16/05/2019
Confessions of a family violence duty lawyer
### legal service is a community legal centre that has been around forever. It provides a duty lawyer for Applicants (and sometimes Respondents) for Intervention Orders at YYY Court. Today is my day.
I arrive early at YYY Court; it sits like a Soviet-era concrete block. I go through security, and say g'day to John, the Registrar/Co-ordinator for Family Violence. He hands me the day's list, and I hope it is not going to be too busy. Some days, the court sits until 6.30 pm, well past the expected finish time of 4 pm.
Although it is early, and the court is an hour away from starting, the waiting area is packed and ethnically diverse. There are many Caucasian, South Asian, and middle-eastern men and women. The court’s catchment area includes a large migrant population, some recently arrived.
A glance at the circled name on the application, and I walk through the area, calling X. A face looks up, comes toward me, and I invite her to come with me ### legal service’s small office.
“Hi I'm Jo, how can I help?”, and out pours a tale of woe. X is from a Lebanese Muslim background, born and educated in Australia. She wears a hajib, is in her mid-thirties and has six children; the eldest is 15 and disabled; the next, 14 and mildly disabled; and the other four healthy and well. She married her husband at age 18.
She says, accepting the circumstances as normal: “He didn't let me work after we got married, but then he allowed me. I worked for a short time before falling pregnant with our first child. After that, I've been at home looking after the children. I get a centrelink pension, and he runs 2 businesses, but he never has any money and he takes my money. Recently, he went to Lebanon for three weeks - he maxed out my credit cards, and took my savings to pay for his trip. He left the children and me behind; we went to Phillip Island for one night and a day for a holiday. We didn’t have any money, and we didn't get to see the penguins, but we had a great time.”
X talked about his awful behaviour, how he pushed and hit, and controlled. She mentioned he used Ice, and that it was his aggressive unpredictability that unnerved her. She didn’t mind it for herself, but now he was directing his anger toward the children.
X tells me: “I said ‘Hello’ to a shop worker, and he accused me of having s*x with the person. I was just being polite, I didn't know them, and he called me a liar”.
In the presence of the children, he demanded a DNA test for the oldest child. She said, “I don't care what he does to me, but now that he is involving the children, I must protect them.”
We go into court, and he consents to an interim intervention order. But he must have his say – gratuitously, he tells the Magistrate: “She's mad, she's got a mental illness. I want DHHS to check her out, because the kids may be in danger”, and I think, what effrontery, how abusive. She has no sign of madness, just sadness. The order is made, and, at least for the time being, she may be protected.
He squats by the door of the court, a surly, sulking individual. Already he has breached the Family Violence Safety Notice prohibiting contact – he cannot accept she is no longer his slave, and texted her three times with orders – pass my asthma inhaler, my clothes, do this. He demands of me, “How long now must I wait?”, as I walk by.
Next is a Persian woman, Y; she is recovering from stomach cancer. She has recently finished a last round of chemotherapy. Y has a young child, and is working as a mechanic three days a week. Their child is in childcare, while she is at work.
Now that Y has returned to work, her husband has become uneasy. He insists she wear an hajib to cover her neck, and long sleeves to cover her arms, but she says: “When I work, I like to roll up my sleeves but he doesn't like that.”
Things have been tough between them. When he hits and kicks, he targets her stomach, because he knows that causes pain and slows the healing from the cancer operation.
Still, she wants the relationship to work. She just wants him to stop hurting her and to allow her independence.
Again, in court, he must have his say. He consents to the order, but says “She won’t cope with my son, she is sick”, and I think, she’ll heal faster without you kicking her.
I meet Z, a 31-year-old Australian senior school teacher. Z has 2 degrees, a lawyer for a father and family support, but today she is by herself, too ashamed to tell anyone close to her. Her shoulders are slumped, her head heavy, and tears squeeze onto her cheeks.
For about 18 months, she's been in a relationship with a returned soldier. He has PTSD; he served in Afghanistan, as a sniper. He got on the booze and bashed her, not for the first time, and she still wants him back, she wants him to be well and get help. Z says he is pretty good, except when he gets on the grog.
