Elizabeth L. Parker, Esq.
AS MORE VICTIMS SEEK RESTRAINING ORDERS, MORE ABUSERS VIOLATE THEM The Palm Beach Post by Eliot Kleinberg and Adam Playford
Even God couldn't deter John Gannaway. On April 25, police say, the 31-year-old contractor interrupted a Sunday morning service at St. Gregory's Episcopal Church, near Mizner Park. This, despite a trespass warning issued by the church on Sept. 6 . And despite a judge's Jan. 26 temporary restraining order telling him to stay away from his target: a 16-year-old girl. A temporary restraining order, or TRO, is a last desperate act; a shout to a person who doesn't get it. Palm Beach County prosecutors, court liaisons and social services workers say more people are reporting domestic violence. And the hard numbers show that more of them are taking the step of obtaining a TRO injunction. In the first four months of 2010, the number issued has skyrocketed, a Palm Beach Post analysis shows. As of the end of April, courts were on pace to issue more than 3,575 orders, 1,200 more than last year, according to data from the Palm Beach County Clerk of Courts. The latest spike is the culmination of a three-year trend. From 2007 to 2009, the number issued in criminal court has grown about 10 percent a year, jumping from 1,939 in 2007 to 2,359 in 2009. A sharp rise in violence Assistant Palm Beach County State Attorney Elizabeth Parker, who oversees the family violence unit, says her office processed more than 6,000 domestic violence cases in 2009, a 20 percent jump over the estimated 5,000 in 2008. And, while she didn't have hard numbers, she said domestic homicides are up as well. Why the sharp increases?
Elizabeth L. Parker, Esq. Is there more violence overall? Are abusers stressed by the economy? Are more victims mustering the courage to ask for injunctions in the first place? Do some get injunctions because they can't afford to divorce? "I would say probably all of the above," Suzanne Turner, chief executive officer of Harmony House, said last month . The shelter, run by the YWCA of Palm Beach County, is in an undisclosed location because many of its clients are hiding from men who could harm them. "Isn't everything because of the economy?" said Oscar Artiles, local program operations administrator for the Florida Department of Children and Families. "In a lot of domestic violence cases where a victim might have been more forceful in having the person leave the home, they have them stay because of financial responsibility, and then things escalate," Artiles said. Mary Cauthen, director of the domestic violence program for the YWCA, agreed: "Stresses cause you to do other things like turn to alcohol and drugs, and those can lead to violence." It's not easy, but "more people are reporting," said Holly DiBenedetto, a team supervisor for Palm Beach County Victim Services. She has seen victims return to abusers up to seven times before leaving for good. "They feel alone. They're really paralyzed," she said. "The self-esteem has been so beaten down that they don't feel worthy." Two months, five arrests It's hard to find a more prolific violator than Claro Obelio Hernandez, 68, owner of Lake Worth's El Paso restaurant. In 2009 alone, he was arrested five times in two months, including three arrests in 18 days. Two days after a fourth arrest in July 2009, he was booked for aggravated stalking; the family said he'd threatened them by phone and come to the restaurant with a machete. Since 2002, he has been arrested 11 times. One was for drunken driving and another for choking his wife, Margarita. He was arrested for domestic violence in early 2004, and again two months later. He stayed out of trouble until March 2009.
Elizabeth L. Parker, Esq. Margarita had moved in with her daughter, but Claro began calling her more than 20 times a day and coming over to bang on the door. He was arrested for aggravated stalking. He got out that day but was arrested three hours later for violating a "no contact" order. He was arrested again a week later, and a week after that. Days after he got out in May 2009, he was arrested again. His last arrest, Jan. 15, kept him in jail for three months. Margarita Hernandez, now 66, told deputies her husband once told her, "I'm bad. I'm the devil." And daughter Yamily Alvarez wrote that, while with a therapist, "my father put two bullets on the table and said, 'this is for the world.' " Not the end-all and be-all Authorities have heard the argument that obtaining a TRO often can make things worse. "Victims know their abuser better than anyone else," the YMCA's Cauthen said, and know an order might put them over the edge or reveal a target's whereabouts. "Restraining orders are not the end-all and be-all," Cauthen said. "They're a civil order. "(There's) the clichĂŠ that it's a piece of paper. (But) the majority of the time, it does work." Sometimes victims, for reasons only an analyst could discern, decide against something so drastic, or change their minds, saying "he got carried away," or "he'll calm down." "It's one of the most frustrating things," Parker, the prosecutor, said. "The perpetrator reaches out to them and tells them it was an isolated case and they're never going to do it again. But then we see the victims come in again, and again." Or, "they'll move on to another abusive boyfriend," she said. "It is power and control." But sometimes the state will step in and file charges anyway, Parker said. Violation of an injunction is a first-degree misdemeanor, punishable by up to a year in jail and a $1,000 fine. In domestic violence arrests, judges also have the option of, as a condition of bail, ordering that the accused have no contact with the alleged victim on penalty of having bond revoked and being hit with a TRO violation. Of course, people sometimes violate restraining orders by going after the "respondent" with a baseball bat. Or a car. Or a butcher's knife. Or a shotgun. Then the misdemeanor charge is the least of it.
Elizabeth L. Parker, Esq. 'He's in here!' Laronda Becker 21, had fled North Florida, where a judge issued a restraining order against her mentally troubled, scorned lover. She hid in North Carolina for six months and then Palm Beach County for nearly a year. She was on the phone with 911 when ex-boyfriend Reginald Johnson burst into her apartment west of West Palm Beach in December 2008. Barricaded in a bedroom with her mother and her two children - ages 2 and 3 - Becker is heard on a 911 tape shouting, "He's in here!" Then a shot. Johnson then tried to shoot himself in the head but botched it. He's awaiting trial for murder. Becker's family was left wondering who tipped him off to her whereabouts. Now, her mother knows: Laronda. "With the holidays coming up, she wanted him to see the kids," Shirley Richards said this month. "She's a forgiving person and gives people second chances. Oh, there I go. Saying 'is.' " Richards said friends told her Johnson's visit was uneventful, and Laronda thought he'd left town. But 48 hours later, he came back and killed her. Shirley Richards knows about these things first-hand. Decades ago, she'd moved from Connecticut to Florida to hide from Laronda's father. "He held a gun to my head," Richards said. "By the time the police came, he would be gone." She said the man did come down to Florida. For his daughter's funeral. "He wouldn't do anything," she said. "I got over my fear.