8
I
n
street roots
June 22, 2012
9
street roots
June 22, 2012
The gravity
of abuse
Part III: No contact
The third in our series on one fam ily's
struggle to survive domestic violence
BY ROSETTE ROYALE
STREET NEW S SERVICE
Safe house
hat if no one showed up?
In early October 2009, Brandy
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Sweeney stood outside a grocery
store in an unfamiliar neighborhood, her
belongings gathered around her feet, her
three-day-old son cradled in her arms.
Someone was supposed to m eet her there
and drive her to a safe place, but the person
hadn’t arrived. So she waited. Two minutes,
three minutes, four.
As customers walked by, Brandy searched
their faces. Is that them? No one
approached her. Maybe the person was late.
So she waited. Five minutes, six, seven.
Portland Police
parking lot, Brandy
watched the sunlight
writes about the
drain out of the
state of domestic
afternoon sky, felt a
violence in
damp cold infuse the
autumn air. Eight
Portland through
minutes, nine, 10.
the lens of the
What if the person
police. Page 12
forgot?
Several days before,
after giving birth to
her son, Ian, she’d been accepted into the
Eastside Domestic Violence Program.
Known as EDVP, the program operates two
safe houses for people fleeing violent
relationships. Dining her pregnancy, she’d
lived with Ian’s father, Richard Duncan, in a
smelly, chaotic motel in Seattle. He drank,
she yelled, they fought, their arguments
dragging them into violent clashes
throughout the summer.
Then, on August 22, 2009, after a flurry
of punching and scratching and shoving,
Brandy, nearly eight months pregnant,
suffered a black eye and fractured foot
Police hauled Richard to jail, while Brandy
spent the last weeks of her pregnancy in the
motel scrambling to find stable housing. Her
search ended on September 30, 2009, the
day she gave birth to Ian, when she received
word there was space at the safe house.
Except she didn’t know where it was.
EDVP keeps its shelter addresses secret, to
protect the women and their children from
vengeful boyfriends and fathers. Brandy left
the hospital on October 2 and took a cab,
while Ian screamed his head off. The cab
driver brought her to a grocery store, a
drop-off point. A safe house staff member
would ferry her the rest of the way.
So Brandy waited. Fifteen minutes, 20, 30
— and still, no one came. She wasn’t
prepared to be outside in the cold with a
newborn. Without a phone, she couldn’t call
program staff. What if she was at the wrong
spot? Brandy saw her life heading down the
toilet. “Because that’s where it was at that
point,” she remembers. “I had nothing going
for me.”
Then a woman walked out of the store.
She carried something: a blanket The
woman handed it to Brandy. She burst into
tears as she wrapped Ian in the blanket
Sgt. Greg Stewart
Rosette Royale is the assistant editor o f Real
Change News, Street Roots’ sister paper in
Seattle, WfasA. “The gravity o f abuse" grew out o f
a threemonth 2010 Seattle University fellowship
to study fam ily homelessness in Washington
state. The fellowship was funded by the Gates
Foundation. A ll quotes, thoughts a nd feelings o f
individuals stem from interviews, personal
correspondence, police reports and court
documents. Research fo r the series lasted 22
months.
Do you want to use my phone? the
woman asked.
Yes, said Brandy. She called EDVP.
Oh, said the person who answered. We
didn’t know you were going to be there now.
We thought later this afternoon.
I’m here, Brandy said. You need to come
Standing in the
get me.
Brandy passed back the woman’s phone
and thanked her. The woman smiled, walked
to h er car and drove away. She never told
Brandy her name.
Moments later, an EDVP staff member
pulled up, apologizing. She helped Brandy
and Ian settle in the car, and off they went,
her son swaddled in a stranger’s blanket as
they rode to a place where everyone would
be a stranger.
My Friend’s Place and My Sister’s Home:
Those are the names EDVP gave its
emergency shelters, both meant to act as
screens. Say a mother and child moved into
a shelter, and the child’s schoolmate asked,
“Where do you live?” The child, in all
honesty, could reply, “My Friend’s Place,”
without revealing his abusive home life or
secret location.
The staff member parked in front of My
Friend’s Place, then gave Brandy a tour.
The building was divided into a North
House and South House, with five women,
some with children and some without, living
in each section. Downstairs, two resident
rooms, a family room, a laundry, a shared
bathroom. Upstairs, a living room, a kitchen,
more resident spaces, another bathroom.
Brandy’s room, downstairs, contained a
twin bed, dresser, nightstand and TV, all
squeezed in a small space. She holed up
inside, breastfeeding Ian. She wanted to stay
there forever and sort out her life, but staff
prodded her to meet other residents.
Reluctantly, she left her sanctuary.
Brandy, 27, shared little about h er life
with the other women. They hardly knew
about Richard, how he sat in the King
County Jail serving 120 days for assault in
the fourth degree. Or how the court had
issued a no-contact order that barred him
from coming within 500 feet of Brandy or
communicating through email, texts,
voicemail and more, for two years. Or how,
by Thanksgiving, he’d be released.
