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Domestic violence deaths in Arizona tragically consistent by Karina Bland - Jun. 10, 2012 12:00 AM The Republic | azcentral.com Pamela Blaies handed her daughter a pamphlet on domestic violence, opening it in her hands to point out specific signs of an abusive relationship. "Look at this. Look at all this. See this? This is you," Pamela told 28-year-old Amanda Blaies-Rinaldi. "... your partner controls everything. "... your partner calls you names or yells at you. "... your partner shoves, pinches, hits, punches, kicks or otherwise hurts you. "... your partner destroys your belongings. "... your partner threatens to hurt you, the children, or pets." Amanda's 21/2-year relationship with her husband, Anthony, had been tumultuous: screaming fights, holes punched through walls, calls to police. He had threatened to kill himself, and her, and her mother as well. But Amanda was certain he'd never actually go that far. Especially not with the children in the house. And not just before Christmas. Amanda gave the pamphlet back to her mother and told her not to worry. Two days later, Amanda was dead. "She is definitely dead," her husband, Anthony Rinaldi, then 26, reportedly told authorities when he turned himself in. "I put two to the chest and one to the head." Actually, the former Army sniper had put two bullets in his wife's chest and three in her head, her mother would later learn from prosecutors. The sound of the gunshots reverberated -- boom, boom, boom, boom, boom -- up the stairs. There, Amanda's 7-year-old son called 911 over the hollers of his baby brother. * * * Amanda's death on Dec. 13 was one of at least 101 domestic-violence-related deaths in the state in 2011. Of those, 59 involved guns. This year, two recent incidents of domestic killings that claimed five victims each, each involving children, have dominated the news. But those incidents were only a fraction of the total. Not even halfway into 2012, at least 48 people have died; at least 31 of those were shot to death. The numbers for Arizona are consistent: roughly 100 a year, year after year. The numbers are compiled by the Arizona Coalition Against Domestic Violence and include a broad range of types of incidents. Typically, any violence between people who share a residence is considered domestic violence, so the number in the annual tally can include spouses, girlfriends and boyfriends, other relatives and even bystanders. Domestic-violence deaths are counted when a partner or other person in the home kills or is killed. An abuser committing a murder-suicide would be considered two deaths; a death is also counted if an abuser is shot during a confrontation with law enforcement. But when someone talks about domestic violence -- and when experts study it -- the focus is on a classic pattern in which a person, usually a man, eventually kills his partner. A landmark 2003 study by a team of international researchers, led by Jacquelyn Campbell at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore and published in the National Institute of Justice Journal, compared two groups of battered women. One group consisted of 220 who had been killed by their partners; the other group consisted of 343 who had been abused but not killed. What the researchers pinpointed was that where a history of domestic violence exists, certain other factors vastly increase the likelihood that a victim will be killed. Battered women who have been threatened or assaulted with a gun -- even once -- are 20 times as likely as other battered women to be murdered. Those who have been choked are 10 times as likely to be killed -- a statistic that also was a force behind the July 2010 change in Arizona law that made attempted choking or strangulation a Class 4 felony. Previously, strangulation typically would had been charged as misdemeanor assault. Other factors that can increase a victim's risk are substance abuse, unemployment, depression, abuse during pregnancy, any kind of estrangement, and the presence of a stepchild. For people in the field, the study -- and the danger-assessment tool it was based on -- is the definitive guide for assessing risk in domestic-violence situations. The checklist of those signs is so remarkably consistent that intake workers at domestic-violence shelters use the criteria to establish what danger a woman faces, and Phoenix police officers ask similar questions when they go out on roughly 14,000 domestic-violence calls every year. "It would be rare for something like this to happen with no previous record of domestic violence," says Carl Mangold, a licensed social worker who counseled more than 3,500 men convicted of abuse in Arizona between 1996 and 2006. He now trains others to work with offenders through the Arizona Coalition Against Domestic Violence. There is a pattern in incidents that end fatally, he says. A man becomes violent and blames the victim. She tries to resist, and his abuse escalates. She attempts to end the relationship, and he punishes her for her defiance. The state's most recent domestic-violence incident may have defied the patterns. Last week, police said evidence indicates that James Butwin, a 47-year-old Tempe businessman and father, killed his wife, Yafit, 40, and their three children -- 16-year-old Malissa, 14-year-old Daniel and Matthew, 7 -- before taking his own life. While police said they found bullet casings in the home and guns in the vehicle, and the parents were facing divorce and financial problems, friends say they saw no history of violence. But in other cases, the warning signs were there. They were there before May 2 -- the day, police say, J.T. Ready shot and killed four people. The twice court-martialed Marine, border vigilante and admitted White supremacist with a history of soured relationships killed his 47-year-old girlfriend, Lisa Mederos; her daughter, Amber, 23; Amber's fiance, Jim Hiott, 24; and Amber's daughter, Lilly, who was 15 months old. He then killed himself. Ready kept weapons at home. And in