I’ll never forget the way I felt every time I sat on the train making my way into London for a court hearing. A cold dread creeping into my guts, settling in for the day, my heart beating in a strange rhythm, my breath not quite filling my lungs.
I hated those train journeys. The walk down to the tube always seemed to go too quickly, the hot wind hitting my face as I descended the escalators into the belly of the earth, and then the screeching and scraping of the rails, too many bodies pushed together in the cigar tube carriage. I would stare at the stops on the tube map above the heads of the people in front of me, wishing there to be more of them. Arsenal, Holloway Road, Caledonian Road, King Cross, Russell Square, Holborn….
Holborn. My stop. The High Court Family Division is a short walk from the station, the tall narrow building unremarkable. The floors I frequented consisted of a U-shaped reception area, the main desk for signing in sitting against the wall at the top of the U with two narrow corridors leading off either side. Doors lined these corridors, doors to waiting areas and doors to court rooms. There was one way into those areas and one way out, so bumping into ‘the other party’ was pretty inevitable.
In the beginning, I had legal aid. I had no money because he had taken everything away from the children and I, so claiming for it was easy. But by the time we went to court, I had moved in with my new partner, who earned above the threshold and so I lost access to the funding. I sought advice from a local one man band, Jeremy, who was worth his weight in gold, however, the credit cards soon racked up. We were drowning in court fees, solicitors costs, barrister fees, and that was when, to add insult to injury he declared himself bankrupt, and got legal aid.
Alongside the child contact hearings, I applied for financial remedy. We had been married for ten years and had three children together, and he was sitting comfortably in our old home, our villa abroad laying dormant, my car and all mine and the children’s worldly possessions still in our old homes, at the very least I wanted him to pay child maintenance, but bankruptcy was his way out. He wouldn’t have to pay me a penny.
He turned up for every child contact hearing, and very few financial ones. He played me in every which way he could, knowing each and every time we went to court, it was bleeding me dry. When the judge asked for hair strand testing, he arrived in court completely hairless, when the judge set court dates, he didn’t bother turning up, when papers had to be filed, he dragged his heels; and all the while my bill went up.
When things didn’t go his way in court, he got angry. He turned up to every hearing with his ‘henchman’, a huge menacing dude who’d sit by the lifts and report back to him when I’d arrived and which waiting room I was sitting in. He was constantly trying to outwit and unsettle me. On one occasion he tried to push his way into the waiting room I was in. I freaked, it had been the first time I had come face to face with him in months and months, and I had a full blown panic attack, pins and needles taking hold of my hands and face, unable to catch my breath. Once I had calmed down my partner went to speak to security. Moments later I could hear raised voices in the corridor, his familiar deep gravelly voice. He was being vile, talking about what I was ‘like in the bedroom’. He was beating his chest, trying to be the alpha male in the most crude and degrading way possible.
He turned against Jeremy after one of the few financial hearings he attended, pinning him to the wall, hissing into his face that he was going to cut him up. Security was called, police were involved and witnesses gave statements. Despite the evidence against him, nothing came of it. Before one financial hearing, he turned up furious that I dare to even try to get my hands on any of ‘his’ money. He was waiting in the narrow corridor as we exited the lift, and he and his henchman cornered my partner, threatening to kill him. I stooped so low as to jump in between them, and putting my hands onto the chest of my violently abusive ex-husband, looked into his eyes and pleaded with him to calm down. Once again security was called and somehow in the ruckus that ensued I ended up getting left behind alone on the same floor as him. I ran into the ladies bathroom, he followed, banging on the door, part shouting and part begging me to come out and face him. Security barracked me in and eventually he was escorted into another room whilst I was taken downstairs to a staff room and police were called. They didn’t turn up. Despite going to the police station ourselves to give statements, nothing came of it once again, and the proceedings continued.
"His response to my personal statement regarding the abuse of myself and our children, read ‘this is not true’. To every numbered point on my statement, he had given his counter argument; I was a liar."
Finally a date was set for a three day fact finding hearing, I had witnesses on standby who would take the stand, I was ready to be cross examined, ready to relive some of my most intimate and horrific moments in front of a room full of strangers, ready to be told none of them happened, that I was just a liar trying to take an innocent mans children away from him. I was offered screens and video link, but despite the terror that gripped me at the mere thought of it, I wanted him to watch me give my side of the story. The truth.
Although he eventually pulled out of the child contact proceedings, (the afternoon before the fact finding hearing no less) and I effectively won, I was left with a bitter taste in my mouth. The court process was ugly. The court itself, cold, unsafe, and in no way prepared for the complexities of such a case. I was unable to gain access to legal aid because I was in a new relationship and my partner earned just above the threshold; and as we drowned in debt, he lied and cheated his way through each court hearing, getting a free ride.
Where was the justice? How was any of it fair? Were the children and I no longer considered victims of domestic abuse because I had moved on with my life three years later?
When he threw in the towel on the child contact, I pulled out of the financial side of things. We were throwing money at it, with no clear indication that I would get anything out. I was tired, and I didn’t want to take that journey into London again. I wanted to start living.
"One of the reasons I had stayed with him for so long, was the absolute certainty in my mind that if I left, he would use every dirty trick in the book to make me suffer."
His level of abuse, the fact I logged so many of the incidents with the police, and his inability to keep his violent personality at bay during the court process meant his application for child contact was over before it barely started. But for that, he would make me pay. And pay I did, and have done for the past ten years. He hasn’t given a penny to the children. He’s written letters and sent cards to them over the years, he bought a pony for our daughter and periodically sent her albums of pictures of him, telling her he was waiting for her to come and ride him. But it’s all mind games, his way of trying to make me unhappy, to keep control.
But, he’s missed one very important point. Money cannot buy happiness. Or love. And I have those in abundance.
So, tell me, who is the poor one now?
