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“Remember, Carmine’s lawyer will cross-examine you. Her job is to advocate for her client so her questions may not be easy to hear. Don’t let her rattle you.” I nod. Earlier this week I was in Silvia’s office as we prepared for today’s hearing. She asked me some questions as if she was cross-examining me, preparing me for the questions I may get asked.
“You’re shaking,” says Melida. I glance at my hand and see the tremors. “Remember, he can’t hurt you anymore.” She grasps my hand in hers and squeezes.
“Caruso and Coretta,” a male calls out.
“That’s us,” Ms. Gonzalez says. “Amaury, come with us so I can let the bailiff know you’re a witness and then you can have a seat in the waiting area.”
Before walking through the door, Amaury pulls me to the side and grasps my face between his hands. “I love you. You are strong and everything is gonna be okay.” His lips brush mine and then I turn to walk through the courtroom doors.
Inside the courtroom is small, there’s approximately three rows of benches to our right behind a low wall. There are two large desks in front of the area where the judge sits, and a woman is sitting to the left behind a computer. The fixtures are all dark wood, contrasting the pale color of the walls. Above where the judge will be sitting there’s a sign that reads, “We who labor here seek only the truth.” The bailiff disappears through a door behind the woman. Along the right side wall there’s a witness box. I’m glad we’re in this courtroom where the witness box chair isn’t facing forward but rather across the courtroom. This way it’ll be easier to ignore Carmine when I’m testifying.
Noticeably absent from the courtroom is Carmine.
After taking a seat at the large desk closest to us, my lawyer greets Carmine’s lawyer and they’re making small talk. His lawyer is dressed in a black pant suit, long hair pulled back. I turn to see Melida right behind me and reach for her hand. “You got this, Sol,” she mouths. “I love you.”
The creaking of a door sounds, and I turn in my seat. The door at the back of the courtroom opens and a police officer walks through, followed by Carmine who’s wearing ill-fitting orange scrubs, two sizes too big for his frame. Behind Carmine is another officer. But what stands out the most, are the shackles at his hands, linked to the ones around his ankles. I lift my eyes to meet his and follow him until he turns and sits in his chair. The two officers stand off to the side, each of them crossing their arms as they lean against the wall. I wasn’t ready to see Carmine in shackles. I almost feel bad for him but know I shouldn’t. He’s where he is because of his own choices.
My job has had me inside courtrooms for years, but this is the first time I’m here for my own case and not interpreting. Despite the years of exposure, it feels like my first time in a courtroom. The nerves I feel are like no other, my stomach churns. Silvia slides a yellow pad across the table to me together with a pen. “This is for you to take notes. If you have any questions or concerns come up, write them down for me. If you hear something you want to point out to me, write it down.”
“All rise,” calls out the bailiff.
The female judge appears through the door, ascends the steps, and sits. “You may be seated. Madame Clerk, please call the case for the record.” I swallow and my heart rate increases. I pull a curl between my fingers and twirl.
The attorneys are speaking but I can’t focus right now, not understanding what they’re saying. I’m thinking about my testimony, reminding myself to remain calm because Carmine can no longer hurt me.
“I’d like to call Soledad Caruso,” says Silvia. My heart is thrumming as I stride across the courtroom to the witness stand. Once there, the clerk swears me in, and I take a seat. I glance over at Melida who mouths “I love you.” My attorney begins asking me questions, my name, my occupation, and how I know Carmine. She’s calm, her steady voice guiding me and keeping me grounded. I remember my conversation with her when she explained she would begin with basic questions, have me lay the foundation and work my way up to the reason why we’re in court. Told me this is required for legal purposes but will also help ease my nerves because it will get me comfortable with testifying.
“Ms. Caruso, can you please tell us what happened that led you to file for an injunction?” I swallow and take a deep breath. This is the moment.
To speak my truth.
To face my fear.
To reclaim my power.
“Carmine knocked on my door,” I say, shifting in my seat. “There’s no peephole on the door at my apartment so I cracked the door open to see who it was. When he saw my face he pushed the door forward with his hand, stuck his foot on the threshold. I wasn’t strong enough to push the door closed and he gained entry into my apartment.”
Ms. Gonzalez takes two steps toward me and asks, “What happened once he was inside your apartment?”
My hands are shaking, and I interlock one with the other in an effort to calm them. I’m thankful they’re hidden behind the witness box. “He grabbed my arms and pushed me toward the bedroom. I asked him why he was there, and he said, ‘shut up you fucking whore, I’m the one doing the talking today’ and then he slapped me.” Tears slide down my cheeks as I recount the moment.
“What happened next?” Ms. Gonzalez asks.
I take another deep breath, swipe away the tears from my eyes and begin speaking. I describe how he pushed me onto the bed, straddled me, and wrapped his hands around my neck, putting pressure on the skin beneath his fingers. My voice quivers but I push through. I describe how my arms were pinned to my sides by his legs and I was kicking my feet. The tears steadily fall as I continue telling the judge how I was feeling short of breath. How I felt like I was suffocating, and thoughts of dying were running through my mind. I describe how Amaury pulled Carmine off of me, and I could suddenly breathe again. Watched as Amaury neutralized Carmine and made me call 911. She shows me pictures the police took, and the ones I took with my phone a couple days later when the purple bruises made their appearance.
“Was this the first time Mr. Coretta put his hands on you?” Ms. Gonzalez inquires.
My head shakes.
“Please answer yes or no, Ms. Caruso. Your response needs to be verbal so the record is clear,” instructs the judge.
Shifting my gaze from my lawyer, I look over at the judge. “No, it wasn’t the first time.” Tears continue streaming down my cheeks.
Ms. Gonzalez asks, “Please tell us about the first time Mr. Coretta put his hands on you.” I respond by telling them about the first time he slapped me when we still lived together.
Ms. Gonzalez asks questions to guide me through the history of my relationship with Carmine, has me explain how jealous he was, how he monitored my phone calls, how he would start fights with random strangers, show up at my work, and how he would emotionally and verbally abuse me. She has me tell the court why I moved to Miami, how I tried to get away from him, how I tried to start over.
“No further questions,” says Ms. Gonzalez. I swipe tears from my cheeks, take another deep breath to prepare for the questions Carmine’s lawyer is going to ask me.