February, Lisa Mederos had called police to complain that Ready had choked her six months earlier. The report went nowhere, police said, because they had no probable cause for an arrest. The warning signs were there in the case of Christina Alvarez. The 32-year-old was shot and killed in Phoenix on May 29, her three children in the next room. The warning signs were there in the case of Tekesha Barnes, shot outside a school event for her eighth-grade daughter May 25. The warning signs were there in the case of Claudia Pascual, 31, shot in her Tucson home the day before Valentine's Day. And the warning signs were there for Amanda Blaies-Rinaldi. * * * The majority of domestic-violence cases do not turn deadly. Neil Websdale, a Northern Arizona University criminology and criminal-justice professor for 20 years, has worked to document how it happens in those that do. In addition to teaching at NAU, Websdale leads the National Domestic Violence Fatality Review Initiative, which he started in 1999 with a grant from the U.S. Department of Justice in the hope of preventing more deaths. Each year, 10 Arizona teams review 20 or so cases in great detail, looking for common traits among abusers and among victims, working to identify where the system works and where it fails. Almost always, a history of a certain kind of abusive behavior is the first, most important indicator. Websdale has studied police reports, restraining orders, arrests and convictions in the kind of abuse that researchers call "intimate partner terrorism," or "coercive control." Coercive control is almost exclusively the domain of men. It is long-term and tyrannical abuse that includes, often in addition to physical violence, attacks on a woman's self-worth, degrading remarks and obsessive monitoring of her whereabouts and her contact with other people. Other factors fuel the lethality: He's obsessively possessive. If he can't have her, no one can. He drinks or uses drugs. He's depressed or unemployed. There's a stepchild in the household. The risk increases not because of anything the child does, but because his or her presence invokes jealousy over a woman's prior relationship. He abuses his partner during pregnancy. There's an age difference of more than 10 years. She's an undocumented immigrant who may fear reaching out for help because of her status. Websdale also finds that many men kill in a state of what he calls "humiliated fury," shame that has gone into overdrive for any number of reasons: She is moving out and he is losing control of her, for instance, or he has lost his job and is drinking more. "It's about manhood and failing to live up to prescriptions of modern-day masculinity," he says. An escalation of abuse is typical just before a battered woman is killed, he notes. There will be more broken bones, more cracked teeth. More calls to 911. "You can see it coming. You can log it. You can count it," he says. In addition to an escalation of abuse, there may be other changes. Maybe an abuser starts keeping a loaded gun on the nightstand, or begins reading her text messages and dropping by her office to make sure she's at work. More subtle but just as important is that the victim grows increasingly fearful and tells friends or family that things are getting worse. There may be no outward signs. But Websdale says, "In her own mind, if she senses things are getting worse, they are. We have to be sensitive to what the victim tells us." And while leaving an abuser is a dangerous time for any victim, in these cases, any emotional estrangement can also trigger a deadly attack. Such things as enrolling in college, making new friends or refusing to argue anymore can trigger a deadly attack just as easily as filing for a divorce can. "He's controlling but vulnerable," Websdale says. "He's very, very threatened by her moving on." Barnes, the mother killed outside her daughter's eighth-grade graduation ceremony held at a nearby high school in Avondale, had filed for an order of protection just four days before she was killed. * * * Combine escalating abuse with the presence of a gun and the risk goes even higher. When a woman calls the Sojourner Center, a domestic-violence shelter for women where the 224 beds are always full, one of the first questions she is asked is whether her abuser has access to a gun. That question not only helps the shelter gauge necessary security measures at the shelter, says Connie Phillips, the center's director, but also helps the woman understand how much danger she may be in. Victims often minimize the risk they face as a means of coping with abuse from day to day. A gun is a powerful weapon as much for its ability to intimidate as to kill. "You don't even have to point it at her," Phillips says. It doesn't matter if it is a handgun he fires at the range on weekends or a rifle he takes hunting. He only has to clean it in front of her, put it on the bedside nightstand as she sleeps, or carry it on his hip to make a point. Some hold guns to their partners' heads and pull the trigger in a tormenting, Russian-roulette-style game. In 18 years at the center, Phillips has heard versions of that story hundreds of times. "It's just another way of showing 'I have power. You don't,'" she says. Phillips tells of a woman who was shot by her abuser but survived. He said he was sorry of course, apologizing again and again. He promised it would never happen again. When he brought her home from the hospital, he took good care of her. And then one day she felt the muzzle against her head again. Click. The chamber had been empty. She breathed again, and this time she got out. Not everyone does. * * * Amanda Blaies-Rinaldi and her boys spent the weekend before she died at her mother's house. They went to a Christmas party for Amanda's sister, Lea, who's 35 and has Down syndrome. That was the day Pamela tried to show Amanda the pamphlet on domestic violence. Amanda had looked away. She told her mom everything would be fine. Anthony had moved out two months earlier into his own apartment. She was planning to