Me? Guilty? Me??? Guilty???!!! You’ve got to be joking!
Actually, I’m glad you brought the subject up. No one’s had the guts before you. Now it goes without saying that people have told me all along precisely what they think—just not in words. Instead, everyone has telegraphed it to me non-verbally. It’s written all over their faces so to speak.
Here’s what everyone thinks: “GUILTY!”
Generally, this opinion is then qualified by a remark more or less along the following lines:
“The sonofabitch is guilty, damn it! There was always something
about that guy that rubbed me the wrong way …Now, I don’t know any
of the details of his situation, so I don’t know exactly what he’s
guilty of…But never you mind….He’s definitely guilty of something….Besides,
he’s always blubbering on and on about corruption in the legal system…Hey!
Give me a break. This isn’t the Soviet Union. This is
Or—words to that effect…
To tell you the truth, there has not been a single exception among the people I know. Perhaps you’ve been more fortunate. Maybe I’m guilty and you’re not. Or, maybe I’m not guilty, but I am a creep. I’m too close to the situation to be objective about that. Still, I have found that the only people who believe me are people solidly allied with this movement. The rest of the world does have an opinion. It just doesn’t say it, at least to my face.
Actually, there is one group that forms an exception. I’m a psychiatrist and no profession has more thoroughly mastered the art of rambling on for hours without saying a damned thing. Whereas most people are silent, my psychiatric colleagues are eager speak at length: “I’m certain, David, that according to the way you view it, from your perspective, this must all seem terribly unfair…From your perspective, anyhow, so to speak, as you view it, you have done nothing to…Now, of course, you also have to try to…”
Et Cetera. Blah blah blah.
I wish more people were like you and had the guts to be direct. Because then I’d have a chance to ask them—“OK. Guilty of what?” This is a problem that bedevils target victims of Parental Alienation Syndrome. It’s death by innuendo.
First the legal system finds you guilty (never mind of what). It takes your children away. It takes your rights away. It takes your dignity away. It takes your money away. It takes your health away. We all learn this sooner or later, though for me it initially came as quite a shock. I’m a big fan of this country and I always remember Mrs. Dumpledink, who taught Civics in junior high school. “Class,” she said. “Our Constitution was written in a manner that would assure a balance of power.” I believed her.
But the pronouncement of “guilty” doesn’t end at the courthouse steps. The verdict is then propagated in the form of gossip by neighbors and colleagues, even relatives and friends. Ultimately any man who is convicted during a divorce proceeding of anything resembling “Domestic Violence,” is branded with a permanent Scarlet A (for Abuser).
It is terribly unfair. Anyone who has endured a divorce in the last five years knows that restraining orders and charges of “Domestic Violence” are now standard operating procedure. “Hey, pal,” my lawyer said to me. “It isn’t personal. Her lawyer is just doing his job. That’s all.”
Now, please bear with me for a moment. There’s something on the front
of my scalp that I’d like you to look at. Lean closer for just a second,
if you will. I’m short so you may have to bend over a tad. Now, look
at my forehead. You can see the livid red-purple welt marks unmistakably.
I’ve been branded all right. It ruined many aspects of my life if
you really want to know the truth. And yet I can’t tell you precisely
what I was found “guilty” of. I think that the people who gossip
and condemn me are actually equally in the dark. All they seem to
be sure of is that there’s something rotten, and it isn’t in
The smear campaign has not been helped at all by the actions of one fool in particular. I refer here to myself. I’ve written a number of columns that are autobiographical, and frankly, sometimes I wish I hadn’t. I took this stance because I believed that behind all of the angry invective and pseudo-statistics there is enormous personal suffering. I think that everyone has become benumbed by graphs and statistics. So, fools rush in. And I did.
Now everybody knows that the best way to correct a mistake is to compound it. So, I’ve decided to take that approach one final time here. I’ll give you the pertinent details frame-by-frame. It’s only my situation, and it’s not especially important except to me, but since I have used my own history in what I’ve written, I figure that I’d better see it through now. Besides, everyone who has been through this ordeal will see the similarities.
Also, I must admit that there is something definitely to be said for sticking one’s neck out in this manner: the absurdity and sadism of these laws is best captured in a description of the humdrum and mundane, not in the coverage of high profile celebrity cases. I mean, this kind of crap goes on in court thousands of times a day. It is unconscionably cruel.
