Troubles, Domestic and Otherwise

Next to the thick oak doors that guard the courtroom are emblazoned the words: Supreme Court of the State of New York, Appellate Division, First Judicial Department

I resist the urge to check my phone. I have the first court hearing at 11 in the morning, and the last time I checked the clock, the time was already 11:05.

“Sir, has your witness arrived yet?” The man, dressed in a functional grey business suit, addresses me politely but firmly. I shake my head, no, where the fuck is my witness? “There are quite a few hearings scheduled today. I’m afraid the judge cannot wait any longer—you’ll have to proceed in.”

He approaches the double-doors. With one hand on the door handle, he looks back at me expectantly. Reluctantly, I get up.

The courtroom is a tall space, the iconic domed ceiling surrounded by detailed woodwork and spectacular murals. A single judge, dressed in her customary black robes, looks down upon me from her bench. She flips through several pages of documents with a crinkled expression writ across her aged face.

I take a seat, alone, on one of the seats facing her, neatly placing my suit jacket on the seat back before resting my hands on the wood-panelled desk. I am surrounded by a sea of empty chairs. The court stenographer, an old bespectacled man who slouches more than an edgy teenager, peers at me over the rim of his glasses. The bailiff who led me into the room makes his way next to the judge, letting the heavy doors swing shut with a bang.

The bailiff clears his throat, and then he begins speaking at a quick clip: “All rise. The Supreme Court of the State of New York, Appellate Division, First Judicial Department is in session. Your Honorable Helena Novak presiding. All parties please raise your right hand. Do you swear or affirm that the testimony that you’re about to give will be the truth, the whole truth, and, nothing but the truth?”

I stand up smoothly.

“Yes.”

“Please be seated,” the bailiff continues. “Would you for the record state your name, spelling your last name, sir?”

“Markus Najbreit, sir, spelled N.A.J.B.R.E.I.T.”

There’s a moment of silence as the bailiff finds a seat, and the judge flips through the pages of documentation for a moment. Then, she speaks.

“So Mr. Najbreit, you have petitioned for a legal name change under section CVR § 60-65 of the New York Consolidated Laws?” She speaks clearly, concisely, with more than a bit of disinterest underlying her words.

“That’s right,” I say, silently wondering if she’s connected the dots. Does she know who I am?

“You’ve requested for your name to be changed to Claude Ashworth, for the court to waive the requirement for the name change to be publicised, and for the record of this act to be sealed. Is that correct, Mr. Najbreit?”

“Yes,” I answer.

“I see here that you’ve made this request for reasons relating to domestic ****. Can you tell me about your relationship with this person?”

“Her name is Elizabeth ‘Lizzie’ Kestrel. We were briefly in a romantic relationship. Over the extent of our relationship, she has ass… assaulted me.” I **** my voice to break up slightly towards the end, but the reality is, I don’t give two shits about her. Never have, and never will.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Are the two of you still in a relationship? Or in regular contact?”

“No,” I answer simply. “I made it clear that our relationship was over. Then, she came back and tried to get back together with me again; she assaulted me again that night.”

“I see here that the court has received some evidence relating to this matter. This video, it was filmed by you?”

“Captured on my laptop, yes.”

“Alan, could you play it for us?”

The bailiff retrieves a USB from the evidence basket and plugs it into a computer. He opens up one of the videos contained within.

“Let the record reflect that the video was taken on January 29, 2020 at 11:43 pm,” the bailiff says. He presses play on the video.

On the screen, Lizzie is backed into a corner of my room, holding my phone high above her head. Both of us are half-dressed.

“We had something. We have something,” she screeches. A dangerous glint passes through her eye: “So why would you fuck it up like this?”

She throws my phone at the opposite wall—my head in the video tracks the phone, and turns back a second too late to register the first fist being thrown. The rest of the video plays out in fast-forward, but it’s clear to everyone what’s going on. She’s pummelling me to a pulp, and I’m crouched down on the bed, hand over my head, simply defending myself. It looks good.

I can see the judge’s eyes widen a fraction as the video plays out. She hasn’t seen this before. Not surprising—she has a heavy caseload—and that makes this shocking first impression all the better for me.

The video stops just as Lizzie slams the door, and then the bailiff goes and pulls up another video. This one begins with both of us seated in my miserable apartment, plates of shitty pasta on our knees. I wonder why Lizzie even bothered putting up with me, when I catch the dark expression on her face in the video—that’s right, she didn’t. The video plays.

“You’re on fucking thin ice RIGHT NOW,” Lizzie yells. “Give me an EXPLANATION!”

I speak, next: “Look, Elizabeth, you know…” and that triggers the next sequence of events. Lizzie stands up, plate and its contents spill onto the ground, and next thing you know, she’s grabbed the frying pan and charging at me. I hadn’t anticipated that little twist, back then. Fucking insane woman sent me to the hospital, although getting to see Jessica made it almost worth it.

