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ABOUT THE JOURNAL
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society (CCJLS), formerly Western Criminology Review (WCR), is the official journal of the Western
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Copyright © 2014 by Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society and The Western Society of Criminology
Hosting by Scholastica. All rights reserved.
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VOLUME 16, ISSUE 1 – APRIL 2015
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Feature Articles
Dark Network Resilience in a Hostile Environment: Optimizing Centralization and Density
Sean F. Everton and Dan Cunningham ........................................................................................................... 1
Correlates of Violence within Washington State Prisons
Kerryn E. Bell and Dale M. Lindekugel........................................................................................................ 21
Seeing Saw through the Criminological Lens: Popular Representations of Crime and Punishment
J. C. Oleson and Tamara MacKinnon ........................................................................................................... 35
Help-Seeking Behavior among Same-Sex Intimate Partner Violence Victims: An Intersectional Argument
Megan Marie Parry and Eryn Nicole O’Neal ................................................................................................ 51
ii
CCJLS Acknowledgements
This issue of CCJLS was supported by generous contributions from:
iii
VOLUME 16, ISSUE 1, PAGES 1–20 (2015)
Criminology, Criminal Justice Law, & Society
E-ISSN 2332-886X
Available online at
https://scholasticahq.com/criminology-criminal-justice-law-society/
Dark Network Resilience in a Hostile Environment:
Optimizing Centralization and Density
Sean F. Everton and Dan Cunningham
Naval Postgraduate School
ABSTRACT AND ARTICLE INFORMATION
In recent years, the world has witnessed the emergence of violent extremists (VEs), and they have become an ongoing
concern for countries around the globe. A great deal of effort has been expended examining their nature and structure in
order to aid in the development of interventions to prevent further violence. Analysts and scholars have been particularly
interested in identifying structural features that enhance (or diminish) VE resilience to exogenous and endogenous
shocks. As many have noted, VEs typically seek to balance operational security and capacity/efficiency. Some argue that
their desire for secrecy outweighs their desire for efficiency, which leads them to be less centralized with few internal
connections. Others argue that centralization is necessary because security is more easily compromised and that internal
density promotes solidarity and limits countervailing influences. Unsurprisingly, scholars have found evidence for both
positions. In this paper, we analyze the Noordin Top terrorist network over time to examine the security-efficiency
tradeoff from a new perspective. We find that the process by which they adopt various network structures is far more
complex than much of the current literature suggests. The results of this analysis highlight implications for devising
strategic options to monitor and disrupt dark networks.
Article History:
Keywords:
Received 26 April 2014
Received in revised form 9 Sept 2014
Accepted 17 Sept 2014
dark networks, terrorism, social network analysis.
© 2015 Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society and The Western Society of Criminology
Hosting by Scholastica. All rights reserved.
Violent extremist networks (aka covert networks,
dark networks) are an ongoing concern for countries
around the globe. Their nature and structure have
been examined for the purpose of developing
interventions that destabilize, disrupt, or otherwise
prevent further violence. Identifying structural
features that enhance (or diminish) their resilience to
exogenous and endogenous shocks is of particular
interest. As many have noted, groups generally seek
to
balance
operational
security
and
capacity/efficiency (see e.g., Combatting Terrorism
Center, 2006; Crossley, Edwards, Harries, &
Stevenson, 2012; McCormick & Owen, 2000;
Morselli, Giguère, & Petit, 2007). A consensus,
however, has not been reached as to which features
enhance the ability of dark networks to maintain such
a balance. For example, existing literature offers two
somewhat conflicting hypotheses about the
relationship between network structure and
operational security. Some argue that when the desire
for secrecy outweighs the desire for efficiency, dark
networks tend to be internally sparse and
decentralized (Baker & Faulkner, 1993; Enders & Su,
2007; Raab & Milward, 2003). Others argue just the
Corresponding author: Sean F. Everton, Naval Postgraduate School, 1 University Circle, Monterey, CA, 93943, USA.
Email: [email protected]
2
EVERTON AND CUNNINGHAM
opposite: the desire for secrecy leads dark networks
toward high levels of centralization and density.
Centralization is necessary because security can be
compromised when transactions have to traverse long
paths, and this can be overcome when a central hub
coordinates activity (Lindelauf, Borm, & Hamers,
2009). They also contend that density is the norm
among dark networks because it promotes solidarity
and limits countervailing influences (Coleman,
1988), as well as the fact that they recruit primarily
along lines of trust (Erickson, 1981).
Evidence has been found for several points of
view regarding the security-efficiency tradeoff
(Crossley et al., 2012; Everton & Cunningham,
2013). One reason is because how one measures
centralization and density profoundly affects one’s
results and conclusions (Crossley et al., 2012). For
example, centralization is often based on degree
centrality (Freeman, 1979), but it is unclear whether
this best captures the type of centralization found in
dark networks. Measurement problems exist in terms
of density as well. For example, because the standard
density measure is inversely associated with network
size, large and geographically dispersed networks
will typically exhibit lower levels of density. A
second factor contributing to the opposing views
regarding the security-efficiency tradeoff is that most
studies have not fully accounted for the multirelational nature of dark networks (Crossley et al.,
2012) or have failed to outline the types of
relationships under examination (Lindelauf et al.,
2009). Most have focused on a single type of relation,
usually communication ties, but dark network actors
are embedded in a range of relationships. A final
reason is that a majority of studies do not account for
the environment in which these covert networks
operate. Covert networks are hardly static. They not
only change in response to their own operational
goals but also to the strategic choices of their
opponents.
In this paper we consider how the structure of
dark networks can vary in response to both its own
goals and the strategies adopted by authorities. It
proceeds as follows. We begin by examining the
strategic tradeoffs that terrorists and other insurgent
groups face. These groups generally seek (or at least
should seek) to balance operational efficiency and
security, which we operationalize in terms of network
centralization and interconnectedness, respectively.
This leads to a series of hypotheses as to what we
might expect as we observe a dark network over
time. Next, we turn to this paper’s empirical setting:
namely, terrorism and insurgency in Indonesia and
the strategic approaches adopted by the Indonesian
authorities in their attempts to combat these dark
networks. We then discuss the data and methods used
in our analysis. We then present the results, which
show that the process by which dark networks adopt
various network structures is far more complex than
much of the current literature suggests. We conclude
by discussing various limitations of our study and
suggestions for future research.
Literature Review
Network Centralization
Operational efficiency is largely affected by the
ability of insurgencies to mobilize people and
resources (McCormick, 2005; McCormick & Owen,
2000). Some scholars suggest centralized networks
are positively associated with operational efficiency
(Baker & Faulkner, 1993; Morselli, 2009) and are
more effective in mobilizing people and resources
because they facilitate an efficient decision-making
process (Enders & Jindapon, 2010), which enhances
strategic planning and creates accountability and
standards among network members (Tucker, 2008).
They can also facilitate the transfer of resources due
to shorter path lengths between leaders and other
network actors (Lindelauf et al., 2009). Thus, it is not
surprising that several relatively successful dark
networks have been considered centralized networks
built around charismatic leaders. Enders and Sandler
(2006), for example, suggest that the centralized
nature of Aum Shinrikyo in the 1990s facilitated its
ability to successfully launch a sarin gas attack on the
Tokyo subway, while the decentralized structure of
Al Qaeda has reduced its ability to attain and launch
a CBRN attack.1 To be sure, many of these
characterizations have been largely qualitative in
nature and lack standard social network analysis
measures.2 Nevertheless, they do suggest that
centralization is often positively associated with the
command and control of dark networks.
Centralization can be a mixed blessing, however.
Research suggests that less centralized organizations
are able to adapt more quickly to rapidly changing
environments (Arquilla, 2009) and are less vulnerable
to the removal of key members (Bakker, Raab, &
Milward, 2011; Sageman, 2003, 2004). Many dark
networks, in particular terrorist networks, are often
assumed to adopt cellular and distributed forms of
network structure (Carley, Dombroski, Tsvetovat,
Reminga, & Kamneva, 2003). This allows small cells
to operate relatively independently with lower
operational costs, which in turn allows them to more
easily adjust to a rapidly changing environment than
can hierarchically-structured networks (Kenney,
2007). Moreover, less centralized networks are more
likely to withstand shocks, such as the capture of a
key member, because much of the remaining network
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
DARK NETWORK RESILIENCE IN A HOSTILE ENVIRONMENT
goes untouched and is capable of continuing
operations. However, dark networks that are too
decentralized may find it difficult to mobilize
resources. Moreover, they run the risk of having
individuals or small cells go “rogue” and conduct
operations not aligned with their operational interests.
This suggests that an optimal level of centralization
exists for covert networks and it is likely to change
over time. One could argue that dark networks will
shift toward the centralized-side of the continuum
when mobilization and the transfer of resources is its
primary focus (e.g., just prior to an attack). On the
other hand, they are more likely to decentralize when
adaptability takes precedence, such as in the
aftermath of an operation. In addition, network
centralization is almost certainly a function of
environmental context (Everton, 2012b). In relatively
friendly environments where adaptability is less
crucial and the risk for losing key actors is low,
covert networks will probably be more centralized.
However, if the environment becomes more hostile,
they will move toward the decentralized end of the
spectrum. For example, anecdotal evidence suggests
that prior to 9/11 al Qaeda was somewhat centralized,
but after it came under attack from coalition forces, it
adopted a much more decentralized organizational
structure (Sageman, 2008). In any case, these factors
suggest that cross sectional analyses are ill equipped
to fully understand network dynamics.
Network Innerconnectedness
There is little debate that groups recruit primarily
through their social ties. For instance, Lofland and
Stark’s (1965; see also, Stark, 1996) study of
conversion to the Unification Church discovered that
those who ultimately joined tended to be those whose
ties to group members exceeded their ties to
3
nonmembers. Similarly, Stark and Bainbridge (1980)
found that while the door-to-door efforts of Mormon
missionaries were relatively unsuccessful, when
missionaries met non-Mormons in the homes of
Mormon friends, they enjoyed a success rate close to
50 percent. Why? Because such meetings occurred
only after lay Mormons had built close personal ties
with these non-Mormons and essentially brought
them into their networks. A meta-analysis by Snow
and his colleagues (Snow, Zurcher, & Ekland-Olson,
1980) and McAdam’s (1986; see also, McAdam &
Paulsen, 1993) examination of the 1964 Freedom
Summer campaign uncovered a similar dynamic:
Successful social movements recruit primarily
through their social ties (Snow et al., 1980, p.791).
And finally, Sageman’s (2003, 2004) analysis of the
global Salafi jihad (GSJ) discovered that 83% of
members were recruited through friendship, kinship,
or mentorship ties.
Because security is of primary concern for dark
networks, they tend to recruit along lines of trust
(Passy, 2003). Not doing so can be dangerous, as
Ramzi Yousef, one of the 1993 World Trade Center
bombers, learned the hard way. As long as he
recruited through strong ties, he successfully evaded
the authorities, but when he enlisted an unfamiliar
South African student, his luck ran out. After Yousef
asked the student to take a suspicious package to a
Shiite mosque, the student called the U.S. embassy,
which led to Yousef’s arrest and later extradition to
the U.S (Sageman, 2004, p.109-110). Recruitment
through strong ties suggests that the networks will
become increasingly dense over time as ties form
between previously unlinked actors. This is due to the
phenomenon that Granovetter (1973) referred to as
the “forbidden triad” that eventually leads to an
increase in group density (Figure 1).
Figure 1: Granovetter’s Forbidden Triad
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
4
EVERTON AND CUNNINGHAM
Dense networks consisting of numerous strong
ties bring an important benefit to dark networks:
They minimize defection because they are better able
to monitor behavior (Finke & Stark, 1992, 2005;
Granovetter, 2005), appropriate solidary incentives
(McAdam, 1982, 1999; Smith, 1991), and solve
coordination problems (Chwe, 2001). Dark networks
that minimize defection are generally more
successful than those that do not. In fact, they often
“prefer” having members killed over having them
defect because “if one activist decides to defect, the
whole organization is vulnerable to the defector’s
subsequent actions” (Hafez, 2004, p. 40), and they
typically have to alter their plans and lie low for an
unspecified amount of time (Berman, 2009, p. 29).
Security concerns not only lead members of dark
networks to recruit primarily through strong ties, but
they also lead them to limit their ties with outsiders
because it helps minimize the presence of ideas and
other countervailing influences that could challenge a
group’s worldview. However, while limiting external
ties can improve a group’s security, dark networks
that are entirely isolated from the outside world are
unlikely to sustain their movement over the long term
(Jackson, Petersen, Bull, Monsen, & Richmond,
1960) because they need links to other groups in
order to gain access to important information and
other material and nonmaterial resources (e.g.,
weapons, materials, new recruits). As others have
noted, external ties are vital for any group or
organization attempting to survive in a rapidly
changing environment (Uzzi, 1996, 2008; Uzzi &
Spiro, 2005), and this is simply more acute for
insurgent groups because they face not only a
constantly shifting environment, but one that is
hostile at that.
Hypotheses
Because dark networks seek to maintain an
optimal level of centralization as well as balance
between internal and external ties, we should expect
such levels to vary in light of operational goals and
events on the ground. Of course, some changes in
network structure occur not by design but
unwittingly. An important insight of social network
theory is that the individual choices that actors make
(e.g., forming or dissolving a tie) can sometimes
cause changes in network structure of which they did
not intend or are even aware (Maoz, 2011).
Nevertheless, as noted above, we expect dark
networks to move toward the centralized-side of the
continuum when mobilization of resources is the
group’s primary focus, such as just prior to an attack,
but are likely to decentralize when adaptability and
flexibility take precedence, such as in the aftermath
of an operation. This can be stated more formally as
follows:
Hypothesis 1a: Because of the need to mobilize
resources for an operation, dark networks will
become more centralized just prior to an attack.
Hypothesis 1b: Because of a need to be
adaptable after an operation, dark networks will
seek to become less centralized after an attack.
Pre- and post-operation considerations may also
affect their relative number of external ties. In
particular, just prior to an operation, they may
increase the number of their external ties, while after
an operation, they may seek to sever them:
Hypothesis 2a: Because dark networks often
need to access external resources in order to
carry out operations, they will increase the
relative number of their external ties prior to an
attack.