OK, here goes (for the last time):
It started with a phone call that I made to my ex-wife in late August, 2000. She had dumped me two months earlier. I phoned her when I knew she was not at home and I left a message on the answering machine. The movers were coming the following day to haul off the chaotic mound of my possessions that she had shoved into a vacant bedroom. It had a sign on it, with an arrow:
HIS STUFF -->
The movers had been unable to reach her on the day that they kept harassing me. I had tried and failed for eight hours to get through to my attorney. Then I left a polite message on the answering machine explaining that they would be arriving an hour earlier. “I figured you would want to know,” I said.Stupid, I know. I was under a temporary restraining order at the time and I knew damned well how dangerous they can be. But my lawyer had phoned me the day before to say that my ex-wife had said she was planning to “relax” her requests at the hearing on permanent orders. As for my son, he was dropping all requests for any kind of restraints. “I never asked for them or wanted them in the first place,” my lawyer quoted him as saying. Foolishly or not, I left the message.
That evening, my ex-wife took the tape out of the answering machine, went down to the City and County Building, and completed a form explaining how I had violated the restraining order. She dropped the tape into an envelope and stapled the envelope to the form. A warrant was issued for my arrest.
I did not find this out, however, until two the following morning. Three Denver County sheriffs entered my hotel room using a pass key they’d gotten from the front desk (I was living in a hotel because my ex-wife had filed the temporary orders). They shoved me around and made sarcastic comments while I hurried to dress. Then they slapped the cuffs on. If, in the future you ever see someone grimacing in pain after being hand-cuffed, you can take it from me—he is not engaging in melodrama. I was dragged across the lobby of the hotel weeping from the pain. I was shoved into the back seat of a cruiser, pummeled with fists, and taken to the Denver County Jail.
The following morning, I was brought into a courtroom, manacled to a chain. I was filthy from sleeping on the floor of an overcrowded cell. I was still weeping, not from pain now but from despondency. I’d known that my ex-wife planned to take me to the cleaners. That much was clear. But I had never dreamed that her vengeance would lead to this. Even worse, my son sat next to her in the courtroom. His face was wooden and pale. He would not make eye-contact with me. By contrast, my ex-wife was in excellent spirits. It was quite striking. Most of the time she looked depressed and, as she has aged, her face has become increasingly dour.
Having me thrown in jail appeared to have been just the tonic she needed. She chatted amiably with the three “Victims Assistance” advocates who had accompanied her to court and several times she laughed aloud. She would cup her hand over her mouth and whisper something. They all would then turn and glower at me.
I just wept. It just felt like more than I could bear—this degree of betrayal by someone whom I had shared my life with for twenty-three years. I’m not talking about the pain of divorce here, or the humiliation of being dumped. I’m certainly not talking about the pain of no longer being loved by her. Those feelings were there and they were painful. But what had been required to do me in totally was an act of treachery so horrendous that I had never dreamt it would be possible.
And yet, there I was, in manacles. Pinching myself did wake me up. I stood in that court room dazed, weeping, disheveled, and streaked with grime. Previously, I had never been charged with a crime, much less arrested for one or thrown in jail.
If you have never been in jail you will find it impossible to grasp how traumatic the experience actually is. If you have been, I needn’t say more. After everything that has happened since then, I’m hesitant to single out any specific occurrence as the worst thing that has ever happened to me. Let’s just say that this event wasn’t one of the best things that has ever happened to me. The most excruciating thing, of course, is that all of this unfolded in front of my son.
The hearing lasted seventeen-and-a-half-minutes. Fortunately, my attorney was there and he had lots of helpful suggestions. Here is what he whispered in my ear, “SHUT UP! So help me, if you make a peep…”
So, I was silent. The judge clacked his gavel and implemented the orders. I would never be allowed to contact my ex-wife or my son again, for the rest of my life. If I sent him a birthday card, I would be sent to prison. If I called him on the phone, I would be sent to prison. If he were ever mortally ill and I went to the hospital, I would be sent to prison. If a friend of his who also knew me contacted him, that person would risk going to prison as an accessory to conspiracy.