file for divorce. "I'm going through with it this time, Mom. I really am," Pamela recalls her daughter saying. But Amanda added, "It would be easier if there wasn't a part of me that still loved him." "I taught my daughter that she was gorgeous, talented," Pamela Blaies said. "I told her, 'You have everything going for you. You don't have to put up with anything from anyone,' and she never did." At least not until she met Anthony Rinaldi. Amanda and Anthony Rinaldi met in Naples, Fla., and had known each other briefly when she found out she was pregnant in 2009. They married while Anthony was on leave from duty as an Army sniper based in Germany. But even during Anthony's long-distance calls from Germany, the couple argued, screaming back and forth. When he got out of the military, Pamela says, there was more screaming, name calling, and holes punched in walls. Their baby was born in March 2010, six years after Amanda's first son. In May 2010, court records in Florida's Collier County show, Amanda filed for a temporary order of protection. In the petition, she reported that Anthony punched through walls, broke door frames, and smashed glasses and potted plants. She also wrote that he told her he used prescription painkillers and steroids. The petition was dismissed when Amanda didn't show up for a hearing. That was because she already was on her way to Arizona, where her mother lived. Her twin brother, Jonny Blaies, agreed to move too if she would leave Anthony, and packed the boys and her belongings into his truck. But halfway across the country, Amanda was on the phone to Anthony. Jonny recalls Anthony pleading with his sister: "I love you. Don't do this to me." Within weeks, Anthony had followed and moved in with Amanda. She ran a licensed day care out of their house. He went to work for the Department of Corrections. "He knew the right things to say so she would take him back," Jonny says. "They split up and got back together more times than I can count." Jonny was torn, mad that his sister kept taking Anthony back and worried that it would end the way it did. "My sister was a bright, beautiful woman," he says. Neither he nor their mother could understand what Amanda saw in Anthony. He was angry all the time and hardly ever smiled. He would threaten to kill himself, and Amanda would beg him not to. "His life meant nothing to him because he always hated life," Pamela says. "He had no respect for life." Amanda had decorated her house with posters that said, "Love life," and "Life is beautiful." As kids, the twins brought home every wounded bird and every overweight kid they saw get bullied. Amanda thought she could save Anthony, Pamela says. Anthony grew up in foster care, an unstable life compared with that of his wife, who had a close and loving family. "Everyone who has ever loved him has left him," Amanda would explain to her mother. "You can't fix him," her mother says she would tell her. When her mother called the police, Pamela says, Amanda would cover for Anthony, fearful he would lose his job and the family's health benefits. But Amanda told a friend that if anything happened to her, look for Anthony. At 26, she wrote a will. On Dec. 12, Anthony took Amanda and the boys to look at Christmas lights. Pamela called Amanda afterward. She sounded happy. But when Anthony called Pamela the next night, he was furious with his wife and wanted his mother-in-law to intervene. He told his mother-in-law that Amanda had opened a credit card in her own name so she could buy Christmas gifts. Now it was missing, and she had accused Anthony of taking it. He claimed to have simply misplaced it. But Amanda refused to talk about it any longer and turned her attention to decorating the Christmas tree. She had promised the kids in her day care that it would be done in the morning. "He couldn't control her. He wanted me to do something about it," Pamela says. As Anthony yelled, Pamela, a psychiatric nurse, talked soothingly, suggesting that he head to his apartment and get a good night's sleep. "Tomorrow will be a new day. You'll be able to think clearer," she remembers telling him. Amanda got on the phone and told her mother not to worry: "I'm over it. I'm not going to fight with him anymore." Amanda sounded weary. Pamela wanted to call the police, but her daughter asked her not to: "No, Mom, please don't. It will just make it worse." "It sounds pretty bad right now," Pamela said she told her. Then Anthony was back on the phone. Pamela says he told her, "I just want to know it must have been really hard for you to raise such a stubborn daughter that you can't control." And then he hung up. Amanda's 7-year-old was in the living room, playing video games and pretending not to listen. He later told his grandmother that his stepfather sat on the couch and took five deep breaths: "You know, Grandma, like when people try to calm themselves down." And then Anthony told the boy to go upstairs. When he hesitated, Anthony told him to run. The boy told his grandmother that he begged, "Please don't kill my mom." The boy ran, and then he heard the shots from below. Anthony left the house, and a few minutes later, he also called 911 to report that he shot his wife. He told the dispatcher that he planned to shoot himself. Then he hung up. The dispatcher called back, and Anthony told her he was pulling up behind an Arizona Department of Public Safety officer doing a traffic stop on the side of Interstate 10. Anthony approached the officer and said, "You're going to want to put me in handcuffs, sir," according to court documents. Police found Amanda's body in the garage, her purse on her shoulder and car keys near her hand. Anthony told police that he "snapped" and his "military training kicked in," according to court records. When he was arrested, he had Amanda's crumpled credit card in his pocket. He is in Maricopa County Jail, charged with first-degree murder. He has pleaded not guilty. His next court hearing is scheduled for July. The boys miss their mother. The oldest, now 8, a second-grader