Hypothesis 2b: Because immediately after an
operation dark networks have less need to access
to resources, they will decrease the relative
number of their external ties shortly after an
attack.
However, a dark network’s relative number of
external ties and centralization level will not only
adapt in order to meet its operational goals, but it will
also adapt to its external environment, in particular
the efforts of authorities to disrupt it.
Counterinsurgents have a wide variety of strategies at
their disposal for disrupting dark networks. Roberts
and Everton (2011) have outlined a variety of
strategic options available to those seeking to disrupt
insurgencies and other types of dark networks. They
divide strategies into two broad types: kinetic and
non-kinetic. Kinetic strategies involve aggressive and
offensive measures that seek to eliminate or capture
network members and their supporters, while nonkinetic strategic approaches are more holistic and use
a variety of non-coercive means, such as institution
building, psychological operations (PsyOps),
rehabilitation
and
reintegration
programs,
information operations (IO), and the tracking and
monitoring of key network members (Everton,
2012a), in order to sever the ties between the local
population and the insurgency, ultimately draining it
of its material and nonmaterial resources. For
different reasons we expect that (successful) kinetic
and non-kinetic approaches lead dark networks to
become increasingly isolated. Kinetic approaches
accomplish this by causing the environment in which
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
DARK NETWORK RESILIENCE IN A HOSTILE ENVIRONMENT
dark networks operate to become more hostile, while
non-kinetic approaches do so by cutting dark
networks off from the local population:
Hypothesis 3a: Because kinetic operations
create a hostile environment, dark networks will
become increasingly isolated in response to
kinetic operations.
Hypothesis 3b: Because non-kinetic operations
seek to sever ties between dark networks and the
local population, dark networks will become
increasingly isolated in response to non-kinetic
operations.
It is less clear what effect kinetic and non-kinetic
operations will have on the centralization level of
dark networks, so at this time we offer no hypotheses
regarding the effectiveness of each strategy, nor is it
clear what is desirable. On the one hand, causing dark
networks to become increasingly centralized may
allow them to mobilize resources, but at the same
time it will increase their vulnerability to targeted
attacks. On the other, causing dark networks to
become less centralized may diminish their ability to
carry out attacks, but at the same time, it will make
them more difficult to monitor and disrupt. We now
turn to a brief overview of Indonesian militancy,
which serves as the empirical setting for testing these
hypotheses.
Empirical Setting: Indonesia
In the early 1950s, a series of rebellions against
the newly independent Indonesian state began in
several parts of the country (Conboy, 2006, p. 5). The
establishment of an Islamic state, along with other
motivations such as socio-economic reform, brought
many of these rebellions together under the
movement known as Darul Islam (DI), which was led
by Soekarmadji Maridjan Kartosoewirjo until his
capture in 1962. The movement subsequently faced
many challenges through the 1960s, such as
numerous defections, a leadership vacuum, and
contentious debates regarding strategy, all of which
inspired several efforts to reestablish a more cohesive
movement in the 1970s and in the 1980s. The most
well-known product of these efforts, Komando Jihad
(KJ), consisted of several members of the old DIguard; it aimed to re-launch a revolution against the
state despite its complicated relationship with the
newly established Suharto regime (Conboy, 2006).
DI’s influence and its early offshoots on today’s
militant groups in Indonesia cannot be understated.
Almost every jihadist organization in the country
since the 1950s has its roots in DI, including the
5
majority of groups active over the last decade, such
as Jemaah Islamiyah (JI) and Noordin Top’s network.
Its influence, according to the International Crisis
Group’s Sidney Jones (2009), stems from a host of
factors, such as personal and kinship relations that
stretch across generations and are deeply embedded
in militant circles today, its employment of tactics
such as the use of Fa’i,3 its strategy of developing a
secure area of operation from which it could fight the
state,4 and its leadership and involvement in conflicts,
such as the Soviet-Afghan War (1979-1989), the
communal conflict in Ambon and Poso, and the
conflict on the island of Mindanao in the southern
Philippines, which helped establish ties among
militant organizations within Indonesia and across
the region.
The group from the DI-genealogy receiving the
most attention since September 11th has been JI.
Originally formed as a breakaway faction of DI, it
has its roots in the Soviet war in Afghanistan. The
organization’s founders, Abdullah Sungkar and Abu
Bakar Ba’asyir, were prominent members of DI and
among the first to send Indonesian fighters to Camp
Sadda in Pakistan around 1985, where many future JI
leaders learned skills they would eventually bring
back with them. The organization, which was
formally established in 1993, initially aimed to create
an Indonesian Islamic state, a goal that was
eventually expanded into the establishment of a
regional caliphate. JI grew increasingly violent
through its support and participation in Indonesian
communal conflicts in late-1990s and early-2000s. It
is best known for the October 2002 Bali bombings
that resulted in 202 deaths and attracted headlines
across the globe. Indonesian authorities severely
cracked down on JI in the aftermath of the bombings
and many of its key leaders were detained or killed.
All this appears to have created a leadership
vacuum into which Noordin Mohammed Top
stepped. A member of JI, Noordin began to sever his
ties from JI in 2003 after he acquired explosives
leftover from the 2000 Christmas Eve bombings
(Everton & Cunningham, 2012). Along with a core
set of JI members, he used his newly acquired
resources for his nascent network’s first operation:
the 2003 JW Marriott attack. For the next two years
his network, which would go by several names,
launched several successful attacks against “Western
targets” in Indonesia. He drew from a deeply
embedded network of actors, many of whom were DI
members or members of its offshoots, in order to
continue operating in the face of increased counterterrorism operations. His success eventually landed
him on the FBI’s Seeking Information-War on
Terrorism List in 2006. After a three-year lull in
attacks, he and his associates carried out
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
6
EVERTON AND CUNNINGHAM
simultaneous bombings against the Ritz-Carlton and
Marriott hotels in August 2009. These bombings led
to further stepped-up police operations and his
subsequent demise in the following month. Not long
after Noordin and a few of his key associates were
killed, his network essentially disintegrated (Everton
& Cunningham, 2013).
Noordin’s death should not be seen as an
absence of a terrorist threat in Indonesia. In 2010, for
example, a group of jihadists unsuccessfully tried to
establish a safe haven in Aceh to launch attacks and
to establish an Islamic state in the country
(International Crisis Group, 2010). Moreover, a
group established by Abu Bakar Ba’asyir in 2008,
Jemaah Ansharut Tauhid (JAT), has joined JI as a
powerhouse organization in Indonesia. In fact, many
JI members and former Noordin associates joined
JAT after its creation. The organization seeks the
establishment of an Islamic state and largely operates
above-ground; however, several of its members were
implicated for participating in Noordin’s 2009 attack,
for providing recruits for small-scale operations in
the country, and for being directly involved in the
2010 Aceh project. Finally, it appears smaller groups
of less experienced actors, often with the support of
JI and JAT, have emerged as a serious terrorist threat
in Indonesia although they have largely focused on
carrying out local attacks against law enforcement
(International Crisis Group, 2011).
Indonesian authorities have responded to the rise
of Islamic militancy in two primary ways, which
provide us with something of a natural experiment
for testing the effect that strategies have on a
network: One was the formation of Detachment 88
(Det 88), the Indonesian counter-terrorism squad; the
other was the establishment of the Jakarta Centre for
Law Enforcement Cooperation (JCLEC), a joint
initiative between the Indonesian and Australian
governments. Det 88 was formed in July 2003 shortly
after the first Bali bombing and is funded, equipped,
and trained by the United States and Australia. Since
its inception, it has achieved several notable
successes, including the arrest or killing of hundreds
of terrorist suspects, including Azhari Husin, Noordin
Top’s close associate and primary bomb-maker, and
Noordin Top himself in late-2009. However, Det 88’s
tactics have increasingly come under attack from
several influential Indonesian and international
organizations for purportedly adopting a “shoot first”
mentality and for possible human rights violations,
such as the torture of suspected terrorists
(Priamarizki, 2013; Roberts, 2013; “Elite Indonesian
Police Unit,” 2013). The elite squad has reportedly
killed 50 terrorism suspects since 2010, which has
only further contributed to domestic and international
skepticism regarding their rules of engagement.
Indeed, it appears that Det 88 may have adopted the
coercive
practices
of
earlier
Indonesian
counterinsurgency efforts by the military, which were
successful against DI in the 1950s but were
misapplied in later counterinsurgency efforts
(Kilcullen, 2010).
Det 88 is in stark contrast with what is taught at
the JCLEC, which was founded in 2004 and located
in Semerang, Indonesia, and seeks to be a resource
for Southeast Asian governments combatting
transnational crime and terrorism. It provides a forum
for academics and other experts to examine the
Southeast Asian situation, as well as allow
practitioners to keep up to date with the latest
developments on combatting terrorism and
transnational crime (Solomon, 2007). To this end, it
offers a wide-range of training programs, seminars,
and workshops on topics such as money laundering,
human trafficking, cyber-crime, computer forensics,
crisis negotiation, informant handling and
interviewing techniques, organized crime, and
Islamic law and politics (Jakarta Centre for Law
Enforcement Cooperation, 2005-2010). The center
also works closely with regional law enforcement
agencies that are looking to enhance their
enforcement capacity and approach (Ramakrishna,
2009). In short, it seeks to offer a more holistic
approach to combatting the Indonesian terrorist
threat, which is sorely needed in Indonesia
(International Crisis Group, 2012).
Data and Methods
The Noordin Top network serves as the case
study for exploring the relationships among dark
network structure, resilience, and counter-terrorism
strategies over time. His network, arguably more so
than any other organization operating within
Indonesia over the last few decades, demonstrated a
remarkable ability to withstand both endogenous and
exogenous shocks. We utilized relational data drawn
from two International Crisis Group (ICG) reports:
“Terrorism in Indonesia: Noordin’s Networks”
(2006) and “Indonesia: Noordin Top’s Support Base”
(2009). We supplement these with open source data
in order to generate time codes by month from
January 2001 through December 2010, which allows
us to account for when actors entered the network
and if and when individuals were arrested or killed.
The ICG reports on Noordin contain rich one-mode
and two-mode data on a variety of relations and
affiliations (friendship, kinship, meetings, etc.) along
with significant attribute data (education, group
membership, physical status, etc.). From these we
constructed five networks from several subnetworks
each containing 237 individuals. Specifically, we
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
DARK NETWORK RESILIENCE IN A HOSTILE ENVIRONMENT
created a trust network, which is an aggregation of
one-mode classmate, friendship, kinship, and coreligious subnetworks.5 We constructed a second
network, which we call the operational network,
from four one-mode networks that were derived from
corresponding two-mode networks, namely logistics,
meetings, operations, and training events. Our third
network is a one-mode communication network,
which captures the pattern of communications
between Noordin’s network members. The fourth is
Noordin’s business and finance network, a one-mode
network that was derived from a two-mode network
indicating the business and financial affiliations of
the members of Noordin’s network.6 Finally, we
created a combined network, which, as its name
implies,
combines
the
trust,
operational,
communication, and business and finance networks
in order to obtain an overall picture of Noordin’s
network. We consider all but the business and finance
network in the descriptive portion of our analysis
below,7 but focus only on the combined network for
the confirmatory analysis portion.8
In order to analyze these networks
longitudinally, we assigned time codes to each actor
in the network that indicated when they entered and
left Noordin’s combined network. In assigning these
codes, we assumed that ties between actors were
constant over time. That is, if two actors were coded
as friends at one point in time, we assumed that they
remained friends throughout their mutual presence in
the networks. The one exception to this concerns the
meetings subnetwork where, building on the work of
Krebs (2001), we assumed that a meeting tie did not
form until the meeting took place (unless, of course, a
tie was previously formed along another relation such
as friendship or kinship). We recognize the potential
limitations of these assumptions and how they may
affect the estimation of the various topographic
metrics we utilize in this paper. Nevertheless, we
believe that the approach taken here is reasonable and
valid.
Our dependent variables are various measures
capturing the centralization and connectedness of
Noordin’s network over time. Social network
analysis calculates network centralization based on
variation in actor centrality (Wasserman & Faust,
1994). More variation yields higher network
centralization scores; less variation yields lower
scores. Because the standard centralization score
(Freeman, 1979) estimates variation by comparing
each actor’s score to the score of the network’s most
central actor, the larger the centralization index, the
more likely it is that a single actor is central
(Wasserman & Faust, 1994, p. 176). An alternative
measure recommended by Coleman (1964), Hoivik
and Gleditsch (1975), and Snijders (1981) is variance
7
of actor centrality scores found in the network. It
compares each actor’s score to the average score,
which means that the larger the centralization index,
the more likely that a group of actors (rather than a
single actor) are central. A similar measure, standard
deviation, also uses the average score of all actors but
is preferable to variance because it returns us to the
original unit of measure. In our analysis below, we
use both standard centralization and standard
deviation scores, both of which can be calculated for
any measure of centrality. We include two measures
of centralization in this paper: degree and
betweenness. Because degree centrality counts the
number of ties of each individual actor, centralization
measures based on degree capture the extent to which
one or a handful of actors possess numerous ties
while others do not. By contrast, because
betweenness centrality estimates the extent to which
actors in a position to control the flow of resources
through a network, centralization measures based on
betweenness indicate the level to which one or a
handful of actors are in a position to broker the flow
of resources in a network.
Multiple measures are available for measuring a
network’s innerconnectedness with density and
average degree being the most common. As noted
above, however, the standard density measure is
problematic because it is inversely associated with
network size, and while this limitation can be
corrected by using average degree centrality (de
Nooy, Mrvar, & Batagelj, 2011; Scott, 2000), if a
network adopts a cell-like structure, it can be locally
dense but globally sparse. We sidestep these issues
by comparing the network’s external connectedness
with its internal connectedness, using Krackhardt’s
(1994) E-I Index, which measures the ratio of ties a
group has to non-group members to group members:
‫ܧ‬െ‫ܫ‬
‫ܧ‬൅‫ܫ‬
(1)
where ‫ ܧ‬equals the number of external ties and ‫ܫ‬
equals the number of internal ties. Thus, if a group
has all external ties, the index equals 1.0; if it has all
internal ties, the index equals -1.0; and if there are an
equal number of internal and external ties, the index
equals 0.0. We expect a dark network’s E-I index to
be less than those of light networks, all else being
equal. Indeed, we expect it to always be negative. Of
course, here we do not compare a dark with a light
network but instead examine a particular dark
network over time. Thus, we expect its E-I index to
become increasingly negative as pressure is brought
to bear on the network.