After the judged banged his mallet, I was hustled from the court room and subsequently reattached by my spur-chain to a longer chain of prisoners out in the hall. As I exited the room, I passed within five feet of my ex-wife and my son. She was being doted on and comforted by The three Victim’s Assistance advocates were doting all over her. One of them was hugging her and stroking her shoulder-blades. I wanted my son to look at me for just for a moment, just long enough for me to lip synch to him, “I love you.”
But he turned away. The court room door closed behind me. Upon command, the other prisoners and I shuffled toward a Sheriff’s Bus and were returned to jail.
This was three-and-a-half years ago. I never saw my son again.
You might assume that I could tell you what I had been charged with and convicted of. I can’t, actually. You may have missed a subtlety here. I had just attended a hearing and been slapped with permanent restraining orders. Why was I in jail? I was there because I’d been arraigned on criminal charges. Two supposedly separate matters. Believe me—I would not have been in that jail if there had been any way to get out sooner. I was not permitted, unfortunately, to post bond. Colorado has a special law created specifically for people of my ilk. To my knowledge there is no other alleged crime in which a similar statute applies. When a man is charged with any of several hundred infractions that are all now subsumed under the general category of “Domestic Violence,” he has to be incarcerated for two days before being allowed to bail out. So, I was there, you might say, by coincidence. I had been arraigned on a criminal charge and not permitted to post bond. “Well,” my ex-wife would later say. “He shouldn’t have committed Domestic Violence if he didn’t want to end up where he did.” If I had been charged with homicide, I would have been released on bail hours before.
On the occasion in court that I’ve described here I had not been charged with any crime. This was a hearing to determine whether I posed such a serious danger to the well-being of my wife and son that I needed to be enjoined form ever seeing either one of them again. Apparently, the judge decided that I did require these draconian measures. Before this whole ordeal, I had never been charged in my life with a crime. I had never remotely abused either my ex-wife or my son. I hadn’t abused them physically, mentally, emotionally, verbally, spiritually, existentially, morally, horizontally, vertically, or sideways.
I recall fretting to my lawyer that my pathetic condition that morning might have prejudiced the judge who was deciding if I could ever see my son again. He looked at me disdainfully and said “You’re just being paranoid.” I realize now that he was right. I could have showed up for that hearing in a Brooks Brother’s suit. The final determination would have been identical. The whole process was rigged from the beginning.
But back to the question of my guilt: In the matter of the State of Colorado versus David E. Reiser on charges of violating a temporary restraining order, I was later found guilty. I pleaded guilty. Many men in my situation are advised to do this, as indeed I was. “Otherwise, you might have to go to jail,” my criminal defense lawyer had said (a different lawyer, a different thirty thousand dollars; same scam). “Don’t make waves.”
I had no grasp of the legal ramifications of doing this and my lawyer didn’t tell me. When one pleads “guilty” to a criminal charge, he forfeits virtually the entirety of his constitutional protections. Among many other rights that he surrenders, he gives up the right to any subsequent legal appeal. I wish he’d told me.
The offense to which I’d pleaded guilty is not a felony, nor is it a misdemeanor. It is classified under what are called (in Colorado anyway), “Municipal Code Violations.” These are offenses such as public drunkenness, shouting obscenities, and the like—not deemed serious enough even to be misdemeanors. If one allows his dog to run loose in a Denver park off of his leash, for instance, he is charged with a Municipal Code Violation. Unfortunately, however, my “crime” and hundreds of others have been subjected to special legislation that reclassifies them as crimes of “Domestic Violence.” Few people realize that there actually is no such crime as “Domestic Violence.” What happens is that legislators are lobbied intensively by feminists to continually broaden the umbrella category of Domestic Violence. In largely clandestine legislative sessions that are seldom reported in the media, legislators classify an ever-expanding list of minor offenses in this manner. Once this happens, the offense itself may be trivial, but its ramifications are grave.
I have lost a Constitutional right.[1]
My name is published around the world in various computers because
I am on a permanent FBI black ball list. Every time I cross a border,
someone can look the matter up. I am remarried to a Canadian woman
and live in
I first learned that I had no rights of appeal from still another lawyer. But don’t worry, he said. He had certain connections, you see, and, well, for a retainer of thirty thousand dollars he was pretty sure that he could get the system to budge. Ultimately, I achieved what he says is “an astonishing legal triumph.” I did take the conviction back to court. I had lost the right to have it appealed, but in some kind of weird proceeding, I received a new sentence. I was found guilty of “disturbing the peace with a telephone.” This is not a crime of Domestic Violence. Theoretically, my name should now be expunged from the FBI black ball list and I should be able to immigrate. I’ll believe it when I see it.
