Behind Closed Doors: The special court that deals with SA domestic violence epidemic — and the men who attend it

One man is young with a beard, fashionably dressed. Another is in neon high-vis shirt, straight from work. There’s a bloke in a suit, someone saunters past in a tracksuit — these are the men at SA’s special family violence court, and there are no stereotypes.

There are no stereotypes when it comes to domestic violence.

• Behind Closed Doors: South Australia’s domestic violence epidemic
• Behind Closed Doors: Soaring cost of finding a safe space

He looks like he should be pouring a drink in some hipster joint in Peel Street.

Probably early 20s, bearded, shirt fashionably untucked. When he speaks — briefly — he’s well-spoken. But this is a long way from a laneway bar.

We’re in the family violence court at the Adelaide Magistrates Court. The young man on his feet is in Courtroom 17, where magistrate Jayanthi McGrath is working her way through a long list.

On the table in front of the accused man, just in case, is a box of tissues. Behind him, his parents watch on.

All those appearing on domestic violence issues today are men, although occasionally there are women.

They have been charged with assault of a family member, or served with an Intervention Order after the incident — what used to be called a restraining order.

Often, they face charges and have an IO.

This is the front door of the justice system that is attempting to tackle one of the nation’s biggest problems, which only in recent times has attracted the attention it has long demanded. Everyone charged with domestic violence will at least start here in the magistrates’ court. Where they finish depends on the severity of their offence.

So what does someone who attacks their wife — or a child or a sibling — look like?

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It’s men like these who are responsible for most of the damage done to women and families. It could be belittling and bullying them, financial abuse, or all the way up to murder. On average, one woman a week in Australia is killed by a current or former partner.

The answer becomes quickly apparent: those who stand in front of the court look like the people we pass in the street any day. Young, old; for the most part, outstandingly ordinary. Few suggest danger, or look unstable.

At least not today.

One man is in his dark blue King Gees, another has a neon bright high-vis shirt, straight from work. There’s a bloke in a suit, someone saunters past in a tracksuit. One limps in, barely able to walk.

Some seem compliant; in others there’s a sense of bubbling tension. Anger.

These men aren’t in jail, but they’re not free to do as they please either. The IO might require them to leave their home, have no contact with their victim, hand over any guns. An order doesn’t make them a criminal — but disobeying one might.

The penalty for that is up to two years jail.

No wonder the bearded man looks nervous. On the other hand, he doesn’t look bad. And yet.

“The allegation,” a police officer tells Magistrate McGrath, “is he pushed her down on to the bed, and threatened her with a kitchen knife.”

That’s a bit of a shock. A knife? What a stupid thing to do. Did he not understand the terrible potential in a blade? Or maybe he did.

That’s in my head; but this is par for the course for an experienced lawyer like McGrath, who spent 18 years working for the Director of Public Prosecutions, before becoming a magistrate in 2011.

She’s been hearing this kind of thing — and much worse — for almost eight years, since she agreed to work in the family violence court. That seems a long time listening to men accused of threatening or harming their partners. Enough, you might think, to make the 51 year-old shake her head in despair. Perhaps even give up on the male gender altogether. There’s no evidence of that, though.

Over the morning, in case after case, it becomes clear McGrath believes in human fallibility and redemption. There’s no growling or scowling. She speaks calmly, respectfully, explaining in plain English the situation and potential consequences.

When a defendant speaks, she pays attention, because any anger they harbour may be fuelled by the feeling nobody listens. The magistrate doesn’t want to add to that; she surely knows it won’t be taken out on her.

And so she doesn’t use words like appalling and disgusting to describe what they’ve done.

Instead she will say she’s disappointed and even devastated when someone she puts on the Domestic Violence program fails and slips back into ways that will see them bound for custody.

The Adelaide Magistrates Court in Victoria Square. Picture: Morgan Sette/AAP

South Australia is one of the nation’s leaders in the area.

Australia’s first domestic violence court was set up in Elizabeth 20 years ago. But it’s a massive challenge. From the moment the new system began in 2011, demand is three times higher than was expected.

But while reporting of domestic violence is on the rise, nobody can be sure whether the problem is growing, or whether it is due to increased community awareness.

Either way, it means there is a lot to do.

The domestic violence court sits three and a half days a week in Adelaide, four days in Elizabeth, at Christies Beach on Tuesdays and twice a month on Thursdays, at Port Adelaide on Wednesdays and twice a month on Thursdays — and then there are the regions.

There’s a big problem in the bush, with locations like Ceduna, the APY lands, Port Lincoln, Port Augusta all presenting major challenges and with limited opportunity for effective programs for offenders.

Although momentum to change this is building with the recent success of the Cross Borders Program, usually delivered in the APY Lands, being trialled successfully in Ceduna in 2018.

And the lists are long.

Unfortunately, availability in rural SA is limited. The metropolitan courses have a number of options; one-on-one counselling; a 12-week Safe Relationships Program; a 6-month Stopping the Violence program; and a specific program for indigenous men which is culturally sensitive; in the bush they range, when there’s anything at all, from a few days to a couple of weeks.

Not everyone sent for assessment for the courses are accepted, because some seem unlikely to improve. And even those given the chance often don’t make the most of it. In South Australia in the last financial year, 527 men were assessed, but only 359 accepted.

Of those, most completed and gained insights and coping skills; still, a significant number did not finish.

How effective those men are at improving their relationships is not entirely clear. A 2016 study by Monash University researchers in Victoria, which looked at men who attended domestic violence programs, was optimistic.

It found two-thirds of those who completed the courses were violence free, or almost violence free, two years afterwards.

Another sign that the courses do help came up before the court on this day: a man accused of violence against his wife is called to appear. He’s been doing the program in Adelaide, and Magistrate McGrath likes what she reads in the report about his efforts.

“I’m really enjoying the program,” he tells the bench.

“It’s giving me a lot of tools for future relationships.” He adds that he feels better by being in a group. While everyone has their own stories and background, it’s “good to know you’re not alone”.

At first, he says, he tried to stay in a corner. But he was brought into the discussions by other men, he says. He’s subsequently taken more of a leadership role in the group.

“Now I’m trying to show people — we are here for a reason.”

The Magistrate is pleased.

A short term of imprisonment might have been an option, she says, but she’s confident now that given his progress, that isn’t likely.

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And so it goes, one man after another.

Sometimes only fragments of their alleged behaviour emerges — a push into a coffee table, hitting a child with a stick on the leg, belittling and mocking a crying woman — sometimes nothing at all. In a few cases, the Intervention Order is no longer needed, because the other party no longer wants it to proceed.

That turns out to be the case for our young bearded man, the one who allegedly threatened his partner with a kitchen knife.

His partner for 19 months does not wish to continue with her claims, and there were no other witnesses.

No doubt that’s a relief for him, but Magistrate McGrath thinks he’s still in a dangerous place. The problem is, because the young woman has withdrawn her statement, the Intervention Order is not necessary.

And without that order, the young man is not eligible to go into the program that would help him learn how to better handle relationships.

She is concerned. She turns to the young man, and underlines the trouble he could be in. “These are very serious allegations,” she says.

“You could end up in custody.”

Acknowledging his parents are in the court, she explains why she’s keen for him to be in the program. “I’m not assuming the allegations are true,” she says, “but everyone knows, relationships are hard. It will give you some skills.”

So the Magistrate asks the police to talk to the woman he allegedly threatened, to see if she will continue at least with a basic intervention order. In an odd way, it just may be a key to keeping him out of future trouble.

No lectures, no scowling, no cross words. “We want to work with you,” she tells the young man.

“So we don’t see you again.”