“We don’t negotiate with terrorists”

This is a policy that most Western countries follow. However, the family court system required that I negotiate with my terror of a husband so that we could avoid trial.

“Can’t you guys just work it out?” is a phrase that I got accustomed to hearing from a few outlying individuals, and I can’t explain how angry it made me. Couldn’t Barack Obama and Osama bin Laden just work it out? Couldn’t Hitler and the Jews just work it out??

No one in the system cared about my child. They cared about covering their ass and saving money. The judge told me how expensive it was, and now I was being told the same thing by this mediator. Did these men actually have no clue that you can’t put a price tag on your own child??

In any case, I was to go see this mediator with my lawyer, my husband, and his lawyer to see if we can reach an agreement. We were not actually supposed have our attorneys present, but my husband insisted. Another couple of grand flushed down the toilet.

We walked into a dingy room with fluorescent lights. Although I had nothing to be scared of, my heart was racing. I didn’t want to see my husband or his piece of shit lawyer. I dreaded talking with them.

We sat down in 2 chairs right outside the mediator’s office just a couple of minutes before my husband’s arrival. His lawyer’s menacing glare pierced through me. My husband hid behind him. The buttons on my husband’s suit jacket barely buttoned and he had lost a big chunk of the hair on the middle of his head. He looked stressed out and exhausted. His $500 Lanvin sneakers looked cheap with his poorly fitting suit.

The mediator called both of the attorneys into his office and left my husband and I sitting outside in adjacent chairs. I stared at him. He stared at his phone intently. I immersed myself in my own phone.

I could not calm my nerves down. The waiting was torturous. What could they be saying in there? Would the mediator side with my husband’s lawyer and try to convince my lawyer to settle on a bad deal?

About 15 minutes had passed before intense yelling erupted. It was our attorneys fighting! What in the world was happening in there??

The mediator quickly extinguished them.

“Gentlemen! I practiced law for years before this and I know how it can get, but we need to act like adults!”

The shouting subsided. More waiting. My husband temporarily stopped staring at his phone and stared into space. He never once looked in my direction.

After about 40 minutes of waiting the attorneys finally came out. I searched my lawyers face for some sign of good news, but all I saw was exasperation.

“Let’s take a walk,” he whispered.

I was shaking so bad I had to lean against a wall to steady myself while I listened to my lawyers recount of the meeting.

“Basically it was a bunch of bullshit. He wants more time with her and decision making, and he wants for you to continue to be in therapy. Just tell them that you would consider 50/50 so you look agreeable, but don’t do it”

“Ok, but how was the mediator??”, I demanded.

“He definitely went after his lawyer more. But, all he wants is for you to settle. He doesn’t care.”

My lawyer went off for a bathroom break while I walked back into that terrible room. I was slightly calmer now. Everything we expected happened.

After the attorneys talked to the mediator both individually and together a few more times, my lawyer took me into a conference room again.

“We’re making progress! They are willing to go 50/50 on time and joint decision making. But they also want to put a clause in the agreement that says no suckling allowed”

Let me just summarize the situation because I am still in disbelief that this is happening in America in 2019. Three older men intermittently went into a room in the US supreme court and discussed whether I would be legally allowed to let my child suck on my boob. My child was not considered, her relationship with me was not considered, and the fact that my husband was doing this maliciously was not addressed. I was now faced with the decision of whether I want to put my boob in a contract.

Luckily I didn’t have to.

My lawyer continued, “I told the mediator that I can’t in good faith advise my client to agree to this. She’ll just be back in court two weeks later”

I hadn’t even considered that! He wanted to put it in there so he could pretend that I was breastfeeding again and start the whole thing over! What a piece of shit.

In any case, I wasn’t going to agree to 50/50 on anything. There was no way I was going to leave my child with a monster.

Finally my turn to talk to the mediator came. I walked into an office reminiscent of the 80’s. An old man with a pot belly, white hair, and beady eyes flashed a big fake grin at me.

“Nice to meet you Miss Tillman!”

“Nice to meet you too.”

I prepared to speak about the background of my case and my position, but was quickly silenced. A yellow notepad appeared in front of me with a hand drawn picture of two circles and a box in the middle.

“This is a car, and I’m like a used car salesman. There are some parts of the car I can easily sell you on, and other parts that are a little tougher. Let me tell you about trial. It’s extremely expensive and often people walk out in tears. Children of parents in trial are traumatized and in therapy for years. The costs are exorbitant!”

He proceeded to describe a math equation of how much trial will cost me. I was fuming. What about the trauma I experienced when my child was taken away from me and I couldn’t see her until a supervisor became available? What about the tears I cried when my husband stopped paying for supervision and I could only see my daughter for 7 hours a week?? What about the 40 thousand dollars I spent on forensic report, and the 8 months I spent waiting for it? Most importantly, why is my daughter being turned into a math equation??

“I’m sure I could easily get you to agree to 50/50 time and joint decision making, but I may have a tougher time getting you to agree to therapy and no suckling”

It took every ounce of control I had to not punch this guy in the face.

Finally it was my turn to talk. I regained my composure, gathered my thoughts, and started speaking.

“After the events that transpired in the last year, my husband has proven to me over and over again that he does not put my daughter’s best interest at heart. I need to make sure she is safe and taken care of and I cannot put a price on that. I’m not rich, and it sucks, but it’s my job to protect my daughter.”

“So you’re going to trial?” He inquired

“I guess so.”

I walked out of his office feeling like a tortured soul. I was exhausted.

“Paulina, they are capitulating.”, my lawyer hypothesized as we made our way toward the car. “You are winning.”

Uncategorized