The Nineteenth Precinct was housed in a quaint brick-and-limestone building on a quiet side street. Inside, it was standard government issue, with scuffed linoleum floors and garish fluorescent lighting. When I explained why I’d come, the gruff old guy behind the desk took my name and told me to have a seat.
The waiting room was crowded, and from the look of it, I could be sitting here all day. While I waited, I texted Hannah. Seeing her at dinner the other night had reminded me how much I missed her. Some quality mom-daughter time would make me feel better about everything. I suggested picking her up at school this weekend to take her shopping and to lunch.
Ten minutes later, Hannah still hadn’t texted me back, and a young woman stepped into the waiting room, holding a clipboard, and called my name.
“Follow me, please,” she said.
She introduced herself as Officer Sanchez. She was short and stocky, with a pretty face and dark hair pulled back in a bun. I followed her through the door to an open area crowded with rows of desks. Uniformed officers bustled all around us. A large, tattooed man was being led away in handcuffs, and a police dog stood obediently in a corner. Officer Sanchez led me to the back of a room, to a desk that was separated from the others by a partition. The desk was covered with folders and paperwork and strewn with half-filled coffee cups. We sat down, and she pulled a keyboard toward her and pulled up a form on the screen. She typed in my name and address.
“First,” she said, “do you require medical attention?”
“Medical attention? No.”
“You were not injured physically in the incident?”
“I mean, he grabbed my arm. Maybe I have a bruise or something. But no.”
“Name of perpetrator?” she asked, evenly, holding my gaze.
And I froze.
This was the moment of truth. If I gave Aidan’s name, this officer would presumably interview him, possibly even arrest him. I would have to face Aidan in court. My one-night stand would become public knowledge. My indiscretion might even make the news. It would be so much worse than Stacey’s gossip. But wasn’t it better to risk humiliation and public shame than—than what? Aidan had followed me, but would he really hurt me? I found myself denying, rethinking—chickening out.
“I—I don’t know if I can.”
“This is always the hard part,” Officer Sanchez said. She glanced down at my wedding and engagement bands. “It’s your husband, right? A lot of women get to this moment, and they can’t bring themselves to file charges. No matter how long he’s been hurting them, they still love him. But you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t know in your heart it’s the right thing.”
“No. You see, that’s the problem. It’s not my husband.”
“Oh. Another man?”
“Yes.”
“An intimate partner?”
“An—?”
“Somebody you had sex with?”
I hesitated.
“Ma’am, no judgments. This situation comes up more than you’d think, where the abuse was by—you know—someone on the side. I always advise complainants to put their safety ahead of any embarrassment.”
“But why do you need to know if we were intimate? You’re not going to write that in the computer, are you?”
“It’s relevant to whether you can file for an order of protection in family court. You can only do that if the perpetrator is an intimate partner or family member. So, yes, I do need to know, and it will go in the record.”
That gave me pause. But the officer had a point—it said something that I’d even come here. I was afraid of Aidan, and with good reason. I had to be brave and protect myself.
“Okay. Yes. We had sex.”
“Name of perpetrator?”
“His name is Aidan Callahan,” I said.
“Spell it?”
I did and watched her type it into the computer.
“Do you have his date of birth or social security number?”
“I know his birthday. Why?”
“There could be twenty Aidan Callahans. I need to make sure we get the right one. Plus, with a DOB, I can run him for priors.”
Prior arrests, she meant. Aidan must’ve been arrested before, because of the card in his wallet from the probation officer. I didn’t know when, where, or for what. Maybe this officer could tell me.
I gave her his date of birth, which I remembered from his driver’s license because it was the same as my mother’s. She typed it into her system. Her eyebrows lifted as she stared at the screen.
“What?” I said, my heart slamming in my chest.
“Were you aware that he has a prior conviction for manslaughter?”
“He killed someone? He’s a murderer?”
“Manslaughter isn’t murder. It means someone died, but it could be a lot of different things. It could be he was provoked, like in a fight. Could be he was driving drunk and he killed someone. Or even, sometimes, it was an actual murder, but they can’t prove it, so they plead it down to manslaughter. There’s no way for me to know from what’s in the computer. It does say he’s still on probation. When you file the domestic violence complaint, I’ll inform his probation officer, and I can ask for the details then.”