The police say he has a history of doing this: in each of his last three relationships, he did the same to his ex-partners.
He says he will consent, shows me a letter from a psychologist stating he has sought help, says, he and grog don't mix, he won't be drinking again. I don't believe him.
Cases start to blur into one another. I end up with eight or nine applications. I have to give advice on the run. It is relentless. In the small office talking with clients about deeply personal stuff, the noisy court outside; run to the police to negotiate; and then, sometimes to talk to the legal aid lawyer representing respondents, other times directly to the Respondent; and back to the small office to talk to my applicant. It's just so sad, just heartbreaking, this parade of indignity – how can people do this to the ones they supposedly love, or is that the reason?
Late in the day, I meet A. She is a Thai bride, brought to Australia by a muscular, older husband. She already has an order against him, and he faces criminal charges for injuring her. Today, she is the respondent to his application for an order against her.
Turns out, she wants him to have a relationship with the children, and they had made arrangements for him to come to her house to collect the children. He parked in the driveway, blocking her car in. That behaviour happens frequently; it's a clever trick, innocent at first blush, not too aggressive, just passive control that results in her not going anywhere until the blocking car moves.
He walked into the house and starts asking the children about their mother. Next, he tells them she's a bad mother. She says please don’t do that, and move the car, I want to go. He says when I'm ready. She says, I want to go now, I don't want to wait. He says bad luck. She slaps his face, and he chokes her and she loses consciousness and falls to the ground. He rings the police, says she slapped me, and the police take out a FVSN against her.
This happens more than it should; the police turn up to a situation and see the first thing. They often don’t have the time or experience to explore the circumstances, or history. First blush, one has hit the other, and so police issue a FVSN. This time, the magistrate sees through it and declines to make an order; the family violence safety notice, which included the kids, lapses, and the husband loses his tactical advantage.
Outside court, he says to me – “She’s the violent one.”
S's case is similar; she instructs she has been trying to leave for eight months. They have two young children; the youngest is eight months and not sleeping. Everyone is exhausted, nerves are frayed, the family is on edge.
The husband sees on his computer that his mygov account shows that he has separated. He asks “What's this about?”, and she replies “I'm leaving, sign the form.”
A fight starts, and she calls the police. She admits she hit him first, and the police decide to take the order out against her. S wants to go and takes the kids, leaving behind most of the children’s belongings.
Now she wants my advice. I see the bruises on her arms, matching the fingers of the husband, and her jaw swollen from his punch. I talk to the police, and am told: ‘At this stage we have to seek the order, it's what he wants. If you push this, we will put the children on the order.’
A tactical retreat beckons. We consent without admission, and the children remain in her care, at her step-father’s house. Soon, I have recriminations - we should have fought it, or perhaps adjourned it; too late now.
Next, I see Q, a child-woman from a young couple; she's 19, and T is 18. They have a child together, who is in the “care” of DHS. Q was brought up in foster care, as was T. The police have an order against him, on Q’s behalf. Neither wants the order, but the Act enables police to decide who may be together. The order requires them to sit 5 m apart, and they sit side-by-side in the court foyer. They choose to be together, rather than to have the child in Q’s care. T says he's not on illegal drugs, that he got out of the psych ward and is okay, it's just that they won't give him the drugs he wants.
Q is a skinny thing, with visible tattoos and thick painted eye-brows. Both are children, just children playing at adults, and have no concept of life’s responsibilities. Q knows that she shouldn't put T before her child, shouldn't put up with his violence and aggression, but she loves him and he has nowhere else to go. She's lost, she's always been lost, and probably she always will be. She realizes there is a difference between “knowing and doing”.
Q and T are a third generation brought up in foster care; how little good our public systems have done these people. I'm an old-fashioned Libertarian; if this pair want to live together, our society ought not have the right to keep them apart. Their lives, their choice.
There’s nothing to be done for Q. She decides to oppose the order, and will tell the magistrate that. The court will maintain the order, and Q and T will ignore it. No-one will really educate them, there will only be heavy-handed interventions.
Maybe, we did some good today. Some of the women left court supported, stronger, and connected. Maybe they have a better chance for dignity and independence.