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
8
EVERTON AND CUNNINGHAM
We include two variables in order to capture the
various strategies adopted by Indonesian authorities
during the period under analysis: (1) one that
measures the formation and continued existence of
Det 88, and (2) one that measures the formation and
continued existence of the JCLEC. Although Det 88
was formed in July 2003, it did not reach its
operational capacity of 400 members until mid-2005;
thus, we include a variable that grows at a rate of 16
members a month, beginning in July of 2003 until
reaching 400 members in July of 2005. We rescaled
the variable by dividing it by 100 in order to make
interpreting the coefficients easier. The JCLEC was
established in July 2004, but it took time for it to
offer courses that attracted large numbers of students.
Thus, drawing on course attendance data included in
the JCLEC’s annual reports (Jakarta Centre for Law
Enforcement Cooperation, 2005-2010), we created a
variable that reflects the average number of students
who attended JCLEC courses in the previous six
months. In other words, although the center was
established in July of 2004, the six-month moving
average for that month was zero since no students
attended a JCLEC course in the previous six months.
However, because 49 students attended a course in
July of 2004, the six-month moving average for
August 2004 equaled 8.167. As we did with the Det
88 variable, we divided the moving average by 100 in
order to make the variable’s effects easier to
interpret.
Examining network structure over time requires
the inclusion of variables to account for important
temporal and event effects. The model includes two
variables to control for the curvilinear effect that time
appears to have on the various centralization
variables (but not the EI Index – see Figures 3
through 7): we have included both a month and a
month-squared variable. For the EI index, we only
included a month variable. Four additional variables
control for critical events and periods. A dummy
variable indicates the death of Noordin and his key
operatives and their subsequent “absence” from the
network from September 2009 through the end of our
analysis. An additional dummy variable measures the
effect of Noordin’s ability to acquire surplus
explosives from the 2000 Christmas Eve Bombings
in Indonesia. This explosives variable covers the time
from which Noordin obtained the explosives in
December 2002 to the time in which they were used
for the network’s first attack in August 2003. We also
have included a series of pre and post-operation
dummy variables that capture the three-month period
immediately preceding and following each of the five
major operations: Bali I, the JW Marriott Hotel
bombing, the Australian Embassy bombing, Bali II,
and the Jakarta Hotel bombings. Because Noordin’s
network was only directly involved in the bombings
after the first Bali bombing, the pre and post
operation dummy variables for all but the first Bali
bombing are combined into one pre-operation
variable and one post-operation variable, while the
pre and post operation variables for the first Bali
bombing are included separately.
In order to tease out how the Noordin Top
terrorist network adapted and changed from 2001 to
2010 in reaction to endogenous and exogenous
factors, our analysis includes both descriptive
methods and ordinary least squares (OLS)
multivariate regression. Because social network
assumptions differ from those of standard OLS
approaches, we use bootstrapping methods to
estimate standard errors, an approach commonly used
with social network data (Borgatti, Everett, &
Freeman, 2002; Prell, 2011).
Results
Figures 2 through 6 below present graphs of the
centralization and E-I Index scores for Noordin’s
alive and free trust, operational, communication, and
combined networks. Specifically, the figures graph
the centralization (degree and betweenness),
normalized standard deviation (degree and
betweenness), and E-I index for each of the various
networks. Moving from left to right the vertical dark
gray lines indicate key points in the life cycle of
Noordin’s network: the first Bali bombings (October
2002), the Marriott Hotel bombing (August 2003),
the Australian Embassy bombing (July 2004), the
second Bali bombings (October 2005), the Jakarta
Hotel bombings (July 2009), and the death of
Noordin and other key operatives (September 2009).
Comparing the degree centralization (Figure 2) and
degree standard deviation (Figure 3) scores of the
network yields some interesting insights. It appears
that in terms of degree centralization, the network
grew increasingly centralized early in its existence,
and then after a slight dip in 2004, remained
relatively constant, at least up until the point that
Noordin was killed. This was not the case in terms of
degree standard deviation, however. It appears there
is a quick run up in centralization early in the
network’s career, but then it drops back to where it
began before climbing slightly in late-2006. The
network then shifts back to a downward trend until
around early-2007, recovers slightly, and then
remains relatively constant until Noordin’s death in
2009. The comparison of these two sets of graphs
suggests that while Noordin formed and maintained
numerous ties to group members, thus driving up
degree centralization (Figure 2), his inner circle did
not, which could explain why except for the jump in
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
DARK NETWORK RESILIENCE IN A HOSTILE ENVIRONMENT
2004, degree standard deviation remained relatively
stable over the time period under examination (Figure
3). The coefficients for the time variable included in
Table 1 below (“month”) are consistent with these
results. In particular, the coefficient for standard
(i.e., Freeman) degree centralization is positive and
statistically significant, indicating that after
9
controlling for other factors, degree centralization
increased over time. By contrast, the coefficient for
standard deviation is negative but statistically
insignificant, suggesting that after controlling for
other factors, degree standard deviation remained
relatively constant from 2001 to 2010.
Figure 2: Degree Centralization of Alive and Free Noordin Top Network
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
10
EVERTON AND CUNNINGHAM
Figure 3: Degree Standard Deviation of Alive and Free Noordin Top Network
We do not see a similar relationship between
betweenness centralization (Figure 4) and
betweenness standard deviation (Figure 5). Here the
two sets of scores display similar patterns, suggesting
that both Noordin and his key operatives located
themselves in brokerage positions within the
network. The coefficients for the time variable
included in Table 1 below are consistent with these
results as well. The coefficients for both betweenness
centralization and betweenness standard deviation are
positive and statistically significant, suggesting that
after controlling for other factors both increased over
the
time
period
under
investigation.
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
DARK NETWORK RESILIENCE IN A HOSTILE ENVIRONMENT
Figure 4: Degree Centralization of Alive and Free Noordin Top Network
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
11
12
EVERTON AND CUNNINGHAM
Figure 5: Betweenness Standard Deviation of Alive and Free Noordin Top Network
The E-I Index (Figure 6) shows that the
combined network became increasingly inward for
most of the period under consideration. Indeed, the
network exhibited a pattern of establishing external
ties prior to most of the Noordin-led attacks,
excluding the 2005 Bali bombings. This trend likely
reflects a need for information or other types of
resources such as bomb-making materials and
money. On the other hand, the network also turned
increasingly inward, again with the exception of the
2005 attacks, following the Noordin-led attacks.
These changes prior to and after the majority of the
attacks highlight that network cohesion is likely to
change immediately before and after an attack. What
is especially interesting is how just before the July
2009 attacks, Noordin began forming ties to actors
outside of his immediate circle because it raises the
possibility that Noordin may have been careless in
forming these ties, which may have contributed to his
death two months after the July attacks.
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
DARK NETWORK RESILIENCE IN A HOSTILE ENVIRONMENT
13
Figure 6: E-I Index of Alive and Free Noordin Top Network
Table 1 displays the results of our multivariate
regression analysis. The tables contain models with
and without the month and month squared variables
due to high collinearity between the two time
variables. Because our table contains five dependent
variables for both sets of models, along with ten
independent variables for the models with the month
and month squared variables and eight independent
variables for those without, it is impossible to discuss
all of the nearly 100 coefficients. Thus, our
comments will tend to focus on the models without
the two month variables and we will concentrate on
overall patterns and focus on those coefficients that
are both substantively and statistically significant
(McCloskey, 1995; Ziliak & McCloskey, 2008). The
table presents many interesting findings. For
example, the adjusted R2 for all of the models are
extremely high and indicate that they account for a
substantial amount of the variation in the dependent
variables, as well as provide a sense of confidence
that our models adequately explain the variability in
our dependent variables.9
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
-455.258***
1.932***
-3.828***
3.651***
-4.802***
Detachment 88
JCLEC
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
-1.430
-2.740**
1.964**
1.371*
-10.923***
118
447.024
477.502
94.16
-0.357
-0.311
1.934**
1.551**
-11.922***
118
468.354
490.519
92.77
Post Bali I
(2002)
Explosives
Pre Ops
Post Ops
Key Deaths
Observations
AIC
BIC
Adjusted R2
54.24
209.447
187.350
117
-1.319***
0.113
0.443*
-1.090***
0.188
0.018
62.04
199.667
169.283
117
-1.864***
0.111
0.307
-1.135***
0.160
-0.001
65.62
610.423
588.325
117
-9.999***
-0.197
-1.930*
0.083
1.341***
1.456***
-2.474**
2.354***
12.504***
84.07
532.514
502.130
117
-4.648***
-0.203
-0.658
0.678
1.656**
1.700***
-0.002***
1.462***
5.476***
3.212***
67.48
-29.849
-51.878
116
-0.639***
-0.038
-0.174***
0.003
0.038
0.031
-0.028
0.151***
81.17
-81.184
-111.474
116
-0.269**
-0.056
-0.098*
-0.067
0.010
-0.014
-0.000***
0.158***
0.480***
0.123***
-39.538***
Std. Deviation
1.341***
Betweenness
-339.603**
Freeman
Note: Coefficients are unstandardized; bootstrap standard errors used to estimate significance
* p < .05
** p < .01
*** p < .001 (two-tailed)
-2.628***
-1.241***
0.000
-0.001***
Month2
Pre Bali I (2002)
-0.164
-1.050***
-0.107
44.611
1.687***
-0.221
-0.029
4.523***
Std. Deviation
Month
Intercept
17.821***
Freeman
Degree
Centralization
Table 1: Multivariate Regression Results for Noordin Top Combined Network (Alive and Free)
73.68
-354.311
-376.270
115
-0.066**
0.071***
0.032*
-0.089***
0.056**
0.036***
-0.052*
-0.032***
-0.302***
78.73
-366.759
-396.953
115
0.018
0.076***
0.025*
-0.033
0.080***
0.068***
0.000***
-0.047***
-0.111***
0.006
12.626***
EI Index
14
EVERTON AND CUNNINGHAM
DARK NETWORK RESILIENCE IN A HOSTILE ENVIRONMENT
Looking at the pre-operational and the postoperational behavior of the network, the network did
become increasingly centralized prior to an attack in
terms of the degree centralization measures but not in
terms of the betweenness centralization measures,
lending some support for hypothesis 1a. Given that
the former measures capture the extent to which a
network is centered around actors who possess
numerous ties, while latter measures capture the
extent to which it is centered around actors who are
in positions of brokerage, this result suggests
centralization occurs on some dimensions prior to an
attack but not on others. Interestingly, the network
did not decentralize like we predicted it would after
attacks (Hypothesis 1b).10 In fact, it appears to have
continued to centralize in the aftermath of its attacks.
This may indicate that Noordin was incapable of
adopting a less centralized and flexible structure
immediately after an attack, which probably left his
network vulnerable during those periods.
Interestingly, the network did drift toward the
external side of the E-I spectrum before attacks,
which lends support Hypothesis 2a. His network
followed the same behavior after attacks as well
(Hypotheses 2b), which may have contributed to him
being killed. Interestingly, the Post Bali I coefficient
shows a similar result. That the Bali I network was
essentially destroyed in the aftermath of the attack
suggests that increasing external ties in a hostile
environment could lead to disastrous results. An
alternative explanation is that the apparent inability
for Noordin to decentralize his network or halt the
drift toward more external ties simply reflects an
artifact of the way our data are coded. As noted
above, we assumed that a tie continued to exist once
it was formed, which means that we may not have
captured whether some ties were severed (or at least
went dormant) after an attack.
As predicted (Hypotheses 3a and 3b) it appears
that both Det 88 and the JCLEC caused Noordin’s
network to become increasingly isolated as indicated
by the E-I Index column in Table 1. The results
indicate that they contributed to the network’s inward
looking behavior, which suggests that the network
felt the pressure being exerted by the two groups and
consequently attempted to increase its security by
focusing on establishing and maintaining internal ties
while limiting external ones. While isolating an
insurgency is generally a counterinsurgency goal, it
can also lead to an increase in a group’s radicalism
(Sunstein, 2009). However, in this case, it appears
that Noordin and his followers were already highly
radicalized (Griswold, 2010).
The two groups appear to have affected the
network’s centralization in different ways, however.
Det 88 seems to have pushed it to become
15
increasingly
centralized,
thereby
increasing
Noordin’s command and control. However, by
causing it to become more centralized, it led it to
become more and more vulnerable to decapitationlike strategies, which, as we already noted, is exactly
what befell Noordin’s network. After Noordin and a
few of his key associates were killed in the Fall of
2009, the network essentially fell apart. The JCLEC’s
effect on the network’s centralization is less clear. If
we focus only on the models that do not include the
two time variables, then it appears that the JCLEC’s
efforts caused the network to become less
centralized. This suggests that the JCLEC not only
caused Noordin to attempt to limit his personal ties in
order to reduce visibility but also to limit his role as a
broker in order to create a relatively more flexible
structure in terms of the brokerage of resources.
Thus, the JCLEC may have helped to reduce
Noordin’s command and control capabilities, but at
the same time, it may have allowed the network to
adopt a more flexible structure. The fact that the sign
of the JCLEC coefficient flips in terms of the
betweenness centralization measures when the time
variables are included in the models raises the
possibility that while the pressure brought to bear by
the JCLEC did lead Noordin to reduce his visibility,
it did not lead him to relinquish his position of
brokerage.
Discussion and Conclusion
This article has explored the topic of dark
network resilience by simultaneously considering the
strategic tradeoffs that both dark networks and
counter-insurgents face. It demonstrates that both sets
of tradeoffs help shape a dark network’s structure,
which in part affects its resiliency. As it was shown, a
dark network’s adoption of a network structure is far
more complex than what current literature suggests,
namely that a network structure at either side of the
cohesion and centralization continuums offers
potential advantages and disadvantages in terms of
network resilience. In the case of Noordin Top, it
appears that his network’s focus on establishing
external ties after its operations provided it possible
access to resources but likely became a factor
contributing to its exposure and eventual disruption.