You must be guilty of something…
Perhaps so. Perhaps so.
Still, after spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on lawyers’ fees (I am completely broke) and getting virtually nothing out of it, it’s time for me to tell you what I think my real crime was. I’m certain of it, in fact. Only no one ever says this. I was guilty of pissing off my ex-wife. Unfortunately, there are a lot of very pissed off ex-wives out there, people who will stop at nothing in their quest for vengeance. The legal system that panders to them is an enormous and highly profitable industry. It is a fraud—a legally sanctioned shell act. There is no justice of any kind in divorce courts. Not ever. A huge multibillion dollar cartel of interlocking financial interests that rakes in huge money is determined to see that it remains that way, too. This industry strives constantly to invent new and ever-more destructive ways to shatter a family. It rakes in billions of dollars by pandering to the insatiable wrath of people like my ex-wife. There are a lot of women like my ex-wife. Divorce is a growth industry.
I may be able to heal from most of what was done to me. But there is one wound that will never heal: One vindictive witch of an ex-wife was seized upon by feminists (the Victim’s Assistance women)’s. She was stimulated with fantasies of vengeance and profits by lawyers. And I lost my son. Forever.[2] That the real motivator was money makes me ill.
………………………………………………………………………
The subject of men in the men’s movement who may have committed significant violence against an ex-spouse is seldom addressed. I wrote this essay because I think the issue should not be allowed to become a subtle taboo.
Here is what I now say to the handful of people who seem sincerely concerned. Few are. Even fewer say anything. But once in a while such a person will ask me sincerely if I am guilty:
“Maybe,” I say.
“And then again—maybe not.”
I would advise every man who finds himself in this position to answer similarly. There is nothing to be gained by attempting to give a thoughtful answer. A great deal of harm could inadvertently come out of the attempt.
Whenever a marriage collapses, great suffering results. Frankly, I think that sometimes those of us who try to be the most ethical and moral in the conduct of our lives are the very people inclined to be the hardest on ourselves. I feel guilty about a half dozen things I did to screw up that marriage, none of them connected to anything violent. There are nights when I cannot sleep because, after three years, I am still worried sick about my son. I would suggest that we who find ourselves in this position are least apt to be able to contribute much that would be helpful, or for that matter accurate, when it comes to questions of legal culpability.
In cases where a citizen has done something seriously wrong, the determination can only be made in an unbiased, uncorrupted court of law. And that’s the real problem. That portion of the legal system involved in the divorce industry is corrupt—profoundly, hopelessly, and irredeemably corrupt. Until this country does something about this---at the very least it will require getting rid of all of these scoundrels and starting over—determinations of innocence and guilt are impossible. In my own opinion, the hopeless corruption that I see in the family courts does not stop there. That is simply my opinion. But it is more than an opinion when I state that the family courts are too far gone to make a just determination about anything.
Unless you want to go to prison, I would caution those of you who find yourselves caught up in the snares of this morally corrupt process, a true low point in American jurisprudence, to be cautious. You probably have little choice other than to suck it up, hemorrhage out what little money you have left, and obey the rules. Until the system is abolished utterly it is vastly more powerful than any individual. I would be careful about defying it.
On the other hand, the last time I read up on the subject, there was still a Constitution and rights of free speech. I recommend that everyone continue to exercise them or without question they will be the next rights to disappear. Speak up. Speak out. Speak the truth. It is not without risks, but it is your constitutional right. Some day, probably after all of us are dead, a generation of children who have not been ruined by this scourge may thank us.
SIX REASONS NOT TO EVEN BOTHER ANSWERING PEOPLE WHO IMPLY THAT YOU MUST BE GUILTY OF SOMETHING:
1. Even if you have done absolutely nothing wrong, no one is going to believe you anyway.
2. Guilty of what? The body of laws that comprise the backbone of the divorce industry are hopelessly vague. A spouse who committed abuse was once presumed to be someone who had been violent to another human being. Now, being sarcastic or snide can be considered presumptive evidence of domestic violence. If you raise your voice or clench your fist or kick a wall? Forget it. This is nothing but sophistry and psychobabble. How can anything meaningful be determined with so-called laws such as these?
