The Trick to Cooperation

How clarity and compassion can get you what you need

Years ago, I testified against the stalker of a former partner.

It was awful.

By the time of the trial, that relationship had long ended. We hadn’t spoken in over a year. I didn’t know that the stalker who had fixated on her when we lived in the same city had followed her after she moved. For her, he’d become a daily nightmare. For me, he was little more than a strange detail from a closed chapter.

One afternoon, I was called down to the lobby of my office. An unfamiliar man stood waiting, manila envelope in one hand, the other shoved in his pocket, casually.

We locked eyes. He said my full name, the syllables lilting upward like a question.

“Yes?”

“You’ve been served.”

I’m not exaggerating. He delivered the cliché. I’ve since learned process servers rarely say that, but this one did, in front of my colleagues at reception. If nothing else, it had cinematic flair.

I don’t remember my reply. I took the back stairs to my office, opened the envelope, and found a subpoena. It was all instantly clear. I texted my ex, and a few days later we got on the phone. The situation had dangerously escalated. It was worse than I could have known.

Mostly, I was alarmed and upset for her. Another part of me was angry that she hadn’t warned me. A heads-up seemed like the least she could have offered. She insisted she hadn’t known who her lawyer would call as a witness. At first, I doubted that, but as the process unfolded, I was convinced.

Nothing about the experience was easy.

I was called to court for a three-day window, in a province I didn’t live in. One of those days coincided with a flight home from the U.S. that I had to rearrange. I’d miss three days of work for what I was told would amount to probably half an hour on the stand.

There was zero preparation. I exchanged a few logistical emails with a paralegal and legal assistant. That was it.

At the courthouse, I waited outside an empty courtroom. Eventually, people trickled in down the hall, back from lunch. I shook the hand of her attorney I hadn’t yet spoken to. I listened as my ex gave her victim impact statement. It was disturbing and jarring, and all I could do was sit there. I barely saw her. When she left, her parents came in.

We had never met. They hadn’t approved of our relationship—of me, of my being a woman. We sat in silence for a long time. They never acknowledged me, never looked at me or spoke to me. They chatted quietly between themselves, and I felt sick with dread. I didn’t know what questions were coming or what they wanted me to speak to.

When I was called in, the courtroom contained a judge, jury, and the defendant, representing himself. In the gallery sat only a few people, including her parents who had shuffled in after a quick break.

“Partner in what?” the attorney asked me, an irritated smile tugging his mouth. Because her now-husband had been there earlier, the jury apparently wouldn't understand who I was. Perhaps they’d never heard of bisexuality.

“In life. Romance. We were together, together.”

In front of me lay a binder of the messages he had sent me during my relationship with her. It’s important to note that my ex worked in broadcasting, a public figure of sorts. Early on, his behavior seemed indistinguishable from a devoted listener who’d blurred professional boundaries. At first, I assumed the fixation would fade. It didn’t.

I worked in the same field, and I knew that audiences could mistake exposure for intimacy. He ignored her attempts at boundaries, so I stepped in. I thought I could manage it.

I couldn’t.

I didn’t recognize I was dealing with someone delusional. While I believe he was mentally ill and poorly supported, my empathy can only stretch so far. We did everything we could. Though he was nearing middle age, we contacted who we believed to be his support system, tried to mitigate the situation. They cooperated in theory, gave up in practice. We were young, naïve, and unprepared. No one helped. And she suffered greatly because of it.

The messages he sent me at that time became increasingly unsettling. At first, he responded courteously, as though absorbing my point that if he truly cared, he’d respect her wishes. But days later, he was back.

He told me he’d been born with a gift: once he’d chosen someone, the outcome was destined, dream-like. He dismissed me as “just a friend,” and told me that if I loved her, I’d set her free for him to love.

He asked if she could hear music in my heart when she laid her head against my chest at night.

When I first read those words, they were troubling. Years later, forced to read them aloud in court, with him sitting feet away, they felt intimate and mortifying.

If anything, I felt comforted by the jury. I picked one kind looking older woman to read to. She nodded at me as if to say, “Keep going.” The worst was her parents in the back. Her parents who had never wanted to know me, who openly disapproved of me, were now listening to my years old attempts to protect their daughter. I had failed at that. I felt exposed, humiliated, and as though they had somehow been right all along that I was not good enough.

The attorney was unhelpful. When he interrupted me mid-testimony to ask me to explain what Facebook was to the jury, I grew obstinate. I was angry and embarrassed, dragging out each word, describing how you “open a MacBook and create an account on a platform available since 2006.” I’m not proud of that. I should have been cooperative. But no one had prepared me, and fragility took over.

The defendant was given the opportunity to cross-examine me. He did not take it.

When it ended, I was dismissed. That was it. No debrief, no acknowledgment. No one on the other side of the doors as they closed. I walked out, bought a coffee, and went to the airport.

In a word, the whole thing felt unkind. And I know, it was just another day at work for them. They deal with dozens of witnesses and victims. The process is routine. But I was unprepared, anxious, and left shaky and ashamed.

I’ve been thinking of it again recently as I move into a new home. Proud of what I’ve created, I was taking photos and videos to share on social media until I noticed identifying details in the background.

Two voices argue in my head. One says I’m not important enough for anyone to care where I live. The other reminds me it has already happened.

Shortly after the trial, I moved within the city the stalker also lived in. I posted a photo of the sunset view: orange sky, blooming trees, a distinct bridge. Days later, I checked his social media out of old habit, and found a photo he had posted. No caption. Just that same bridge.

Hours later, it was gone.

Call me foolish, I told no one. I did nothing. And nothing more ever happened—that I know of.

I sat down to write practical advice about protecting your location and privacy. But where I’ve actually found myself is wanting to tell you this: be kinder, be slower.

Many of you reading this—lawyers, investigators, law enforcement, OSINT professionals—work daily with people navigating trauma and upsetting circumstances. For us, it’s a task between morning coffee and school drop-off, partner tending, and our own human needs. But for them, it can be the most distressing moment of their day, week, year.

That half-hour block in your calendar might leave someone sick to their stomach for days. Offering warmth and clarity costs nothing, and it can change everything.

If you want cooperation, offer compassion.

The outcome is better for all involved.