Beware Of Paper Tigers

By JANICE C. SIMPSON

Lisa Bianco was afraid of her husband. So when she decided to end years of beatings and other abuse by divorcing him, she got an order of protection warning him to stay away. But Alan Matheney continued to intimidate her, Bianco complained, and eventually abducted the couple's two young daughters, then 6 and 2. When police caught up with him more than 650 miles away, in Wilmington, N.C., they extradited Matheney back home to Mishawaka, Ind. Bianco pressed charges, but Matheney was released after posting $1,000 bail. Other arrests for beatings followed, as did another release. Finally, in 1987, faced with charges that included illegal confinement, rape and assault, Matheney plea-bargained his way to a reduced charge that resulted in a sentence of ! eight years in the state prison.

But Bianco did not rest easy. When she learned two months ago that her ex- husband was eligible for a pass under the prison's furlough program, she appealed to the local prosecutor for help. "We told them it was not appropriate or wise to release him," recalls St. Joseph County Prosecutor Michael Barnes. "We said we wanted to be notified if and when he ever came up for another pass." Matheney was denied that furlough, but earlier this month prison officials did grant him an eight-hour pass without notifying Barnes or Bianco. Matheney drove to Mishawaka and, according to authorities, broke into Bianco's home, then beat her to death outside with the butt of a shotgun, as neighbors watched in horror.

Bianco's tragic fate has become all too common in the U.S. About 2 million women are battered by their husbands or lovers each year; 1,500 of those victims died in 1987, the last year for which complete statistics are available. The most common advice offered battered women is for them to leave the men who abuse them. But experts say some men, panicked by loss of control over their previously cowered partners, become even more violent after separation. "It's extremely rare that you read about a man who has beaten a woman to death while she's living with him," says Ellen Pence of the Domestic Abuse Intervention Project in Duluth, Minn. "It's when she leaves him that he kills."

April LaSalata of Brentwood, N.Y., for example, sought to escape the bashings of her husband Anthony by divorcing him and obtaining an order of protection. Ignoring the order, Anthony broke into his ex-wife's home last year and stabbed her with a hunting knife, leaving a scar that ran from her throat to her pubic bone. Police arrested him, but he soon got out on bail and resumed harassing April. Two months ago, Anthony shot his wife to death, then committed suicide.

Like Lisa Bianco and April LaSalata, many women seek orders of protection to shield themselves from such wrath. As those two tragedies illustrate, however, such orders are often no more than paper tigers. Although provisions vary from state to state, all the laws subject men who violate these court orders to fines or jail terms. Yet men are seldom arrested for violations -- short of murder -- unless they are on the premises when police arrive. Meanwhile, the courts, still uncomfortable with domestic violence and faced with crowded prisons, tend to deal leniently with offenders.

Lawyers for battered women continue to champion orders of protection as important signals to the outside world that a woman is serious about changing her life. Orders can also provide useful evidence for custody battles or other legal encounters. But until would-be violators know that the criminal-justice system will treat them as seriously as other criminals, court orders cannot provide the one thing that battered women need most: safety.

Duluth is a city that makes a serious effort to provide protection. Heeding studies showing that men who spend time behind bars are less likely to assault their partners again, its police department was the first in the U.S. to institute mandatory arrest for suspected batterers. Similarly, the city's prosecutors vigorously pursue those who violate protection orders. But perhaps the most important aspect of the Duluth program is that it requires batterers to attend at least six months of counseling classes. A man who misses two meetings risks having to serve up to ten days in jail. Follow-up studies done two years after the program started show that about 80% of the women whose partners went through the program were no longer being battered. "It's made a big difference in our life," says a woman whose boyfriend attended the classes two years ago. "Without that program we would have broken up, because I know he would have beaten me again."

Sometimes, though, even the best efforts are not enough. If a woman "truly needs an order because a man is going to kill her, then a restraining order really isn't going to do anything," says Barbara Shaw, director of Project Safeguard, a program for battered women in Denver. "Sometimes there aren't a lot of safeguards other than disappearing." Lisa Bianco seemed to have accepted that sad fact. She told friends she wanted to improve her work skills, save some money and then move away before her ex-husband was eligible for parole next year. Denied the warning that she had requested -- and had every right to expect -- she apparently never got the chance to run for her life.