3. Unless you are prepared to go to prison, you had better comply with the law. That’s just a fact. But it is your constitutional right, and many would say your constitutional duty, to vigorously protest this corruption. Do not dignify this bankrupt system by giving it any more credence than is legally required. You have rights (for now at least) to assemble and protest. So—assemble and protest! Don’t bother trying to defend yourself one-on-one to assholes.
4. Start local groups and committees to push for the abolition of our current laws pertaining to restraining orders. We have to start somewhere. Or pick your own pet peeve. This is only one of a dozen areas that require immediate action. But this area does cry out for aggressive action. The way to dismantle this corruption is to start small. Pick an injustice. Mine is going to be restraining orders. That’s my New Year’s resolution.
Then, stay cool. Ease back on the polemic and start to toss little grains of sand into the smoothly whirring gears of the present system. It will take a while, but you’d be surprised. Enough grains of sand and the wheels will finally lurch to a halt. Permanent restraining orders have destroyed more lives than we can even imagine. It is dubious whether they have saved even a single one. Increasingly, evidence suggests that these laws may sometimes cause violence.
5. Remember the real reason why we fight on—our children and their children. We are all part of a great chain of being. Practically all of us have forgotten this and it causes us incalculable suffering. Our little problems aren’t all that important and our little victories aren’t generally all that important either. What is important is that we are all connected to the past and to the future. Consider what our ancestors sacrificed to give us the freedom we enjoy today. Honor them and future generations by assuming your genuine responsibilities. We may not personally see victory, but we are not what matters. The culture of narcissism has got to stop. It's killing all of us.
6. Being lured into discussing who is guilty of what is the oldest divide and conquer tactic in the book. It is not a determination that this movement can make. Our whole culture is literally unraveling. Children are not being given a chance. Forget who shoved Sally and who provoked Fred. If the legal system is too incompetent to determine such matters—and it is—it is counter-productive for us as a movement to try. Violence to another person is wrong. It does occur. Unfortunately, our legal system is hopelessly bankrupt and cannot possibly make such a determination. Nor does it care to. It is an industry and has no regard for determining the truth. We should all pray for a day when justice can be achieved. Until then our focus should be on the people and institutions that have made justice completely unattainable.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot…
Merry Christmas!
[1] The right to bear arms. To my knowledge, this is the only non-violent, non-felony level “crime” where this occurs.
[2] I have published articles about my son previously. I prefer not to subject myself to the pain of reviewing all of the details again here. It poses a dilemma for me. On the one hand, I feel an obligation to speak out, but I try to keep him out of it as much as possible. It’s a difficult line to walk sometimes. As I write this essay, I am gazing out at the Christmas decorations that bedeck all the houses around me. No Christmas will ever pass in which I do not think of him. No day will ever pass. For the reader who is interested in learning more about this, a number of my pieces are archived in Men’s News Daily. Take your pick. I also wrote three columns in the Desert Light Journal, under the general title of Letters to My Son in 2002. The Desert Light links are getting old. If one wishes to obtain these, please write to me at davidreiser@shaw.ca.
In 2000, David lost his only son to Parental Alienation Syndrome. "Before my divorce in 2000," he says, "I had never been charged with anything worse than a speeding ticket...They threw me in jail and dragged me into a courtroom handcuffed, weeping, and manacled to a chain. The proceeding required less than ten minutes. I never saw my son again... I'm no 'expert.' I'm just one more broken man. I hope to do something positive with what is left of me. My resume is one line long--I am a father who lost the most beloved person in his life--my son. I do what I can now, not because I'm noble, but because I have no choice. I try to do the right thing because I sense that this is my only hope. My ideals are all that, in the end, they couldn't take from me. I refuse to accept a world where hatred routinely prevails over love, and where the destruction of our children is viewed as simply the cost of doing business. I'm no saint. I'm dazed and terrified. I'm not sure what "God" even means, and I'm sure as hell no hero. But I will stand up to any legal system, hateful mob, or totalitarian regime whose code of ethics is built around cruelty, power, and lying; and whose only god is money."
