They come by the dozens every weekday to the teeming Cook County Domestic Violence courthouse, people from all walks of life who for one reason or another want a court order to calm an abusive relationship or stop a stalker.
Some have black eyes and haven't slept. They bring police reports and are ready to press charges. Others waver, wary that taking legal action could set off a powder keg. Relatives come, too, desperate and tired of seeing a loved one mistreated.
At the courthouse on Chicago's Near West Side, they enter a world that offers a lifeline but also comes with its own potential pitfalls. One by one they're screened in a "triage" room just off the lobby. They fill out forms and wait to see a judge. There are advocates, social workers, prosecutors and pro bono lawyers standing by to help, but they can do only so much. Often it's up to the victims to decide how best to help themselves.
That's the dilemma Nagah Ezaldein found herself in last April when she went to the courthouse at 555 W. Harrison St. while seeking a no-contact order for her sister, Nadia, who allegedly had been beaten, threatened and harassed by her ex-boyfriend.
Judge Caroline Moreland denied the petition, saying that by law the victim needed to make the request. Her sister said Nadia was too scared to come to court. As it turned out, she had every reason to be fearful.
On Black Friday, she was working at the bustling Nordstrom department store along the Magnificent Mile when police say the ex-boyfriend, Marcus Dee, fatally shot her before turning the gun on himself. It was her 22nd birthday.
Such high-profile slayings are a reminder that there are no easy solutions to domestic violence. For those living with a volatile partner or dealing with an obsessive ex, the reasons for not taking action are complex, including shame and financial considerations, even safety of children.
Sebastian T. Patti, the presiding judge at the Domestic Violence courthouse, defended Moreland's decision to deny the petition by Ezaldein's sister, saying that, under the law, a family member can intervene only if the alleged victim is a minor or too physically incapacitated to come to court.
With thousands of cases to handle each year-from routine squabbles to felony assaults-those who work at the courthouse know that some victims inevitably will be lost. But those deaths hit hard, the judge said.
"I will tell you that everybody who works here bleeds real blood," Patti said in an interview last week. "You think about the fact that somebody who was here a couple weeks ago who I maybe talked to, bumped into at the vending machine ... that person is no longer on the planet. It does have that effect."
A revolving door
According to her family, Nadia Ezaldein had broken up with Dee almost a year before her slaying and had taken steps to avoid him, including changing her phone number three times. But for most of those who die at the hands of their abusers, the greatest danger comes as they try to leave. In fact, about three-fourths of the people who die each year because of domestic violence were killed while attempting to end the relationship, according to data from the U.S. Department of Justice.
Leaving an abusive relationship is usually not a single event, but a process, experts say. It typically takes a victim seven attempts before walking away, said Cameka Crawford, spokeswoman for the National Domestic Violence Hotline.
"We know they are the expert in their own lives," Crawford said. The hotline handled more than 300,000 calls in 2013-the largest volume since its inception 20 years ago.
But that doesn't make the situation easier for others to understand, especially when police officers have made multiple calls to the same house or relatives have made repeated trips to the emergency room with a loved one. A few days later, victims recant. They refuse to press charges. Or they are desperate to believe a flurry of promises-that their abuser has changed or will stop drinking, advocates said.
People at their worst
When Ezaldein's sister came to the courthouse April 8, she would have first encountered a front desk receptionist whose job it is to ask a flurry of questions about her allegations and what relief she was seeking.
If a police report had been filed or officers dispatched on a specific incident, the petitioner is sent to the state's attorney's desk, where prosecutors evaluate whether criminal charges could be lodged.
If there was no police involvement-which apparently was the case with Ezaldein at that point-the petitioner is sent back to fill out a seven-page form that includes a summons for the accused, a proposed order for the judge and a section in which the alleged incidents can be detailed.
There are several opportunities for petitioners to seek help, either from the Domestic Violence Legal Clinic-a private, not-for-profit organization that has office space in the reception area-or from law students from DePaul University who have volunteered their assistance.
On a recent morning, the reception room was busy with petitioners seated at low tables, filling out forms and talking to advocates.
One woman approached the front desk holding a police report in her hand, seeking a warrant for her boyfriend's arrest. She kept her composure as the receptionist asked questions. Yes, he had been physically abusive. No, they didn't have any children together. Yes, she had previously tried to end the relationship. She then was sent back to talk to prosecutors.
On a busy day, up to 90 people can come through the front doors, most of whom have never before been to court, Patti said. Emotions are often raw, nerves frayed. There's also the constant worry that the alleged abuser will show up at the courthouse.
"You really do see people at their absolute best and their absolute worst here," the judge said.
In Nadia Ezaldein's case, court officials found no paper trail revealing if her sister had sought the help of one of the advocates before seeing the judge. If she had, she likely would have been told about the law prohibiting family members from filing on behalf of a relative, Patti said. In her petition, the sister also listed her home address as Fort Lauderdale, Fla., likely another red flag for the judge, he said.
Court records show that the day before, Dee had come to the courthouse to seek a no-contact order against Ezaldein's sister for allegedly threatening to have her brother kill him. His request was rebuffed by a judge who said under the law he needed to prove a pattern of stalking, not a single incident.
Nearly a week after Ezaldein's murder, both case files still sat on Patti's desk. The judge said he was still trying to answer his own question: What, if anything, could be learned from this?
For now, only one conclusion was certain for Patti: "It's an absolute tragedy for two families."