who reads books meant for sixth-graders, asks, "How could he take my most precious possession?" The baby is 2 and calls his grandmother "Mommy." They fall asleep with Grandma, each boy with one hand on her for security. In the dark, the older boy whispers that he's afraid his stepfather will break out of jail and hurt him. "We're just getting by, day by day," Jonny says. There's been little time to really grieve, between caring for the children and preparing for the trial, Pamela, 60, says. She cries every day. "It doesn't feel real. You think it can't be true, but it is true. She's never coming back," Pamela says. She hopes that other women, who tell their mothers not to worry and think that it could never happen to them, will learn from her daughter's story, and get out before it's too late. Reach the reporter at 602-444-8614 or karina.bland@arizonarepublic.com. Domestic-violence statistics A battered woman is: 20 times more likely to be killed if she has been threatened with a gun. 15 times more likely to be killed if he has ever made a death threat. 10 times more likely to be killed if her partner has ever tried to strangle her. 71/2 times more likely to be killed if she experiences forcible sex. 4 times more likely to be killed if he's drunk every day or almost every day. 4 times more likely to be killed if her partner is unemployed. 3 times more likely to be killed if there is abuse during pregnancy. 2 times more likely to be killed if she is an undocumented immigrant. Source: "Assessing Risk Factors for Intimate Partner Homicide" by a team of researchers led by Jacquelyn Campbell, nursing professor at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, National Institute of Justice Journal in November 2003. The study compared two groups of battered women: 220 who were killed by their partners against 343 women who were in abusive relationships but were not killed. Where to get help for domestic violence If you are in danger, dial 911. [Yea, that and a dime will get you a cup of coffee. Better yet get a gun, and keep it away from your abusive partner] For local shelter because of domestic violence or homelessness, call 602-263-8900 or 1-800-799-7739. If you are scared and need to talk, or want information about getting help, call the Arizona Coalition Against Domestic Violence, 602-279-2900 or 800-782-6400, and the National Domestic Violence Hotline, 1-800-799-7233. For temporary foster care for pets of domestic-violence victims, call the Arizona Humane Society Project Safe House, 602-997-7585, ext. 134.
Paradise Valley woman finds joy despite 2 abusive marriages by Heather Grossman - Jun. 10, 2012 05:27 PM Special for The Republic | azcentral.com Editor's note: Heather Grossman is a Valley woman who experienced domestic violence in two marriages. She was shot in the neck in 1997 by a man hired by her first husband after their divorce and custody fight; the injury paralyzed her from the shoulders down. She is now an activist for victims' rights and a frequent speaker. She told her story to Republic reporter Megan Finnerty, who transcribed these excerpts and added background; those explanations appear throughout the story in italics. If words were added for context, they appear in parentheses. Even with all she endured, Grossman's message to any woman in a violent situation is simple: Leave. No matter what. Heather married her first husband, Ron Samuels, in 1988. We had dated for about a year, and the abuse didn't start until after we were married. Ron was very charismatic, kind, compassionate. He had this facade; people liked him. He played this person that was just so perfect. (He) had thrown plates of lasagna at me, picked me up and thrown me against a wall, (and) grabbed me, leaving bruises I had to cover up. And once, when I was pregnant with the twins, he held a gun to my head and said if I left, he would kill me. But then he would say, "I am so sorry, I promise I'll be better. I don't want to hurt you; I love you. I just don't want you to leave me." I had a beautiful home, beautiful children, and I was absolutely miserable ... no one should ever stay in a situation where they fear for their life and their children's lives. I felt trapped, like I was suffocating. He was changing me, making me feel like possibly my actions were causing what he was doing to me, or that I was bringing on his temper. I knew I had to leave (him) when I went to Minnesota in 1992 to visit my family with my son Ronnie, 3, and my twins, Lauren and Joe, who were 12 months old at the time. We spent two weeks there visiting my parents, and we were all so happy. And I wasn't afraid about what I was saying or making a mistake that would upset Ron, and I wasn't living my life on eggshells. I remember on vacation Ronnie crying to me, saying he didn't want to go back to Florida. And I really didn't want to, either. So my parents and I found a lawyer in Pensacola and I made plans to divorce (Ron). Meanwhile, Ron was in North Carolina, asking me to fly there to our second home and spend time there with the children. But I kept trying to put it off because I didn't want him to know what I was planning. My nanny, Susan, and I flew back to Pensacola, and I left my children with my parents. I met with my lawyer, and we put together and filed divorce papers and a protective order that talked about the abuse. I was terrified to even attempt this. I knew I only had a little window to do this before he would become suspicious and would fly to Minnesota, or come to Florida. (Susan and I) rented a U-Haul, and I packed up my clothes in bags, my children's clothes in garbage bags, the twins' cribs. And that night, I lay on the couch, and I literally held a knife against my chest (for protection) because I was so convinced he would be flying in that night. He was calling my parents and they weren't answering their phone, and I wasn't answering my cellphone. And he kept calling the house in Pensacola; the phone just kept ringing. We left (the next) morning at 6a.m. and we drove straight through. I was terrified. I