It鈥檚 around 10pm when I call Vicky, a crisis worker for victims of domestic violence in Del Norte County, California. I鈥檓 panicking, 150 miles away in Ashland. I鈥檓 afraid someone is going to get hurt tonight. Vicky listens calmly. She agrees to drive by an address near her neighborhood. It鈥檚 an address that shows up over and over in the Del Norte County 9-1-1 call logs. I came across it researching how law enforcement responds to reports of domestic violence in a county with the highest rate of domestic violence reports in California. I began this inquiry when I was a reporter for the Del Norte Triplicate newspaper and completed it as part of my work for 老夫子传媒.
The night I call Vicky I had just hung up with a woman who reported her husband to the Sheriff鈥檚 Office twice in the prior month. He was not arrested either time, even though he had just been convicted for an assault on her that took place six months earlier. A different woman called about him four years before that. I saw the choke marks on her neck in a picture taken by police. He wasn鈥檛 arrested then, either.
I decide to name him in a story. I want to warn his current wife before it comes out. I message her on Facebook, say I鈥檓 a reporter writing a story I think she should know about. I leave my phone number and ask that she call me when she鈥檚 alone.
She calls within the hour. My heart鈥檚 pounding as I spit out the facts, without verifying that she is in fact alone. I tell her I鈥檓 writing about domestic violence, the police response to the 9-1-1 calls she recently made, and there鈥檚 going to be a story in the local paper. She isn鈥檛 named, but her husband is. She echoes my last words and a male voice swells in the background. 鈥淲hat鈥檚 that f*cking c*nt saying about me?鈥�
The woman on the phone becomes desperately polite. 鈥淚鈥檓 so sorry ma鈥檃m, could you please hold on a minute?鈥� I hear him screaming; her begging him to be quiet. She comes back on the line: 鈥淢a鈥檃m, I鈥檓 so sorry about that. What were you saying?鈥� I tell her I think it鈥檚 a bad idea to continue our conversation, but that she can call me any time when he鈥檚 not there.
After we hang up, I burst into tears. Then I call Vicky. I had already interviewed Vicky about her job working with victims in crisis and her personal experiences surviving domestic violence. Vicky calls back to tell me she didn鈥檛 see or hear anything unusual at the woman鈥檚 address. I think about how little noise strangulation makes. Vicky sighs. She asks me: 鈥淲hy would you write something that could hurt someone?鈥�
The next day, the woman calls back. She says she鈥檚 okay, and assures me she鈥檚 alone. She apologizes for her husband鈥檚 behavior the night before. I apologize for mine. I convey the facts at my disposal and ask if they鈥檙e accurate. 鈥淵eah,鈥� she says.
Before we hang up, I give her Vicky鈥檚 phone number. It鈥檚 all I can think to do.
Within a month, there鈥檚 another 9-1-1 call to her address, another assault on her.
I posted a survey using social media asking people to share how domestic violence had affected them, and if they called the police to report it. I soon got 44 responses. Many were detailed. Fifteen respondents left contact information. I taped interviews with three of those women.
I learned of another victim through her obituary. It said she died in a motor vehicle accident. I interviewed family and friends about her life. They all supported court and police records that documented her partner had a history of abusing her, though he鈥檚 never been convicted of any related crimes.
Conversations with her father were the most difficult. We first meet at his house, where I get out of the way and let him talk. He shares memories of his daughter, the sweet things she did as a child. He talks about taking her to the emergency shelter to get away from her fianc茅. He says he wanted to retaliate on her behalf, but that鈥檚 not who he is anymore. He says he thought there鈥檇 be time to fix his relationship with his daughter, then time ran out. Later on, I learn of allegations that he too abused his family in years past. I draft the story without calling him to readdress this information.
Dread settles in. But when I finally reach out to him, it doesn鈥檛 go the angry way I expect. I lay out the facts I鈥檝e gathered. I ask him to own the past more honestly, and spare the story about his daughter any more brutal details from police and court records. In my opinion, he responds bravely. He says it goes deeper than her, deeper than him, and deeper than his parents. He speaks of a community where spousal abuse has become commonplace and says he wants to stop that hurting.
I rewrite the story.
After my story first ran, people in the community vented on Facebook. Some posted messages of support, others of disgust. Others were appalled we would exploit a grieving family. One woman said it鈥檚 important to get these things in the open, but she wouldn鈥檛 want something like that written about her.
I keep circling back to Vicky鈥檚 question the night I called her to do a welfare check on someone neither of us had ever met: 鈥淲hy would you write something that could hurt someone?鈥� I hope every journalist covering domestic violence will keep that question close to their heart as they decide how to protect victims, without perpetuating their silence.
Emily Cureton is the producer of the 老夫子传媒 Exchange heard on JPR鈥檚News & Information Service and online at iipr.org, weekdays 8am鈥�10am, rebroadcast 8pm鈥�10pm.