After the 911 call and an arrest, what happens to a woman facing intimate partner violence?

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Considerable buzz has surrounded the network of specialized courts introduced by the Quebec government recently to hear cases of intimate partner violence and sexual assault exclusively — a project intended to support and protect victims during an uncertain and stressful time.

A Montreal service which has, quietly and steadily, been providing professional assistance to victims of intimate partner violence and family violence for nearly four decades served in part as a model for these specialized courts: Côté Cour, a pioneering psycho-social service established in 1986, is a unique alliance between Quebec’s health ministry, through the CIUSSS du Centre-Sud-de-l’Île-de-Montréal, and the criminal justice system. Its services are available, at no charge, to anyone required to appear in court following an incident of intimate partner violence or family violence authorized by the Office of the Director of Criminal and Penal Prosecutions (DPCP).

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“Our mandate is to be a bridge between the victims and the court, by phone or in person,” said Sari Chengberlin, clinical activities specialist and co-ordinator of Côté Cour, which has 7,000 encounters a year with victims, in 35 languages: Interpreters are provided when needed. The majority of victims are women.

Most people don’t realize what unfolds after they call 911, said longtime Côté Cour caseworker Vicki Zorbas — and sometimes they even forget having called. “They are in shock,” she said.

“At Côté Cour, we explain to victims what will happen. They can ask questions: A big  part of what we do is make victims aware of conjugal violence. We talk about it — so it resonates. It’s a process. You are building on something. If I’m the first person to speak to her, hopefully it sparks something. Then I will see her again — and see where she is in the process.

“My goal is to empower the person — with information.”

In trying to get women to consider how they have been treated by their partners, then, in standing up for them and helping them to stand up for themselves, Côté Cour caseworkers could well be saving lives.

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At least 12 women in Quebec have died at the hands of their partners or former partners so far this year. This month 31-year-old Nicholas Gravel was charged with second-degree murder after the body of his fiancée was found Sept. 26 in a wooded area in Hemmingford, about 70 kilometres south of Montreal. Last Sunday, Éric Biscotti, 55, was charged in a Longueuil courthouse with indignity to a human body and arson following the discovery of a woman’s body bearing marks of violence in a low-rise apartment building in Ste-Catherine, about 30 kilometres south of Montreal.

In 2023, according to the annual report for that year, there were 6,529 cases involving victims of intimate partner violence registered by Montreal police, representing 21 per cent of all crimes against the person. Most victims were women.

“Conjugal violence is one of the most complicated things to understand because it happens on so many different levels,” said Zorbas, one of about 15 Côté Cour caseworkers — they include social workers like herself, sexologists like Chengberlin and criminologists — and a team of crown prosecutors who take on Côté Cour files exclusively. Victims are met at two safe and confidential locations: one at the Palais de justice de Montréal, another at the municipal courthouse.

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Difficult as it is for outsiders to comprehend, the majority of victims of intimate partner violence wish to stay in the relationship and want their complaint withdrawn, said Chengberlin. The main task facing Côté Cour caseworkers, she explained, is to evaluate how dangerous an offender is and the level of risk to the victim.

Many victims belong to cultural communities. “Many think their spouse learned a lesson and most want to stay in the relationship,” she said.

“We ask them lots of questions, including about their situation at home. The majority don’t want to go to a trial, but those who do need to be prepared,” Chengberlin said. “As we evaluate the situation and level of risk, we see that there can be other elements, such as harassment, jealousy and coercive control.”

What constitutes intimate partner violence has changed considerably since Côté Cour was established: If it once referred strictly to physical violence, today coercive and controlling behaviour is at its core: intimidation. Threats. Humiliation. Isolation: All are intended to harm, frighten or punish victims in a bid to control them.

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Abusers “take from us who we are — all our power to make decisions,” said Ingrid Falaise, a Montreal actor and survivor of intimate partner violence. “We become ghosts of who we were.”

Coercive control can be as damaging as physical abuse, said Anouk St-Onge, commander of a Montreal police section launched in 2021 to address intimate partner violence and its prevention, the Section spécialisée en violence conjugale (SSVC).

Intimate partner violence is insidious, she said — like a spider web. “We say, ‘If I were in the situation, I wouldn’t tolerate it.’” Yet this form of violence can affect anyone, regardless of social status. “And there are many cases of control and domination with no physical violence — until they lose control and there is a homicide.”

When Zorbas meets with victims in her small private office at the Palais de justice, she talks to them about coercive control. She talks to them about the cyclical nature of violence that often marks abusive relationships: The person being abused — generally the woman, in heterosexual relationships — feels she is walking on eggshells as tensions simmer. She fears an escalation, said Chengberlin. “She feels he has power and her freedom is threatened by his micro-aggressions.”

