More people in Androscoggin County sought protection orders last year than in any other county in the state. A peek inside the system.

Men and women sit in anxious clusters, filling out courtroom No. 1 just like most Fridays, the day Lewiston District Court reserves for protection from abuse cases.

It’s a long morning of failed relationships, violent allegations and no-shows.

The woman who wrote in her court file that a boyfriend pushed her out of a moving car and threatened to kill her doesn’t come in.

Neither does the woman who claimed, “He told me many times if he ever saw me with another man or found I went out on him he would break both my legs and put me in a box.”

Since they’re not here to ask that their temporary protection orders become permanent, the orders get tossed out.

A man at the front of the room, in handcuffs, agrees to a two-year order to stay away from his wife, a petite woman with bleached-out hair.

“Paul has knives,” she’d written. “He pulled a knife on me and threatened to kill me and my entire family.”

He insists to Judge Ralph Tucker he wants to work things out.

In the 17 cases heard this day there are five death threats, six children caught in the mix, several searing accounts of abuse. If statistics hold, the next week there will be 10 more cases just like them. And the week after that? Maybe 20.

Based on population, more people in Androscoggin County sought protection from abuse orders last year than in any other county in the state.

Judges, lawyers, police, abused women’s advocates can’t say for certain why.

It isn’t any easier or less expensive to file here.

It’s not because there are more domestic assaults – Kennebec, Franklin and York all reported more per capita than Androscoggin, according to the last State Police count in 2005.

This courthouse isn’t open any longer than the 27 others in the state. It is the only one where law students regularly volunteer time to help alleged victims – but it’s unlikely many victims would know or be swayed by that.

Yet more than twice a day, someone walks into this Lisbon Street landmark and swears they or their kids are in immediate danger.

One woman had written about her ex-husband: “His level of control and violence is becoming more intense. … I hope this protection order works because I never see him leaving me alone.”

On this day, she doesn’t show up either.

‘A very, very powerful thing’

The figures are startling.

There are 5,000 active protection from abuse orders in Maine with another 800 temporary or unserved.

In Androscoggin County, one of every 151 residents sought a temporary order between July 2005 and June 2006, according to a Sun Journal analysis of court records.

That’s compared to one in every 233 people in Cumberland County or one in every 194 in Oxford.

It’s a simple procedure, and immediate. Judges rule on requests virtually on the spot.

“It is possible to come into court, in an hour or two, and leave with a temporary order that takes the house, takes the kids, takes the car and then prohibits the other party from touching any of those things,” said Tucker. “That’s a very, very powerful thing.”

With that slip of paper, alleged victims get comfort that police will intervene if there’s contact. They also get a hearing date in the next three weeks to face their alleged abuser and potentially make the order permanent.

“I think every victim realizes there’s always that possibility a perpetrator would find them and violate that order,” said Kathryn WilliamsPalmer, executive director of the Abused Women’s Advocacy Project.

She said it’s hard to know if they work; AWAP doesn’t keep track. And despite having an AWAP representative attend every Friday morning court session, the organization doesn’t recommend women take them out.

“The highest risk for them (abused women) is leaving. That’s when her safety is at the greatest point of danger. To push her (into an order) may even put her at greater risk,” WilliamsPalmer said.

In January, Rhonda Reynolds was allegedly killed by her estranged husband in Fairfield after taking an order out against him.

Melissa Mendoza filed for one against Daniel Roberts six days before he shot her in the back of the head in his dark Sabattus garage in August 2005.

“I have been harassed for three days straight. … I don’t feel safe and I know he will try to hurt me,” Mendoza wrote in her court affidavit, and she was right. A jury convicted Roberts of murder in February.

Local advocates noticed some reluctance by women to pursue orders in the immediate aftermath of that case. Her death was brutal, made big headlines and had a Hells Angels connection, said Kat Perry, director of community services at the Abused Women’s Advocacy Project.

“I’m going to pull a Mendoza on you,” became a local, familiar – if empty – taunt, she said.

Back in 1999, the murder of Carole Cross shocked the community when she was killed by her former boyfriend the day he was served with a protection order. She, a friend and a police officer had gone to her apartment to pick up children and belongings on Webster Street in Lewiston.

According to the state’s Domestic Homicide Review Panel, none of the cases it has looked at since 2003 involved active protection orders. The panel hasn’t gotten to Mendoza’s or Reynold’s yet.

‘A lot of victims come in’

Crystal Bourgoin at the Lewiston Police Department goes through call logs every morning to look for cases of domestic abuse or charges like criminal threatening and sexual assaults. She starts a folder on each victim or, more often, takes out an existing file, and makes contact within two days.

The full-time domestic violence coordinator, she recommends protection orders quite often.

She also organizes random visits to the homes of victims who have ongoing criminal cases or whose abusers have bail conditions and abuse orders that prevent contact.

“You feel for these people,” she said. “A lot of times, they end up going back to the abuser. That’s frustrating and you want to help, you want to wake them up.”

Police Chief William Welch said he doesn’t believe the volume of filers suggests people are abusing the system.

“A lot of victims come in. We help and direct them to the court system. In other counties maybe that just doesn’t happen,” he said.

When any legal procedure appears popular, it’s often a reflection of local culture, said Maine Chief Justice Leigh Saufley. Peoples’ experience gets out; how easy a process is, how quick or slow, how effective.

“I don’t pretend to actually know the answer” why Androscoggin would be so high, she added.

Statewide, “We certainly have committed to making this system so it does provide protection for people who need it,” Saufley said. “But we know from past tragedies, it’s not always enough.”

Agreeing to stay away

Judge Tucker said he likes to read each case in advance, tally threats, count the number of kids or guns involved.

Often kids are the sticking points, the reason one party says “No, I won’t stay away.”

“If they can work out the visitation issues, they can still hate each other,” he said.

Of the 17 cases from that recent Friday, five are dismissed; the alleged victim doesn’t show.

Four are dropped by request. That’s common. Couples get back together. One person is scared to go forward. Circumstances change.

Only seven orders are made permanent by the end of the session. In the vast majority, parties – with the help of free legal aid – agree to the order voluntarily. That way the judge doesn’t make a finding of abuse, which could be used as evidence against the defendant in the future, and the victim gets the same protections.

Back in his office at 1:30 p.m., Tucker clears away plates from a going-away cake. It is, by chance, his last day on the Lewiston bench. He is moving to a temporary post in another courthouse.

Within minutes a security officer appears at his door with two new requests for temporary protection. The women are downstairs.

In one, an ex-wife claims her former husband locked their 8-year-old in a hotel room to punish him.

In the other, a mom writes that her baby’s father got so upset at the baby’s fussing that he “put a blanket over the window, turned off the light then screwed the bedroom door shut” – with the baby inside.

All Tucker’s personal photos are off the office walls, packed in boxes waiting to go, but he won’t be leaving soon.