The network, much like its Bali I predecessors who
also focused on establishing external ties after their
operation, faced significant losses and needed to
reconstitute itself immediately following each
operation. This tendency, along with the general
adoption of a centralized structure, suggests that
Noordin’s network adopted a suboptimal structure
that ultimately contributed to his demise.
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
16
EVERTON AND CUNNINGHAM
Similarly, the two somewhat contrasting
strategic approaches (Det 88 and JCLEC) both appear
to have played critical roles in disrupting the network
by isolating it from the population. Together, these
approaches appear to have placed significant pressure
on the network by forcing it to turn inward only until
it exposed itself when it needed resources and may
have contributed to the network’s downfall. At the
same time, they potentially provided some short-term
advantages for the network. The JCLEC, for
example, appears to have reduced Noordin’s
command and control by making it less centralized;
however, it may have improved the network’s
resiliency by possibly making it more difficult to
monitor. Certainly, it is unlikely that the effect of
these strategies will be uniform across the various
Noordin network aggregations. For example,
Noordin’s communication network adopted a very
different structure than the combined network and the
effects of our independent variables on each
aggregation (trust, operations, business and finance,
etc.) are unclear at this point. Only after further
analysis can we tease out how these strategies
affected each network.
Clearly, more work is needed with regards to the
security-efficiency tradeoff in terms of dark network
resilience. One limitation of this analysis was the
inability to tease out specific policies and substrategies employed by Det 88 and the JCLEC
against Noordin’s network. For instance, it is highly
likely that Det 88 used alternative strategies against
its targets, such as PSYOPs, but open-source data are
limited in this regard. Future studies should continue
to test various strategic options employed against
dark networks and how they affect a network’s
structure over time. An examination of these
strategies to various network aggregations, much like
the descriptive analysis in this paper, will certainly
benefit the field. A second challenge facing this
study, which is one many longitudinal studies of dark
networks face, is it did not fully account for the
endogenous effects and other internal processes that
shaped Noordin’s network over time. For example, it
is highly possible that some of the network’s trends
toward internal density and greater centralization
across time were due to Noordin’s personality and
decision-making processes. Finally, one should not
assume that the behavior of the Noordin Top terrorist
network characterizes the behavior of all terrorist
networks, let alone all dark networks. The results
here simply suggest that it is desirable to see further
inquiry into the security-efficiency tradeoff regarding
network resilience within other contexts and that
future studies should consider both the counterinsurgent and the dark network’s strategic point of
view. Not only would these studies help researchers
better understand dark network resilience, but they
would also aid in the monitoring, disruption, and
destabilization of dark networks.
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About the Authors
Sean F. Everton is an Assistant Professor in the
Department of Defense Analysis and the Co-Director
of the CORE Lab at the Naval Postgraduate School
(NPS). Professor Everton earned his MA and PhD in
Sociology at Stanford University (2007). He has
published in the areas of social network analysis,
sociology of religion, economic sociology, and
political sociology, and he currently specializes in the
use of social network analysis to track and disrupt
dark networks (e.g., criminal and terrorist networks).
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
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EVERTON AND CUNNINGHAM
His monograph on using social network analysis for
the crafting of strategies for the disruption of dark
networks (Disrupting Dark Networks) was published
by Cambridge University Press in late 2012.
Daniel Cunningham is an Associate Faculty for
Instruction in the Defense Analysis Department at the
Naval Postgraduate School (NPS) in Monterey, CA,
where he lectures on the visual analysis of dark
networks. He is also a Research Associate in the
Defense
Analysis
Department’s
Common
Operational Research Environment (CORE) Lab and
he is the supervisor for the lab’s outreach efforts with
practitioners. Dan earned his MA in International
Policy Studies with a focus in Terrorism Studies at
the Middlebury Institute of International Studies
(MIIS) in 2009 and has published several articles on
dark networks.
Endnotes
1
Other examples of successful centralized covert networks include Pablo Escobar’s drug trafficking network and
Peru’s Sendero Luminoso (Shining Path).
2
One notable exception is Koschade’s (2006) analysis of the first Bali Bombing network.
3
Fa’i is a method used by many groups to obtain money and resources from armed robberies
4
A tactic that was unsuccessfully attempted by the 2010 Dulmatin-led group in Aceh (International Crisis Group,
2010).
5
A one-mode network consists of a single set of actors and the relationships between them, which can be any
type of ties, such as kinship, friendship, etc.
6
Two-mode networks either consist of two sets of different actors, such as people and businesses, or one set of
actors and one set of events or affiliations.
7
The business and finance network is so sparse that it makes little sense to analyze it separately.
8
We could have analyzed these networks separately in the multivariate regression section, but the purpose of this
analysis is to examine the overall behavior of the Noordin Top terrorist network in terms of network resiliency.
The analysis of each sub-network would certainly provide insight into intricacies of the network’s resilience,
however.
9
We used a variety of regression diagnostic plots (e.g., residual vs. fitted plots, proportional leverage plots,
leverage vs. squared residual plots) to identify potentially influential cases that if removed substantially changed
our regression results. For each model, we then estimated a regression equation that included all cases and one
that removed potentially influential cases. Then, using the Akaike information criterion (AIC) and Bayesian
information criterion (BIC) measures of fit, we compared the models to one another. The results from the
models having the best fit are presented in Table 1.
10
Figures 2 through 5 appear to indicate that this does not hold for the operations network.
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
VOLUME 16, ISSUE 1, PAGES 21–34 (2015)
Criminology, Criminal Justice Law, & Society
E-ISSN 2332-886X
Available online at
https://scholasticahq.com/criminology-criminal-justice-law-society/
Correlates of Violence within Washington State Prisons
Kerryn E. Bell and Dale M. Lindekugel
Eastern Washington University
ABSTRACT AND ARTICLE INFORMATION
The Washington State Department of Corrections indicates that there is a rise in prison violence for both men and
women in their facilities. Using unique data on every inmate incarcerated in the state of Washington between 2009 and
2011, we correlate inmates’ prevalence of prison violence with background characteristics of inmates, their ties to the
community, and the effects of prison classification and programming. We find that race/ethnicity, community ties, and
education are significantly tied to prison violence. Further, prison classification identifies those inmates most likely to
be violent while incarcerated. Surprisingly, no effect of gender on prison violence is seen. Implications for our findings
are discussed.
Article History:
Keywords:
Received 28 July 14
Received in revised form 14 October 14
Accepted 28 October 14
violence, prisons, gender, race/ethnicity
© 2015 Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society and The Western Society of Criminology
Hosting by Scholastica. All rights reserved.
Prisons are charged with maintaining custody
and control of society’s most violent offenders.
Despite the best efforts of prison administrators and
staff, violence occurs. When attempting to identify
predictors of prison violence, studies show
inconsistent findings with the exception of age and
criminal history (Steiner & Wooldredge, 2009). Not
surprisingly, younger inmates with a criminal history
of violence are most likely to engage in violence in
prison. Other predictors intermittently determined to
correlate with violence include the background
characteristics of inmates, their ties (or lack of) to the
community, the dynamics of life inside the prison,
characteristics of the prison environment including
administration, and state and federal policies and
funding (Arbach-Lucioni, Martinez-Garcia, &
Andres-Pueyo, 2012; Walters & Crawford, 2013).
Another consideration with researching prison
violence is the issue of measurement. Studies on
prison violence include those that examine violence
as part of more inclusive measures of prison
misconduct in general (see Camp, Gaes, Langan, &
Saylor, 2003; Cochran, 2012; Siennick, Mears, &
Bales, 2012; Wooldredge, Griffin, & Pratt, 2001) and
those that focus specifically on violence (see Berg &
DeLisi, 2006; Cunningham, Sorenson, & Ready,
2005; DeLisi, Berg, & Hochstetler, 2004; Hardyman,
Austin, & Tulloch, 2002). It is also likely that selfreport data may have important measurement
differences as compared to official data (Steiner &
Wooldredge, 2013). We focus explicitly on prison
violence using official data.
Largely unexamined in existing research is the
effect of regional differences. It is well established
that patterns of violent offending in the country vary
by region with the South having the highest rates of
violence (Crime in the United States, 2011). It is
likely that patterns of prison violence may vary
Corresponding author: Kerryn E. Bell, Assistant Professor, Department of Sociology and Criminal Justice, Eastern Washington
University, 329 Patterson Hall, Cheney, WA 99004, USA. Email: [email protected]
22
BELL & LINDEKUGEL
correspondingly. Studies include national, federal,
and state samples with little specific testing for
regional differences and numerous samples from
various regions of the country, albeit few from the
Northwest. Wooldredge et al. (2001) evaluated
samples from New York, Vermont, and Washington
when considering the efficacy of different models of
prison classification in predicting prison misconduct.
They find significant regional variation across the
three samples.
The present research examines
contemporary data from the state of Washington and
focuses specifically on prison violence as separate
from other infractions.
Research also examines factors related to
inmates’ connection (or lack of) to the community,
which could be anti-social connections such as gang
membership (see Cunningham & Sorenson, 2007;
DeLisi, 2003; DeLisi et al., 2004; Gaes, Wallace,
Gilman, Klein-Saffran,& Suppa, 2002; Griffin &
Hepburn, 2006; Sorenson & Cunningham, 2010) or
pro-social connections including visitation (see
Cochran, 2012; Siennick et al., 2012) and marriage
(see Huebner, 2003; Toch, Adams, & Grant, 1989;
Wooldredge, 1994; Wooldredge et al., 2001).
Unexamined in existing research as an indicator of
ties to the community is prior homelessness, a
measure included in the current study.
Other factors intermittently discovered to
predict prison violence represent the dynamics of life
in the prison and the prison administration. Those
include the heterogeneity of the inmate population
and the staff (see Camp et al., 2003; Irwin, 2005;
Jacobs, 1977; Steiner & Wooldredge, 2009b),
whether the inmate has a job inside the prison
(Steiner & Wooldredge, 2009b), programming and
counseling (see French & Gendreau, 2006; Keyes,
1996; Morgan & Flora, 2002 for meta-analyses that
include educational, vocational and mental health
programs), and classification (see Austin, 2003;
Byrne & Hummer, 2007). Research is mixed in its
assessment of the institution’s capacity for control
and the usefulness of prison classification such as
programming (Griffin & Hepburn, 2013; Sandler,
Freeman, Farrell, & Seto, 2013). Programming is
understudied in prison research, and it may be useful
as a predictor of institutional misconduct (Sandler et
al., 2013).
By examining official data from the state of
Washington in the present study, we sample
indicators from each of the previous general
categories, specifically the background characteristics
of inmates (gender, race/ethnicity, and education),
their ties to the community (visitation and prior
homelessness), and factors related to the effects of
administration of the prison on inmates (classification
and programming). It is our intention that an
investigation of these indicators in a largely
unexamined region will contribute to a literature that
shows predictors of prison violence to be regionally
variable and that inmate involvement in prison
programming in particular will be a significant
contribution of our research to the literature on
correlates of prison violence.
Literature Review
Gender
Gender is a demographic variable that is
infrequently studied in the prison violence literature.
Research is mixed on gender and general prison
misconduct.
Some research suggests that
institutional misconduct is lower for females than
males (Cunningham, Sorenson, & Ready, 2011;
Drury & DeLisi, 2010; Harer & Langan, 2001).
However, other studies have found no difference
between gender and institutional misconduct (Camp
et al., 2003; Steiner & Wooldredge, 2014). Celinska
and Sung (2014) find that some predictors of prison
rule violations (prior victimization, diagnosed mental
disorders, and contact with family) are gender
specific, while Chen, Lai, & Lin (2014) suggest that
institutional misconduct for women varies by type of
offense committed. What is more consistent with
gender and the prison literature is that there is less
prison misconduct among women when the focus is
specifically on violence.
However, as serious violence is much less
common in women’s prisons, it is often not examined
(Craddock, 1996; Wulf-Ludden, 2013). Studies that
reflect on gender and prison violence find that men
are more violent in prison than women (see Austin,
2003; Berg & DeLisi, 2006; Sorensen &
Cunningham, 2010; Wulf-Ludden, 2013). Further,
some scholars suggest that female inmates’
interpersonal relationship may become more volatile
than previously thought (Greer, 2000).
This
interpersonal relationship volatility could lead to an
increase in prison violence among women. Such
literature would suggest that more research on gender
and violence in prison is necessary.
Race/Ethnicity
An intermittent predictor of prison violence is
race/ethnicity.
Schenk and Fremouw (2012)
determined race generally to be a strong predictor of
violence, with racial minorities tending to be more
violent than White inmates. Wooldredge and Steiner
(2012) recognized that victimization rates for White
inmates were slightly higher than for Blacks with
reference to physical assaults. However, the authors
noted the difficulty in reaching such conclusions
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
CORRELATES OF VIOLENCE
because so many studies were limited to one
geographical area with often unique demographic
characteristics.
This was also examined by Steiner (2009) who
studied 512 state-operated prisons and showed that
those with higher proportions of Black inmates had
higher levels of assaults but concluded that
heterogeneity in the composition of the inmate
population contributed to the inmate violence. Harer
and Steffensmeier (1996) evaluated violent
misconduct in 58 federal prisons from several
geographic areas in the 1980s. They determined race
to be a significant predictor, with Black inmates
twice as likely to be found guilty of a violent
infraction as White inmates.
In a large southwestern state, DeLisi (2003) used
a dichotomous sample of white or non-white and
established that non-whites were more likely to
engage in serious violent misconduct than whites.
Later in the same region, Berg and DeLisi (2006)
divided race/ethnicity into White, Black, Latino,
Native American, and Asian American.
They
showed that Latino males were the most likely to
engage in violent infractions. In fact, being a Latino
male was the strongest predictor of violent infractions
in their study. Native American males were the
second most likely to be involved in violent
infractions, while Black male involvement was not
significantly different than White male involvement
in prison violence. Yet, in Rhode Island, Rocheleau
(2011) discovered that Latino inmates were the least
likely to engage in prison violence.
