Jeffries Vincent (Editor). Handbook Of Public Sociology

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THE PRACTICE OF ORGANIC

PUBLIC SOCIOLOGY:

CASE STUDIES

225

This essay describes the sociological journey of my exploration of the links

between the private troubles of women in prison for the death of their

abusers and the public issues surrounding their lives and cases. The research

began in the world of professional sociology, evolved into organic public

sociology as well as into a form of policy sociology, while critical sociology

informed its evolution. Burawoy captures this trajectory in his observation:

“Not only individuals but research too can have its own moral career. Most

articles published in scientific journals die a silent death, but occasionally

they are picked up and develop a life of their own” (2004:1610). This pro-

fessional sociological study of convicted survivors made a rare journey from

data to drama, generating a play, Life without Parole.

Just as professional sociology can translate into public sociology, so too

public sociology can make its way into other disciplines. For instance, a vi-

gnette from the play appears in Young Women’s Monologs from Contemporary

Plays: Professional Auditions for Aspiring Actresses (Ratliff 2004). The play was

central to the doctoral dissertation of a university colleague (English 2006).

The study has inspired one filmmaker to begin production on a documen-

tary about Convicted Women Against Abuse (CWAA) and its members

(Klaus 2007) and another to begin filming a documentary on the research

and its evolution into the play (Reynolds in production).

Michael Burawoy’s 2004 ASA presidential address (Burawoy 2005a)

describes a four-part typology in the division of sociological labor—profes-

sional, policy, public, and critical sociologies—each with its own motiva-

tion and audience. Professional sociology is scientific, peer-reviewed, and

knowledge-accumulating. Policy sociologists focus on identifying and/or

solving problems for clients. Public sociology is the extra-academic face of

From Data to Drama:

Returning Research to

Convicted Survivors

Elizabeth Dermody Leonard

226 Chapter 13

sociology, which engages various publics in a reciprocal relationship. Criti-

cal sociology is the discipline’s conscience, supplying value perspectives

and critiques of the other types of sociology. Burawoy sees these four types

as complementary and interdependent: “Without a professional sociology,

there can be no policy or public sociology, but nor can there be a critical

sociology—for there would be nothing to criticize” (2005a:15). Moreover,

“In practice, any given piece of sociology can straddle these ideal types or

move across them over time” (Burawoy 2005a:11).

A report by the ASA Task Force on Institutionalizing Public Sociology ar-

gues, “Sociology as a discipline has never fully developed its promise to ap-

ply the tools and knowledge of sociology beyond the academy” (2005:3).

Accordingly, they recommend,

Given both the public sources of our knowledge and the potential for sociolog-

ical research to address a broad array of social problems, we have an obligation

to the public around us. As a discipline we need to communicate our findings

beyond the walls of academia. We need to make sure that valuable knowledge

does not remain locked up in academic journals read by a few hundred schol-

ars, but rather we need to make sure that valuable knowledge gets distributed

to a broad audience so it has maximum impact. (p. 29)

It had been my intention to conduct doctoral research on an issue related

to child sexual abuse and to pursue my work with this population. How-

ever, a summer job as a research assistant with a team studying California’s

women prisoners (Owen and Bloom 1995) completely derailed that plan,

sending me on an unforeseen journey with research on battered women

who kill—research that has taken on a life of its own. At this point, I had no

particular interest in prison or prisoners, or in what I still labeled “women’s

issues,” my focus on abused children occupying my mind and passions.

