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Judge & referee

Emotion spills over and most disputants just want to have their say. Trouble is, violence is rarely the top issue.

By COLLEEN JENKINS
Published May 29, 2005

	[Times photo: Janel Schroeder-Norton]
	"I joke sometimes that I need to wear a stripe shirt in rather than a robe because I feel like a referee,'' Circuit Judge Daniel Diskey says. He is one of two judges in what some bailiffs and court personnel call "Jerry Springer Court.''

We can't just have mainstream behavior on television in a free society, we have to make sure we see the whole panorama of human behavior. - JERRY SPRINGER

NEW PORT RICHEY - She had a freshly minted restraining order against her estranged husband. Paperwork to end their marriage was on the way.

Yet, the petite woman with big blond hair had a pressing issue to bring before Circuit Judge Daniel Diskey.

Her husband refused to hand over their house keys and garage door opener. Would the judge help?

"This is not personal property court," Diskey said sternly. "This is domestic violence court."

So, the judge asked, had there been any recent violence?

"He is sending threatening messages through my daughter in Alabama," she said.

"Not true," the man retorted.

Diskey was losing his patience. His job was to protect against violence, not worry about garage door openers. This court, he said, would not intervene. The woman interrupted him to protest.

"Ma'am, you do not get to talk when I am talking," Diskey snapped.

The courtroom cleared a few moments later. Diskey sighed.

"We spend a lot of time," he said, "on garage door openers."

When wives fight with their husbands, boyfriends stalk their exes, neighbors feud with neighbors and parents grow afraid of their children, they end up in domestic violence court.

Twice a week each, Diskey and Circuit Judge John Renke III hear about an hour's worth of cases in which people request a protective injunction. That's a restraining order that prohibits one person from making contact with another.

The accused and the accusers maintain a fragile decorum, but the raw emotion and hard-to-believe story lines are reminiscent of a certain coarse TV show. Bailiffs and court personnel call it "Jerry Springer Court."

"I joke sometimes that I need to wear a stripe shirt in rather than a robe because I feel like a referee," Diskey said during an interview in his office. "People are emotionally charged. They want to rehash what's happened bad in the last 10 years of their marriage. That's really not the issue."

What is the issue, it turns out, depends on who is doing the talking.

It was two against one. Or one against two.

Sitting at the table on the left side of the courtroom were a female landlord and her male tenant. They claimed a next-door neighbor was threatening legal action and more against them.

On the right sat the neighbor, who argued he was being unfairly subjected to the tenant's illegal garbage business. He was tired of garbage truck lights waking him up at 2 a.m., he said, and was worried about his baby's health.

"I have been threatened by this man," the business owner countered. "I'm just afraid. It's a racial matter. I'm Puerto Rican; he is what he is."

Time for the judge to step in.

"There is one issue in this courtroom," Renke said. "Physical safety. That's it."

He would continue the hearing for 90 days to allow the neighbor time to hire a lawyer. The feuding trio needed to stay away from one another until then.

"I'm still going to be photographing code violations," the neighbor said.

"That's harassment," barked the landlord.

Renke held up his hand to stop them.

"I understand there's a lot of animosity," he said patiently.

"Maybe you all need to step back and realize . . . there's a way in a more reasonable action to get done what you all want to get done," he said. "You can do what you want. You're all adults.

"Take a deep breath. Stay away from one another. Maybe you'll get some objectivity. Maybe not."

When in the early 1990s Pasco County adopted a docket specifically for domestic violence, the idea was to create a more efficient home for the growing number serious cases where injunctions were needed.

Then the rules changed. Filing fees that once ranged anywhere from $30 to $110 were eliminated, allowing people to seek protection from dating, domestic or repeat violence free of charge. More than ever, people tried to use the court to get leverage in their divorce cases, custody of their children or possession of their property, Diskey said.

As a result, violence becomes a side issue in the majority of cases, if it is an issue at all.

"Part of finding the true cases are sorting through the ones that are not," Diskey said. "Is this really a risk situation or something that belongs in another courtroom or belongs in no courtroom at all?"

Certainly, there is no shortage of legitimate cases. As of early May, Pasco county had 3,173 active domestic violence injunctions.

But the past couple months also found the judges hearing from:

A scorned 17-year-old boyfriend who allegedly showed up at night at his ex's bedroom window.

A mother who wants her 14-year-old, sexually active daughter to stay away from a 20-year-old lover. The girl didn't want to. A woman who requested a restraining order against another woman she claimed was stalking her family. The two women were not related by blood or marriage and had never lived together; one woman's brother used to date the other woman's daughter.

Cases like these leave Renke and Diskey feeling less like judges and more like social workers, marriage counselors or parents.

"I probably feel less like a judge in domestic violence court" than any other, Diskey said. "You get your good people at their worst."

If you ever put yourself in someone's shoes, I would presume that everyone standing there in a helpless position would want someone to at least let them present their case. I owe that to people. - Judge Renke

Cynicism creeps in among weathered veterans of these proceedings, but the judges take seriously the humanity at the core of the cases before them.

These are not reality TV bits. These are people's lives.

"These aren't people who presumably want to be there," Renke said. "They're in a bad position in life."

After living and breathing their problems for weeks, they get only 10 or 20 minutes in court. Some cases are no-brainers - a spouse comes in bruised, a judge quickly grants a no-contact order. In others, judges must get their arms around murkier situations and, as Diskey puts it, predict the unpredictable.

Adding to the challenge: Most people involved in domestic violence cases represent themselves. They don't know the rules of introducing evidence or courtroom procedure. They simply want to tell a story, whether the details are legally relevant or not.

"You're throwing them into an unfamiliar environment, and you're expecting them to perform," Renke said. "These people are ill-equipped to get the help the Legislature intends."

When a divorce or lawsuit is the more appropriate venue for relief, the judges say so. Or they may order counseling, hoping to motivate people to address their substance abuse or anger issues.

"It's a case by case thing," Diskey said. "Some people you will never get to. I guess if you can reach some, then it's worth it."

The relationship ended, the woman said, when she moved out April 16. The phone calls from her discarded boyfriend, however, did not.

"I want him to stop calling me, stop stalking me," the 24-year-old woman with a super skinny frame and curly ponytail told the judge.

She and her three children were now living with her husband, whom she left last year for the other man.

"For protection," she said of her latest move.

Across the aisle, the upset boyfriend hung his head and rubbed his eyes. But the irony of the woman's new housing arrangement was not lost on the boyfriend's lawyer.

On Feb. 7, attorney Eugene Beil said, the woman had filed for a protective injunction against her husband after he got into an argument with the boyfriend. Ten days later, she filed for divorce.

"She waffles back and forth on who she likes," Beil said.

Another curveball for the court: The woman said her two sons belonged to the husband. But she wasn't sure whether the husband or boyfriend had fathered her 3-month-old daughter.

Neither man, it turned out, had physically harmed her. County Judge Debra Roberts, filling in durning the morning, denied a permanent injunction - and recommended a paternity test.

A few more cases - a man who said his wife threw a paperweight at him before stealing his truck, another who said his wife tried to kill him with ant poisoning - and the courtroom cleared.

The court reporter and bailiff looked at each other. After watching these scenes replay themselves many times over, all they could do was smile and shake their heads.

And return the next week to witness more.

Researcher Caryn Baird contributed to this report. Colleen Jenkins covers courts in west Pasco County. She can be reached at 727 869-6236 or cjenkins@sptimes.com

[Last modified May 29, 2005, 01:05:19]