In contradiction, Griffin and Hepburn’s (2006)
study of inmates in Arizona observed that White
inmates were more likely to be guilty of assault than
either Black or Latino inmates, and they noted that
White inmates were a racial majority both in the
prison and in the larger community. Finally, several
studies have established no significant relationship
between race/ethnicity and prison violence (see
Baskin, Sommers, & Steadman, 1991; Camp et al.,
2003; Wright, 1989).
While it appears that a relationship between
race/ethnicity and prison violence is generally
accepted in the literature, there is variation in terms
of which racial/ethnic minorities are more involved in
violence. Schenk & Fremouw (2012) did note the
unique demographic composition in different
geographic
locations
as
confounding
the
generalizability of findings. However, Steiner and
Wooldredge (2009) argue that parallels between
disadvantaged minority communities and prison
environments are very relevant for understanding
inmate violence in particular. Thus, a consideration
of race/ethnicity and prison violence is important, but
the regional variation must be considered.
23
Education
Education has consistently, but not uniformly,
been shown to predict prison misconduct and
violence. In a sample from the state of Washington
(along with New York and Vermont), Wooldredge et
al. (2001) found education to be a predictor of prison
misconduct. Less education has also been found to
be a strong predictor of violent misconduct in studies
conducted in Arizona, Florida, and Missouri (see
Berg & DeLisi, 2006; Cunningham et al. 2005;
Cunningham & Sorenson, 2006; DeLisi et al., 2004).
Despite the consistency of findings that level of
education predicted prison violence, the research
findings were not uniform.
In a study of
victimization, Wooldredge and Steiner (2012) found
background and lifestyle factors, including education,
to be conditioned by race. Specifically, education
was a strong predictor of the odds of victimization for
property offenses for Whites but not for violent
offenses, and education was not a strong predictor of
victimization for African American inmates for either
property or violent offenses. However, in a critical
review of the literature of individual characteristics
related to prison violence, Schenk and Fremouw
(2012) examined a sample of over 500 studies and
found that, while examining education was not a
primary goal in any of the studies, it was a
consistently strong predictor of prison violence. They
expressed encouragement in education as an
individual level variable that was dynamic and could
be enhanced during incarceration.
Community Ties
While there is much research on the effects of
residence and residency ties on post-prison
reintegration into the community (Latessa, 2004;
Metraux & Culhane, 2004, 2006; Roman, 2004),
there are few on the potential effects of these on
prison misconduct and, specifically, violence. By
residence we mean whether or not an inmate was
homeless prior to incarceration (and presumably
without a home to return to upon release), and
residency ties refers to visitation and social support
from outside the prison. Again, we find that the
literature focuses primarily on general prison
misconduct rather than specific indicators of
violence.
Visitation has been associated with lower
misconduct generally, but consistency in visitation
had a much stronger effect (Cochran 2012). Siennick
et al. (2012) examined visitation and disciplinary
infractions (including contraband) and determined
that the probability of infractions decreased in
anticipation of visits and substantially increased
immediately after, then eventually leveled off. They
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24
BELL & LINDEKUGEL
attributed the increase to spousal visits and
infractions for contraband.
The Minnesota
Department of Corrections (2011) investigated the
impact of visitation on recidivism (both new offenses
and technical revocations). They observed that visits
from siblings, in-laws, and fathers were most
beneficial but visits from spouses increased the risk
of recidivism.
Social ties and family support have been
associated with a lower likelihood of serious
misconduct, which included primarily violent
behaviors (along with escape and possession of a
weapon; Berg & DeLisi, 2006; DeLisi et al., 2004).
While not specifically examining prison misconduct
or violence, Warren, Hurt, Loper, & Chauhan (2004)
determined that close ties to the outside (having a
spouse and supportive family and visits from
children) predicted better adjustment to prison for
women.
There seems to be ample support in the research
that visitation and social support do have an impact
on prison adjustment and the likelihood of
misconduct including violent misconduct. However,
the potential impact of prior homelessness is absent
and is a factor that the current research considers. As
homelessness appears to impact post-prison
reintegration, it could also impact prison integration
as seen through violent infractions.
Effects of Classification and Programming on
Inmates
Research suggests that while individual-level
factors are powerful influences on prison violence,
administrative prison-level factors may influence
prison violence as well (Cunningham et al., 2011).
In a review of the empirical research over the
previous two decades, Byrne and Hummer (2007)
assessed whether a subgroup of high risk inmates
who would likely be involved in prison violence
could be identified and whether such evidence would
support the idea that current classification systems
reduced the risk to others. They concluded that
current classification systems neither predicted prison
violence very accurately nor reduced that violence.
They argued for a shift in emphasis toward
classifying inmates on the basis of changing them
(programming/treatment) more so than identifying
them for increased levels of control. Byrne and
Hummer (2007) further lamented that very little
quality research had been conducted (they reviewed
14 studies from a 20 year period) and that research
specifically
linking
classification,
program
placement, and in-prison behavior had not been
conducted.
Classification systems in prisons were more
focused on external classification (custody level and
where the prisoner was sent) than on internal
classification (which housing units and which facility
programs; Austin, 2003). Austin (2003) also showed
that classification and other risk assessment
instruments were commonly implemented without
proper design and testing and that sufficient staff
training and monitoring was lacking. Additionally,
classification and risk assessment instruments were
often very complicated, and Austin identified a direct
relationship between how complicated the
classification process was and how reliable it would
be. Makarios and Latessa (2013) saw substantial
differences between risks and needs assessment
instruments used in prisons and argued that the two
types should be separated.
Much of the research on classification is focused
on the broader and more common dependent variable
of prisoner misconduct rather than violence. When
studying dangerous misconduct (assault, robbery, and
drug trafficking) in the California prison system,
Berk, Kriegler, & Beck (2006) concluded that
dangerous misconduct was a rare event (3% of
inmates). They further determined that for every true
positive prediction of the classification scheme, there
were ten false positives. This was deemed an
acceptable cost as the false positives were “almost a
sure bet to engage in one of the less serious forms of
misconduct” (Berk et al., 2006, p. 9). They observed
that inmates at the highest risk for misconduct were
young, had long criminal records and sentences, and
were gang affiliated both on the street and in the
prison. Austin (2003) also established that prisoners
likely to be involved in misconduct were young men
with a history of violence and/or mental illness, those
who were gang affiliated, and those who had recent
disciplinary actions and were not involved in prison
programming.
Likewise, Camp et al. (2003)
discovered that age and prior misconduct were the
strongest predictors of misconduct in the federal
prison system.
Correctional treatment is another important
factor pertaining to prison misconduct. In a metaanalysis reviewing 68 studies, French and Gendreau
(2006) found that behavioral treatment programs
(rather than non-behavioral such as educational or
vocational programs) had the strongest effects and
that programs associated with the most reductions in
misconduct were also associated with larger
reductions in recidivism. These findings were
consistent with previous meta-analyses conducted by
Keyes (1996) and Morgan and Flora (2002). French
and Gendreau (2006) also recognized large gaps in
the research literature and called for additional
research that specifically defined prison context and
criterion variables, employed longer follow-up
periods, and specified offender characteristics
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
CORRELATES OF VIOLENCE
(especially risk level). This finding coincided with
Byrne and Hummer’s (2007) argument that little
research linking classification and program
placement to prison misconduct had been done. Our
research builds on this omission and specifically
examines the impact of internal programming on
inmates’ prevalence of prison violence.
Hypotheses
While the research on gender and prison
misconduct is mixed, we hypothesize that men will
commit more violence in prison, as women are less
likely to be associated with violence than men. We
also hypothesize that minorities will commit more
violence in prison than Whites in the state of
Washington and that those with a high school
diploma or GED will be less likely to engage in
prison violence. Using homelessness in particular,
we expect that such individuals will be associated
with greater prison violence, as the homeless will
have fewer ties to the community. Finally, while few
studies have considered the influence of internal
administrative-level factors on prison violence, we
hypothesize that those in behavioral programming
will be associated with less violence.
Methods
Data and Cases
The current study uses data from the Washington
Department of Corrections (DOC). All inmates
incarcerated for a twenty-month period between
January 1, 2009 and August 31, 2011 were included
with a sample breakdown of 6,674 females (17.3%)
and 31,842 males (82.7%). Data were collected on
demographic information such as gender, race, type
of offense, sentence length, and repeat incarceration.
The data also include such factors as residency prior
to incarceration, as well as internal programming and
prison visitation.
Dependent Measure
As we are simply interested in prevalence of
committing a violent infraction in prison, the
dependent measure is a dichotomous “yes” or “no”
dummy variable.1 Using official report data on
infractions for the entire cohort (N=38,516), the
Washington State DOC recognizes approximately
309 types of misconduct infractions of which 58
(18.77%) are coded as violent (See Appendix).2 A
strength of our dependent measure is that previous
studies including sex in prison have not differentiated
between consensual and violent sexual acts, even
though consensual sex is less of a threat to inmate
and institutional security (Saum, Surratt, & Inciardi,
25
1995; Wolff, Blitz, Shi, Bachman, & Siegel, 2006).
However, our dependent measure does make this
distinction and only focuses on violent sexual acts.
Independent Measures
Gender. Gender is a dummy variable with male
as the reference category.
Race/Ethnicity. Race/ethnicity is measured
with six dummy variables for Asian/Pacific Islander,
Black, Latino, Native American, Other, with White
as the reference category. The state of Washington
has a comparatively large percentage of Latinos and
Native Americans in the general and prison
population.
These data allow for a robust
consideration of race.
Education. Inmates who do not have a high
school diploma can obtain a GED in prison. All
inmates who successfully pass their GED exam while
incarcerated are noted by the DOC and thus
documented as someone who did not have a high
school degree before entering prison. Our education
dummy variable compares those with a high school
degree before incarceration to those who did not have
one.
Residence. The state of Washington documents
whether inmates had a place of residence before
incarceration or whether they were homeless.
Previous research has considered residency ties to
prison infractions, but none has specifically looked at
homelessness. This dummy variable compares those
who were homeless before incarceration to those who
were not.
Residency ties. We use visitation as a proxy for
residency ties and social support from outside prison.
Each prison facility in the state of Washington has
different regulations on the number of visitors per
visit. However, the maximum number of visitors per
visit in any facility is ten. This research uses overall
number of visitors as a proxy for visitation. Much
research on visitation examines ties to recidivism and
suggests that greater frequency of visitation is most
important to reduce recidivism (see Bales & Mears,
2008; Minnesota Department of Corrections, 2011).
Thus, rather than just considering whether an inmate
has a visitor or not, we consider how many visitors
they had. Based on the frequency distribution for
visitation, four categories of coding were created for
those with fewer than ten visitors, eleven to one
hundred, one hundred one to five hundred, and over
five hundred visitors.
However, an inmate who has served a shorter
sentence and has the same number of visitors as one
with a longer sentence arguably has more social ties.
Thus, the number of visitors is standardized by
sentence length through the creation of z scores to
make comparisons between these different groups.
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
26
BELL & LINDEKUGEL
Programs. Initial classification in the state of
Washington puts inmates into internal programs that
are deemed necessary to help each individual become
a law-abiding citizen upon release. An inmates’
involvement in three prison programs are
documented: Family relations, offender change, and
chemical treatment.3 The family relations program
focuses on improving the inmates’ relationship with
their families and children in particular. The offender
change program has many components, most notably
moral reconation therapy (MRT) and stress and anger
management (SAM). The goal of MRT is to improve
pro-social reasoning and behaviors among inmates,
while SAM creates an understanding of anger and
stress triggers and provides tools to channel this
anger/stress in non-violent ways. The chemical
treatment program focuses on an inmate’s addiction
to alcohol and/or drugs.
Control Variables
Control variables include offense type, sentence
length, and repeat incarceration. All offenses for
which the inmate is currently incarcerated are
classified into one of three categories: violent
offense, property offense, or drug offense. Thus, we
take into account and control for a criminal history of
violence (see Sorensen & Davis, 2011). Previous
research on prison general misconduct and violence
has specifically suggested that sentence length can
exert an influence, with prison violence more likely
to occur during the early part of incarceration and/or
among those with shorter sentences (see Berg &
DeLisi, 2006; Camp et al., 2003; Cunningham &
Sorensen, 2007; Wooldredge et al., 2001). Once
again, based on the frequency distribution of
sentences in the state of Washington during the 20month period, we classify sentence length into five
categories: less than one year, one to one and onehalf years, one and one-half to two years, two to three
years, and more than three years.
Inmates with simple repeat incarceration have
also been shown to display increased general
misconduct and/or specifically violence within prison
(see Berg & DeLisi, 2006; Cunningham et al., 2005;
Hardyman et al, 2002; Kuanliang & Sorensen, 2008;
Steiner & Wooldredge, 2008). To control for this
possibility, we include a “yes” or “no” dummy
variable whether this was the individual’s first
admission to prison or a readmission.4
Analytical Strategy
To test whether gender, race/ethnicity, education,
residence, residency ties, and programming were
associated with violent infractions within prison,
binomial logistic regression was employed due to the
dichotomous nature of the dependent variable. Initial
descriptive and bivariate analyses were conducted
before regressions were run. This initial analysis
considered frequency and percentage of offending as
well as relative odds of offending.5
Analysis
Descriptive and Bivariate Analysis
Table 1 presents initial descriptive and bivariate
analysis of gender, race, residence, residency ties,
and programming association with violent infractions
in prison.
Descriptive percentages for gender
indicate that the majority of both males and females
do not commit violent infractions within prison.
Bivariate results for race show that while most
inmates do not commit violent infractions, Latinos
commit the most violent infractions followed by
Native Americans. In fact, using Whites as the
reference category, Latinos are 3.20 times more
likely to commit a violent infraction while
incarcerated followed by Native Americans at 2.20
times more likely.
Descriptive and bivariate analyses also indicate
that those without a high school degree before
entering prison are four times more likely to commit
violent infractions in prison than those with a high
school degree. Further, having a place to live prior to
incarceration suggests that the bivariate odds of the
inmate committing a violent infraction are only
approximately half (0.55) that of being homeless
prior to incarceration.
