28/03/02

Fighting the faceless nature of domestic violence court

Dave Brown 

The Ottawa Citizen

March 23, 2002 

In the pandemonium that was Courtroom 6 on Elgin Street Tuesday morning, a nervous political prisoner kept rising because he thought he heard his name called.

At one point he mumbled a feeble: "I'm here."

Nobody paid attention.

He should have been in Courtroom 4 -- domestic violence court. Normal court confusion was compounded by the strike of Ontario's public servants, so he was moved to Courtroom 6, where Justice of the Peace Mike Jolicoeur was handling first appearances, bail hearings, remands and overflow domestic cases.

A dozen lawyers were asking for court dates and complaining their clients hadn't been brought from the detention centre.

To the JP's left was television equipment on which prisoners were appearing on camera from the detention centre. To his right a door kept opening as prisoners were escorted in and out of the glassed-in prisoners' box.

Familiar with courtrooms, some prisoners in the box shouted out questions. They are locked in, charged with breaches of the Criminal Code. The nervous man is charged with breaches of domestic violence legislation and is locked out of his home by a restraining order.

The Criminal Code covers such crimes, but he has been charged outside its coverage and that makes his a political issue. He appeared unidentified in this column last week. Anonymity is one of the conditions of domestic violence court.

The faceless nature of domestic cases is one of the reasons reporters don't bother with them. If there's no name, there's no story.

When a domestic disturbance results in a call to police in today's zero tolerance world, things happen. Somebody, almost always the man, goes to jail. A restraining order goes into place and he can no longer talk to his wife. They lose their right to resolve their issues.

The nervous man and his wife asked me to play go-between to facilitate communication. She said she was convinced the cause of the problem that night was new medication he was taking for pain control. She called police, she said, for advice.

He was acting like a character in a kung fu flick. Nobody got hurt. He says he woke up in jail fearing he had killed somebody. She said she wanted the restraining order lifted so he could come home. She believed he spent at least one night in a parking garage because he had no money.

Since that information appeared in one of these columns, she has made no further contact. She wasn't present in Courtroom 6.

He had a letter from his doctor saying the medication was the likely culprit, but his lawyer said to put it away. It was too early for that.

When his name was called, Mr. Jolicoeur made changes to the restraining order. The man can now approach his wife for "purposes of funding," but is not to talk to her. The order also says he is to refrain from alcohol and drugs. He still can't go home, and he's to appear in court again April 5.

Another prisoner is told he faces two counts of break and enter, and is released pending trial. There's no mention of restrictions. He can drink his brains out.

Outside the courtroom, the husband, now free to fund, but not live in, his home, nervously mumbles about his options. That his wife didn't show up in court and seems to have cut off contact are clear indicators, he believes, the marriage is over.

His thoughts are scrambled and he says he thinks his wife's dog probably was a factor in whatever happened during his blackout. He hates that dog. His clothes don't fit. He pulls out the waistband of his pants and says: "Look at this. I've lost over 30 pounds. I call it the Jack Russell diet."

He seems offended when I laugh. He wasn't trying to be funny. Nothing is funny to this man right now.

In an attempt to have the restraining order lifted, lawyer Donald Morgan calls the wife as a supporting witness. She denies those things she wrote in her statement that day. She says the fight was over his relatives. She objected to his inviting them for dinner.

She says she was under stress when police arrived, and was coached to write those things in her statement. She denies there were any blows, and says she has two children who need their father and she wants her husband home.

Husband steps into the witness box and makes similar claims. Prosecutor David Elhadad isn't buying. He asks about her face being red, as if from a blow. There was damage to a door. Both parents claimed the damage was done by eight-year-old boys at play.

Personal impression: They had a hell of a fight. Neither would be easy to deal with if angry.

Mr. Jolicoeur studies the file and points out she called 911 before this -- in 1996. He refuses the application for a variance to the restraining order and reminds the man there is to be no communication until the issue goes to trial -- Aug. 29.

To my left, a court-watcher muttered a cuss. I asked what was his problem. He whispered back: "That marriage can't survive. Is that what they do here? Break up marriages?"

It was his first time in a domestic case and he was there to support a friend. I asked if he'd express his views publicly. Without hesitation he wrote his name and phone number into my notes. Felix Gaim. He owns a small business.

Outside the courtroom, Mr. Morgan was explaining things to his client when the man's wife approached. Mr. Morgan ordered her away. If seen together, the husband can be arrested on the spot.

As she walked away, I asked her to talk to me. She wouldn't. She was crying.