You're asking about Thumper's court case?

He's a gladiator: battle scars, tats, muscles. Obviously, he’s a winner. You don’t find losers by the Olympic-sized estate pool with zinc oxide sunscreen slathered on a flattened nose.

His white-belted red swim trunks yesterday reminded me of the ones he wears in the ring. He has a boxer's stance when he's on his feet. The announcers call him Thumper by the way he beats men to the ground.

I call him Thumper for the way his manly heart beats when he holds me.

Last evening, his six-year-old son Jacob was sitting in the pool on an inflatable turtle. I‘d cut lemons for lemonade, and I’d put a drink umbrella in Jacob’s glass and limoncello in his father’s. Thumper had grinned and given me a thumb’s up.

We aren't married. Marriage is for ordinary men; Thumper is extraordinary. I wasn't Jacob's mother, but he is my son in every way except biology. Jacob's mother is dead. Wrong place, wrong time. A tragedy, really.

I was grilling chicken and vegetable skewers about dusk. It would’ve been the perfect ending to a perfect day had the damn anarchists not come over the security wall—anarchists dressed in black, carrying clubs, shouting obscenities.

Thumper saw trouble coming and threw Jacob out of the water and yelled at me to take him inside.

Call them what you want. Anarchists, gangsters, liberals, thugs, protestors. They threaten decent people when they come over the wall.

Nobody threatens Thumper and gets away with it. He shot out of the water like a missile. On a full run, he took out the leader with his shoulder. I heard a thud as he fell. Thumper brushed aside a blow from a second man and threw a single fist to the man's head. I watched him crumple.

I ran to the kitchen—Jacob in my arms.

Thumper yelled, "Get the fuck out of here!" I heard another punch land on flesh. I knew there was a third anarchist who wasn't going anywhere else last night. I'd heard Thumper hit other men in his mixed martial art fights; I know the sound of Thumper's punch, just as well as I know Jacob’s breathing when he's asleep.

I shoved Jacob under the kitchen table; told him to stay. I slammed the panic button, set off the alarm, and hit the latch to open the gun drawer. Three seconds later, I'm in the doorway, and I'm nine-millimeter ready.

There were now five anarchists on the ground and none coming over the wall. Thumper stood resolute over his carnage.

When you have a man like Thumper, you don't need police. If your man is not like Thumper, you need them.

So I sit here outside his courtroom, waiting for a judge to free him. I don't care about the judge's politics. Liberal, conservative, who cares? He should agree with me. Thumper defended us, and he shouldn't be in jail. He should be home with his son and me.