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Nordstrom murder-suicide highlights limits of abuse aid

Chicago Tribune (IL) - 12/10/2014

Dec. 10--They come by the dozens every weekday to the teeming Cook County Domestic Violence courthouse, people from all walks of life who for one reason or another want a court order to calm an abusive relationship or stop a stalker.

Some have black eyes and haven't slept. They bring police reports and are ready to press charges. Others waver, wary that taking legal action could set off a powder keg. Relatives come, too, desperate and tired of seeing a loved one mistreated.

At the courthouse on Chicago'sNear West Side, they enter a world that offers a lifeline but also comes with its own potential pitfalls. One by one they're screened in a "triage" room just off the lobby. They fill out forms and wait to see a judge. There are advocates, social workers, prosecutors and pro bono lawyers standing by to help, but they can do only so much. Often it's up to the victims to decide how best to help themselves.

That's the dilemma Nagah Ezaldein found herself in last April when she went to the courthouse at 555 W. Harrison St. -- nicknamed "The Triple Nickel" by staff -- while seeking a no-contact order for her sister, Nadia, who allegedly had been beaten, threatened and harassed by her ex-boyfriend.

Judge Caroline Moreland denied the petition, saying that by law the victim needed to make the request. Her sister said Nadia was too scared to come to court. As it turned out, she had every reason to be fearful.

On Black Friday, she was working at the bustling Nordstrom department store along the Magnificent Mile when police say the ex-boyfriend, Marcus Dee, fatally shot her before turning the gun on himself as customers scrambled for cover. It was her 22nd birthday.

Such high-profile slayings are a reminder that there are no easy solutions to domestic violence. For those living with a volatile partner or dealing with an obsessive ex, the reasons for not taking action are complex, including concerns over the safety of children, financial considerations or simply shame.

Experts say authorities must tread lightly, lest they place a victim in even greater danger.

"When our staff work with victims, they know the level of fear and that the consequences can be very severe," said Diane Bedrosian, director of the South Suburban Family Shelter. "There's a lot of understanding that people need to move at their own speed."

Sebastian T. Patti, the presiding judge at the Domestic Violence courthouse, defended Moreland's decision to deny the petition by Ezaldein's sister, saying that, under the law, a family member can intervene only if the alleged victim is a minor or too physically incapacitated to come to court.

Patti said he tries to use such tragedies to figure out if his courthouse could have done more to help the victim. While it's too soon to draw conclusions, Patti said, he clearly thinks it would have been worthwhile to Ezaldein's sister if a courthouse volunteer or legal advocate talked to her about the judge's decision instead of just sending her on her way.

With thousands of cases to handle each year -- from routine squabbles to felony assaults -- those who work at the courthouse know that some victims inevitably will be lost. But those deaths hit hard, the judge said.

"I will tell you that everybody who works here bleeds real blood," Patti told the Tribune in an interview last week. "You think about the fact that somebody who was here a couple weeks ago who I maybe talked to, bumped into at the vending machine ... that person is no longer on the planet. It does have that effect. It's sobering."

A revolving door

According to her family, Nadia Ezaldein had broken up with Dee almost a year before her slaying and had taken steps to avoid him, including changing her phone number three times. But for most of those who die at the hands of their abusers, the greatest danger comes as they try to leave. In fact, about three-fourths of the people who die each year of domestic violence were killed while attempting to end the relationship, according to data from the U.S. Department of Justice.

Leaving an abusive relationship is usually not a single event, but a process, experts say. It typically takes a victim seven attempts before walking away, said Cameka Crawford, spokeswoman for the National Domestic Violence Hotline.

"We know they are the expert in their own lives," Crawford said. The hotline handled more than 300,000 calls in 2013 -- the largest volume since its inception 20 years ago.

But that doesn't make the situation easier for others to understand, especially when police officers have made multiple calls to the same house or relatives have made repeated trips to the emergency room with a loved one. A few days later, victims recant. They refuse to press charges. Or they are desperate to believe a flurry of promises -- that their abuser has changed or will stop drinking, advocates said.

Bedrosian recalled a client poised to leave an abusive husband. The agency had arranged everything -- including a safe place to stay. All that remained was for the woman to return to her apartment to retrieve her belongings, accompanied by a police officer. But it was long enough for the husband to "sweet-talk" her -- until the client waved the officer away, Bedrosian said.

"(The officer) was frustrated. But we knew that it was not the right time for that victim to leave," she said.

For friends and family dealing with a loved one who is being abused, experts say the best response is a supportive ear, not criticism, condemnation or second-guessing.

"Unfortunately, a lot of people just stop listening because the victim isn't doing what they want them to do," said Kathy Doherty, director of the Chicago Metropolitan Battered Women's Network.

"So often, what looks counterintuitive to us makes perfect sense to the victim. She and her children are still alive. They're not living on the streets or in their car ... that's why it takes seven or eight times," said Doherty, who saw calls more than double in volume after an elevator video of former Baltimore Ravens running back Ray Rice knocking out his then-fiancee went viral.

While mental health professionals acknowledge they can get discouraged at times by a victim's inability to leave an abusive relationship, they typically try to keep their focus on providing whatever support they can in hopes that the client finds the courage the next time.

