The ex sent me a letter. He’s not supposed to do that, according to the protection order he keeps ignoring. I’m supposed to report these violations, but it sure as Hell isn’t easy. I have a victim’s advocate downtown in the city. She’s supposed to help me with things like this. After two weeks, she finally responded to my voice mails with one of her own. The voice mail advised me to open a new case with my local Sheriff’s office. I was going to do that anyway.
Today, I got around to calling the Sheriff for the county in which I reside. An officer was sent to my home. He was a prick. You were expecting maybe…Officer Mary Poppins perhaps? I showed him the letter. I showed him the protection order. He asked me what I wanted him to do about it. I reminded him that I’m supposed to report violations of the protection order and he’s supposed to enforce them. He didn’t take the copy of the order I gave him. He didn’t take the damn letter either. He didn’t even take a statement. What he did take was a couple of notes and a photocopy of the envelope. Surprised? I suppose not. After all, this is the same county that let the ex escape so he could pay me that nasty little visit. I should probably sue. Daddy says, “You can’t fight city hall.” City hall can kiss my ass.
Officer Sunshine was able to offer me one tiny little piece of information. He mentioned that when an inmate sends mail, it remains unopened until it’s inspected by the facility and then sealed. Maybe I should call the facility. I guess I could have thought of that on my own. Two of the counties that the ex was previously incarcerated in have phone numbers that a person may call 24/7 and find out the status of an inmate. The state facility in which the ex will be spending the next 12 years offers no such convenience. I call the department of corrections. The man on the other end of the line tells me I should call “inmate locator”. It’s 5:00, and from past experience, I know that if I call this number after 5 or on the weekends, I get an answering service, which tells me that, “We only work here from 8-5 on weekdays. If you’ve got an emergency, you’re fucked.” I relay that to the man and explain briefly my situation. He’s kind enough to offer me the phone number to the facility directly.
I call the facility directly. The man asks me which building the ex is being held in. I don’t know that, we don’t exactly have that kind of relationship. I only know to call Buena Vista because of the return address on this letter. The man tells me to call back tomorrow after 8. I try to explain what it is that I need. He interrupts and tells me again to call after 8 tomorrow. Great. And I thought I was finally getting somewhere.
That’s not the reason I had a crappy morning. It’s just a happy little side dish. Somewhere out there in that great big world of springtime sunshine, there’s a middle finger pointed straight at me.
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