Seattle P-I/Gilbert W. Arias
McIver and his
wife in court.
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Andrea Rich-Bell waits anxiously in a hallway of Seattle Municipal Court, her heavily pregnant frame wrapped in a bulky black jacket. She's due to give birth in three weeks, but the baby feels like it might drop any minute. It isn't lightening her load that her husband, a construction worker named Roy, is in the "tank," the courthouse's basement holding cell. Nor that prosecutors are proceeding with a domestic violence case against Roy over her ardent objections.
"It's more pressure on me," says the 29-year-old Rich-Bell, who's had six children with her husband over a 14-year relationship, not counting the one on the way. "I have to deal with all these kids. They don't look at stuff like that." Bail was set at $75,000, "like he's a murderer," says Rich-Bell.
According to the police report, two 911 calls were made on Sept. 22 at around 11 p.m., one from a witness reporting a fight downtown, the other from Rich-Bell herself claiming that Roy was "freaking out" because he had lost some drugs on a bus. When police arrived, she told them he had been swinging a cell phone charger around in a circle over his head, the report says, and she was fearful he would hit her.
As often happens in domestic violence cases, Rich-Bell is telling a different story now, saying she never called 911 (although Roy's defense attorney concedes a tape of the call exists) or said anything about drugs. Rich-Bell admits her husband did have a phone charger in his hand and was swinging it, but "not at me." She says she told the arriving officers that he didn't do anything to her. "They said, 'OK, we'll take him to jail for being intoxicated.'" The next thing she knew, he was being charged with assault in the fourth degree and harassment.
The court also imposed a "no-contact order" that prohibits her from seeing her husband while the case is pending—a period during which she is likely to give birth to their child.
At 9 a.m., Roy's public defender arrives. Rich-Bell smiles gamely at her, greeting her as an ally. The attorney then goes into a small conference room where prosecutors and defenders discuss possible deals. A short while later, the attorney returns to debrief Rich-Bell on the options. Prosecutors are willing to ask the judge to lift the no-contact—but only, ironically enough, if Roy pleads guilty to assaulting her. If he insists on a trial, the order stays.
"So they're not going to give him a temporary release for the birth of my child?" Rich-Bell asks.
"Well, we can ask the judge," the defender replies, adding they would have to set a hearing date on the matter.
Rich-Bell goes down to the tank to meet with Roy and returns with a decision: They will go to trial. The no-contact order will remain in effect for now.
Across town at her South Seattle home, a woman with very different life experiences has been grappling with the consequences of a no-contact order she didn't want either. Ever since the arrest of her husband, City Council member Richard McIver, on charges related to domestic violence, Marlaina Kiner-McIver, a lawyer who once worked for the federal Department of Housing and Urban Development, has indicated that she is displeased at the way events have played out.
"I'm just very frustrated that I can't talk with my husband," she says, reached at home by phone. "Let's just say that if I had to do it over again, I would not have called 911." Actually, she hung up rather than going through with the call. But when police came anyway, they say, she told them that her husband repeatedly grabbed her by the throat while going on a "profane tirade." Although Kiner-McIver has said that such an incident never occurred before in their 34-year marriage, it is now largely up to prosecutors and the court to decide what the immediate future will hold.
That's because it has become routine for no-contact orders to go into effect not only while a case is pending but for a period of two to five years should there be a conviction. In essence, the criminal justice system is forcing couples to separate—whether they want to or not.
That's a problem, according to several defense attorneys who work frequently on domestic violence cases. "I'm not sure about all this state-mandated intervention in people's lives," says Roy's attorney, Theresa Allman, who works for the Defender Association. "On the majority of my domestic violence cases, probably 90 percent of the time, the victim does not want a no-contact order." Yet, she says, the victim "is not listened to. She's not respected. Her opinions are not valued."
"People have a right to make bad choices," agrees Pat Valerio, another public defender who works for the Associated Counsel for the Accused. A no-contact order, she says, is supposed to be for the benefit of someone who wants to be protected. It's not "to have all the power of government coming in and saying, 'We know better than you; you need to get over this guy.'" The state's policy, she says, is just another way of overpowering a person who's supposedly already been overpowered by her partner.
