“Don’t blame yourself for what they did to you. You survived and now you’re getting out. That takes courage.” The emergency room was mostly empty at this hour, and they were seen quickly. The nurse who examined Chenise was gentle but thorough, taking pictures of all the injuries, asking careful questions about what had happened.
Chenise told the truth, even the parts that made her feel ashamed. “The police will want to talk to you,” the nurse said. “Are you ready for that?” Chenise looked at Jasmine, who nodded encouragingly. “Yes,” Chenise said. “I’m ready.” Detective Rita Brown arrived an hour later, a tall black woman with kind eyes and a nononsense attitude.
She had been working domestic violence cases for 15 years and had seen it all. But something about Chenise’s story resonated with her. “Tell me what happened tonight,” Detective Brown said, settling into the chair beside Chenise’s hospital bed. Chenise told the story again, this time in more detail, she talked about the escalating abuse, the way Desawn had isolated her from friends and family, the way Candace had encouraged and participated in the violence.
As she spoke, Detective Brown took careful notes. Has he hit you before? The detective asked. Not like this. Usually just pushes me around. Grabs me too hard. Tonight was different. And his sister Candace. She lives with you for 6 months now. Ever since she lost her apartment, she’s been making things worse, telling Deshan, “I don’t respect him enough that I need to be put in my place.
” Detective Brown nodded. She had seen this pattern before. Abusers often had enablers who encouraged their behavior. Family members who believed violence was acceptable in certain circumstances. What about your daughter? Has she witnessed the abuse? Chenise’s voice broke. She was upstairs tonight. She seen him push me before, but tonight she heard everything. How old is she? Eight.
Detective Brown’s expression softened slightly. Eight was old enough to understand what was happening. Old enough to be traumatized by it. This wasn’t just about Chenise anymore. Mrs. Thompson, I want you to know that what happened to you tonight is assault. Both your husband and his sister can be charged.
Are you willing to press charges? Chenise felt Jasmine’s hand squeeze hers. This was the moment of truth, the point of no return. Once she said yes, everything would change. Desawn would be arrested. There would be court dates and lawyers and a very public end to her marriage. But then she thought about Amara, about the sound of her bedroom door closing when the violence started.
She thought about all the women who came to her salon with stories of their own pain, who stayed with men who hurt them because leaving seemed impossible. Maybe it was time to show them that it wasn’t impossible after all. Yes, Chenise said firmly. I want to press charges. Detective Brown smiled. Good. Let’s go get them.
The sun was just beginning to rise when the police cars pulled up in front of Chenise’s house. Detective Brown had worked quickly getting the arrest warrants signed by a judge who specialized in domestic violence cases. Chenise sat in Jasmine’s car across the street, watching as officers surrounded her home. Her home.
It was strange to think of it that way now. The little yellow house with the white picket fence that she had been so proud of when they first moved in. She had painted the shutters herself, planted the flower garden that Deshan had never helped her maintain. Now it just looked like a prison she had finally escaped. You don’t have to watch this, Jasmine said softly. We can drive around the block.