Finally, descriptive and bivariate results show
that those inmates involved in each of the various
forms of prison programs (family relations, offender
change, and chemical treatment) commit more
violent infractions than those not in such programs.
Also, most inmates do not receive visitors and those
inmates with visitors commit more violent infractions
than those without visitors.
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
CORRELATES OF VIOLENCE
27
Table 1 - Descriptive and Bivariate Analysis of Gender, Race/Ethnicity, Education, Residency,
Programming, and Visitation on Violent Infractions in Prison (N=38,516)a
Gender (Male Reference)
Male
Female
Race (White Reference)
White
Asian/Pacific Islander
Black
Latino
Native American
Other
Education (Yes Reference)
High School Degree - Yes
High School Degree - No
Homelessness (Yes Reference)
Homeless - Yes
Homeless - No
Visitors (Zero Reference)c
Zero
Less than Ten
Eleven to One Hundred
One Hundred One to Five Hundred
Programming (Family Relations Reference)d
Family Relations
Offender Change
Chemical Treatment
Control Variables
Sentence Type (Violent Offense Reference)
Violent Offense
Property Offense
Drug Offense
Sentence Length (Less than One Year Ref.)
Less than One Year
One to One Half Years
One Half to Two Years
Two to Three Years
More than Three Years
Repeat Incarceration (Yes Reference)
Repeat Incarceration - Yes
Repeat Incarceration - No
No Violent
Infraction
Yes Violent
Infraction
Total
Relative
Odds b
29,826 (93.7)
6,388 (95.7)
2,016 (6.3)
286 (4.3)
31,842 (82.7)
6,674 (17.3)
1.00
0.66
26,218 (95.2)
1,149 (95.0)
5,466 (91.5)
1,544 (86.3)
1,141 (90.1)
696 (96.0)
1,334 (4.8)
60 (5.0)
509 (8.5)
245 (13.7)
125 (9.9)
29 (4.0)
27,552 (71.5)
1,209 (3.1)
5,975 (15.5)
1,789 (4.6)
1,266 (3.3)
725 (1.9)
1.00
1.00
1.80
3.20
2.20
0.80
34,665 (94.7)
1,549 (80.5)
1,927 (5.3)
375 (19.5)
36,592 (95.0)
1,924 (5.0)
1.00
4.00
2,814 (90.0)
33,400 (94.4)
311 (10.0)
1,991 (5.6)
3,125 (8.1)
35,391 (91.9)
1.00
0.55
30,324 (96.0)
5,890 (85.1)
3,135 (85.3)
421 (85.2)
1,270 (4.0)
1,032 (14.9)
540 (14.7)
73 (14.8)
31,594 (74.0)
6,922 (16.2)
3,675 (8.6)
494 (1.2)
1.0
4.25
4.25
4.25
5,081 (86.5)
13,611 (87.7)
8,331(90.0)
794 (13.5)
1,908 (12.3)
921 (10.0)
5,875 (19.2)
15,519 (50.6)
9,252 (30.2)
1.00
0.88
0.69
10,701 (93.6)
12,769 (94.5)
12,644 (96.2)
727 (6.4)
746 (5.5)
499 (3.8)
11,428 (30.0)
13,515 (35.5)
13,143 (34.5)
1.00
0.86
0.57
26,156 (95.2)
2,951 (81.8)
6,323 (96.1)
2,887 (89.9)
869 (95.0)
1,333 (4.8)
657 (18.2)
255 (3.9)
326 (10.1)
46 (5.0)
27,489 (65.8)
3,608 (8.6)
6,578 (15.7)
3,213 (7.7)
915 (2.2)
1.00
4.40
0.80
2.20
1.00
5,689 (83.2)
30,525 (96.3)
1,145 (16.8)
1,157 (3.7)
6,834 (17.7)
31,682 (82.3)
1.00
0.20
a
Percentages are shown in parentheses
Reference categories used to calculate relative odds
c
Those with more than five hundred visitors were too small
d
The programming total does not equal 100% as not all inmates were enrolled in these 3 programs
b
Multivariate Analysis
The results of multivariate analysis are presented
in Table 2. Using logistic regression, Blacks,
Latinos, and Native Americans have greater odds of
committing a violent infraction within prison than
Whites. Supportive of the bivariate results above,
Latinos are 2.09 times more likely to commit a
violent infraction within prison than not. Further,
those inmates without a high school degree and who
are homeless before entering prison have greater odds
of committing a violent infraction in prison. The
results of the multivariate analysis also further clarify
the bivariate results as they show specifically those
inmates who have fewer than ten visitors have greater
odds of committing a violent infraction in prison.
However, while not significant, those with more than
ten visitors actually engage in less prison violence.
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
28
BELL & LINDEKUGEL
This is consistent with previous literature on the
influence of visitation.
All inmate programs are significantly tied to
violence within prison. Interestingly, those inmates
in chemical treatment have lower odds of committing
a violent infraction within prison, while those
inmates in the family relations and offender change
program have much higher odds of committing a
violent infraction in prison. Finally, those inmates
incarcerated for a violent offense have greater odds
of committing another violent offense in prison, and
those inmates who have been previously incarcerated
have greater odds of committing a violent infraction
in prison. Surprisingly, no significant difference is
observed between the odds of males and females
committing violent infractions within prison. Both
are equally likely to be involved in prison violence.
Table 2 - Logistic Regression of Gender, Race/Ethnicity, Education, Residency, Programming, and
Visitation on Violent Infractions in Prison (N=38,516)
Female
Racec
Asian/Pacific Islander
Black
Latino
Native American
Other
No High School Degree
Homelessnessd
Visitors
Less than Ten
Eleven to One Hundred
One Hundred One to Five Hundred
More than Five Hundred
Programming
Family Relations
Offender Change
Chemical Treatment
Control Variables
Violent Offense
Property Offense
Drug Offense
Less than One Year
One to One Half Years
One Half to Two Years
Two to Three Years
More than Three Years
Repeat Incarceration
Intercept
Ba
0.03 (0.07)
Odds b
1.03 (0.90, 1.18)
0.08 (0.14)
0.30***(0.06)
0.74***(0.08)
0.44***(0.11)
0.36 (0.20)
0.86***(0.07)
-0.47***(0.07)
1.08 (0.82, 1.43)
1.35 (1.20, 1.51)
2.10 (1.80, 2.45)
1.55 (1.26, 1.90)
1.44 (0.97, 2.14)
2.36 (2.07, 2.70)
0.63 (0.55, 0.72)
0.22***(0.02)
-0.01 (0.02)
-0.01 (0.02)
0.00 (0.02)
1.24 (1.19, 1.30)
0.99 (0.95, 1.03)
0.99 (0.96, 1.03)
1.00 (0.97, 1.04)
0.12*(0.05)
1.28***(0.07)
-0.12*(0.05)
1.13 (1.02, 1.26)
3.58 (3.14, 4.08)
0.89 (0.80, 0.98)
0.30***(0.05)
0.06 (0.05)
-0.22***(0.06)
0.01(0.08)
0.82***(0.08)
-0.12 (0.09)
0.21*(0.09)
-0.26 (0.17)
0.92***(0.05)
-3.99***(0.11)
1.35 (1.22, 1.50)
1.06 (0.96, 1.17)
0.80 (0.71, 0.90)
1.01 (0.87, 1.18)
2.28 (1.95, 2.66)
0.89 (0.75, 1.05)
1.24 (1.04, 1.47)
0.77 (0.56, 1.07)
2.51 (2.27, 2.78)
a
Standard Errors in Parentheses
95% Confidence Intervals in Parentheses
c
White Reference Category
d
Yes Homeless Reference Category
* p < .05, ** p < .01, *** p < .001
b
Discussion
Overall, our research provides some important
and surprising findings on indicators representing the
background characteristics of inmates, their ties to
the community, and the effects of classification and
programming on prison violence. We hypothesized
that minorities would commit more violent
infractions than whites, but found that while there
were more violent infractions among Latinos, Black
involvement was similar to Whites. It appears that
dynamics other than minority status are involved in
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
CORRELATES OF VIOLENCE
predicting violence in Washington state prisons. We
suggest that this represents regional variability with
prison violence and race/ethnicity that can be
explored in future research on other regions of the
country.
Surprisingly, and in notable opposition to our
hypothesis, no significant difference in prison
violence is determined by gender. This is contrary to
previous research (see Austin, 2003; Berg & DeLisi,
2006; Sorensen & Cunningham, 2010; Wulf-Ludden,
2013).
While the dynamics of interpersonal
relationships among female inmates are quite
different from men, perhaps this indicates some
support for increased volatility and thus more prison
violence among women than previously seen (Greer,
2000). This would suggest that more research on
gender and prison violence is necessary to determine
if rates of men’s and women’s involvement in prison
violence are converging.
No studies have assessed the impact of
homelessness prior to incarceration on prison
violence.
Using homelessness as a proxy for
residence and community ties, we find that such
individuals are more likely to be involved in prison
violence.
This could have implications for
recidivism. If the inmate was homeless prior to
incarceration (and presumably without a home to
return to upon release), then they may be more likely
to repeat offend. Dyb (2009) finds that incarceration
increases homelessness post release, so homelessness
and incarceration can also be seen as mutually
reinforcing. Interestingly, in our study, visitation is a
weak predictor of prison violence.
Our findings on the effects of classification and
programming are mixed. Specifically, those inmates
in chemical dependency programming show lesser
prison violence. However, those inmates involved in
the offender change programming are much more
likely to be involved in prison violence. This shows
support for internal prison classification in the state
of Washington as the DOC decides which program(s)
are appropriate for each inmate upon entry into the
prison system. As the offender change program
includes stress and anger management, perhaps this
indicates that the state is correctly identifying those
inmates that truly need to be in the offender change
program and appropriately placing them. This
contradicts Byrne and Hummer’s (2007) finding that
current classification systems are not effective in
identifying a subgroup of high risk inmates who are
likely to be involved in prison violence.
Limitations
29
system would exert a lesser effect as these more
serious types of infractions would be documented no
matter who the offender or facility security level. We
also do not have access to age or marital status as a
predictor of prison violence. However, we do
include a new indicator – namely homelessness – that
has not been previously considered when researching
community ties.
Further, no causal time ordering can be drawn
from our findings. As such, our findings on the
effects of internal prison programming are difficult to
assess. It would be necessary to know whether the
incidence of violence occurred prior to, during, or
after participation in the offender change program for
the state of Washington to truly know whether its
behavioral programming is working.
Current pilot projects at two Washington state
prisons are considering such before and after offender
change programming variability in prison violence.
Initial results distributed in a 2013 Washington State
DOC news release show a dramatic decrease in
violence after just a nine-month involvement in the
offender change program (Washington DOC, 2013).
Further, until recently, prison gangs have not
been a problem and thus not recognized in the
Washington State DOC, so prison gangs are not
assessed here. However, research suggests that gangs
are tied to prison violence among males (see Gaes et
al., 2002; Griffin & Hepburn, 2006; Worrall &
Morris, 2012).6 Only in the last few years has the
Washington State DOC segregated inmates based on
gang membership, specifically those claiming
affiliation with the Nortenos and Surenos
(predominantly Latino gangs).
Future Research
Further research should be done to assess
whether the findings on race/ethnicity are regionally
specific and if they are tied to gang crime in central
Washington.
Central Washington has a high
concentration of Latino citizens including migrant
laborers involved in the agricultural industry.
Unfortunately, many of these communities struggle
with high levels of illegal gang activity (Moreno,
2006). Future research should also test for regional
variation in race/ethnicity in national samples.
Finally, future research should include gang activity
and also see if the finding of no significant difference
in prison violence between men and women can be
seen in other states. This could indicate a trend
where women are becoming as violent as men in
prison.
Our research is limited to official report data.
However, as our focus is violent infractions in prison,
it can be assumed that potential bias within the
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
30
BELL & LINDEKUGEL
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CORRELATES OF VIOLENCE
33
About the Authors
Kerryn E. Bell is an Assistant Professor of
Sociology and Criminal Justice at Eastern
Washington University. Her research interests
include prison violence and recidivism as well as
the intersectionality of gender and race/ethnicity
with criminal offending.
Dale M. Lindekugel is Professor of Sociology and
Criminal Justice at Eastern Washington
University. His research interests include
deviance and prison violence.
Endnotes
1
As the study includes everyone incarcerated in the state of Washington over a 20-month period, data are
available to look at incidence of prison violence. However, for the purpose of this study, we were only
interested in prevalence of prison violence as we are looking at correlates of prison violence generally and not
the number of times an individual inmate engages in prison violence.
2
Using the accepted Uniform Crime Report (UCR) definition of violent crime, all infractions that involved
murder, rape or sexual assault, robbery, and aggravated assault were coded as violent.
3
We do not have information on how long the individual was in a program, just whether they were enrolled.
This is further discussed in the limitations section.
4
As the focus is violence committed while incarcerated, no other type of sentence (i.e., probation and community
corrections) are considered in the repeat incarceration variable.
5
Before conducting analyses, a variance inflation factor (VIF) test was run on all variables to check for
multicollinearity. No VIF above 4 was found, indicating that multicollinearity was not a problem in this study.
Further, scatterplots tested for heteroscedasticity in the data. Normal distributions show that very little variance
is left after accounting for the independent variables and heteroscedasticity is not present.
6
As gangs are not a recognized problem among female inmates, their prison violence must be attributed to
something other than gangs.