just wanted to be (back) with my kids. Susan and I kept switching off, and I would be so tired, but I knew I had to get home. I had my heart in my throat. (Ron) was the kind of person who could just charter a plane and be there in the middle of the night to my parents' house; he was a wealthy businessman and had a lot of connections. Ron fought the divorce; he kept sending me flowers and cards and letters and jewelry and gifts. And I kept sending them back. I left in June of 1992, and my divorce was final in March of 1994. I was scared of Ron because he was abusive to me. But I also felt sorry for him. He played his pity party for so long -- he wanted me back for so long and he wanted the kids back and he wanted to be a family -- he just knew how to word things. But there was no way I was going to go back to him. I knew I couldn't raise my children in an abusive home. Finally, when the divorce was over, the children lived with me during the year, and we'd switch holidays and stuff. The children were still very young at this time. We'd have to fly them back and forth from Minnesota to Florida, where Ron still lived, and it was hard on them. He would play mind games with the children, try to make them feel bad that he had to drop them off. And Ron accused us of child abuse. He would take the kids into the police station to report supposed abuse instead of taking them to the airport. Then he sold his businesses and put his money in the Grand Cayman Islands so as to be able to stop paying child support. There was just one thing after the other. Anything he could do to make my life miserable, he did. Child Protective Services investigated Heather, her boyfriend at the time, John Grossman, and her parents in Minnesota and found no evidence of abuse. A friend had introduced Heather to John during this time, and he dated her for a year before meeting the kids. Heather and John Grossman married and moved to Boca Raton, Fla. CPS later investigated that home and found no evidence of abuse. Heather and John started getting death threats. We started getting calls in the middle of the night. We'd answer the phone, and someone with a voice we didn't recognize said things like, "You're dead. You're going to be dead. You're going to be shot dead. Watch out." In 1997, Heather took Ron to court for more than $36,000 in back child support. I had the hearing, and I literally pleaded. I told the judge we were getting death threats. I told the judge that Ron swore that he would kill me. As I am saying this, in tears, Ron is (in the court room) laughing at me, as I am saying that I fear for my life. Eight days later, I was going to lunch with John. I went to pick him up at the office. I didn't know that Ron had people stalking us, waiting for us at John's office. We stopped at a light. The shooter was an ex-Marine, in the back seat of a car. He had a sawed-off deer rifle. The bullet came into the back driver's-side window and came into the back of my left neck, on the left side, and blew out the right side of my neck. I died at the scene. The driver and gunman that (Ron) had hired drove around to make sure that they had shot me, and (then) they shot John in the chin. I was revived by a paramedic who was getting lunch at a Publix grocery store; he was two minutes away. John was grazed. We were in separate ambulances and were brought into the hospital. They thought that I was going to die again. My children were at school. I woke up two days later, and the first thing I thought was, "Did somebody pick up the kids from school?" There wasn't a question of whether I knew if Ron did this. It was more like: "He finally got me." I tried so hard to get help, and I tried to tell so many people that I knew it was going to happen. And I felt like they thought that maybe I was hysterical, that I was not thinking right, but I really knew it was going to happen. The bullet left Heather paralyzed from the shoulders down, making her reliant on a wheelchair, a ventilator and 24-hour nursing care for the rest of her life. She recovered in the intensive-care unit for five weeks while the police tracked down the shooter, driver and an informant. At 1a.m., in police protective custody, Heather and her family were flown to a rehabilitation center in Colorado. I went under the name Kauffman, because Ron was looking for me and the kids. We put the kids in school there while I was trying to recover and learn how to be a quadriplegic. I had to learn how to swallow, how to eat, how to drink, how to sit up. The night before I was shot, I ran 6 miles. I came home and I was lying on my daughter's bed, and she was saying, "Before we go to school, would you put a bun in my hair?" Of course, that (next) day, I woke up late and didn't have time to put her hair up. That was the last time I had hands to do her hair, and I didn't have the time. In 1999, the Grossmans moved to Paradise Valley, partly because it was where John's father lived, and partly because of the warm climate; Heather's body cannot regulate its own temperature. It was after the shooting that Heather said John Grossman also became abusive. She said he spat on her, slapped her, locked her in a room and threatened her children. He isolated her, and she became estranged from her parents and distant from friends. She estimates that more than 30 nurses or aides quit because of the stressful and frightening environment John created. She said she endured the abuse from 1998 until June 2002, believing John when he told her that if she left, he'd put their children in foster care and her in a nursing home, where it would be nearly impossible to get the minute-to-minute care she needs. Exacerbating the situation, John's millionaire father paid for Heather's care; at the time, it cost about $400,000 annually. If she left him, John promised she would lose that money. But with a confidante, a few secret calls from her parents, and finally a call to 911, she said she escaped abuse for a second time. John was removed from their home; Heather changed the locks and pressed