His name was Henry. Built like a line-backer, he towered over my petite frame like a bullying, intimidating, dark cloud.

The courtroom was packed. Everyone was sweaty. The tension in the air was at a fever pitch. Judge Goodman glowered from high atop the crowd as he admonished the defendant not to raise his cane and hit the bondsman, me. I was a petite buxom blonde in my early 30s.  So naturally, when colossal-sized Henry loomed over me, he looked like he was about to smash an ant. The judge's eyes were blood red with anger.  Not in his court would such a thing happen. 

The two horrified bailiffs stood close to me as if I were in some sort of protective custody. I guess in a way I was.

Henry, the bastard, was pissed cause he knew his ass was going to jail and he also knew he had me to thank for it.

Not to say he had not warned me before of his violent nature, but I was not going to let this scum bully me like he did others.  What the hell was I supposed to do, stand there quietly while this ignorant, rapist smashed my skull as he shouted obscenities about my sex, my race and my occupation? I don't think so. It was his stream of loudly spoken well-delivered phrases that brought the scene to the judge's attention.

I was paralyzed with fear but I wasn't about to let him know it, not for a second. My piercing blue eyes locked on his cold, very dark, menacing eyes.  I stepped up in my bright colored platform shoes, or fuck me pumps as we called them in the '70s, and said through gritted teeth, loud enough only for him to hear, "YOU raped them not me.  You're going down you miserable bastard."

I knew that was not exactly the language of a lady raised as well as I but when you run across a piece of shit like him, who raped 2 little girls you can tend to get a little hot under the collar.  And as the saying goes, "You can wrap a pig in silk but it's still a pig." Or in my case, "you can wrap a lady in rags but she's still a lady."

 As a bondsman the court had released my client, Patricia, into my care, custody and control so I was essentially responsible for her.  I escorted her and her two young daughters who were trembling with fear into the courtroom with me.  My heart breaks just thinking about how he defiled those girls, their hair braided in barrettes, their sad big eyes getting ever so large at the sight of this horrible man who had stolen their innocence and called himself their father. I knew at that moment there was no way in hell I was going to let him get away with it.

I felt confident that now here in the courtroom, Patricia's safety and that of her two daughters was assured. Never dreamed my brains might be bashed in by this lunatic husband of hers. No good deed goes unpunished they say.  The shit I had to put up with as a lady bondsman.

Sure, I was a front-runner in the industry, a job born of desperation.

As I stood in the courtroom in that moment, I flashed back on to a few desperate months earlier and what lead up to my being a bondsman in that courtroom.

I refused to even consider asking my abusive soon-to-be ex-husband for financial support because I hated with a vengeance, the thought of making myself vulnerable to him once again especially when I reminded myself of how he had hurt and humiliated me and my two small children. I had remained in the marriage far too long. I knew that, but, I also knew that I stayed because I felt there was no alternative. I did love Frank, had borne his two children and my sense of commitment to my marriage vows was very strong. There had never been a divorce in my family for as far back as anyone could remember. Coming from a Russian and Norwegian/Finnish background, the sanctity of marriage was very important to us. So I tried to be a good person, took care of my kids and did all the right things. But, when the emotional and physical abuse became so painful even I had to stop and take a long look at what was happening.

One night, when he was drinking heavily, his tongue loosened by the booze he came over to me in the kitchen as I was preparing dinner and said, "Lori, you really are a piece of shit, you know.  What can I do or say that would be bad enough that you would let me go? You're young, and a good fuck and all, but you have no fire, no fight, you once did, but now you bore me to death." I forced a smile and said nothing as he carried yet another drink into the living room and turned on the television. I wanted to tell him right there and then what I was thinking, but I knew it would just give him a good reason to hit me again and I was not emotionally prepared to stand up to him at that time.

I had met Frank when I was only 17 and he was 27. I was attracted by his good looks, his gently persuasive sexuality and sense of humor. For a few years we were divinely happy. But then he started to drink a lot, and all my dreams were shattered and our happy times were over. My marriage had been a disastrous duet for several years. Like a dancing suicide pact, we had two-stepped and shuffled our way through a devastating relationship bonded by our anger and frustration that things had not worked out for us. We blamed each other that our blueprint for happiness had been corrupted by ourselves, the architects of our souls.

It finally came to pass one  evening when Frank came home early from work, ushered his handsome self into our kitchen and poured his favorite libation. That, of course was, a shot of Laird's Applejack brandy and a pint of Ballantine ale. A boiler-maker they used to call it. . The house was quiet, the cool crisp November air swept through the open French doors cooling down everything except my passionate disdain of this selfish drunk who was making my life a misery.  My 11-year-old daughter, Allison, was at cheerleading practice and nine-year-old son, Chris, was expected home at any moment from his after-school football practice.

I walked into the kitchen and said to Frank, "Do you think you might go into our bedroom for a few minutes? I'd like to talk to you, and the kids will-"

He cut me off with, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know, Miss Priss and little Chris can't see their daddy like this," he said in a voice that mocked me.

In spite of his drunkenness I saw a little bit of the old Frank, the Frank I fell in love with. He would have been embarrassed by this terrible behavior.

Frank said nothing else as he teetered across the dining room and suddenly tripped over the step down into the living room.  As he fell, the can of ale dropped from his hand to the floor spilling all over, but he managed to hold aloft the small glass of Brandy and as he smirked a drunken smile said to me, "See, I'm pretty steady on me feet, ain't I bitch."

At that exact moment Chris came through the front door with his little football friend Alex and froze at the sight of his dad, who by now had fallen through onto the living room floor, and urinated in his pants. I knew at that moment, what I had to do.  And soon.

 My dream television job was over and I was out on my ass. Reality crowded in on me again. What a cruel joke it seemed, going from fame and glory in the television world to being in a courthouse getting assaulted by an insane defendant whom my brother had bonded out just weeks before.

It was only too real - opening the refrigerator to find only a jar of crusted applesauce that was a month old and what was left of a stale box of raisins.  I thought to myself half-joking, "Well, at least I paid the mortgage this month."

And I did it with every penny I could scrounge together because I was too proud to let my mother and rest of my family know how bad things really were.

Ever since Frank left me it had been a struggle to make it financially, my savings were used up, no good job in sight, and although I was determined to win the battle, it looked like I was losing.

I could hear the music of the ice cream truck coming around the corner as I stared at the empty refrigerator. I knew what was next.

"Mom! Mom!" Allison and Chris cried, "Do you got any money?"

"Have any money," I corrected and fished in my pockets, although I knew they were bare. There was only one place I had any cash left, my piggy bank and I had sworn to only use it when absolutely necessary. But I couldn't bear to say, "no" to my kids, not with the other children screaming with excitement at the ice cream truck parked right in front of our house.

I opened the piggy bank and my kids' eyes lit up waiting with anticipation for all the glorious cash. I could barely look into their beautiful blue eyes and was ashamed as only two coins came out, 35 cents.

"But Mom, it's 50 cents." Chris said.

I fought the tears, "I'm sure I have some more money somewhere." I said, searching the drawers for something, anything.

Allison looked at me with sympathy. She cleared her throat, "That's okay Mom. Chris can have it."

I nodded, waiting until they left before my tears burst out like the Goddamn Hoover Dam. I had never felt so low in my life.

No job, no food to feed my children, I was desperate and knew I had to do something.