7. The Agonizingly Slow Wheels of Justice
CHAPTER 7
THE AGONIZINGLY SLOW WHEELS OF JUSTICE
DEX
I lean back in my chair, stirring the coffee I don’t really want, as I chat with my friend. Cynthia works in the domestic violence division of a social justice organization.
“How have things been going?” she asks, peering over her cappuccino.
“Pretty good,” I say. “But I’m worried for a friend of mine, and I’m hoping I might draw on your expertise. Domestic violence isn’t something I’m well-versed in, and I think she might be in trouble. But I don’t know the ins and outs of it.”
“Fire away,” she says. “Anything to help you.”
“Okay, so this tool-knob she’s been dating—well, apparently they’re engaged—” I roll my eyes. “Anyway, I did a little digging, and he has at least six separate restraining orders filed against him. But it looks like most of them didn’t turn into anything. Something to do with dissolution after the hearing.”
She nods and puts her coffee down. “So, this is actually really common,” she explains. “Basically, it’s a huge deal for a victim of domestic violence to actually get up the courage to go to the courthouse and file for a temporary restraining order. You have to go within court hours, and there are other people sitting around you while you fill out the form. The form itself is very long—pages and pages—and you have to be as descriptive as possible. An advocate might come and sit with you and help you to fill it out, but it’s hit or miss as to whether the person you end up getting is helpful or not—it’s a volunteer position after all.”
“I see. That all sounds intimidating.”
“Yep,” says Cynthia, taking another sip of her coffee. “And then when you’ve completed the form, you hand it in and need to go through it again with a person representing the court. They make sure that it’s filled in correctly before it goes to the judge. So they’ll walk through it with you and ask additional questions. Then you need to leave the courthouse—for a few hours generally—and come back to collect the restraining order, and that’s if the judge even signs it off.”
“Then what happens?”
“Well, depending on the court, the victim may have to drive to the police station and hand in the restraining order to the cops. In some cases, it the courts will email it directly to the police station, which makes it a bit easier.”
“And then what? It gets served and that’s it?”
“No,” Cynthia shakes her head and frowns. “Then the victim has to come back to court and face the accused. The abuser gets to defend themselves and tell their side of the story. And then the judge decides whether to make the order permanent for a set period of time, or to dissolve it. That can be another point at which people dip out, because in a sense, it means they relive the incidents driving the restraining order.”
I frown. “Jesus.”
Cynthia’s words are still bouncing around my skull like a ricochet. “It’s like the system is set up to keep victims silent,” I mutter.
Cynthia nods, her expression solemn. “It often feels that way. I’ve seen so many people walk out halfway through the process, defeated before they even get the temporary restraining order. The system is supposed to protect them, but it’s built in a way that makes them relive their trauma at every step.”
I let out a low breath, my jaw tightening. “And the abuser? They just… get to fight it? Counter-file and make themselves out to be the victim? That’s just—” I can’t even finish the sentence. My fists clench under the table.
“That’s one of the hardest parts,” Cynthia says softly. “It turns the entire process into a battle of credibility. And abusers often have the upper hand because they know exactly how to manipulate the narrative. They come in prepared, armed with whatever they think will make them look good and the victim look unstable.”
I grind my teeth. “So Margaux would have to sit in the same room as that bastard, while he lies through his teeth and tries to make her look like the bad guy?”
Cynthia nods. “Exactly. That’s why so many victims don’t show up to the hearing. It’s just too much. And without the victim there to testify, the restraining order usually gets dissolved.”
The thought of Margaux, standing alone in a courtroom, facing Timmy’s smirking face as he twists reality to suit his narrative, makes my blood boil. She would be retraumatized over and over again, and for what? A piece of paper that might not even keep him away?
I think back to ten or so years ago when Margaux went to trial for being sexually assaulted. I remember the agony it put her through. I know how badly it affected her, how it ripped her apart and revictimized her—maybe even more than the actual rape. I can’t even imagine how retraumatizing it must be to go through this process and file at all. Judges and courthouses and police stations and cruel counter-accusations—all the things I know she’s tried desperately to avoid and push from her mind for the past decade.
“Jesus Christ,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “ Can they make it any more difficult for the victims? No wonder she was too scared to press charges. I can’t imagine her going through that again, not after…” My voice trails off.
Cynthia reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice gentle. “I know it’s hard to hear all of this, but knowledge is power. If you’re going to help her, you need to understand the hurdles she’s facing.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “I just… I can’t believe this is how it works. The system is supposed to protect people like Margaux, but it’s like it’s designed to break them even more. How the hell is that justice?”
Cynthia’s eyes are sad but resolute. “It’s not justice. Not yet. But that’s why we fight. It’s why I do what I do. And it’s why people like you need to step up, too.”
I sit in silence for a moment, my coffee growing cold in front of me. Cynthia’s words sink in, but so does the reality of the uphill battle Margaux has faced—and will likely continue to face. She’s strong, but even the strongest people have their limits.
As I walk out of the coffee house, the brisk air hits me like a slap in the face. My thoughts are heavy, my mind racing with everything Cynthia said. It feels like the system is rigged, like it’s designed to grind victims down until they give up. To make them feel worse and to discourage them from coming forward.
And Margaux is a smart cookie, but the whole process just sounds... confusing and overwhelming, in a situation where I’m sure the victims of these crimes are already confused and overwhelmed.
Margaux doesn’t deserve that. She deserves peace, safety, and the chance to heal without the constant shadow of fear. And if the system won’t give her that, I will. Whatever it takes.
I clench my fists as I walk to my bike, determination settling like a stone in my chest. Margaux doesn’t need to face this alone. Not anymore.
Because while the system might be broken, I’m not.
And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe—no matter what lines I have to cross.