One of my tasks as a research assistant with Owen and Bloom that sum-

mer was to compile an inventory of correctional programs by conducting

on-site visits to all the state prisons for women in California. It was fasci-

nating to observe the diverse and numerous program offerings (vocational,

educational, therapeutic, etc.) and interview staff and participants. On one

particular June day, I sat in a prison classroom in order to acquaint myself

with an institutional program designed to enhance an inmate’s life skills,

personal development, and self-esteem. In one of life’s pivotal moments,

the class curriculum was set aside that day to allow three “in-house” guest

presenters—women who had come to teach their sister inmates about do-

mestic violence, their own lives serving as cautionary tales. Each woman

recounted a horror story—situations of severe abuse and terror at the

hands of intimate partners, attempts at self-rescue and escape, botched

institutional responses, and finally, the death of their abusers and the legal

consequences. All three women were serving life sentences, despite what

From Data to Drama 227

appeared to be a mountain of mitigating circumstances. Their stories af-

fected me deeply. Years later, the thoughts and emotions of that day are

easily recalled: disbelief, outrage, confusion, sadness, and determination to

learn more about the phenomenon of battered women who kill.

If these accounts were true (despite my emotional reaction, the sociolo-

gist within me could not take the stories at face value), were they anomalies

or did they represent a problematic pattern? Who are these women, what

might be learned from their experiences, and what do their cases mean for

the criminal justice system? As Burawoy contends, “at the heart of sociol-

ogy must lie a concern for society as such, the protection of those social

relations through which we recognize each other as humans” (2006:1).

Thus, I resolved to explore the lives and cases of convicted survivors for

my doctoral research, not realizing the study and its effects would continue

long past the conferral of the Ph.D. The research, then, began in the realm

of professional sociology.

PROFESSIONAL SOCIOLOGY: DATA

I began the research by attending twice-monthly meetings of Convicted

Women Against Abuse (CWAA), an inmate-led group for battered women

at the California Institution for Women (CIW). Brenda Clubine, who serves

a 15-years-to-life sentence for killing her abusive husband, founded the

group at CIW in 1989 with 12 other women with similar convictions. It

has since grown to a membership of nearly 50 inmates. CWAA provides a

place for women to talk about their previous victimization, their legal cases,

pending legislation, court rulings, and their experiences with the parole

board. From the outset CWAA members expressed support for the research

project. Eventually, the majority became participants and would later recruit

non-members for the study as well, resulting in a purposive and snowball

sample. During the first six months of group observation and listening prior

to initiating interviews, I realized that many of the women skirted the deeper

traumatic events; some asked for help in getting at repressed memories of

events they would be compelled to discuss in future parole board hearings.

This sample is not generalizable because it was and continues to be im-

possible to create a random sample of incarcerated battered women who

kill. No one knows for sure how many women are in prison for killing their

abusers. Current estimates range from 800 to 4,500 (Leonard 2002). How-

ever, the study’s robust size of 42 subjects allows significant insight into the

lives and cases of battered women who kill.

Once the interviews began, I realized, to my surprise, that this represented

the first opportunity for most to talk freely about their experiences. Construct-

ing their stories from childhood to incarceration provided many with a greater

228 Chapter 13

understanding of the links among events, where previously they had not seen

clear connections. Donna explains her reaction to the interview process:

It is always hard to put yourself back in time and relive the hell of the past, but

it must be done. You have been a great help to me. After the interview, I real-

ized that by telling someone you trust, it becomes easier. I understood things

so much better and came away from the interview a new woman. Why should I

be ashamed and embarrassed telling the truth? I wasn’t out to kill my husband.

I was trying to survive and save the lives of my children. Thank you for giving

me the opportunity to feel free inside and start turning my life around. I didn’t

want to face up to the truth, thinking I would be ashamed. You have put this

behind me and now it is definitely time for me to go forward and learn to love

myself and work on freedom.

Ruth states:

When that list came around, I started to pass it along. Then I said, no, it’s

about time that I let somebody else know what went on, and maybe one, just

one thing that I said, one thing that I do can make somebody else get out of a

relationship. If it only helps one person, that’s enough.

Defining Categories

As part of their work, sociologists define categories and sub-categories. As

the women’s narrative themes emerged and a tentative profile formed, the

contours of the “human category” of convicted survivors took clearer shape.

Their own words illustrate recurrent themes or categories of experience that

precede as well as follow the homicide.

