Broken Seed

by R J Machado De Quevedo

  “Thanks,” I said and started to turn to leave.

  “Melanie?” Terra called.

  I turned back around to her. “Yes?” I asked.

  “If I can make a suggestion?” she said.

  “Sure.”

  “Once you have the NCO, you might be able to get a CCW. That’s a permit to carry a concealed weapon. You can go to the sheriff ’s office to ask for an application or apply for one online. I’d strongly recommend that, Melanie. It isn’t quick, and there’s a whole process involved. An application and background investigation is done, required weapons training and range certification, fingerprinting, and even psychological testing sometimes. But trust me, it’s worth it. I’ve worked here for nine years, and I’ve heard of too many of these domestic or dysfunctional relationship cases turning fatal or leaving people in critical condition. Just think about it. And be careful, okay?” Terra said seriously, looking a little worried for me.

  “I’ll look into it. Thanks again for everything. And thanks for caring.” I smiled at her and held up my copy of the paperwork to show I was grateful for what she did.

  I made my way through the rows of waiting people and tried to ignore the rapid Spanish being spat at the back of my head when I passed the women and the squirming baby. I caught a couple more intense glares and murmurs. I hurried up the stairs and turned right to start heading down the long hallway. As I approached the courtrooms, I felt a different sort of atmosphere. There was a sense of justice, pride, and seriousness. There was also a sense of a balancing of wills, a war of right and wrong. It was all there stirring in the air.

  I walked to the end of the hall to courtroom 250. The plaque on the outside of the door said “Honorable Judge Arthur Graham III.” The big doors were solid wood with flat brass handles on the outside. There was a bulletin board to the right of the doors with a list of names and times on it. I quickly glanced at the list and saw my name under the twelve thirty slot. I slowly entered the courtroom pushing past the big double doors and looked cautiously around.

  There were people scattered around the room sitting in clusters. A few stray people were sitting alone, looking bored, or consumed in their own worried thoughts. I took a seat near the front right side about three rows back. The court clerks were sitting directly in front of me behind a big desk area facing the room that extended down from the judge’s higher seat in the middle. The judge was not in his chair at the moment. The clerks were talking quietly together.

  After a few minutes, one of the clerks with the short, cropped rusty-brown hair rose and introduced herself and the other clerk before she began reading the rules of the courtroom. The lady with the black hair typed on what looked like a small laptop while the other spoke. The reading of the rules ended by her informing everyone present that if they did not abide by those rules they would be detained by the courtroom bailiff for contempt of court and escorted out of courtroom. Then she announced the judge.

  “All stand. The honorable Judge Arthur Graham the third presiding,” she called out. The room was full of the shuffling of clothes and tired bodies rising up out of their chairs. I heard a few people sigh as if the act of standing up was an irritant to them.

  The judge came into the room draped in black robes and looked around seriously. He was a tall, lean black man, almost six feet, and maybe in his mid-forties. There was a small touch of gray in the close-cropped hair at his temples. His presence was alert, self-assured, and professional. He glanced around the courtroom as he sat down in his high-backed chair and fidgeted for a second to position himself more comfortably.

  “You may all sit down,” the rusty-brown haired court clerk instructed. We all sat down.

  “Levine versus Chung,” the clerk began by calling out the first case.

  So it ensued. One by one, she called out the cases. I hadn’t realized I’d have to wait. I thought court at twelve thirty meant my petition for the no-contact order would be heard at twelve thirty. Now I realized what the list posted outside the courtroom door was for. It was a list of all the cases today and their various appointment times. I hoped they would get to mine before Elisabeth’s class at two. I tried to focus on what was most important right now—the NCO, the judge, and this courtroom.

  I made myself listen carefully to how the judge reacted to people’s blubbering answers and half-truths. The process was straightforward and moved rapidly. The judge would state what the petitioner was requesting and ask for them to reiterate what their statements had been and to justify their request. He gave the respondent, if one was present, a chance to address the court and defend themselves. Then, after he heard from both sides, he would start picking their stories apart. He quickly found out where the lies were and would seek out the truth of the matter. He confronted the games being played and rebuked the party exaggerating or committing the crimes by giving them lectures that made you glad you weren’t the one he was fed up with. He was good. He was blunt, direct, insightful, discerning, and just as Terra said, he was fair and open-minded, only thinking of how best to serve justice in each separate case. He was exactly what I needed right now.