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
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BELL & LINDEKUGEL
Appendix - Operationalization of Dependent Measure
Violent Infraction Description
Homicide
Aggravated Assault/Inmate
Fighting
Threatening
Aggravated Assault/Visitor
Holding Hostage
Disease Transfer
Cause Inmate Injury
Aggravated Assault/Staff
Sexual Assault Staff
Attempted Sexual Assault/Staff
Abusive Sexual Contact/Staff
Assault/Inmate
Assault/Offender
Sexual Assault/Offender
Attempted Sexual Assault/Offender
Abusive Sexual Contact/Offender
Rioting
Inciting Riot
Strong Arming/Intimidation
Cause Staff Injury
Assault/Non Hospital
Assault/Staff
Assault/Visitor
Attempted Suicide
Attempted Self-Mutilation/Harm
Refuse w/ Staff Injury
Resist Order w/ Staff Injury
Injure a Visitor
Assault/Hospital
Assault
Holding Hostage
Refuse Medical Order/Injury
Violent Infraction Code
89,90
91,92
97,98,310
99,100,311
108,109
113,114
146
147
156,157
173,174,175
176,177
178,179
182
183
184,185
186,187,188
189,190
191,192,362
193,194,363
216,217
221
227
228
242,243
245,246
247,248
300
301
304
306
307
333
382
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
VOLUME 16, ISSUE 1, PAGES 35–50 (2015)
Criminology, Criminal Justice Law & Society
E-ISSN 2332-886X
Available online at
https://scholasticahq.com/criminology-criminal-justice-law-society/
Seeing Saw through the Criminological Lens:
Popular Representations of Crime and Punishment
J. C. Oleson and Tamara MacKinnon
University of Auckland
ABSTRACT AND ARTICLE INFORMATION
Crime is a staple of the media, and violent crimes such as murder are overrepresented in both news and entertainment.
Although cases of serial homicide are exceptionally rare, stories about serial killers are terrifically popular. Indeed, while
the seven Saw feature films, recounting the crimes of serial killer John “Jigsaw” Kramer, have been derided as mere
“torture porn” by some critics, they constitute the most successful horror franchise in the world. Certainly, the Saw
franchise entertains, allowing viewers to vicariously explore their fears of the serial killer in a safe, controlled manner.
The Saw films both inform and misinform viewers about crime and punishment—employing parasocial experiences of
violent criminal events to prompt viewers to wrestle with fundamental questions of law, morality, and purpose. Viewed
through lenses of crime and punishment, the Saw franchise offers both a critique of and commentary on crime in present
society. The fictional character of John Kramer can be analyzed through real homicide typologies, and Kramer’s crimes
can prompt discussion about the four cardinal philosophies of punishment: retribution, deterrence, incapacitation, and
rehabilitation.
Article History:
Keywords:
Received 18 August 2014
Received in revised form 19 January 2015
Accepted 24 February 2015
Saw, Jigsaw, John Kramer, serial killer, media, crime, punishment
© 2015 Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society and The Western Society of Criminology
Hosting by Scholastica. All rights reserved.
The public is fascinated by crime. Crime figures
prominently in both news (e.g., Barak, 1994; Potter
& Kappeler, 2006) and entertainment media.
Approximately 20% of feature films are crime films,
and approximately 50% “have significant crime
content” (Reiner, 2007, p. 312). Some criminals
become celebrities (Duncan, 1996; Kooistra, 1989;
Schmid, 2005) and enjoy an infamous species of
fame (Oleson, 2003). Serial killers, in particular,
have been elevated into a prominent place in
society’s pantheon of criminals (Jenkins, 1994;
Tithecott, 1997): “The serial killer constitutes a
mythical, almost supernatural, embodiment of
American society’s deepest darkest fears” (Beckman,
2001, p. 62). Additionally,
because they have the power to make us feel
alive in our benumbed “wound culture,” a
strange kind of adoration is heaped upon
contemporary serial killers, the monsters of
our cynical age. “Our society is obsessed
with serial killers,” suggests Bruno.
Similarly, Hawker quips, “All the world
loves a serial killer.” (Oleson, 2005b, p. 187,
citations in original omitted)
Corresponding author: James C. Oleson, University of Auckland, Department of Sociology, Level 9, HSB Building, 10 Symonds
Street, Private Bag 92019, Auckland 1142, New Zealand.
Email: [email protected]
36
OLESON & MACKINNON
Murder is entertainment, and it is also big
business (Fuhrman, 2009). Society’s fascination with
serial killers has fueled a robust true-crime market
(Egger, 1998) and created an audience for a host of
crime biography documentaries. The writing of
serial killers is widely available to interested readers
(Brady, 2001; Philbin, 2011), and the artwork of
serial killers is sought out by a vibrant market of
collectors of murderabilia (Scouller, 2010). People
can buy serial killer trading cards (Jones & Collier,
1993) and serial killer action figures (Schmid, 2005).
The serial killer is the quintessential modern monster
(Picart & Greek, 2003).
Although the names of notorious serial killers
may be more familiar to the public than the names of
world-renowned scientists (Oleson, 2005b), it may
not be the real-life serial killer who shapes the
public’s view, but the fictional one: the character
drawn from literature, television, and film. The
influence of popular film on the public understanding
of crime and criminals dwarfs that of all academic
criminological scholarship (Rafter & Brown, 2011).
Indeed, author Thomas Harris’ fictional serial killer
Dr. Hannibal “the Cannibal” Lecter was “arguably…
the most publicized and recognizable personality
(real or not) in America during February 1991” (Skal,
1993, p. 383, italics added). In the 1960s, serial killer
films began to replace traditional horror narratives
involving werewolves, aliens, or vampires (Tudor,
1989). Although these traditional supernatural horror
themes have enjoyed a resurgence in recent years,
serial killers remain a central focus of dramatic
narratives as illustrated by the characters of Joe
Carroll on the Fox network’s The Following
(Williamson & Siega, 2013) and Dexter Morgan on
Showtime’s Dexter (Cerone et al., 2006).
This paper will examine the seven serial killer
films that constitute the Saw franchise: Saw
(Hoffman, Burg, Koules, & Wan, 2004), Saw II
(Hoffman, Burg, Koules, & Bousman, 2005), Saw III
(Hoffman et al., 2006), Saw IV (Hoffman et al.,
2007), Saw V (Hoffman, Burg, Koules, & Hackl,
2008), Saw VI (Hoffman, Burg, Koules, & Greutert,
2009), and Saw 3D (Hoffman, Burg, Koules, &
Greutert, 2010). Released across seven years and
netting approximately $877 million USD in global
receipts (Numbers, 2014), the Saw films are the most
successful horror franchise in the world (Kit, 2010).
The franchise has earned numerous critical awards,
but it is the franchise’s commercial success that is
most noteworthy: The films have been adapted into
comic books (Lieb & Oprisko, 2005), video games
(Wingfield, 2007), toy and costume merchandise
(NECA, 2014)—even theme park attractions (Thorpe
Park, 2014). Each of the seven films currently
appears in the Internet Movie Database’s top 400
horror movies, as selected by the voting public
(Internet Movie Database, 2014).
Created by writer Leigh Whannell and director
James Wan, the Saw films describe the activities of
serial killer John “Jigsaw” Kramer. Like other
fictional serial killer protagonists—Hannibal Lecter
(Harris, 1981, 1988, 1999, 2006, 2013), Dexter
Morgan (Lindsay, 2004, 2005, 2007, 2009, 2010,
2011, 2013), or Seven’s John Doe (Kopelson,
Carlyle, & Fincher, 1995)—Kramer’s victims are
selected because they have engaged in crimes or
immoral acts that have gone unpunished. Unlike
Lecter and Morgan, however, Kramer does not
actually want his victims to die; rather, he wants
them to survive and to be “reborn” (with an
understanding of their past wrongs and a new
appreciation for life). His modus operandi involves
kidnapping victims and locking them in one of his
“torture warehouses.” When the victims regain
consciousness, audio or video tapes are played for
them, outlining their transgressions and explaining
the rules of their punishments. Kramer subjects his
victims to “tests” or “games” that inflict extreme
psychological and physical pain, often involving
complex mechanical traps. If the victims die, Kramer
removes a jigsaw puzzle-shaped piece of flesh from
their skin, symbolizing their missing survival
instincts. This trophy-taking earns Kramer the media
moniker “Jigsaw.” If the victims survive the tests,
according to Kramer’s understanding of the world,
they are instantly rehabilitated.
The Saw films have been dismissed as derivative
facsimiles of other—superior—serial killer films
(Gleiberman, 2004), and they have been denounced
by Edelstein (2006) and others as mere “torture porn”
– movies in the same vein as The Devil’s Rejects
(Elliot, Gould, Mehlitz, Ohoven, & Zombie, 2005),
the Hostel trilogy (Briggs, Fleiss, & Spiegel, 2011;
Roth, 2005; Spiegel, Yakin, Fleiss, Tarantino, &
Roth, 2007), or Wolf Creek (Lightfoot & Mclean,
2005). But other scholars have identified meaningful
elements in the Saw films and have produced a
modest body of scholarship on these works (e.g.,
Aston & Walliss, 2013; Fore, 2009; Huntley, 2009;
Jones, 2010). The extant scholarship on Saw has
adopted a media studies perspective, but the Saw
franchise also can be studied through a
criminological lens, as has been done with the
Hannibal Lecter franchise (Oleson, 2005a, 2005b,
2006a, 2006b). For example, analysis of the character
of John Kramer can reveal to what extent film
depictions do—or do not—accurately depict the
realities of crime and criminals (Leistedt &
Linkowski, 2014; Oleson, 2005b), and Jigsaw’s
crimes can be employed as a lens to understand
traditional theories of punishment.
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT IN SAW
This article is organized in four parts. Part one
examines the linkages between crime and popular
culture and discusses some of their implications for
society. Part two analyzes the crimes of John
“Jigsaw” Kramer using several serial killer
typologies. Part three analyzes the crimes of Saw
films, employing traditional theories of punishment.
Finally, part four analyzes the social functions of the
Saw series.
Crime and the Media
Popular films entertain, but they also influence
audience beliefs and attitudes. Like representations
on television, film portrayals communicate a great
deal to audiences “about social norms and
relationships, about goals and means, about winners
and losers, about the risks of life and the price for
transgressions of society’s rules” (Gerbner & Gross,
1976, p. 178). Crime films simultaneously “allow
viewers to experience the vicarious thrills of criminal
behavior while leaving them free to condemn this
behavior, whoever is practicing it, as immoral”
(Leitch, 2002, p. 06). These “parasocial experiences”
(Giles, 2002) allow audiences to vicariously learn
about crime and punishment. In Shots in the Mirror,
Rafter notes that crime films provide viewers with
rich material that can be used to “interpret the world
and develop our meaning systems … in the
construction of personal identity and in bridging the
gap between ourselves and our social situations”
(2006, p. 14).
On the other hand, films often misrepresent the
reality of what they purport to display. For example,
in their analysis of 400 feature films, Leistedt and
Linkowski (2014) found that cinematic depictions of
psychopaths usually deviated from clinical realities.
Similarly, Surette (2015) describes the distortion of
crime and punishment. While violent crime and
predator criminals are statistically rare, they
constitute a staple of the popular media: “Whatever
the truth about crime and the criminal justice system
in America, the entertainment, news, and
infotainment media seem determined to project the
opposite” (Surette, 2015, p. 205). This is important,
since audiences who view inaccurate representations
of crime can be influenced and adopt social attitudes
that are not grounded in reality. Individuals may
misunderstand the workings of the criminal justice
system, have reduced empathy towards certain types
of victims, and learn harmful stereotypes about
offenders. Such portrayals of violence can increase
social fear of crime (Heath & Gilbert, 1996) and
increase punitive attitudes as a means to mediate
anxiety (Cheliotis, 2010; Mason, 2006). Thus,
audience members who are frightened by the
37
spectacle of Saw may become more supportive of
punitive legislation (e.g., Pratt, 2007), increasingly
willing to incarcerate more people, for longer periods
of time, under penal conditions that may strain the
very boundaries of human endurance (e.g., Haney,
2006).
Of course, not all audience members will react to
the Saw films in the same way. For some viewers,
Saw might evoke shock and wonder, instead of fear.
In this case, the Saw films might reinforce moral and
social norms in society. This is reminiscent of Emile
Durkheim’s functional view of crime and
punishment. Crime, in Durkheim’s view, is necessary
for society to evolve:
According to Athenian law, Socrates was a
criminal, and his condemnation was no more
than just. However, his crime, namely the
independence of his thought ... served to
prepare a new morality and faith which the
Athenians needed since the traditions by
which they had lived until then were no
longer in harmony with the current
conditions of life. (Durkheim, 1895/1958, p.
71)
In Durkheim’s view, punishment is functional, as
well; it restores normative equilibrium within the
community. Through punishment, a criminal who has
victimized the community through his offense, is in
turn punished—made victim—and moral equilibrium
is thereby restored. Punishments safeguard the public
order. Members of the community are reassured of
their safety and in seeing the offender punished for
his crimes, are reassured that they were doing the
right thing by following the laws (Durkheim,
1895/1958). Similarly, viewing the fictional crimes
of John “Jigsaw” Kramer (as well as the otherwiseunpunished crimes of Kramer’s victims), Saw
viewers may find their moral intuitions reaffirmed.
The Saw films might enhance social solidarity,
confirm ideals of good and evil, and help define the
outer bounds of acceptable behavior.
In addition to driving penal populism or
reinforcing social solidarity, the Saw films mirror
society. After all, some crime movies are inspired by
real offenders and real criminal events. Art imitates
life. For example, both the original (Brooks, 1967)
and the remake (Rowe & Kaplan, 1996) of In Cold
Blood were based on the brutal 1959 killing of the
Clutter family in Holcomb, Kansas, as recounted by
Truman Capote (1966). The character of Dr.
Hannibal Lecter, portrayed in Manhunter (Roth &
Mann, 1986), The Silence of the Lambs (Utt, Saxon,
Bozman, & Demme, 1991), Hannibal (Scott,
Laurentiis, & Laurentiis, 2001), Red Dragon
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(Laurentiis, Laurentiis, & Ratner, 2002), and
Hannibal Rising (Laurentiis, Laurentiis, Ammar, &
Webber, 2007), was based principally upon one “Dr.
Salazar,” an imprisoned Mexican physician (Harris,
2013). The 1924 murder of Bobby Franks by genius
aristocrats Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb
(Higdon, 1999) has been made into three feature
films: Compulsion (Zanuck & Fleischer, 1959), Rope
(Hitchcock & Bernstein, 1948), and Swoon (Vachon
& Kalin, 1992). It may have also influenced both
iterations of Funny Games (Heiduschka & Haneke,
1997; McAlpine et al., 2007). The 1958 real-life
murder spree of Charles Starkweather and his
girlfriend Caril Ann Fugate inspired the film,
Badlands (Malick, 1973). Although the writers of the
Saw franchise have never identified their inspiration
for John “Jigsaw” Kramer, there are compelling
parallels between the character and the real-life “ToyBox Killer” David Parker Ray.
