Chapter 3 - The First Strike
Attorney Arthur Vance was a sixty-year-old man with silver hair, sharp blue eyes, and a suit that cost more than my monthly salary. He sat behind his oak desk in downtown Columbus, flipping through the binder I had printed out that morning.
He read the emergency room report first. Then he looked at the photographs of my back. Finally, he listened to the voice recording from the night before Thanksgiving on his desktop speakers.
When the recording ended, Mr. Vance set his glasses on the desk and looked at me across the room.
"Your father is a dangerous man, Emily," Mr. Vance said, his voice flat and precise. "He believes that because he is your parent, he is immune to the laws of the State of Ohio. He is mistaken."
"What are my options?" I asked, sitting upright in the leather armchair.
"Option one is purely criminal," Mr. Vance explained, leaning forward. "We take this medical file and the recording directly to the Franklin County Prosecutor's Office. Given the physical evidence and the ER report, your father will be arrested and charged with domestic battery. However, criminal cases can take months, and your father may attempt to post bail and intimidate you."
"And option two?"
A cold, razor-sharp smile appeared on Mr. Vance's face. "Option two is a comprehensive civil and legal offensive. We file an emergency Ex Parte Domestic Violence Civil Protection Order today. That order will immediately bar your father from coming within five hundred feet of you, your workplace, or your residence. Simultaneously, we file a civil lawsuit for assault, battery, intentional infliction of emotional distress, and financial conversion regarding the twenty-two-thousand-dollar defaulted loan."
"Can we do both?" I asked.
Mr. Vance’s smile widened. "I like the way you think, Ms. Carter. Yes. We do both."
For the next two hours, we drafted the paperwork. Mr. Vance filed the emergency protection order with the court clerk at eleven o'clock. By two o'clock that afternoon, a county judge had reviewed the ER photographs and signed the Ex Parte protection order, making it legally binding instantly.
While the sheriff's department was preparing to serve the protection order on my father, I went to work on the financial front.
I drove to the local branch of my bank. I met with the branch manager, presented the evidence of default on the co-signed loan, and formally requested a complete account separation. Because I had documented every single payment I had made toward the loan versus my father's total lack of contribution, the manager flagged the account for internal fraud review, temporarily freezing my father's ability to pull funds from any joint overdraft protection linked to my checking account.
Then I went to my employer's HR department. I informed my manager, a stern woman named Mrs. Higgins, that I was dealing with a domestic violence situation involving my family. I provided a copy of the judge's protection order and updated my emergency contact information, strictly removing my parents and brother from having any access to my employment records or building entry.
Mrs. Higgins looked at the protection order, then looked at me with deep sympathy. "Emily, security has your father's photo. If he sets foot in the parking lot, the guards will lock the doors and call the police immediately."
"Thank you, Mrs. Higgins," I said.
At four-thirty PM, the first real wave of the hurricane hit my father's house.
I was sitting in Rachel's kitchen drinking tea when my phone screen lit up with a barrage of notifications. Because my father couldn't text me directly due to the court order—which his lawyer had undoubtedly warned him about the second he was served—my mother was the one who reached out.
Mom: Emily! What have you done?! Two sheriff's deputies just showed up at the house and served your father with a paper saying he can't go near you! He is furious! The neighbors saw the squad car in the driveway!
Ten minutes later, another text arrived:
Mom: Your father's credit card was declined at the hardware store! And the bank called saying the twenty-two-thousand-dollar loan is going into formal collection! He says you canceled the auto-pay! Are you trying to destroy this family?!
I read the texts quietly. I didn't feel panic. I felt an exhilarating, intoxicating surge of control.
I picked up my phone and typed a single response to my mother:
Emily: Dad beat me in front of fourteen people and you told me I brought it on myself. Now, you get to deal with the consequences. Tell Brandon he needs to get a job, because I am no longer paying for his phone, his internet, or your car insurance. See you in court.
I hit send, then immediately blocked my mother's number.
That night, my father tried to bypass the court order.
At eight o'clock, Brandon's silver sedan pulled up to the curb outside Rachel’s apartment building. I watched through the third-floor window as my brother stepped out of the car, looking agitated and angry, wearing his leather jacket. He walked up to the lobby entrance and began pounding on the glass doors.
My phone chimed. An unknown number.
I answered it, putting it on speaker.
"Emily!" Brandon's voice yelled through the speaker. "Open the damn lobby door! Dad is losing his mind! He's talking about cutting you out of the family entirely! You need to come home right now and fix this legal bullshit before he loses his job!"
I looked out the window down at him. He looked so small from three stories up—a thirty-year-old boy who had spent his entire life hiding behind my father's belt.
"Brandon," I said, my voice cold and steady. "Look at the security camera mounted above the lobby door."
Brandon paused, looking up at the small black dome mounted on the brick wall.
"That camera is recording you right now," I continued. "And my attorney has already informed the sheriff that you are acting as a third-party proxy for Dad to violate the protection order. You have thirty seconds to get back in your car before I press the panic alarm and have the police arrest you for felony stalking."
Brandon's face went pale under the streetlights. He took a step back, looking around the empty street as if he expected squad cars to appear out of the darkness.
"You're crazy, Em," he stammered, his voice cracking with fear. "You've completely lost your mind!"
"Thirty seconds, Brandon," I said flatly.
May you like
He didn't wait for twenty. He turned on his heel, sprinted back to his car, jumped inside, and sped away into the night, his tires screeching against the cold asphalt.
I closed the curtain, stepped away from the window, and smiled. The predator was finally realizing that the prey had teeth.
