Giving families options

Published February 9, 2005 at midnight

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In the circle: Michele Ann Norlund, left, and her husband, Randy Norlund, participate in a community circle in suburban Minneapolis in July. Randy was offered a choice between traditional sentencing on domestic violence-related charges or taking part in the circle. In a process known as restorative justice, community members decided his sentence.

Story by Lou Kilzer

Photos by Linda McConnell

A group of Americans bundled up for a trip north.

It was the late 1990s, and their destination was Canada's Yukon Territory — far away from urban America.

But these were hearty Minnesotans, used to the cold. They planned to spend 12 days learning from Indian tribes.

In English, what they were interested in is called restorative justice — a criminal justice concept in which a group of community members does the sentencing for a crime. The goal is to bring justice to — or restore — a crime victim.

Often, the practice allows the wrongdoer to avoid a jail term. Instead, the offender must answer to tribal leaders and peers.

One key question the Minnesotans had was this: Could restorative justice be applied to a seemingly intractable crime in America — domestic violence?

Many traditional domestic violence advocates become alarmed at the mention of restorative justice. They say it as an attempt to go easy on perpetrators. It is misplaced compassion. It is touchy-feely.

"It's a political nightmare," warns David Gustafson, a top Canadian proponent. "Anytime restorative justice and domestic violence are seen in the same brackets, it makes everybody nervous."

The people who headed north knew that. But they were dead serious.

Their trip, after all, was funded by the Minnesota Department of Corrections, an organization not known for doing touchy-feely well.

Since that trip, restorative justice "circles" — the practice of forming a literal circle with community members, the perpetrator and victim involved — have been formed in several Minnesota jurisdictions.

And the concept is being applied to domestic violence — tentatively.

During a circle, the man — usually the perpetrator — and woman sit with community leaders and discuss what led to the violence and how the abuser intends to change.

Almost no subject, however personal, is left off the table.

If alcohol was involved, the offender might be forced to go on the wagon.

The victim, too, is encouraged to join in. But it is not a pile on. It's typically not blame and shame.

If there is tension in the relationship, both are quizzed and offered advice. Once the circle members get to know the couple better, they sentence the perpetrator. And he must frequently return with his partner to give progress reports.

An offender who doesn't live up to his promises winds up back in the criminal justice system, and, quite likely, jail.

Some state courts, probation offices and victims advocates are backing the efforts.

Bev Dusso is one of them.

Looking out for women who plan to return to abusers

Dusso is the executive director of Minnesota's Tubman Family Alliance, a pioneer in dealing with domestic violence. It formed one of the first women's shelters in the 1970s, and its research is cited around the nation.

Bad actors, Dusso said, need to go to jail, for a long time. Her organization, among its innovative programs, is supporting an intensive prosecution effort in St. Paul to bring the full weight of the system on offenders.

But some men don't fit the model of irredeemable batterer.

Even more important to Dusso are the women still in abusive relationships.

Tubman officials did a reassessment of their programs. What they found woke them up.

"When (victims) want to separate from the person who was abusive, we had pretty good services. They were effective," Dusso said. "But we were not very effective for the 85 percent who answered it the other way."

That's the simple math of domestic violence. Most women return to their abusers, even if they eventually leave.

"The vast majority say, 'We want to keep our families together,'" Dusso said.

That's why Tubman is supporting restorative justice.

Dusso knows it won't be easy. "There is resistance to that model that is absolutely huge," she said.

Proponents must show that it's not touchy-feely. And they must show that it works.

The first goal might be easier to reach than the second.

Dusso insists that going through a circle and experiencing the pressure from peers and community leaders is much tougher than most people think.

Does it work? Dusso says the evidence in anecdotal. But she is encouraged.

Minnesota Judge Gary Schurrer in Washington County, a suburban area near the Twin Cities, said every offender who has agreed to go to the circles has expected it to be easier than traditional penalties.

In the end, he said, they admit "this circle process was one of the hardest things they had ever done."

A group of his peers: Mark LaPointe, second from left in background, says a prayer during a suburban Minneapolis community circle he led in July. On the right are domestic violence victim Michele Ann Norlund and offender Randy Norlund, her husband. Any circle member — one at a time — may talk about anything.

Implementing program in Colorado unlikely

Colorado has tried restorative justice, primarily with juvenile offenders. In Denver, the district attorney's office spends about $70,000 a year, mostly for a social worker and part-timer, on programs overseen by the Community Accountability Board.

But the likelihood of expanding the program here to include domestic violence is slim.

Anne Rodgers, executive director of the Colorado Forum on Restorative Community Justice, is one of the approach's greatest fans — but not for domestic violence.

"The offender has to believe he did something wrong. Where we are now (with domestic violence) is that most of the time the offender doesn't think he did anything wrong," she said.

When a reporter at a national restorative justice conference in Keystone last summer asked how the concept might apply to domestic violence, two conference organizers took a physical step backward.

That's a hot potato, they said.

Putting a victim and her offender in the same room is tantamount to couple's counseling, which, except in rare cases, is taboo in Colorado's court-ordered batterer treatment programs.

Cheryl Davis, administrator of the Colorado Domestic Violence Offender Management Board, opposes couples counseling in most cases because she said it incorrectly implies that the victim has an impact on what's happening to her.

"The victim is never responsible for the abuse," Davis said. "Never."

Even more important, Davis said, is victim safety.

"How can you be assured that the victim really wants to participate in this and it's safe for her to do so?" Davis said.

Davis said a local group has met to talk about restorative justice. Their conclusion, she said, is the dynamics of domestic violence are so different that using the model "could make it dangerous."

Anne Tapp, executive director of the Safehouse Progressive Alliance for Nonviolence in Boulder, is also a skeptic.

If the criminal justice system's current approach isn't working, she said, it's because the laws haven't been applied vigorously enough.

No one disputes that victim safety is a prime concern. But proponents say careful screening can eliminate much of the risk.

Lakewood treatment provider Chris Loeffler argues that restorative justice is a healthier way of holding offenders accountable.

"You put them in a shaming system, which is what our criminal justice system is, and then you expect them to come clean," Loeffler said. "The bottom line is you shame people and you are driving them back into the violence."

Longmont Police Chief Mike Butler said the restorative justice model, which is working to combat other crimes in his community, offers promise, though he still is researching how it can work with domestic violence.

"When people make connections with community, it's unbelievable what happens," Butler said.

Public accountability can be particularly helpful in domestic violence, Butler said.

"The dynamic the offender wants to keep going is that no one else knows," he said.

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