The Night I Stopped a Domestic Abuser in His Tracks
By Richard Luthmann
I have been covering Family Court dynamics, particularly Silver Bullets and bonafide domestic violence, for a fair amount of time. You would like to believe you begin to get a “nose” for the “beat” and develop good instincts around these issues, particularly when dealing with hot-button topics where “no” or “no comment” is just the beginning of the story.
At the very least, you think you can keep yourself in one piece. But that didn’t happen last week.
I’ve already been told by some in the media business that I’m an “old-school” throwback to an era when newsmen were newsmen. Before private equity got its claws into mass media publishing and fucked everything up. Some call it “tough-guy journalism.”
I’m not sure if I’m a Tough-Guy Journalist. My view is simple: Life’s too short to take shit.
Now I have some (additional) scars to prove it.
“You Know What a Haza is, Frank?”
I never thought I’d find myself in the middle of a situation like this, but on a summer evening earlier this month, I knew I had to act. Not because I was a Tough-Guy Journalist. But because I am a man who knows right from wrong.
“Frank” always had a reputation for violence, especially against women, and that night in Port Charlotte, Florida, he proved why he’s what Tony Montana called a “Haza,” a Yiddish word for a pig, or a pig that doesn’t fly straight.
The school year has already begun in Florida. I accompanied a sophisticated lady to Frank’s place to pick up school supplies and their child. She and the Haza had a previous (not-so-romantic) history, and she was worried the situation could become volatile. She had received outlandish text messages the entire day.
Now, I’m no fool. I’ve watched enough Judge Judy not to be stupid. The most significant way to avoid trouble is to have a plan. We had one. Frank would be in the back of the house, out of sight. Frank’s grown-up daughter would get the kid and belongings ready. We would drive up. My lady friend would get out, grab the child and the belongings, and return to the car. I would be in the driver’s seat, where I would stay for the entire exchange.
Sounds simple, right? Man plans, God laughs.
From the moment we arrived, I could sense something was off. Frank was drunk and skulking around the precipice of his one-story bungalow, which was capped with a ‘blue tarp and twine’ roof supplement. My friend said it was ok. She would deal with things. I stayed in the vehicle.
The Haza started yelling at her, hurling insults. She approached the door, and Frank beckoned her inside. She said that the handover would only happen outside. Seconds later, the Haza hurled a pile of school clothes and supplies at her. He brought the child outside.
When he saw me, his anger flared up instantly. She tried to get the child and the items into the vehicle’s back seat. He charged the car. Both she and Frank’s grown-up daughter (by someone else) were there, the daughter trying to physically restrain him to no avail.
I sat in the front seat, trying not to be bothered by this asshole. I hear about and see this behavior every day. Violence against women and children is all too common. And yet, genuine violence is all too commonly avoided by many Family and Criminal Courts, as opposed to manufactured claims and Silver Bullet tactics, which receive carte blanche.
My lady friend tried to get between Frank and the car, and things got physical. He pushed her. Then he swung at her. I knew I couldn’t just sit by and watch.
“You Fucked Up Frank”
Within an instant, I sprung out of the driver’s seat. I stepped in between them, determined to stop him from hurting anyone any further.
“You want to fight somebody, fight a real man, you bitch. Real big man swings on women.”
Frank didn’t take kindly to that. He came at me, and I gave him my face. He struck me hard, and I could feel the pain shoot through my head. I steeled up, and we grappled.
Before I knew it, we were on the ground. But I wasn’t going to let him get past me. I was there to protect a woman and her child, and that’s what I did. Maybe that’s what a Tough-Guy Journalist does. It’s definitely what a man does.
I had Frank subdued on the ground, both hands behind his back, going for wrist control. I thought he had calmed down. That’s my fault. Every one of my cop buddies tells me that’s why you fully subdue a violent person. I tried to let the idiot go, and he cracked me with the back of his head several times, opening up my forehead. It wasn’t pretty.
I felt warm blood pooling around my eyes. It was going everywhere. I threw Frank down and pushed him into the ground. I took off my shirt and used it to stop the blood from gushing. It wasn’t good—a full-out Ric Flair Wrestlemania VIII display.
My lady friend had wrangled the child and the supplies into the car. I jumped into the passenger seat. Frank still wanted more. He tried to jump in front of the car and left a “shit trail” all along the driver’s side.
She hit the gas, and we got out of there.