  Each case was different and had its own twists, turns, and complexities. But the judge was efficient and kept the cases moving quickly.

  Finally, after about an hour, they called my name.

  “Bishop versus Bishop,” the clerk called.

  I stood up, almost leaping to my feet in anxious excitement to have it done with. I took a deep breath and walked up to the podium labeled “Plaintiff.”

  God, I wish Elisabeth was here with me.

  I hadn’t realized I would be this nervous. This wasn’t my first time in a courtroom. I had been a witness in the trial of the crimes committed against me when I was only fifteen. Jill and her gang had forced me into a van with the intent to kidnap and rape me. Thank God, they had been stopped by a good Samaritan calling in the suspicious activity. Elisabeth had been my good Samaritan.

  I was required to appear at the juvenile court where my underage attackers were being tried to determine their “rehabilitation sentence.” And it had been necessary to give testimony in the adult court accompanied by my court-assigned attorney and guardian ad litem as well.

  I had been accompanied by Elisabeth and her grandparents. My father wouldn’t go anywhere near a courtroom full of police officers, judges, and attorneys. Never willingly. Now I understood much more of why that was. It wasn’t just his distaste for all things lawful and servicing of justice. He had his own secrets he

  was trying to protect. Self-preservation was his priority.

  Amazingly, he hadn’t argued or refused to let me testify the day my court-assigned attorney and guardian ad litem came to the house to seek his permission to represent me. Being my legal guardian at the time, he could have said no and refused to let me participate. I hadn’t known why he was being so compliant and understanding about.

  My confusion was cleared up one day when Liz came over to check on me a few weeks after the attempted kidnapping and rape by the gang. My father was away on a long haul delivery at the time. Apparently, per Elisabeth’s grandfather, who was her source of information, Officer Linda Hatfield had stopped in to visit my father, unknown to me. Linda had stopped in on the Monday following the assault while I was at school. She told my father that I had been the victim of local gang activity. They had tried to take me from in front of my house against my will and had started to assault me before the vehicle had even left the block. She informed him that the local police chief ’s granddaughter had witnessed them shoving me in the van.

  When Liz had first told me this, I had freaked out big time. I was certain my father hadn’t told me about the officer coming to talk to him because he was so angry he couldn’t decide on how to punish me. My mind had flashed back to having my third-grade teacher telling him I said he drank too much and the beating that had followed.

  Elisabeth had quickly put my mind at rest. She assured me Officer Linda hadn’t said anything abo
ut how I had actually made plans to sneak out that night to hang out with the older girls. Officer Linda had indicated they had attempted to reach him that night and made every effort to inform him immediately; however, they were unable to locate him. Liz and I both knew that wasn’t entirely true, but he didn’t have to know that. Since I was fifteen, they had brought a licensed court-appointed guardian to witness the interview in his stead. Chief Becker’s wife, Naomi was, in fact, a guardian ad litem, and so she arrived to ensure my statement was taken in the appropriate manner.

  Elisabeth had further explained the main reason why my father didn’t try to stop me from testifying in court or raise a stink that I had given a statement without him present. Officer Linda had let him know that with my permission and the permission of the guardian ad litem, they had taken extensive photos of my torn blouse, and all the physical injuries I had suffered during the incident, and with my permission, they also took photos of other older bruises, scars, and a particular brand mark located on my hip they found to be highly suspicious and not likely caused by normal teenager activity. It was his indirect warning she would be watching him and had said, in not so many words, she knew what he was.

  So after my father had been informed of most of the events that had lead up to that day in court and been indirectly threatened about his own behavior with me, I had been allowed to testify. And even though he had sat and fumed whenever Elisabeth stopped over, which was every few days until her summer break was over and she had to return to school, he didn’t deny her entrance into our trashed, musky, beer-stinking home. I had always wondered what else they had said to him, and perhaps I would never know.