charges. The Paradise Valley Police Department turned over about 680 pages of findings alleging the abuse, but the Maricopa County Attorney's Office declined to prosecute the case, saying there was a lack of evidence, among other reasons. Heather pursued a civil case against John, but she settled out of court and the case has been sealed. Their divorce was final in 2004. John died of a heart attack in 2005. My case is one of the worse cases that can happen in a domestic-violence situation, and I am fortunate that I lived, because there are so many women in this country who end up dead. And although my life is very hard -- it's not easy being a quadriplegic, and being on a ventilator, and having to rely on nurses and people to take care of you, and it's financially draining on your whole family -- I am thankful that I lived. I get up every day and I have a plan, and my nurses, who become my friends, literally help me move throughout the day. I am a very active quadriplegic -- I go grocery shopping, I go to the pharmacy myself, and when my kids were growing up here, I went to every sporting event and was very active in their lives. Today, Heather lives in her Paradise Valley home with her parents and a rotating team of nurses and assistants. She is a consultant for the U.S. Department of Justice's Office for Victims of Crime and a frequent victims-rights speaker and advocate for victims of domestic violence. She shares her story with judges, police officers, legislators and members of support organizations. She also mentors people who have recently become quadriplegics. She is writing a book and working with the Lifetime network on a movie. In 2003, Ron Samuels was extradited from Mexico after serving five years in prison there on unrelated drugs and weapons charges. In 2006, he was convicted of the shooting and sentenced to 120 years in a Florida prison without the possibility of parole. Heather was given seven years to live but has survived for 15. I am so fortunate, because I've had 15 years to live and enjoy my life with my family and my children and being able to see them grow and being involved in their lives. It has been such a joy. My faith gave me the strength to say, "I deserve better, even in my wheelchair, and so do my children." Nobody should ever have to put up with someone degrading or abusing them. It was such a hard decision for me, but it was just something I had to do. I didn't want to be a victim; I wanted to be a survivor. I had so much to lose, but any woman can do it. To learn more about Heather Grossman and her work, visit friendsofheathergrossman.com.
Paralyzed domestic violence survivor shares message of hope by Heather Grossman - Jun. 11, 2012 10:54 AM Special for The Republic | azcentral.com Editor's note: Heather Grossman is a Valley woman who experienced domestic violence in two marriages. She was shot in the neck in 1997 by a man hired by her first husband after their divorce and custody fight; the injury paralyzed her from the shoulders down. She is now an activist for victims' rights and a frequent speaker. She told her story to Republic reporter Megan Finnerty, who transcribed these excerpts and added background; those explanations appear throughout the story in italics. If words were added for context, they appear in parentheses. Even with all she endured, Grossman's message to any woman in a violent situation is simple: . Leave. No matter what. Heather married her first husband, Ron Samuels, in 1988. We had dated for about a year, and the abuse didn't start until after we were married. Ron was very charismatic, kind, compassionate. He had this facade; people liked him. He played this person that was just so perfect. (He) had thrown plates of lasagna at me, picked me up and thrown me against a wall, (and) grabbed me, leaving bruises I had to cover up. And once, when I was pregnant with the twins, he held a gun to my head and said if I left, he would kill me. But then he would say, "I am so sorry, I promise I'll be better. I don't want to hurt you; I love you. I just don't want you to leave me." I had a beautiful home, beautiful children, and I was absolutely miserable ... no one should ever stay in a situation where they fear for their life and their children's lives. I felt trapped, like I was suffocating. He was changing me, making me feel like possibly my actions were causing what he was doing to me, or that I was bringing on his temper. I knew I had to leave (him) when I went to Minnesota in 1992 to visit my family with my son Ronnie, 3, and my twins, Lauren and Joe, who were 12 months old at the time. We spent two weeks there visiting my parents, and we were all so happy. And I wasn't afraid about what I was saying or making a mistake that would upset Ron, and I wasn't living my life on eggshells. I remember on vacation Ronnie crying to me, saying he didn't want to go back to Florida. And I really didn't want to, either. So my parents and I found a lawyer in Pensacola and I made plans to divorce (Ron). Meanwhile, Ron was in North Carolina, asking me to fly there to our second home and spend time there with the children. But I kept trying to put it off because I didn't want him to know what I was planning. My nanny, Susan, and I flew back to Pensacola, and I left my children with my parents. I met with my lawyer, and we put together and filed divorce papers and a protective order that talked about the abuse. I was terrified to even attempt this. I knew I only had a little window to do this before he would become suspicious and would fly to Minnesota, or come to Florida. (Susan and I) rented a U-Haul, and I packed up my clothes in bags, my children's clothes in garbage bags, the twins' cribs. And that night, I lay on the couch, and I literally held a knife against my chest (for protection) because I was so convinced he would be flying in that night. He was calling my parents and they weren't answering their phone, and I wasn't answering my cellphone. And he kept calling the house in Pensacola; the phone just kept ringing. We left (the