It's been about ten years since Dominique and I first tied the knot, and over the years, she's recounted this wild story about one particular morning. The way she tells it, you'd think I was some kind of monster. In her version, I supposedly launched this brutal assault on her, beating her so severely that I was drenched in her blood. So much blood, in fact, that I had to hop in the shower to clean myself up. And then, in this dramatic retelling, while I'm supposedly scrubbing away the evidence, she miraculously regains consciousness, crawls to the phone, and calls the police. The grand finale? The cops bursting into our bathroom, dragging me out of the shower, still dripping and covered in her blood.
Yeah. Let that sink in for a moment. It's quite a tale, isn't it? The kind that makes your jaw drop and your eyebrows shoot up.
But here's where the "fable" part comes in. The truth? Well, it's a whole different ballgame.
What actually happened that morning was a physical altercation, yes. But it wasn't some unprovoked attack. It started because I confronted Dominique about her consistently disrespectful behavior towards my daughter. Things escalated quickly. She threw a punch – and let me tell you, for all the jokes, Dominique does have some hands on her. It landed. My reaction? I laughed. Probably not the smartest move, because that only fueled her anger. She kept coming at me, so I did what I could to de-escalate: I pushed her gently onto the couch and went upstairs.
My infant stepson had started crying, needing a diaper change, so that became my immediate priority. After taking care of him, with the morning ticking away and work looming, I jumped in the shower. The police arrived while I was in our bedroom, toweling off and getting dressed. They allowed me to finish getting ready before they put me in handcuffs and led me to the patrol car.
Now, here's where the story takes a truly bizarre turn. As we were pulling away from our house, the two officers started whispering to each other. Then, one of them turned to me and said, "We're gonna go back inside and take pictures." They did a U-turn, parked in front of our house again, and one of them went inside carrying one of those big yellow utility cameras the police use.
While his partner was inside, the other officer leaned in and told me something rather surprising. He said they'd had "previous run-ins" and that, and I quote, "we think your wife is crazy." A few minutes later, the officer came back out, and they both told me that they didn't believe Dominique's story at all.
Their biggest red flag? Apparently, when they responded to the call, they ran my name. Because I'm a licensed mixed martial arts fighter and boxer, an automatic safety alert pops up for officers. Knowing this about me, and looking at the supposed "injuries" Dominique claimed to have, they immediately became suspicious.
And what were these grievous injuries? According to Dominique, a busted lip and a sore jaw. But the police saw nothing. No blood, no bruising, no visible wounds whatsoever. This is why they decided to go back inside and take pictures – or rather, not take pictures of any injuries.
The next day, when I spoke with the District Attorney, he showed me those photos. He also shared the comments from the police officers. They noted that in the picture where Dominique was supposedly showing her busted lip, it was clear she was faking the facial expression. They reiterated: no bruising, no other injuries. They even commented on the pristine condition of our baby's crib, which completely contradicted her story of me throwing her around and beating her so badly I looked like Carrie after the prom scene.
Despite all of this, I was still arrested and charged with misdemeanor assault. The District Attorney offered me a plea bargain: immediate release from jail and a year of unsupervised probation in exchange for a guilty plea. And here's where I made a monumental mistake, a classic miscalculation that too many Black men in this country make. I prioritized the immediate relief of getting out of jail, of not missing work, of not having to explain my absence. I took the plea.
In hindsight, I should have paid the minimal bail, gotten out, and fought the case. I genuinely believe I would have won. The restraining order that was slapped on me as part of the plea would have likely been issued anyway, but at least I would have had my name cleared.
That restraining order, however, ended up being a major stumbling block for me a year later.
But that's a story for another time.
For now, just remember: sometimes, the most dramatic stories are the furthest from the truth.