  Every summer and school holiday break, Elisabeth would come visit her grandparents and see me. Sometimes her parents would come up from Newport Beach as well to see her. I wish I could have said the beatings and mental abuse had decreased after my encounter with the law and the court, but it usually only subsided through the weeks Elisabeth was in town. Being friends with the chief ’s granddaughter had an advantage in that regard. But it wasn’t a fix all.

  My mind raced back to the courtroom and the podium I stood like a statue in front of. I heard my name called again and I blinked. This should be much easier than the last time. My father wasn’t here to try and intimidate me from across the courtroom, like Jill and the others had, and the people sitting in here didn’t know me or seem interested in anyone but themselves. I only had to look at this judge and tell him the truth. And as Terra and Elisabeth had already told me, he was on my side. So why did I feel so nervous now all of the sudden?

  “Miss Melanie Bishop?” the judge repeated as he looked down at me.

  A slight scowl was still on his face from the last case and per- haps from me standing in front of him lost in my own thought. I looked into his stern face, and I fought to remove my own startled expression. After a second, the judge’s expression slowly dissolved away, leaving his distinguished and moderately handsome face looking pleasantly down at me. He had reset himself for this next case—for me. I had watched him do it six times in the past hour, but seeing his face reset for my case made me feel hopeful. Maybe he wouldn’t take his frustrations out on me from the other cases he had heard before mine. I didn’t think he would; he seemed fair and intelligent from what I’d been observing. But it was still a relief to see his face become neutral again rather than scowling.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, biting my lower lip.

  “I’ve read your statement, read the transcript of the messages left on your home voice mail, and I’ve even listened to the evidence of the raw recording provided to me. I understand that your father,”—he looked down at the papers in front of him— “Dwayne Randal Bishop, has a record already and it was he who left you these distressing and graphic messages. Is that correct?” he said pointedly.

  “Yes…Yes, that is correct,” I said with a slight stammer. God, I had to stop sounding like an idiot. But what was I supposed to sound like? I was nervous, and the reason I was here was a seriously frightening one. I didn’t think he’d reject my request for showing I was nervous or scared.

  “I am ready to grant the NCO you are requesting today, Miss Bishop, but I have a couple of brief questions for you before I grant such a request,” he said, his eyes boring into mine and his face serious.

  “Ask me anything you’d like, sir,” I said openly.

  He paused and studied me for a moment. I don’t think he heard that kind of offer often.

  “Very well. How long has it been since you last saw your father in person, Miss Bishop?” he asked me, pen poised in his hand ready to write.

  “Hmm… Since I was eighteen. I moved out as soon as I could legally free myself from him,” I said, biting my lower lip again. “I am twenty-three now, sir. So it’s been almost five and a half years,” I finished.

  “Has he ever tried to contact you before yesterday? Has he ever written to you, showed up at your home, or left a note for you? Has he made any effort to get in contact with you directly or indirectly?” he said.

  “Not that I am aware of, sir. But he found out what my home phone number was, and I have a private unlisted number. I also had several missed calls on my cell phone that same day from a blocked number that I suspect to be from him as well, but I haven’t had the chance to try and find someone who can trace it for me to be sure,” I said quickly.

  “So he found a way to look you up.” The judge made a note on his papers. “When you moved out, did you tell him not to call you and not to visit you?” he said.

  I suddenly got even more nervous. What if by telling the truth, he wouldn’t grant me the NCO after all because I never told Dwayne not to try to see me or call me? I felt a surge of desperation try to claw up my throat, and I swallowed it down.

  Truth. I’d tell him the truth no matter what the outcome. I didn’t want to start lying to him. He was good at picking out liars. Truth and mercy were around my neck. I could do this. It would be okay.

  “No, sir. I did not,” I said, looking down.

  “I see. Please explain why not,” the judge said encouragingly. I looked up to see him leaning forward in his high-back chair, his elbows on his desk so he could peer down at me easier. He nodded and gave me a small encouraging smile.