next) morning at 6a.m. and we drove straight through. I was terrified. I just wanted to be (back) with my kids. Susan and I kept switching off, and I would be so tired, but I knew I had to get home. I had my heart in my throat. (Ron) was the kind of person who could just charter a plane and be there in the middle of the night to my parents' house; he was a wealthy businessman and had a lot of connections. Ron fought the divorce; he kept sending me flowers and cards and letters and jewelry and gifts. And I kept sending them back. I left in June of 1992, and my divorce was final in March of 1994. I was scared of Ron because he was abusive to me. But I also felt sorry for him. He played his pity party for so long -- he wanted me back for so long and he wanted the kids back and he wanted to be a family -- he just knew how to word things. But there was no way I was going to go back to him. I knew I couldn't raise my children in an abusive home. Finally, when the divorce was over, the children lived with me during the year, and we'd switch holidays and stuff. The children were still very young at this time. We'd have to fly them back and forth from Minnesota to Florida, where Ron still lived, and it was hard on them. He would play mind games with the children, try to make them feel bad that he had to drop them off. And Ron accused us of child abuse. He would take the kids into the police station to report supposed abuse instead of taking them to the airport. Then he sold his businesses and put his money in the Grand Cayman Islands so as to be able to stop paying child support. There was just one thing after the other. Anything he could do to make my life miserable, he did. Child Protective Services investigated Heather, her boyfriend at the time, John Grossman, and her parents in Minnesota and found no evidence of abuse. A friend had introduced Heather to John during this time, and he dated her for a year before meeting the kids. Heather and John Grossman married and moved to Boca Raton, Fla. CPS later investigated that home and found no evidence of abuse. Heather and John started getting death threats. We started getting calls in the middle of the night. We'd answer the phone, and someone with a voice we didn't recognize said things like, "You're dead. You're going to be dead. You're going to be shot dead. Watch out." In 1997, Heather took Ron to court for more than $36,000 in back child support. I had the hearing, and I literally pleaded. I told the judge we were getting death threats. I told the judge that Ron swore that he would kill me. As I am saying this, in tears, Ron is (in the court room) laughing at me, as I am saying that I fear for my life. Eight days later, I was going to lunch with John. I went to pick him up at the office. I didn't know that Ron had people stalking us, waiting for us at John's office. We stopped at a light. The shooter was an ex-Marine, in the back seat of a car. He had a sawed-off deer rifle. The bullet came into the back driver's-side window and came into the back of my left neck, on the left side, and blew out the right side of my neck. I died at the scene. The driver and gunman that (Ron) had hired drove around to make sure that they had shot me, and (then) they shot John in the chin. I was revived by a paramedic who was getting lunch at a Publix grocery store; he was two minutes away. John was grazed. We were in separate ambulances and were brought into the hospital. They thought that I was going to die again. My children were at school. I woke up two days later, and the first thing I thought was, "Did somebody pick up the kids from school?" There wasn't a question of whether I knew if Ron did this. It was more like: "He finally got me." I tried so hard to get help, and I tried to tell so many people that I knew it was going to happen. And I felt like they thought that maybe I was hysterical, that I was not thinking right, but I really knew it was going to happen. The bullet left Heather paralyzed from the shoulders down, making her reliant on a wheelchair, a ventilator and 24-hour nursing care for the rest of her life. She recovered in the intensive-care unit for five weeks while the police tracked down the shooter, driver and an informant. At 1a.m., in police protective custody, Heather and her family were flown to a rehabilitation center in Colorado. I went under the name Kauffman, because Ron was looking for me and the kids. We put the kids in school there while I was trying to recover and learn how to be a quadriplegic. I had to learn how to swallow, how to eat, how to drink, how to sit up. The night before I was shot, I ran 6 miles. I came home and I was lying on my daughter's bed, and she was saying, "Before we go to school, would you put a bun in my hair?" Of course, that (next) day, I woke up late and didn't have time to put her hair up. That was the last time I had hands to do her hair, and I didn't have the time. In 1999, the Grossmans moved to Paradise Valley, partly because it was where John's father lived, and partly because of the warm climate; Heather's body cannot regulate its own temperature. It was after the shooting that Heather said John Grossman also became abusive. She said he spat on her, slapped her, locked her in a room and threatened her children. He isolated her, and she became estranged from her parents and distant from friends. She estimates that more than 30 nurses or aides quit because of the stressful and frightening environment John created. She said she endured the abuse from 1998 until June 2002, believing John when he told her that if she left, he'd put their children in foster care and her in a nursing home, where it would be nearly impossible to get the minute-to-minute care she needs. Exacerbating the situation, John's millionaire father paid for Heather's care; at the time, it cost about $400,000 annually. If she left him, John promised she would lose that money. But with a confidante, a few secret calls from her parents, and finally a call to 911, she said she escaped abuse for a second time. John