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The escalation, when it comes, can be physical but more likely involves threats, insults or emotional manipulation: The abuser might blame his partner, said Zorbas, say something like, “‘If dinner had been hot, I would not have been angry.’ And you start to believe the other reality, that it is your fault.

“It’s a direct link to the cycle of violence — and it’s insidious.” A honeymoon phase, in which the abuser is once again charming gives her hope — until the cycle invariably begins again.

After meeting with the victim, the Côté Cour caseworker makes recommendations to the prosecutor, who decides whether a complaint is withdrawn or charges are laid.

“When we make recommendations, we take the observable and add the psycho-social,” said Zorbas. It’s the prosecutor who decides whether a complaint is withdrawn.

The victim then meets with the prosecutor, who answers her questions and explains the court process: The victim would be represented in court by the prosector, at no charge to her. (A complaint can be withdrawn at any time.) She can then leave or, should she wish, attend the first pro forma hearing. It’s where the suspect, represented by a lawyer, appears before a judge in a courtroom reserved for Côté Cour cases.

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Not every 911 call related to intimate partner violence will involve Côté Cour: An arrest must have been made, for one: Police can arrest someone if a complaint is considered valid. Although the person won’t necessarily be jailed, he must respect certain conditions, such as not contacting the alleged victim until appearing before a judge. A police report is sent to the prosecutor, who decides whether to authorize a complaint: If a complaint is authorized, a file is opened.

The Côté Cour caseworker, having evaluated how dangerous a suspect is and the level of risk to the victim, recommends to the prosecutor whether contact between them should be permitted.

“Our approach is for the relationship to resume, but gradually,” said Chengberlin. “Sometimes contact is forbidden. We help the person to find ways to think about the relationship.”

If, for instance, a condition is that the person accused attend therapy, “we see the impact and what happens between court dates — the pro forma appearances,” she said.

Following the first pro forma appearance, the person accused of the violence is generally not permitted to return home or contact the victim; generally there are two or three pro forma appearances, usually with a few months between hearings. The victim meets with the caseworker each time. Assuming there is no trial, a complaint is withdrawn most of the time after the third hearing.

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A delay of two to three months before contact is permitted is fine, said Chengberlin. “It lets us see if he respects the conditions and she can talk about what she wants,” she said. Too long a delay, though, has a downside. “When there are children and the mother is alone with them, it re-victimizes her. There are also financial concerns. We have to evaluate the balance between her being protected and her needs as far as her health.”

Said Zorbas: “We take advantage of these delays. It’s a good time lapse. Will there be a breach? Will there be another incident?”

Three months had elapsed since the 911 call the summer morning Zorbas sat across the desk in her office from the woman who had made the call: The police report before Zorbas said the woman had been assaulted and strangled by her partner.

Strangulation, which many people don’t realize is not always fatal and half the time leaves no visible injuries, has been described as one of the most lethal forms of intimate partner violence: It’s often a strong predictor of femicide. Police commander St-Onge called strangulation “an act of domination and control” not far behind homicide in severity; usually, she said, it’s part of a wider pattern of abuse.

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The federal government modified the Criminal Code in 2019 to add strangulation to the definition of assault with a weapon; this year Montreal police and the Quebec prosecutor’s office launched a pilot project to help authorities to better address intimate partner violence-related strangulations. Last year the prosecutor’s office authorized 551 intimate partner violence-related strangulation cases in Montreal alone — and official numbers likely represent “the tip of the iceberg,” one prosecutor said.

The woman in Zorbas’s office — her identity and circumstances were kept confidential to protect her privacy — said her partner just “blew up,” that the strangulation “was a one-time thing,” that he had promised to seek therapy and that she wanted the case against him dismissed.

Zorbas had another suggestion: that the conditions be changed gradually.

“You will be able to assess if he is respecting the conditions,” she told the woman.

An abuser often tries to justify his behaviour toward a victim, said Zorbas: “He blames her: Blame plays a big role,” she said, as does gaslighting: To gaslight is to intentionally mess with another person’s mind to create confusion and self-doubt.

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A victim might tell a caseworker that she was responsible for the violence. Here Zorbas bristles and asks: “What about his responsibilities?

“She might say, ‘It is my fault.’ And I say ‘No. We are here because of what he did … I do it to give them power. It is incredible how much control people who abuse have.”

Zorbas said women are often asked: “Why did you not leave?

“I ask: ‘Why did he continue?’”

Many victims of intimate partner violence don’t call police, said St-Onge, and those who do often aren’t prepared to press charges. Some are new arrivals and their network is important to them or they are not financially independent. “There is also love,” she said. “And they think he will change.