She hits me with the pan. I see the bailiff wincing. She proceeds to beat me up again. It isn’t pretty. My head snaps back with each good punch that connects, and she’s raining fists all over my body. I wonder how I managed to hold myself back then, because this video is getting me fucking angry, but I remember, it was all for this moment. I look away from the video, trying to appear shaken, only looking back up when the audio quietens with the sound of Lizzie’s laboured breathing. The video ends.

I know what’s on the screen at this moment, I edited this video. If I’d let it run for just a little longer, they’d have seen that she breaks down crying and eventually covers my **** body up, and stares at me in sorrow for a while before quietly leaving. It doesn’t paint her in a good light, necessarily, but I don’t want to take the chance. That’s why this video ends with a still of me knocked out and Lizzie turning away.

The judge takes a moment to compose herself. She clears her throat.

“I went through the evidence, and didn’t see a police report. Did you file one?”

“No, your honor,” I reply, sticking up my throat as well. My words come out just above a rasp. Inside, I’m a little proud. I’ve practiced this voice.

“You know that you can, right?”

“I am aware,” I say.

“The court can assist you after the fact if you would like—”

“I’d prefer to minimize the amount of documentation kept on this,” I interject, the tone surprising the judge. “The less there is, the less chance that an investigation by a third party would uncover an incident like this.”

“Is there any reason to suspect that there would be any kind of investigation into this?” then judge asks. She sounds puzzled.

Time to drop the fucking bombshell.

“My Father, your honor, is the chairman of Najbreit enterprises, Mr. Warren V. Najbreit.”

I spit the last three words out with as much venom as I can muster, and they hang in the room, the judge slowly nodding with wide eyes. Ah. Now she gets it. She quickly shuffles the papers on her desk. There’s a pause.

“For the record, Mr. Najbreit, could you please explain to the court why this would be cause for an external investigation?”

“My father hates me,” I say simply. “We had a falling out. He is a billionaire, and as such, has many resources at his disposal. He uses some of these resources to make my life awful. It is not beyond the realm of belief that he could gain access to police reports. In fact, I am running a risk just by coming to court today.”

“He wouldn’t be able to do anything illegal, such as accessing confidential police information, though,” the judge says.

“He wouldn’t be caught doing anything illegal,” I amend.

The judge stares down at me. For some reason, she looks much less sympathetic that I thought she might have.

“How long have you known Ms. Elizabeth Kestrel for?” she asks.

“Long enough to know that she’s a danger to me, and that she’s a persistent one, at that.”

“Could you give us the length of time, rounded to nearest year, or month, if less than that?”

“One week,” I admit. Shit. I was hoping they wouldn’t ask.

“That’s a short amount of time to form such a confident impression in a person,” the judge says, sighing.

“I think the videos were pretty compelling,” I say.

“Why was there a recording?” she asks.

I give myself a second to awkwardly pause, and try to urge a blush to my cheeks.

“Because… ah… we were going to film ourselves doing intimate things,” I respond. There are elements of truth to that. We’d had sex, just hours before. She’s topless in the first video. Just ignore the fact that I baited her into beating me up.

The judge takes the sordid revelation in stride.

“And the second video?”

“I was worried after the first time.”

“My worry,” the judge sighs, “is that there are ulterior motivations behind this name change. It is true that what you went through would ordinarily be cause enough to seal such a name change. But this instance is a little unusual. I don’t know that I’ve seen sufficient evidence indicating that, first, Ms. Kestrel would continue to pursue you even after a change in name, and second, that you are using this as an opportunity to hide from your father, who—we should state for the record—was cleared of all wrongdoing against you in a court of law when you brought a case against him. Do you have additional context you could provide to change my mind?”

“Your honor, if I may, isn’t it presumptuous to assume that petition is being filed for reasons relating to my Father? No mention of him appears in the documents I submitted,” I say, despite the fact that she is completely on the mark there.

“Mr. Najbreit, there is a reason the law makes publication of name changes mandatory by default. The court recognises that a change in name opens up avenues of deception that would not ordinarily be available, and if this were the rationale for a name change, the court would not expect mention of it to be made in a court filing, either,” the judge says, scrutinizing me with harsh eyes. “Now, do you have anything you wish to add to your case?”

Fuck. I was scared this would happen. I shouldn’t have gone to the fucking Appellate court of all places, with competent judges who would know the precedent regarding Father and me off the cuff, but it was the only place that…

A sudden barrage of knocks sounds at the door. The judge looks over at the bailiff. The bailiff rises, looking confused and checking his watch. He scratches his head as he makes his way over to the door. There’s another barrage of knocks.

The bailiff, still frowning, pulls open the door, and in strides the very face I was hoping to see.