The day the cops met me… A mother and a banshee

Eight cops arrived at my gate tonight to arrest a man. Eight. At least a murder…

But his crime? He violated a protection order, apparently: a missed call to his “mother-in-law”.

But I said no to the cops. In fact, screamed no like a banshee woman while two cops rattled my palisade gate and two others tried to enter my property through my fabulous yellow wood brush that not even a hardened criminal can get through.

My request was simple: Show me the warrant. It’s my right.

They couldn’t. Oh, I saw some paper work flashed in the headlight in one of the three cars cordoning off my property – “but you can’t touch it, Ma’am”.

“Just show me the date,” I screamed like Jerry McGuire.

I never saw it.

They’ll be back in the morning, I’m sure with the right paper work because this ole mother-in-law blocked them tonight – and the neighbourhood knows and recorded it, I’m also sure.

But I’ve been there, done that.

I’m wiser. Last time seven of you pitched up at my gate I surrendered the boy, peacefully. And it cost me thousands.

Because, see, sympathetic as you were and as civil as I was, you seven cops all told me you are just “taking him away for questioning” and will bring him back.

I believed you. I even phoned you at 2am – I’m a mother – only to hear he is there for the weekend. And the fat front office woman took the meals we dropped off daily – he never saw them.

In fact, mommy of his child, he slept for three days on a cold cement floor with common criminals. No blanket, no food, no legal representation until the Monday – and that is when my credit card must kick in because the court simply demands he must have representation.

I have resigned myself to the fact that 10 policemen will cordon off my property in the morning and probably have the right paper work to “lock him up again”.

But I ask: we instigated family court and at least can see our little redhead again. You, mommy, have not bothered to pitch up for the last three court appearances.

No consequences, I see.

But dare I send a cordon of 10 cops to your house?

Carine Hartman. Picture: Michel Bega