I worked at a Domestic Violence Shelter for the year after I graduated college. I loved that job. I learned about social work, domestic violence survivors, drug addicts, the police, and more. Most nights, I would come home with an outrageous story to tell my roommate - there was drama, comedy, inspiration. Here's a story of adventure, suspense, and a smidge of exorcistesque horror.
One day a seemingly normal woman arrived at the shelter, claiming that she was running from a verbally abusive husband. I'll call her Bertha. Please picture someone named Bertha, and you should get a good idea of her size without me needing to be mean about it. One day soon after Bertha's arrival another resident's prescription medication went missing. We had to file a police report about that, and as we gave the names of those in the shelter, the police stopped us at Bertha. They had us repeat her full name twice, then asked if she was currently at the shelter. She was, and they asked us to keep her there.
Minutes later, two police cars arrived. The cops said that Bertha had stolen a car, and they had to arrest her. She calmly agreed to go with them, then asked if she could use the restroom before they took her in. They said yes, and she went up the stairs. Moments later, my co-worker Joel realized that we had an upstairs rear exit to the shelter, looked at me with surprise and said "You don't think she'd try to escape, do you?"
The "you" of that sentence overlapped with an officer outside yelling "We have a runner!"
This would have been more exciting if we'd thought Bertha had a chance of getting away. Instead, they quickly tackled her and she proceeded to have an asthma attack. Or she proceeded to fake an asthma attack so proficiently that she ended up hyperventilating. Either way, they had to take her to the hospital.
A few hours later, I received a call from Bertha. She sweetly asked me to help her, and I explained that since she was not up front regarding her legal troubles, there was nothing I could do at that point. Her sweet voice dropped an octave and she said "I can't believe you're not going to help me." Shudder. Possession.
That evening, I went to the store for some groceries for the shelter, and on the way back I noticed a police car behind me turn its lights off as I approached the house. When I got out of the van, the officer asked if this was the shelter that had called 911 because a fugitive who had escaped from the hospital was there. I told them it probably was, but it was news to me. The officer told me to go around the back of the building to enter, then asked if there were any men working at the time who could assist him. "No," I whined, "It's just a bunch of us giiiiirls." He told me to get the fugitive to exit the house so that they could take her in. Lucky for him, my roommate and I had recently steeped our lives in 24, so I was totally prepared.
I entered the building, keeping close to the wall and making mental notes of my exits and any office supplies that could double as weapons. My co-worker Yesi furiously whispered that Bertha had returned. I mouthed that the police were outside. Loud enough for Bertha to hear, Yesi said "Oh, there you are, Emily! You accidentally took the key to Bertha's room with you."
"Oh, dear! I'm so sorry," I said. "Bertha, I left it in the car. Will you come grab it for me?" Yesi and I sounded like stilted actors in a high school musical, but luckily Bertha didn't notice.
She exited the building, and I heard officers shout, "Put your hands where I can see them! Kneel on the ground!"
They carted her away, and one of my strangest days at work came to an end.
No comments:
Post a Comment