“Women come into Domestic Violence Court not knowing anything about what’s going on, and a lot of times they leave not knowing anything. . . . They’re shuffled through, usually with inadequate representation. The men get off too often, even if they’ve repeatedly violated an order of protection. And the darker-skinned you are, the more often you’re treated unfairly.”
Phil Murphy was a cop. By all accounts, he was an effective cop. Murphy was a detective with the Chicago Police Department’s Area Five Violent Crimes Unit. “He had an extra sense,” recalls his daughter. “He and his partner were good at what they did. They didn’t work shifts, like most police officers–they worked 4 to 12 all the time. [The Police Department] loved him.”
After years of verbal and physical abuse, Roberta Murphy equipped herself for an independent life, going back to school and getting a job. In mid-1988 she finally left Phil, encouraged by her daughter. She got an apartment of her own. “Our house was always dark–he did night work, and he slept like Dracula sleeps. He always had heavy curtains over the windows, because of the light and because he was afraid of people shooting at him. The apartment was light. She could finally have the curtains open.”
“We took Susan to a neighbor and tried to calm her down. For us it was cut-and-dried–a homicide/suicide–but it was a rather depressing incident.”
The guards know Milano; she’s greeted with a smile instead of the ubiquitous public-servant scowl. She and her companions–a petite woman she’s assisting as advocate and two large male security officers in conservative dark suits and ties–are waved through security, and the guards turn in their weapons.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
At this hour room 201, the courtroom of Judge Francis Gembala, is full, although Milano observes that “Mondays are the busy days–Fridays are pretty light in comparison.” Judge Gembala begins the day’s proceedings, and the first two couples are no-shows. The third, a swarthy man with a Greek name and a blond woman in a black miniskirt, have a brief consultation at the bench and return to their seats. Next is a small man in a blousy purple shirt who, in spite of all the cautions the judge can give, elects to represent himself in his trial for violating an order of protection. He receives his instructions and saunters out. There is a father-son domestic violence case; they’re told to sit down and wait to talk with the state’s attorney and public defender, respectively. The next woman has decided to drop the charges against her male companion, and they leave together. The complaining witnesses in the following two cases aren’t there; charges are dropped, and the men are free. There’s a wait for the next case: the defendant is being held in custody. Eventually, dressed in olive drab prison garb, flashy new sneakers, and handcuffs, he enters the courtroom and mumbles his answers to the judge. But his girlfriend says in a barely audible voice that she wants to drop charges. “These women who drop charges,” asserts Milano later, “they’ll be back.”
We wait some more. A young Latino woman is trying to get an extension of her order of protection. The clerk administers the oath: “Do you solemnly swear . . . ?” She responds, “Yeah.” Next up is a short, stocky, nervous blond woman in beachwear. The accused, her ex-fiance (“We never set a date, but we lived together for 12 years”), didn’t show up, but she’s tearful and fearful. She testifies to a long history of physical and verbal abuse, and the latest: “He beat the shit out of me–‘scuse my French–and said he would kill me.” She bolts the courtroom before she can collect her order of protection. Milano bolts after her and hands her a business card: “Call me if you have more problems.”