  “Hmm….” I swallowed hard. I hadn’t been expecting to have to talk about this, but he needed to know. “No, sir, I didn’t tell him not to contact me or call me because he wasn’t there the day I left home, and I haven’t seen him since. I’ve spent the last five and a half years trying to forget I have a father named Dwayne Bishop. I moved out on July 16, 2005, the day after my eighteenth birthday.” I paused and took in a big breath. No one knew what I was about to say except the people who had been there with me through it. But the judge needed to know.

  “He had tried to rape me the night before, sir. I’d watched him repeatedly rape my older sister since she was fourteen until her… death when I was twelve, and I knew what to expect. He’d never tried to touch me before, not sexually, I mean. For some reason, he had only done that to her. But it was my eighteenth birthday, and he was drunk as usual and said we should celebrate. I fought him off with his own baseball bat, and I hit him hard enough in the head he passed out.” My voice was trembling. I cleared my throat and swallowed the knot that had festered there.

  “I fled the house and made it to my best friend’s grandparent’s house across town and spent the night there. My best friend drove up that same night from Sacramento when I called and told her what had happened. The next morning, when we went back to my house, my father was gone. I think he might have taken himself to the hospital, or he was out looking for me. I didn’t care which. They helped me gather as much of my belongings as I could as fast as I could before he came back home. What I couldn’t fit in their car, I left behind. Leaving him a note was the last thing on my mind, sir. I wanted to get away from him. I wanted it all to end and be in the past so I could move on and forget him,” I said with angry tears bur
ning in my eyes by the end. “That’s why I refused to press charges. I just wanted to forget—pretend he didn’t exist.”

  “Umm,” the judge said as he wrote some more notes down and then starting flipping through some of his papers. He was reading something for a few seconds; then he glanced up at me, a small crease between his brows.

  “I see he was convicted of child molestation and rape of a minor just over four years ago. I understand from the message he left you he is being released today.” He glanced at his watch. “I believe it was at noon?”

  “Actually, Your Honor, he was released even earlier by mistake, and they also forgot to lock the GPS ankle bracelet on him to keep track of him. He’s loose right now, sir,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

  His eyebrows went up at the news, then composed himself. “Well, that certainly is disappointing to hear of our famous local Folsom Prison.” He sounded disgusted. At least, he wasn’t disgusted with me.

  “I have a few more quick questions, Ms. Bishop. Dwayne’s criminal record aside, was he a violent man at home other than the alleged sexual abuse your sister suffered and his attempt to rape you when you turned eighteen?” he asked directly.

  “Yes, sir. He was a violent alcoholic. But he didn’t have to be drunk to be mean or violent. He enjoyed being cruel. Hatred and rage were his drink and drug of choice. We were his most convenient targets. I was afraid of him before I could even talk. My first word wasn’t mommy or daddy. It was stop. At least that’s what my sister told me.” I angrily wiped my eyes. I hated crying, and I hated crying in front of strangers.

  The judge nodded and wrote something else down. “I hereby grant you the NCO. Starting immediately, Dwayne Randal Bishop is hereby ordered to abide by this no-contact order. He is not to try to make contact with you, Melanie Olivia Bishop, directly or indirectly. He is prohibited from coming within five hundred feet of you or staying within the vicinity if he knows you to be present. He is hereby prohibited from calling you or sending you letters via mail, e-mail, text messages, or any other form of electronic or written communication or correspondence. If he asks a third party to relay any such messages on his behalf or to try and visit you on his behalf, other than through his attorney, he is therefore in violation of that order and is subject to a criminal arrest and criminal charges. I will bypass the standard temporary NCO that normally requires the respondent to be present pending a court hearing since these are extenuating circumstances. Since the respondent is currently on parole from a sexually deviate crime and without his GPS ankle bracelet, I will hereby waive the standard temporary NCO and place the NCO into a status of permanency for the length of three years. Furthermore, with the issuance of this no contact order, Dwayne Bishop is now in violation of the terms of his parole and a warrant will be issued for his arrest. Should Dwayne Bishop be convicted of another violent crime before the three-year term of this NCO is up, or violate the present NCO, the NCO will be extended without appeal for a term of ten years after which time a new hearing will need to take place to renew. Th is hereby the order of this court.” Judge Arthur Graham III tapped his gavel three times.