Asking for Help (part 2)

Oscar Wilde once said something to the effect that the worst thing in life was to be ignored. Obviously, Mr. Wilde was never the target of a computer hacker.

While the repeated hacks were bad enough, seeking help was even more excruciating. If I didn't already possess abundant sympathy for the budding Olympic gymnasts under the care of Larry Nassar, I did now.

After several incidents in early-August, I sought help via the courts. The hacking had started when the person I suspected and myself were friends. Now that we no longer were, what was he capable of?

I petitioned the court for a Stalking No Contact order. In preliminary phone calls, I explained the situation and my concerns and did not exaggerate them in any way. I was assured mine was an entirely viable case.

I should mention that my questions had been referred to a shelter for battered and abused women.

Which wouldn't be significant except for the fact my wife had suffered a fall four days earlier. And when the resulting hematoma drained into her eye socket a day and a half later, it gave her the appearance of someone who had been struck in the eye.

So when my wife and I arrived to file the order, attention immediately shifted to her. And then to me. Since I am eight inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier than my wife, you can guess the assumptions.

Fortunately, I was able to show a staffer the urgent text and photograph my wife's care-giver had sent me the morning of her fall, asking me to call home ASAP. This put to rest everyone's concerns.

The fun continued when I was asked to fill out an online form. It was written in government-ese, which is a language I continue to struggle with. So when the form asked when the stalking began, I listed the date I learned who my stalker slash hacker was, which was over a year ago.

The form then asked for the two-most recent events, which I obediently supplied.

A court clerk downloaded and printed the complaint and assigned it a case number. Then we waited for the judge.

I am fortunate to have had very little contact with judges. This means I have never been accused of a crime, been sued nor had to sue or accuse another. And given the choice, is unquestionably the way I prefer it.

So when the deputy arrived to escort us to our meeting, we followed with the kind of hope only the truly innocent can harbor.

We were led to a small conference room with a high ceiling. The walls were covered with curtains, the kind of which you'd see in an exhibition hall. There were a dozen rows of grey padded banquet chairs and a projector in the back. A small table with a lectern stood in the front. 

Ironically, the overhead lighting created more shadows than light.

We took seats in the first row and waited. Judge Joel Berg entered, sat down and scanned the first page of the request. Then the attack began.

Visibly irritated, he looked at me and said “This was over a year ago!”

I explained the online form requested the date of the first incident. That was it.

In an unsuccessful attempt to turn an accusation into a question, he barked “Why didn't you file sooner?”

I explained my ignorance of the No Contact option. That I had only heard of Orders of Protection, which dealt specifically with domestic abuse.

On it went. Every response seemed to aggravate him further. Huffing and puffing and shaking his head, Berg flipped between the pages of the print-out. He asked about the two most-recent incidents.

Like the indignant callers I had dealt with in my former life as a call center rep for a Baby Bell, he interrupted me half-way through my answers. He was pissed.

This was going so very wrong. And so very quickly. I was beginning to feel like the bad guy here.

When my anger reached critical mass, I exploded. I raised my voice. I talked over him. I gestured. I ceased addressing him as 'your honor'.

I hoped my face was taut and menacing. That my eyes were as piercing as lasers.

When I'm this angry I usually become a foaming, inarticulate mass. This time I was a guided missile of focus and outrage. I don't know how I remained seated.

I circled back to the central point in my argument and demanded an answer. “Tell me how that happens, judge! Tell me!”

Before our elevated testosterone levels had a chance to subside, Judge Berg barked again.

“I don't know who hacked your computer! And neither do you! Order is denied!”

At that moment, I felt as if I could push over a bus. Never mind a judge.

Yes, I wanted to beat the crap out of him. I was shaking with rage.

Berg's words lingered for days.

I expected no help from my stalker. I expected a great deal from the judge. And when I got nothing, it only stands to reason I was frustrated and angry.

Such is the burden of great expectations.

And yet being treated the way I was merely for seeking help seems so very, very wrong.  I was as outraged as that Albuquerque cop whose sleeve I had dared to tug on with my petty, insignificant and worse—ignorant—request.

The judge felt I didn't have sufficient evidence. That this didn't constitute an emergency. 

I suppose I should have apologized for not possessing video of my hacker doing his work. 

It is said that cops and crooks know the law best. Since I am neither, I should have also apologized for wasting the time of such vital resources.

I had presented my problem honestly to the judge's gatekeepers and had been allowed in. That was my fault?

Apparently.

So to those Olympic gymnasts, I offer my everlasting empathy. Unfortunately, I know exactly how you feel.