Something happened to me almost a year and a half ago. It was so horrible, that even today, I am bothered by it. Someone tried to kill me.
It was the Friday before Mother’s Day, May 12, 2006. Our house had been for sale, but my husband had let the sales agreement lapse. He was living there rent free, as he continues to do today. I had contacted a real estate agent to list the house. She was going out of town for a period of time, and as a result, I asked if she could view the house that Friday before she left. She agreed to meet me there late in the afternoon. She called my husband to make the appointment. In an effort to make the situation an easy one, I also called him to try to relieve the tensions between us. He was curt, and as usual, hung up on me.
It had been one of those hot muggy days we get here in the south. When I arrived at the house fifteen minutes early, the skis opened up and a deluge began. The thunder was directly overhead, and the lightening was striking the ground all around me. After a few minutes, instead of risking the lightening, I decided to go inside.
I entered through the garage as I had always done. I knocked on the door that goes into the laundry room, and from there, to the family room and kitchen. From the laundry, you can see part of the kitchen, but because the laundry is carved out of a corner of the family room, you cannot see into that room.
My husband answered the door. At first there was a big grin on his face, but that changed the minute he saw me. He asked what I was doing there and I informed him that I was there for the appointment. I assumed that he knew I was coming, as we both had to sign the contracts as the house is in both our names and this was something I wanted accomplished that night before the agent left town.
By this time, I was standing in the laundry room. He grabbed me and tried to push me out the door, but suddenly released me and screamed for our son who was only standing a few feet away to “Grab her. If I touch her, I’ll go to jail”. My husband had been found guilty of attacking me and threatening to kill me in June of the previous year, but the records of that attack had been sealed by the judge, Jeff Fairbanks.
When I had entered the laundry room, I could smell something that was sickeningly sweet. I thought it was incense. My husband had loved to smoke pot in his youth, and my son had been smoking it for the past year or two that I knew of. He was high when he came for visits. I knew that something was not right. I could hear movement from the family room, but because there is a wall between the family and laundry rooms, I could not see who it was. I figured it was my husband’s girlfriend. I asked why he wouldn’t let me into my own house. That’s when things became surreal.
By this time, my son had me by my arms and had pinned me to the door. He was six feet one and two hundred eighty pounds. From around the corner and in back of me came a figure. My mother-in-law appeared. She screamed for me to “Get out of OUR house.” I told her the house was not hers, it was half mine. That’s when she lunged at me and tried to choke me while my son held me.
I could feel my airway closing as her grip tightened on my throat. I could hear myself gasping and trying to plead for my life. I was able to plead with her to stop. When she released her grip on me, I ran for the phone which was only a few feet away, but my husband beat me to it. He yanked the cord from the wall. My mother-in-law was still yelling that it was their house and for me to get out. I remember her having referred to me as “the whore” so many times in the past. To her, that is the worst thing you can call a woman. That was the word I emitted to her in my panic.
I ran outside and got my cell phone from the car and dialed 911. For some reason, it seemed to take the police a long time to arrive. Through the open window, I could hear them talking. I think they were talking with someone on the phone. Then I heard my son yell that, because I was holding my throat, I was trying to choke myself.
By the time the police arrived, the storm had passed. First to arrive was a shortish black policeman. I never knew his name. Instead of checking to see if I was alright, he brushed past me, treating me as the perpetrator, not the victim. I don’t remember if the real estate agent was already there or not. I think she was. He went into the house leaving me standing outside, not even stopping to check if I was alright. A few minutes later, another police car arrived.
It was the same police officer who had shown up at all the previous violence calls. Two of those times, when my husband had physically hurt me, he refused to take photographs. This time was no different. I always kept a disposable camera in my car in case I saw something of interest while driving. I had the real estate agent take pictures at the scene. Those pictures clearly show the hand print on my neck. One of them even shows the officer in the background.
I asked that an ambulance be called. When it arrived, the young man that was the attendant said that he could see the hand print on my throat. The officer had claimed he couldn’t. Stupidly, I let the officer dissuade me from going to the emergency room. Instead, I got in my car and drove myself to the local store front doctor.
Part II to follow
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