is present.”

  “That’s extreme, Ms. Sinclair. What is your probable cause basis?”

  “Stand up, Sharon.”

  I hooked my fingers on her collar and pulled it out. The reddish-purple hand print glowed in relief against her fair skin. With the other hand, I picked up the letter and read a single line:

  When I was choking you, I was really kissing you.

  The courtroom stragglers fell silent as I met the judge’s eyes.

  “Granted. We are adjourned.”

  My client pulled away and sat as if her legs would no longer hold her weight. As I gathered my files and repacked the cart, the deputies shepherded the chain gang out of the box. I couldn’t help a peek at the prisoners and I immediately regretted it as Klein locked me in a baleful glare. I couldn’t look away, that would make me weak, so I held it, absorbing the venom until the deputy tugged on the leash attached to the shackled men and led them shuffling out of the room.