was removed from their home; Heather changed the locks and pressed charges. The Paradise Valley Police Department turned over about 680 pages of findings alleging the abuse, but the Maricopa County Attorney's Office declined to prosecute the case, saying there was a lack of evidence, among other reasons. Heather pursued a civil case against John, but she settled out of court and the case has been sealed. Their divorce was final in 2004. John died of a heart attack in 2005. My case is one of the worse cases that can happen in a domestic-violence situation, and I am fortunate that I lived, because there are so many women in this country who end up dead. And although my life is very hard -- it's not easy being a quadriplegic, and being on a ventilator, and having to rely on nurses and people to take care of you, and it's financially draining on your whole family -- I am thankful that I lived. I get up every day and I have a plan, and my nurses, who become my friends, literally help me move throughout the day. I am a very active quadriplegic -- I go grocery shopping, I go to the pharmacy myself, and when my kids were growing up here, I went to every sporting event and was very active in their lives. Today, Heather lives in her Paradise Valley home with her parents and a rotating team of nurses and assistants. She is a consultant for the U.S. Department of Justice's Office for Victims of Crime and a frequent victims-rights speaker and advocate for victims of domestic violence. She shares her story with judges, police officers, legislators and members of support organizations. She also mentors people who have recently become quadriplegics. She is writing a book and working with the Lifetime network on a movie. In 2003, Ron Samuels was extradited from Mexico after serving five years in prison there on unrelated drugs and weapons charges. In 2006, he was convicted of the shooting and sentenced to 120 years in a Florida prison without the possibility of parole. Heather was given seven years to live but has survived for 15. I am so fortunate, because I've had 15 years to live and enjoy my life with my family and my children and being able to see them grow and being involved in their lives. It has been such a joy. My faith gave me the strength to say, "I deserve better, even in my wheelchair, and so do my children." Nobody should ever have to put up with someone degrading or abusing them. It was such a hard decision for me, but it was just something I had to do. I didn't want to be a victim; I wanted to be a survivor. I had so much to lose, but any woman can do it. To learn more about Heather Grossman and her work, visit friendsofheathergrossman.com. http://www.azcentral.com/news/azliving/articles/2012/05/31/20120531what-say-someone-tells-you-theyre-being-abused.html What to say if someone tells you they're being abused by Compiled by Megan Finnerty - Jun. 11, 2012 11:40 AM The Arizona Republic | azcentral.com For a domestic abuse victim, having someone to talk to can often be the difference between continued suffering and getting help. And many people are likely to hear from a victim at some point. Nationally, one in four women will experience domestic violence in their lifetimes. Experts say a good listener makes a difference by remaining non-judgmental, not leading the conversation, and being there for victims whenever they're needed -- whether this is the first conversation about the abuse, or the 15th. "Express your concern for her. Tell her that emotional abuse and physical abuse are wrong and she deserves better. Assure her that you will stand by, ready to talk or help, if she asks. Then give her time," reads a recommendation from the Arizona Coalition Against Domestic Violence. The following is a look at what to say and do if someone tells you he or she is being abused: Let him or her know you worry for his or her safety. Help your friend or family member recognize the abuse. Tell him or her you see what is going on and want to help. What to say: - What's it like at home for you? - What happens when you and your partner disagree or argue? - Are you ever scared of him or her? Does he or she threaten or hit you you? - I am afraid for your safety, and/or your children's safety. Acknowledge that he or she is in a difficult and scary situation. Let your friend or family member know that the abuse is not their fault. Reassure him or her that they are not alone and that there is help and support out there. What to say: - I believe you. - Thank you for talking to me about this. It's brave of you. - I will keep this confidential. - You don't deserve to be abused. Be supportive. Remember that it may be difficult for him or her to talk about the abuse. Let him or her know that you are available to help whenever they may need it. What to say: - How can I help? - Will you let me help you develop a safety plan? - There is help available -- support groups, counselors, advocacy organizations. I can go with you to appointments. Be non-judgmental. Respect your friend or family member's decisions. He or she may leave and return to the relationship many times. Do not criticize his or her decisions or try to guilt them. He or she will need your support even more during those times. What to say: - You should keep spending time with your friends and family. - We are not judging you; we want to be there for you. - It's OK to feel frightened, confused, angry, guilty or other complicated feelings. Remember that you cannot "rescue" him or her. Although it is difficult to see someone you care about get hurt, ultimately the person getting hurt has to be the one to decide he or she wants to do something about it. Sources: Arizona Coalition Against Domestic Violence, the National Domestic Violence Hotline and the National Network to End Domestic Violence. Parts of these recommendations were adapted from the Arizona Police Office Standard and Training Board Workshop and came from "When Love Goes Wrong" by Ann Jones and Susan Schecter, 1992 Harper Collins by the Arizona Coalition Against Domestic Violence. |