Minimizing

Despite a great deal of self-education, support group discussion, and

reflection on the events that led to incarceration, women repeatedly mini-

mize the severity and significance of their maltreatment. When asked if

the abuse continued during her pregnancies, a mother of two daughters

answered in the negative. Later she comments that her husband continually

hit her in the head throughout both pregnancies. How did she explain her

earlier denial? “I didn’t consider it hitting because it was above the neck!”

Forgetting

Along with the defense mechanism of minimizing, a woman held hos-

tage sometimes forgets violent events. One woman describes memory gaps

filled in by her children: “My attorney . . . talked mostly to my daughters.

From Data to Drama 229

Most information he got, he got from them about the abuse, and incidents

that had took place, because there were some that I didn’t remember.”

Another woman tells of her daughter’s recollection: “She said, ‘Daddy was

mad and threw the mirror and the mirror broke, and he had a knife at your

throat.’ I didn’t even remember it . . . until she brought it up.”

Self-Identity

Many respondents report that, during their abusive relationships, regard-

less of severity, they did not consider themselves battered women. For

many, the first awareness that they had been victims of domestic violence

came as they attended support group meetings in prison and heard others

relate nearly identical events and reactions. “My idea of myself changed

through a lot of different women told the same things I was—fat, ugly,

stupid, a slut, a tramp, a whore. I came to the realization that mine wasn’t

unique. I could identify myself as a battered woman within about a year.”

In contrast, some disavowed being a victim of domestic violence out of fear:

“Because if someone asked me, even on the phone, [he] would find out. I

don’t know how he would find out, but I was scared.”

Law Enforcement

In the majority of cases under examination, women sought help from law

enforcement to stop their partner’s violence. While many improvements in

police response have been made since many of these homicides occurred,

all too often domestic violence victims are left to fend for themselves. In

at least two instances, police had been at the home earlier on the day of

the homicide. One woman called the police “many, many, many times.

. . . He’d just tried to shoot me earlier that afternoon. I called the police.

‘What do you want us to do, lady? It’s his house. We can’t get him out.’”

Another reports: “police heard him threatening to kill me. His hands were

on my throat and his knee on my chest when they broke into the house and

pulled him off me. He was not arrested. He was walked around the corner

and taken to his parents’ house.” Not all victims call on law enforcement.

“I never called the police. . . . He told me if I ever told he’d hurt me worse

than I had ever been hurt in my whole life.”

Gender

Women who have been hurt and humiliated by male partners find it very

difficult, perhaps impossible, to disclose to male law enforcement, male

investigators, male attorneys, and male psychologists the painful physical,

emotional, and/or sexual abuse that ends in homicide. A 25-to-lifer states,

230 Chapter 13

“I couldn’t talk to the lawyer or the police about the rapes and the sexual

abuse because they were all males. Maybe if there had been a woman to

talk to.”

Medications

A recurrent criticism of the jail experience of many women during the

adjudication process is the overprescription of psychotropic drugs—anti-

depressants and mood-regulators, including such powerful agents as Lith-

ium, Haldol, Stellazine, and Thorazine, often in combination with other

drugs. The administration of these drugs occurs with no mental health test-

ing, diagnosis, or history. While some women were successful in refusing

jail medications, all too often the drugs negatively affect the self-presenta-

tion of defendants during trial. Serving 17-years-to-life, a woman states, “I

fell asleep seven times during the trial.” A woman with a master’s degree

in English observes, “I was a zombie. They said I was cold and remorseless,

not showing any emotion . . . the meds made me inarticulate.”

Trials

Mitigating and exculpatory information often fails to surface during the

homicide trials of abused women. The reputation of a violent man is pro-

tected at the expense of a just legal defense. Common observations include:

“We couldn’t say anything about the threats. Every time we tried to get any-

thing in, it was dismissed because [he] was the victim. And he was dead.”

