LAW, Page 104Beware of Paper TigersA brutal Indiana killing raises questions about the limits ofcourt protection for battered womenBy Janice C. Simpson
Lisa Bianco was afraid of her husband. So when she decided to
end years of beatings and other abuse by divorcing him, she got an
order of protection warning him to stay away. But Alan Matheney
continued to intimidate her, Bianco complained, and eventually
abducted the couple's two young daughters, then 6 and 2. When
police caught up with him more than 650 miles away, in Wilmington,
N.C., they extradited Matheney back home to Mishawaka, Ind. Bianco
pressed charges, but Matheney was released after posting $1,000
bail. Other arrests for beatings followed, as did another release.
Finally, in 1987, faced with charges that included illegal
confinement, rape and assault, Matheney plea-bargained his way to
a reduced charge that resulted in a sentence of eight years in the
state prison.
But Bianco did not rest easy. When she learned two months ago
that her ex-husband was eligible for a pass under the prison's
furlough program, she appealed to the local prosecutor for help.
"We told them it was not appropriate or wise to release him,"
recalls St. Joseph County Prosecutor Michael Barnes. "We said we
wanted to be notified if and when he ever came up for another
pass." Matheney was denied that furlough, but earlier this month
prison officials did grant him an eight-hour pass without notifying
Barnes or Bianco. Matheney drove to Mishawaka and, according to
authorities, broke into Bianco's home, then beat her to death
outside with the butt of a shotgun, as neighbors watched in horror.
Bianco's tragic fate has become all too common in the U.S.
About 2 million women are battered by their husbands or lovers each
year; 1,500 of those victims died in 1987, the last year for which
complete statistics are available. The most common advice offered
battered women is for them to leave the men who abuse them. But
experts say some men, panicked by loss of control over their
previously cowered partners, become even more violent after
separation. "It's extremely rare that you read about a man who has
beaten a woman to death while she's living with him," says Ellen
Pence of the Domestic Abuse Intervention Project in Duluth, Minn.
"It's when she leaves him that he kills."
April LaSalata of Brentwood, N.Y., for example, sought to
escape the bashings of her husband Anthony by divorcing him and
obtaining an order of protection. Ignoring the order, Anthony broke
into his ex-wife's home last year and stabbed her with a hunting
knife, leaving a scar that ran from her throat to her pubic bone.
Police arrested him, but he soon got out on bail and resumed
harassing April. Two months ago, Anthony shot his wife to death,
then committed suicide.
Like Lisa Bianco and April LaSalata, many women seek orders of
protection to shield themselves from such wrath. As those two
tragedies illustrate, however, such orders are often no more than
paper tigers. Although provisions vary from state to state, all the
laws subject men who violate these court orders to fines or jail
terms. Yet men are seldom arrested for violations -- short of
murder -- unless they are on the premises when police arrive.
Meanwhile, the courts, still uncomfortable with domestic violence
and faced with crowded prisons, tend to deal leniently with
offenders.
Lawyers for battered women continue to champion orders of
protection as important signals to the outside world that a woman
is serious about changing her life. Orders can also provide useful
evidence for custody battles or other legal encounters. But until
would-be violators know that the criminal-justice system will treat
them as seriously as other criminals, court orders cannot provide
the one thing that battered women need most: safety.
Duluth is a city that makes a serious effort to provide
protection. Heeding studies showing that men who spend time behind
bars are less likely to assault their partners again, its police
department was the first in the U.S. to institute mandatory arrest
for suspected batterers. Similarly, the city's prosecutors
vigorously pursue those who violate protection orders. But perhaps
the most important aspect of the Duluth program is that it requires
batterers to attend at least six months of counseling classes. A
man who misses two meetings risks having to serve up to ten days
in jail. Follow-up studies done two years after the program started
show that about 80% of the women whose partners went through the
program were no longer being battered. "It's made a big difference
in our life," says a woman whose boyfriend attended the classes two
years ago. "Without that program we would have broken up, because
I know he would have beaten me again."
Sometimes, though, even the best efforts are not enough. If a
woman "truly needs an order because a man is going to kill her,
then a restraining order really isn't going to do anything," says
Barbara Shaw, director of Project Safeguard, a program for battered
women in Denver. "Sometimes there aren't a lot of safeguards other
than disappearing." Lisa Bianco seemed to have accepted that sad
fact. She told friends she wanted to improve her work skills, save
some money and then move away before her ex-husband was eligible
for parole next year. Denied the warning that she had requested --
and had every right to expect -- she apparently never got the