“Our mission is to proceed with arrests. We have no choice. Her safety is compromised, but the victim doesn’t see it.”

Zorbas, who worked in women’s shelters before joining Côté Cour in 1997, has a degree in psychology in addition to her social work degree. To do the work she and other caseworkers do, “you have to have passion,” she said: It is also to live with a lingering fear for the welfare of the victims they encounter.

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“We support and raise awareness and enforce strategies for the woman to protect herself,” said Zorbas. This might include a victim moving or changing her phone number. “We want them to have a safety plan. We ask: ‘Who can you call?’ ‘Can you protect yourself?’

“Many times we think success is if she leaves. It’s not. Success is if she can protect herself. It is about giving her the skills she needs, about working on her understanding coercive control and knowing what she is responsible for and what she is not responsible for,” she said.

“A red flag is when an abuser doesn’t respect his conditions,” said Zorbas. “Is he going to therapy? How will she assert herself?  He tried to strangle her: If that’s the first instance, what’s next?”

A victim generally leaves an abusive partner seven or eight times before leaving for good, said St-Onge — and the violence can continue, with technology permitting the spouse or former spouse to use other means to continue to control and abuse.

Police have explained to Côté Cour caseworkers, for instance, how it’s possible to track someone through such means as apps on cell phones used by parents to know where their children are, said Zorbas. They might stalk them or threaten to post compromising videos of them or tell the children, for instance, that “It’s all your mother’s fault.”

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The point of rupture is the most dangerous time in the life of a victim of intimate partner violence, both in terms of risk for femicide and for increased violence for up to a year following the separation, said Melpa Kamateros, executive director of Shield of Athena Family Services, which provides counselling, advocacy, referral and other services at its offices and its shelter to women and children exposed to conjugal violence. Other red flags, she said, include linguistic barriers and pressure from family.

“When a woman says she wants to withdraw a complaint, often it is a result of family pressure or because she is frightened,” said Cathy Allen of the Regroupement des maisons pour femmes victimes de violence conjugale, a coalition of shelters. She was part of the committee that wrote the report recommending establishment of the specialized tribunals.

With four investigators and thousands of cases a year, Montreal police commander St-Onge’s service cannot take on every case involving intimate partner violence but handles “the more sensitive cases,” such as those of women who are young and vulnerable or women who have been victimized by partners through coercive control for years. Investigators can work on one file for a long time as they follow up with victims to see how they are doing, to ensure that offenders are respecting their conditions and terms of release and to intervene if they aren’t, she said.

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“We are a small team, but it makes a big difference,” said St-Onge. “The relationship of my team with the victim is important: If she has confidence in the police, it means that, if something happens, she will call us.”

A crucial moment in terms of homicide risk is when an abuser loses hope, she said: Either his spouse or former spouse finds someone else or she leaves “and this crystallizes the fact that he can’t control her anymore.”

St-Onge’s team created the content used in training other police officers about intimate partner violence and its members train them and attend seminars and work to understand the subject “in its entirety,” she said. “The better we understand the dynamic, the better we understand the victims.

“For some women, going to court is not the solution,” she said. “For us, the solution is to save lives.”

And police work alone is ineffective in addressing intimate partner violence, said St-Onge: It’s important that partner organizations be involved — including Côté Cour, crime victim assistance centres, the office of the prosecutor, shelters and youth protection authorities. Ending intimate partner violence “is the work of a team,” she said.

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“We work with partners to surround the victim,” said St-Onge. “Victims are ambivalent and often go back. We want to prevent recidivism. … We want her to have confidence and we want to build a safety net around her so that she has resources.”

To St-Onge, “giant strides” have been made since she began to work in intimate partner violence in 2018.

“There has been a mobilization to work together — and not in silos.”

There is much goodwill, “and for the first time, I see the road being paved toward change,” said Kamateros of Shield of Athena. Like other shelters, hers does community outreach. Although she bemoaned the fact that “there are never enough services and there is never enough money, we are trying, all together, to have a global vision so that we are not working alone.”

Still, she worries. For one, she worries about those victims of intimate partner violence who never come forward. “It’s not what we see that worries us: It’s what we don’t see.”

And she wonders how much society’s perceptions of violence have changed, noting that the largest group of women who try to access Shield of Athena services are young — aged 22 to 44. “Young women are still affected,” she said. “It means young men are still abusive.”

Kamateros said victims are often asked: “’Why did you stay?’ I’ll tell you why: Because for her, there is a lot of fear about leaving and shame in saying she is a victim. There are financial reasons and love reasons and the children but, overwhelmingly, it’s that we have done such a fabulous job of re-victimizing the woman.”

sschwartz@postmedia.com

Specialized court helps victims of intimate partner violence ‘feel safe’ and ‘listened to’

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