“Okay.”
“All right, now the complaint. Please describe the act of violence Aidan Callahan committed against you. When and where it occurred, and exactly what he did,” she said, like she’d uttered those same words a thousand times before.
“Um, there hasn’t been any actual violence yet. I’m worried there might be, but so far, it’s just stalking.”
“Stalking? What do you mean by that?”
“He followed me. He came to a restaurant where I was eating dinner. Then he came to my spin class.”
“Okay, but what did he do? I can only help if there’s a crime, ma’am. And family court can only issue a protective order if there’s an express threat. Did he do something threatening, violent, disorderly, unruly?”
“He hasn’t done anything yet. But he’s acting crazy.”
“What do you mean, crazy? Be specific.”
I paused, sighing. “There isn’t anything that you might typically call crazy. We had a one-night stand, and now he’s showing up everywhere I go. I told him I don’t want to see him anymore, but he’s following me. Leaving messages on my phone. It’s freaking me out.”
I was expecting her to show me the door, but she nodded sympathetically.
“I understand. But is it possible you’re overreacting? The messages on the phone are not a crime unless he makes a verbal threat. And if he hasn’t said or done anything threatening, how do you know his presence isn’t a coincidence, like he happened to be in those places at the same time as you?”
“Because he doesn’t live here. He lives in Glenhampton, where we met. He came in to the city specifically to find me. He even said so.”
She frowned, her eyes flicking back and forth at the computer screen.
“Ma’am, I wish I could be more help. But I’m looking at my categories here, and what you’ve described so far is not criminal behavior. He hasn’t raised a hand to you?”
“No.”
“Hasn’t made any explicit threats of violence? I’m talking verbal threats of violence?”
“No.”
“Did he brandish a weapon?”
“He has a weapon. A gun. I saw it in his apartment. But he didn’t use it.”
“Hmm. He’s probably not supposed to have a gun while he’s on probation. We could try to get him charged with a probation violation, and they might remand him.”
“Remand?”
“Lock him up, for some period of time. I can’t promise how long, or even if they’d really do it. Depends on the terms of his probation. But it might be your best option, since you have no case on domestic violence.”
“Would he find out it was me who told on him?”
“He might. They’d have to search his house and seize the gun in order to violate him. And they’re generally not gonna search based on an anonymous complaint. So, yeah, you’d probably have to come forward and give your name.”
I looked away, torn about what to do. If I filed a complaint about the gun, she couldn’t promise me that Aidan would go to jail. On the other hand, he might go to jail, but only for a short period of time, and he might find out it was because of me. When he got released, he’d be furious. So far, he’d followed me, but he hadn’t tried to hurt me. If I filed charges, I could end up escalating the situation. He might flip out and retaliate. Would the police be able to protect me? I doubted it.
“I’m not sure it’s worth it. I don’t think I should do it.” I dropped my head into my hands.
“I know it’s frustrating,” she said. “The system is built to respond after violence already happened, and it can leave women vulnerable. If you want, I’ll give you a referral downtown to family court for an order of protection. In all honestly, it’s a waste of time. You’ll get denied there for lack of a verbal threat.”
“There’s nothing I can do, then.”
“You can watch your back. Don’t walk alone at night. Carry a whistle or some pepper spray. If he does threaten you verbally—I’m talking a direct, specific threat—or if you believe he’s about to become violent, call nine-one-one. I’ll give you this information sheet for the domestic violence hotline, and the number for family court protective services. It explains what they do. Who knows, maybe they can help more than I think they can.”
She jotted some notes. I took the paper she held out; then she walked me to the exit.
“Thank you,” I said, sincerely, and shook her hand.
“No problem. Stay safe. And maybe—”
She hesitated.
“What?” I asked.
“Not to be judgmental or anything. But you should be more careful who you associate with. A one-night stand, who knows what you’re getting into. Could be a nice guy, could be a nutjob who likes to hurt women.”
She walked away before I had a chance to protest that I’d never done anything like that before, and never would again.