We regrouped at a nearby gas station. Head. I put on a couple of band-aids given to me by the Circle-K store attendant. Snacks. I bought the kid a bunch of candy, and I think I got myself a cold drink. Fixed. I knew I was a mess; my bell was rung, and I just wanted to get treated.
My friend got a text from Frank’s daughter: “My father is calling the police.”
I was ready to get stitched up and call it a day. But the Haza thought he was too cool for school and would slickly get the cops to hit me for trespass. His drunk mind conjured that I was legally liable for the audacity of preventing him from committing violence against women on his driveway. Classic narcissist. Classic DARVO.
A few minutes later, my friend got a call from Charlotte County deputies. We were in the back of a Publix parking lot. The altercation left me with a head wound that required medical attention. The cops came to meet us, where we gave statements. EMS arrived and wrapped me up, too.
Once the police saw my condition and heard all the claims, it was clear to them that Frank was the aggressor. The Haza was on probation and is now facing even more charges. It’s all in the Charlotte County Sheriff’s report.
Despite the severity of the situation, Frank refused to cooperate with the police investigation and declined to give a sworn statement.
The officer’s report identified Frank as the primary aggressor, noting that his actions were not only violent but also a violation of his probation. Frank was already on paper for a previous case of domestic battery by strangulation. His latest actions led to charges of battery and violation of probation.
Florida Law officially makes me a “victim.” I received a lovely little “Victims’ Rights Brochure.” The Charlotte County Sheriff’s Deputies were as professional as can be.
The identities of the women, children, and other victims involved in this case have been kept private, and rightly so. They’ve been through enough and don’t need any more attention drawn to their pain. I hope that by stepping in, I was able to make a difference and prevent him from causing even more harm.
Frank is in custody now, and I’ll continue to support those who need protection from people like him. Not because I’m a Tough-Guy Journalist. But because it’s the right thing to do.
The “Tough Guy” Business
All I can say about the Tough-Guy Journalist business is that it’s not for the skittish. Somewhere deep down, I thought that by confronting actual domestic violence threats in my journalism, I might somehow have some greater preparedness for this type of situation. I was wrong.
My bigger question is: What would have happened if I wasn’t there? What kind of physical violence would the women have suffered? What about the unseen and emotional damage to the school-aged child? These are topics I consider all the time, but absent the actual trauma that accompanies the victim.
The physical trauma is one thing. In the real “tough-guy” business, you must have your people “on call.” Ask Dana White, his UFC fighters, Hulk Hogan, and Donald Trump.
Thirty stitches and a slight concussion are nothing when you have the best in the business to sew you back together. Luckily, I have Dr. Ralph Garramone in my corner. He is tops in Fort Myers and all of Southwest Florida. His clients come from across the state, the country, and the waters for his services, some on private planes to Page Field and RSW. He was having ice cream with his kids when I needed him to fix the hamburger meat hanging out of my head. “No problem,” was his response.
Just a few days later, I’m physically healing well. Everyone says this when they compare the original gash to the current progress.
Thanks to Dr. and Jen Garramone, my forehead should be as good as new. The backup plan is to tell everyone I fought Lord Voldemort. If it goes that way, I’ll save a lot of money on Halloween costumes from now on.
My questions now are about the mental trauma, particularly for victims of domestic violence. I have been attacked in the past, and particularly brutally. I also played rugby for many years and have a relatively high threshold for physical pain. Still, none of that correlates to “emotional armor” or readiness to process the non-physical trauma.
Journalists are often “fully committed” to their craft. In 2003, Ryan Parry, a Daily Mirror reporter, got a job as a Buckingham Palace footman to get inside access. In 2008, Joe McGinniss became Sarah Palin’s neighbor to write a book about her. James O’Keefe and Lila Rose pretended to be pregnant and secretly recorded their encounters at Planned Parenthood.
In many ways, I can be a Tough-Guy Journalist because I choose to be. I can explore situations and chase stories of interest, bringing the quest for understanding and the desire to know to the very edge. I now have some new insights for my writing.
But the victims of domestic violence, the children especially, aren’t in the “tough-guy business.” And they shouldn’t be. Kids should be kids.
Part of being tough is so that others don’t have to be. Thirty stitches and a slight concussion – that equals my physical trauma and the protection of others more vulnerable than me on that day.
But what about the emotional costs? Is there any precise answer? What more will the many women and children require to stop the unseen pain inflicted by their abusers?
The emotional solution doesn’t come from a police report or Family Court.
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