That no-contact order, issued by the
Seattle Municipal Court, forbade Richard
from contacting Brandy, but it didn’t
prohibit her from reaching him. Days before
giving birth to Ian, Brandy sought to lift the
order in hopes Richard could see his son
after his release. A judge denied the
P H O T O S B Y K A T E B A L D W IN
req u est Brandy knew Richard craved a
father-son connection, so she wrote him to
share news of Ian.
Writing was h er only option, since the jail
didn’t perm it calls to inmates. Brandy
couldn’t receive calls herself — until staff
gave h er a free cell phone with 1,000 pre
paid minutes. She reached out to old friends
and contacted her 8-year-old daughter, Skye,
who lived in Idaho. She awaited their
messages through a free voicemail service
that is not connected to a customer’s phone
number. As the days progressed, Brandy
realized the life she imagined being down
the toilet was now a smooth sea.
Six weeks sailed by at the safe house with
hardly a ripple. One day in mid-October,
Brandy checked h er free voicemail account.
A message awaited. She listened. It was
Richard. He wondered where she was. And
Ian? I don’t know if you’ve got a phone
number yet, he said, or if you want to talk to
me, but I’m sorry.
Richard? Already? And he apologized?
Brandy thought he had a right to see Ian,
b u t... Did she want to see Richard? No —
though a little part of her did.
A little more TLC
ork release: That's where Richard was
when he broke the no-contact order
and called Brandy.
Run by the King County Jail, the Work-
Education-Release program provides
transitional residences for roughly 160 men
nearing the end of their sentences. Program
enrollees are chosen at sentencing and,
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once they enter the program, they can seek
work, go to school or attend substance
abuse treatm ent for part of the day. Then
they’re required to return to work release
for the remainder of the day. On October 21,
2009, after he served 60 days, Richard was
shuttled by jail guards into an old-school
cell, complete with bars, on the tenth floor
of the county courthouse.
Richard wanted to return to TLC, Trades
Labor Corporation, the day-labor center
where he worked prior to jail. But he
needed a messenger. So he’d called
Brandy’s voicemail, using the work release
pay phone. He hoped she would change her
voicemail’s outgoing message to include her
phone number — and she did. When they
spoke, Richard apologized, then asked her
to check if his old boss would rehire him.
His boss agreed.
When he’d first been hired at TLC, in
February of that year, Richard had met
Francisco Mitchell, and the two, often
assigned to the same work sites, became
friends. From the outside, their friendship
made little sense: Richard, with his shaved
head and clear blue eyes, sported a gallery
of tattoos on his body, including
“SKINHEAD” spelled out in blue ink across
the upper fingers of both hands like brass
knuckles; Francisco, with his thick accent
and olive skin, had Mexican and white
parents. Why in the world would a skinhead
and a biracial man become buddies? For
starters, Richard thought Francisco seemed
like a cool dude. Plus, they both knew life
on the inside, its racial divisions. So once
Richard returned to his day-labor routine, he
and Francisco reconnected.
Though what Richard really craved was a
connection with his family, with Ian. Of
course, he couldn’t see them legally for two
years. But he’d already broken the
no-contact order by calling Brandy. Then
there were the multiple times they’d spoken
since then. With each new conversation,
Richard became convinced of one thing:
“She wanted me back.”
Finding a way back in
randy questioned if getting back with
Richard was the right move.
When she thought about him, she
experienced a tug of war of emotions.
Pulling on one end were memories of how
nice he could be, his claims he’d protect her.
He’d worked to pay for a motel so she didn’t
have to spend her pregnancy in a te n t Plus,
she loved him. And when you love someone,
you stick by his side, don’t you?
But then the other end of the rope
pulled. Attached to it were memories of the
put downs, the insults. The stalking, the
black eye, the fractured foot. The way she
spent her pregnancy in tears, swearing
she’d leave. “When I think about the stuff
that’s happened,” Brandy says. “I kinda
think to myself, ‘Why was I there?’”
She had one answer: Ian. She thought a
son should know his father. Brandy
reminded herself that even if Richard did
horrible things, he wasn’t a horrible person.
So after speaking to Richard in work
release, after hearing his apologies and his
promises that he’d change, she felt the rope
B
tug. Yes, she’d try again.
But before Richard finished his stint in
work release on Nov. 9, Brandy had already
moved from the safe house into a two-
bedroom duplex in Renton. She’d found the
place through Way Back Inn, a transitional
housing program that assisted homeless
families. Before Brandy gave Richard the
address, she laid down a ground rule: no
drinking. Then she counted the days before
his arrival.
Richard was still mad he’d been arrested
for assaulting Brandy, so when he arrived at
the door, he didn’t know whether to hug her
or yell at her. He settled for a hug.
The pair made small talk, and Brandy was
surprised: Richard was so nice, caring. It
brought back old times. Richard went to see
Ian, rousing his son so he could hold him for
the first time. Startled, Ian crumpled his six-
week-old face into a grimace and bawled.
Richard wept, too. Father and son, together,
in tears.
Brandy sensed what a good dad Richard
might become. Even though she couldn’t
shake an uncomfortable feeling, an intuition
that raised a small red flag, she told Richard
he could stay. “I just really wanted to make
it work,” Brandy says.
