I am the officer you spoke to today, when you attempted to visit your husband in the Toadstomp County Jail.
I’d like to take this opportunity to explain myself further, and hope to clear up some things you appear to have some misconceptions about.
First, when it comes to the inmates under my care, custody and control, my word is law. Now, I am neither arbitrary nor capricious, when I make a decision about one of my inmates — in this instance, whether he gets a visit or not — there are valid, articulatable reasons why I make my decision.
Which brings us to the second point: Your husband is here because he got caught with his hands wrapped around your throat and his thumbs on your windpipe by a fairly grouchy city officer. The fact that your Pookie was doing so in violation of an Emergency Protective Order signed by a judge to protect you was pretty much just icing on the cake.
I do realize that you are not going to press charges — your husband’s multi-state record of domestic violence arrests with no records of prosecution tell me that you probably have the fine print on the Affidavit of Non-Prosecution form memorized.
How-some-never, your Snookums now has yet another Emergency Protective Order against him on your behalf. That, coupled with the bruises showing quite clearly above the turtle-neck you’re wearing in July in Texas is more than enough to convince me that allowing you to visit him in my facility is not in anyone’s best interest, much less your own.
Yes, I figure you love him. The fact that you spent thirty minutes attempting to negotiate with me, bargain, plea, cajole, argue and debate your way into changing my mind about your visit tells me that you feel something for him. I also understand that the Emergency Protective Order states that he is only forbidden from communicating with you in a “threatening or harassing manner”, and that he’s nothing but roses and kittens on the visitation phone. And I do understand that you do not want, need or appreciate my protection —
I would, however, like to confess to a lie.
At the end of your harangue, when you asked me if I had a shred of human decency or compassion, I told you that I did. I further explained that it was at home, in a jar, in my armoire.
Well, actually I fibbed when I told you that. I told a bit of a lie.
I don’t have an armoire.
Nothing but love,