"We do not judge a victim's decision. It is important for them to know that they are not disappointing their counselor or their advocate," Bedrosian said. "They do not have to be too embarrassed to come back for services again. We see it, we know that it will happen, we will be there for them -- even if it is the 10th time they have decided to try to make it work with the abuser."

Robert Zitter, a clinical psychologist at Advocate Christ Medical Center in Oak Lawn who has treated many victims in 35 years in practice, emphasized that even in the best of circumstances, the protection of law enforcement and courts can go only so far.

When a victim takes control by moving out or going to court, it can actually escalate the violence. The risks are even higher when the abuser is suicidal, he said.

"If an abuser is going to kill himself, a restraining order is irrelevant," Zitter said. "He doesn't care ... because he's going to kill himself anyway."

A staggering caseload

The Harrison Street courthouse is a sprawling, state-of-the-art facility in a rehabbed former printing plant that dates to the 1890s. Opened in 2005, the building features 10 courtrooms, each with private, locked waiting rooms for victims. It is quite a contrast to the court's former cramped home at 13th Street and Michigan Avenue, notorious for putting victims and the accused in dangerously tight quarters.

The building handles all of the misdemeanor criminal domestic violence cases brought in Chicago, a staggering caseload that takes up much of the courtroom time. According to unofficial numbers kept by the court's administrator, just fewer than 9,000 criminal cases were filed in the first half of 2014 in the Harrison building as well as five suburban courthouses. In bringing those criminal charges, prosecutors also sought more than 2,500 orders of protection.

On the civil side -- where the Ezaldein case landed -- an additional 4,300 orders of protection were sought countywide by alleged victims in the first six months of the year, on top of more than 800 petitions filed under the state's stalking/no contact law that was enacted four years ago, court officials said.

Despite the substantial outlay of resources, there still isn't enough staff to advise and assist all the alleged victims before they file their legal action, said Leslie Landis, the court administrator.

Patti, who had no experience with domestic relations cases when he took over as presiding judge three years ago, said the volume of cases is a constant concern to courthouse staff, who do their best to separate the mundane or frivolous cases from ones that could potentially end in tragedy.

"As an organization we do the best we can, understanding that the numbers are daunting, understanding that there can be a real problem case anywhere and everywhere," Patti said.

People at their worst

When Ezaldein's sister came to the courthouse April 8, she would have first encountered a front desk receptionist whose job it is to ask a flurry of questions about her allegations and what relief she was seeking.

If a police report had been filed or officers dispatched on a specific incident, the petitioner is sent to the state's attorney's desk, where prosecutors evaluate whether criminal charges could be lodged.

If there was no police involvement -- which apparently was the case with Ezaldein at that point -- the petitioner is sent back to fill out a seven-page form that includes a summons for the accused, a proposed order for the judge and a section in which the alleged incidents can be detailed. In the archaic fashion of Cook County courts, officials keep three carbon copies of each page of the form.

There are several opportunities for petitioners to seek help, either from the Domestic Violence Legal Clinic -- a private, not-for-profit organization that has office space in the reception area -- or from law students from DePaul University who have volunteered their assistance. Spanish and Polish interpreters are also on hand, and translators of other languages can be called if needed.

On a recent morning, the reception room was busy with petitioners seated at low tables, filling out forms and talking to advocates. Shortly before 11 a.m., 20 people had already signed in and more were trickling through the doorway -- a relatively slow day, court officials said.

One woman approached the front desk holding a police report in her hand, seeking a warrant for her boyfriend's arrest. She kept her composure as the receptionist asked questions. Yes, he had been physically abusive. No, they didn't have any children together. Yes, she had previously tried to end the relationship. In a few minutes she was sent back to talk to prosecutors.

On a busy day, up to 90 people can come through the front doors, most of whom have never before been to court, Patti said. Emotions are often raw, nerves frayed. There's also the constant worry that the alleged abuser will show up at the courthouse.

"You really do see people at their absolute best and their absolute worst here," the judge said. "And you see it every day of the week."

Patti said that no matter how well court personnel do their jobs, petitioning for an order of protection can be a harrowing experience. He talked hypothetically about a woman who was beaten by a drunken husband the night before arriving at the courthouse to suddenly find herself filling out a somewhat bewildering set of documents detailing exactly what happened, he said. And then she has to explain it all to a judge.

"To be honest, she's not going to have a lot of time" with the judge, Patti said. "If she breaks into tears, if she wasn't clear enough about the threats, she could lose," he said.

In Nadia Ezaldein's case, court officials found no paper trail revealing if her sister had sought the help of one of the advocates before seeing the judge. If she had, she likely would have been told about the law prohibiting family members from filing on behalf of a relative, Patti said. In her petition, the sister also listed her home address as Fort Lauderdale, Fla., likely another red flag for the judge, he said.

Court records show that the day before, Dee had come to the courthouse to seek a no-contact order against Ezaldein's sister for allegedly threatening to have her brother kill him. His request was rebuffed by a judge who said under the law he needed to prove a pattern of stalking, not a single incident.

Nearly a week after Ezaldein's murder, both case files still sat on Patti's desk. The judge said he was still trying to answer his own question: What, if anything, could be learned from this? For now, only one conclusion was certain.

"It's an absolute tragedy for two families," Patti said.

jmeisner@tribpub.com

brubin@tribpub.com

Twitter @jmetr22b

Twitter @bmrubin

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