“[My attorney] told me I could never bring up anything about the abuse in

the trial because it would give them a motive.” “During the penalty phase

my attorney got a lot of people to testify on my behalf and afterwards, one

of the jurors said that if she would have heard that during the trial she

would have never found me guilty.” “They overlooked the abuse.” “The

medical records [of the abuse] were there but the only medical records that

were actually entered as evidence were the statements from the emergency

room where I had signed that I didn’t want to prosecute. I didn’t sign be-

cause I was afraid.” Thus, documenting abuse provides no guarantee that

judges and juries will be made aware of the woman’s victimization.

When law enforcement response appears ineffectual or women are too

afraid to call 911, these victims of severe violence resign themselves to be-

ing killed or having to kill to survive. In the cases under review, officers of

the court systematically decontextualize the woman’s self-defense from her

partner’s ongoing violence and threats. With alarming frequency, women

are denied the opportunity to present their stories along with corroborat-

ing evidence. Thus, their trials produce distorted and inaccurate pictures of

homicide events and women’s motives. As a result, battered women who

kill to survive and/or to protect their children’s lives receive guilty verdicts

and long, harsh sentences.

From Data to Drama 231

PUBLIC SOCIOLOGY: FROM DATA TO DRAMA

As I explored interview data and interacted with convicted survivors, I came

to appreciate the power of their narrative accounts. Over the years, I have

communicated research findings in professional meetings, conferences,

and classrooms, reporting demographic information and comparisons

with other women inmates. I share recurrent themes that emerge in their

accounts, integrating quotes from the interviews. Without fail, women’s

narratives evoke strong, even visceral reactions among diverse audiences—

sociologists, criminologists, attorneys, students, community groups, and

others. To illustrate, the following excerpt provides a glimpse into the lives

of convicted survivors.

Rosemary, serving life without parole, was 24 when she met her 27-year-

old husband-to-be. Dating was wonderful; after the wedding, things were

not so wonderful:

Direct attempts on my life? Like when he held me down and choked me, left

marks on me? Or I’d wake up in the middle of the night with a gun pointed

at my head. Or him sticking a gun in my mouth and threatening to pull the

trigger. Digging a hole on our property, telling me it was my grave, and that he

wouldn’t be guilty of murder because he wouldn’t kill me before he put me in

it. Threats against my family. When I did manage to get the guts to leave him,

I had $3 in my pocket. I went to the bus station and the bus station wasn’t

open. I sat around outside the building, waiting for the bus to come so I could

go in and get a ticket to wherever the money would take me. And the bus

didn’t come. And it didn’t come. And then I heard the truck. I heard the horn

honk. He knew I was there. He knew I was there. He always knew everything.

He knew what I was thinking. He always knew what I was going to do before

I did it. Outside the bus station he never said anything to me; he just kept

honking the horn until I finally came around, and he went like this with his

finger for me to come to him. He took me home and he scared me because

he wasn’t screaming; he wasn’t hollering; he wasn’t throwing; and he didn’t

hit me. I didn’t understand that. I understood him hitting me and screaming

and yelling. But I didn’t understand the silence. We drove home and we sat in

the truck and I sat there waiting. I kept hoping he would hurry up and get out

so I could get out. I was not allowed to exit the truck unless he got out first. I

had to have permission to leave his presence or that was insulting him; that

was disrespecting him. I sat there waiting and waiting. We must have sat there

20 minutes before he ever uttered a word. He finally told me, “Next time, I

will not come after you.” Very calmly, quietly. I thought to myself, “He’s going

to admit that it’s over.” I said, “Can we get help? You willing to try one more

time, and if it doesn’t work, you’ll let me go?” He said, “I never said I’d let you

go.” I was, “But you said you wouldn’t come after me again.” He said, “Not

like this. You’ll come back to me begging me on your hands and knees for me

to take you back.” I looked at him and said, “whatever makes you think that

if I managed to get away from you that I’d come back to you, let alone on my

hands and knees?” He turned to look at me and I saw the evil. And he told