Besides, Thanksgiving wasn’t far off, and,
with the family together, maybe they’d feel
thankful. Things worked out for the first
couple of weeks, but the holiday was a bust:
Richard ate the turkey Brandy roasted, then
drank, a violation of the no-drinking
condition, until he passed o u t The situation
worsened two days later, Nov. 28. Black
Saturday.
Richard started the day with a few
caffeinated malt beverages. During the late
afternoon, he purchased more. He tilted
back can after can. Tired and a little drunk,
Richard stumbled to bed.
For nine months, Brandy had been sober.
Beer and meth lay in the past. But with
Richard drinking in the duplex, she couldn’t
resist the urge. She downed a malt beverage
too. Wide awake, a little intoxicated and in
the mood to hear music, Brandy searched
for a station. She cranked up the volume.
The noise woke up Richard. Shut the fuck
up, he screamed.
Brandy walked into the bedroom. You
shut up, she told him, then returned to Ian
in the living room.
Richard stomped over to her. Brandy
punched him. He slapped her. Brandy, with
Ian in her arms, glared at Richard. Why’d
you do that? she asked.
You shouldn’t have punched me, he said.
Get out, she said.
Brandy, still holding Ian, stood near the
door. In a flash of anger, Richard pushed
her. Brandy almost fell, but caught herself
and Ian. Richard stormed o u t
That’s when Brandy got scared. She could
defend herself, but Ian? True, Richard had
never harmed his son since he’d moved in,
but Brandy felt compelled to protect the
child — and herself. So she called the police.
A female officer from the Renton Police
Department showed up minutes later. She
questioned Brandy, who, crying, tried to
explain the fight Then her phone rang. It
was Richard.
Don’t you fucking tell the cops anything,
he yelled. The officer, seated in a chair near
Brandy, heard every word. While he
screamed, Brandy’s body shook. She hung
up.
When the officer asked if Brandy would
sign a written statement, Brandy was too
scared. If I cooperate with you, she said,
Richard might get more violent
The police dispatched a K9 unit to search
for Richard. No luck. Concerned about
Brandy’s safety, the officer contacted a Way
Back Inn employee, who moved Brandy and
Ian into a motel. As she prepared to settle
in for the night, her phone rang again:
Richard.
I’m sorry, he said. I won’t do it again.
Promise. I just want to be with you and Ian.
I don’t want to be with you, Brandy said.
Which was true. For the m om ent But
Richard insisted, sweetly, they should be
together. When Brandy considered how he
had moved out to Renton, where he didn’t
know anyone, to start a family, she felt
responsible. His words raised doubts she
could care for Ian alone. With Richard
around, wouldn’t it be easier? “And I
thought if I loved him enough,” she recalls,
“he’d change.”
Richard swore he would. Honestly. She
told him the motel’s address. A little while
later, he knocked. Brandy let him in. And
hours after the assault, they were together
again.
Days later, Brandy returned to the
duplex. Aiming to protect her from Richard,
program staff secured another space,
further south, in Tukwila. No one at Way
Back Inn ever knew Richard followed her to
the new apartment. He moved in.
But the crying. Ian wouldn’t quit crying.
Richard knew that’s what babies did, but
still. “If you’re not used to it,” Richard says,
“there’s no getting used to i t ” Add to that
another fight — again Brandy holding Ian,
again Richard pushing her, again Brandy
falling, again Ian safe — and Richard decided
he had to get away. He’d go to Boise, where
they first m e t Brandy welcomed the
breathing space. So they bought him a bus
ticket, and the pair said goodbye.
Richard figured it was their last goodbye,
because he had no intention of returning to
Seattle. Sure, he cared for his family, but the
crying, the nagging, the fighting — good
riddance. He swore he’d never come back.
But never, it doesn’t always last forever.
Sometimes, it lasts only a few weeks. So
Richard, after barely a month in Idaho,
made another decision: He’d try it one last
time with Brandy.
One coincidence
after another
ith Richard gone most of January 2010,
Brandy enjoyed thé quiet Ian had
turned three months old. A new year, a new
start — broken by an old pattern: Richard
returned.
Strapped for cash, he went back to TLC.
He landed a job at a construction site in
south Seattle, a partially built residential
complex containing 351 luxury apartments
called the Station at Othello Park. Richard
rode the bus, and Brandy often m et him in
the late afternoon at the TLC office.
Sometimes they went out for Mexican and
had a beer. Then they bused home, mother,
father and child. A family.
But the transitional housing at Way Back
Inn only lasted three months, so the search
for a place to live began anew. As February
approached, Brandy heard from Hope Place,
a shelter run by the Union Gospel Mission
that served roughly 80 female-run
households. The shelter took boys up to 18,
but no adult males. That would force Brandy
and Richard to separate.
Or maybe not, because Hope Place stood
in all its five-story glory on a recently
developed tract of land on South Othello
Street. Walk three blocks due east, and
you’d be standing in front of a squat, gray
apartment building. Directly across the
street was the Station at Othello Park,
Richard’s new workplace.
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See ABUSE, page 10