Ray was apprehended in 1999 for the
kidnapping, rape, torture, and murder of as many as
60 women (Fielder, 2003). Like Kramer, Ray
constructed his own torture chamber, equipped with
special pain-inflicting instruments, and—like
Kramer—Ray used tape recorded messages to
communicate with his victims when they regained
consciousness. Police also found Ray’s detailed
drawings of torture devices, akin to those that Kramer
employed in his torture warehouse. Furthermore, Ray
operated with accomplices, just as Kramer has
“apprentices.” Finally and coincidentally, Ray’s
crimes were committed in the town of Truth or
Consequences, New Mexico. Truth or Consequences
echoes the principles of truth and consequence that
motivate John “Jigsaw” Kramer’s traps and tests.
Specifically, Kramer selects victims who refuse to
tell the truth, and he employs punishments that mirror
his victims’ offenses so that they might understand
the consequences of their actions.
Sometimes, in what might be characterized as a
“strange loop” (Hofstadter, 1999), fictionalized
representations of crime drawn from life can inspire a
second generation of copycat crime. Life imitates art.
For example, Natural Born Killers (Hamsher,
Murphy, Townsend, & Stone, 1994) draws upon the
Starkweather and Fugate killings. This movie,
recounting the story of fictional lovers, Mickey and
Mallory Knox, and satirizing the media for its
celebration of crime, has been linked to at least
fourteen real-life killings (Ruddock, 2001). Copycat
crime is uncommon, but it is not unheard of. In one
study, Surette (2002) found that more than a quarter
(26.5%) of a sample of 68 incarcerated serious and
violent juvenile offenders reported committing a
copycat offence (i.e., answered yes to the question,
“Can you recall ever having tried to commit the same
crime that you had seen, read, or heard about in the
media?”). The Saw franchise has been implicated in
copycat violence as well. In the U.K., 15-year-old
Daniel Bartlam killed his mother with a claw hammer
shortly after watching Saw (Dolan & Reilly, 2012).
John Kramer the Offender:
Serial Killer Typologies
Film characters are especially compelling when
they present audiences with an enigma, a paradox, or
a puzzle to be solved (Oleson, 2005b). In particular,
the presence of incomplete or incongruous pieces of
information may lead to a state of “kennetic strain”
(Sarbin, 1972) and—as in the resolution of metaphor
(Brownell, Simpson, Bihrle, Potter, & Gardner, 1990)
or humor (Johnson, 1990)—require the viewer to
actively engage the material in order to make sense of
it. Kennetic strain may help to explain the allure of
John “Jigsaw” Kramer. He is, after all, a serial killer
who wants his victims to live and who does not kill
his victims directly, but only through the construction
of tests and games. In Saw, one of the characters
remarks, “Technically speaking, he’s not really a
murderer—he never killed anyone. He finds ways for
his victims to kill themselves” (Hoffman et al., 2004,
17:44). Of course, this distinction is not legally
meaningful. When Jigsaw affixes a “reverse bear trap
mask” onto a victim, his knowledge of a serious risk
of death is criminally culpable. His subjective hope
that his victim will pass the test and survive is legally
irrelevant. The combination of Kramer’s attaching
the trap (a criminal action) and his knowledge of a
serious risk of death (a criminal state of mind) is
sufficient to constitute murder (Dressler, 2012).
Murder, the unlawful killing of another human
being with “malice aforethought,” is sometimes
classified by number and the presence or absence of
cool-down periods. The Federal Bureau of
Investigation (FBI) distinguishes five different
categories: a single homicide involves one victim in
one homicidal event, a double homicide involves two
victims in one homicidal event, and a triple homicide
involves three victims in one homicidal event. Four
or more victims killed during a single homicidal
event constitute a mass homicide. A spree murder
involves two or more victims in two or more
locations without a cooling-off period, while serial
murder involves three or more separate homicidal
events with cooling-off periods between events
(Douglas, Ressler, Burgess, & Hartman, 1986).
While Egger (1998) suggests that a second murder is
sufficient to qualify as serial murder, Fox and Levin
(1998) suggest that the threshold for “serial murder”
should be four victims. Jenkins (1994) also identifies
four as a minimum threshold. Hickey summarizes the
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literature by writing, “Most researchers agree that
serial killers have a minimum of 3–4 victims” (1991,
p. 8). Under any of these definitions, the character of
John “Jigsaw” Kramer is a serial killer. After seven
films, Kramer is responsible for the deaths of 52
people. If Kramer were a real offender, his death toll
would far exceed the 7–11 average victims attributed
to identified serial killers (Hickey, 1991).
As a serial killer, John “Jigsaw” Kramer can be
further categorized using two additional typologies.
First, under the FBI’s organized/disorganized
dichotomy (Ressler, Burgess, Douglas, Hartman, &
D’Agostino, 1986), Kramer neatly fits the paradigm
of the organized offender. According to the FBI
(1985), organized offenders typically exhibit 14
characteristics: (1) average to above-average
intelligence, (2) social competence, (3) preference for
skilled work, (4) sexual competence, (5) high birth
order status, (6) father had stable work, (7)
inconsistent childhood discipline, (8) controlled
mood during crimes, (9) use of alcohol during
crimes, (10) precipitating situational stress, (11)
living with a partner, (12) mobility with a car in good
condition, (13) follows crime in news media, and
(14) may change jobs or leave town after commission
of crimes. John “Jigsaw” Kramer fits most of these
categories. As a former civil engineer, he is both
intelligent and methodical. Belinkie describes him as
“possessing a nearly superhuman intellect” (2010,
para. 33). Kramer intricately plans the deaths of his
carefully-selected victims, drawing figures of
intricate mechanical traps and constructing models to
test them. His crimes exhibit planning, intelligence,
and logic. Kramer is socially competent and actually
attracts followers (“apprentices”). He maintains a
controlled mood during his crimes, is mobile, and
follows the media coverage of the Jigsaw crimes.
Holmes and DeBurger’s (1988) identified four
categories of serial killers: (1) visionary types who
kill because they are commanded to do so by voices
or visions; (2) mission-oriented types who kill
because they believe it is their duty to eliminate
certain classes of undesirable people from society; (3)
hedonistic types who derive satisfaction from killing
(including thrill-oriented, comfort-oriented, and lustoriented sub-types); and (4) control-oriented types
who kill to assert power and dominion over others.
Under this taxonomy, Kramer is a mission-oriented
killer. He believes that he is cleansing society of two
undesirable groups. First, people who are guilty of
crimes for which they have been neither caught nor
punished. In Kramer’s mind, he is doing society a
favor by succeeding where the criminal justice
system has failed. He assumes responsibility for
apprehending, punishing, and either rehabilitating or
incapacitating those who violate the social contract
39
(c.f., Hobbes, 1651/1991; Rousseau, 1762/1997). In
Saw V (Hoffman et al., 2008), Kramer illustrates his
mission-oriented status when he tells an apprentice
who has just killed someone, “You and I both know
the statistics for repeat offenders in this city...so you
might look at what you did…as a kind of public
service” (Hoffman et al., 2009, 45:44). The second
group that Kramer seeks to eliminate from society is
those who lack the instinct for survival. For Kramer,
this is an essential human element. In the first Saw
film (Hoffman et al., 2004), after Kramer was
diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor, he
attempted suicide by driving off a cliff. The man who
crawled from the wreckage was changed, and
cherished life. In Saw II, Kramer explains, “Darwin's
theory of evolution and survival of the fittest...no
longer applies on this planet. We have a human race
that doesn't have the edge or the will to survive”
(Hoffman et al., 2005, 43:14). The mission to
dispense vigilante justice and the mission to cull
those without the will to live converge in Kramer’s
mind: In Saw V, he explains, “You can dispense
justice and give people a chance to value their lives
in the same moment” (Hoffman et al., 2008, 45:11).
Kramer’s mission-oriented killings are designed to
ensure a society in which there is justice for crime,
value for life, and a universal human determination to
survive. Kramer’s crimes are attempts to achieve
these three goals through the mechanism of
punishment.
John Kramer the Punisher:
Theories of Punishment
Some theorists suggest that punishment serves an
expressive function (e.g., Feinberg, 1965), but most
commentators agree that there are four “cardinal
philosophies of punishment—retribution, deterrence,
incapacitation, and rehabilitation” (Oleson, 2011, p.
696). Through his series of elaborate traps and tests,
John “Jigsaw” Kramer subjects his victims to
harrowing experiences that draw upon all four bases
of punishment.
Retribution (or “just deserts”) is a deontological,
non-consequentialist form of punishment (Oleson,
2007). Thus, retributivism is neither justified by the
advantages it produces for society, nor does it attempt
to reduce the number of future crimes; rather,
retributivism punishes crimes that have already taken
place, and it punishes them because it is morally
correct to do so. Under some formulations of
retributivism, society has an affirmative moral duty
to punish the criminal. For example, Immanuel Kant
(1796/1887) famously wrote that,
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Even if a Civil Society resolved to dissolve
itself with the consent of all its members—
as might be supposed in the case of a People
inhabiting an island resolving to separate
and scatter themselves throughout the whole
world—the last Murderer lying in the prison
ought to be executed before the resolution
was carried out. This ought to be done in
order that every one may realize the desert
of his deeds, and that blood guiltiness may
not remain upon the people; for otherwise
they might all be regarded as participators in
the murder as a public violation of Justice.
(p. 198)
As a mission-oriented killer, John “Jigsaw” Kramer
may be compelled by retributive duty of this kind.
Belinkie (2010) relates Kramer’s traps to medieval
purification rituals, designed to cleanse victims of
their sins and grant them redemption through
suffering.
Retributivism rests upon a foundation of
fairness. Employing an elegant logical twist, the
philosopher Georg Hegel explained that when a
criminal violates the law, his crime is the negation of
the right of society. Punishment, however, is the
negation of that negation, and thus an affirmation of
right, solicited and brought upon the criminal by
himself (Ezorsky, 1972). This idea of an inflicted
harm to redress an unfair advantage is central to
retributivism and is closely related to the doctrine of
lex talionis, the principle that the punishment should
be identical to the offense (“an eye for an eye”).
Reminiscent of lex talionis, many of Kramer’s tests
are designed to punish his victims in ways that
explicitly echo or mirror their crimes. For example,
in Saw II, one of Kramer’s victims is told that he has
“burned those around you with your lies, cons, and
deceits” (Hoffman et al., 2005, 36:48). His test is to
retrieve an antidote for nerve gas from the back of a
furnace, but when the furnace door locks, a fire
ignites and he burns to death. Although Kramer’s
tests and games frequently symbolize the crimes that
are being punished, his punishments are often
disproportionately
severe.
Proportionality
in
punishment is one of the key principles of any
rational system of penalties (Bentham, 1948), and
Kramer’s excesses suggest that he may be more
concerned with eliminating wrongdoers who lack a
survival instinct than with imposing proportional
harms to social wrongs.
The Saw films also imply that deterrence plays a
role in Kramer’s punishments. Unlike retributivism,
which is non-consequentialist, retrospective, and
intrinsicalist in nature, deterrence-based punishments
are consequentialist (utilitarian), prospective, and
instrumentalist. In Plato’s Protagoras (1963), he
noted that authorities do not punish a man for past
wrongs unless they are wreaking blind vengeance;
rather, rational men inflict punishment to prevent
future offending. Cesare Beccaria shared this view. In
On Crimes and Punishments (1764/1963), Beccaria
argued that the end of punishment is to prevent the
criminal from inflicting additional harm and to
prevent others from committing like offenses.
Kramer makes use of both specific and general
deterrence. The theory of specific deterrence suggests
that if an offender commits a crime and is punished
for it, the experience of punishment will make the
offender less likely to reoffend in the future. The
theory of general deterrence suggests that the lessons
of punishment are learned vicariously – it is not only
the punished offender who is less likely to offend, but
everyone who knows of the punishment. Empirical
research has demonstrated modest deterrent effects
(Pratt, Cullen, Blevins, Daigle, & Madensen, 2009),
but Paternoster cautions that faith in deterrence must
be tempered with “a healthy dose of caution and
skepticism” (2010, p. 765). Although certainty of
police apprehension appears to exercise a strong
deterrent effect, the severity of the punishment
appears to have little influence on offending (Nagin,
2013). Members of the public often dramatically
underestimate the severity of punishments (Hough &
Roberts, 1998). In fact, some evidence suggests that
the experience of prison (specific deterrence) may be
criminogenic (Cullen, Jonson, & Nagin, 2011; Spohn
& Holleran, 2002), affirmatively increasing
recidivism. More than half (approximately 67.5%) of
those who are released from U.S. state prison custody
are rearrested for a new offense within three years,
and approximately 51.8% are returned to prison
(Langan & Levin, 2002). The evidence for general
deterrence fares little better. Even the ultimate
penalty (death) may not deter crimes (Radelet &
Lacock, 2009). Although Ehrlich (1975) calculated
that each U.S. execution prevented (deterred)
approximately eight murders, the economic literature
on the deterrent effect of capital punishment is highly
contentious (Fagan, 2006). Through modest
manipulations of the analytical techniques, Donohue
and Wolfers (2006) used a data set to produce highly
variable results, ranging from 429 lives saved per
execution to 86 lives lost! Indeed, most deterrence
research suggests that it is not the severity of
punishment that deters, but its celerity and its
certainty (Nagin & Pogarsky, 2001; von Hirsch,
Bottoms, Burney, & Wikstrom, 1999).
Kramer’s philosophy of punishment is based on
utilitarian ideals, as exemplified in the function of his
traps. Kramer’s traps are multifunctional; while they
test an individual’s will to survive, they also require
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participants to recognize their obligations to other
persons. For example, Kramer’s group trap requires
the “fatal five,” a group of five seemingly unrelated
victims, to cooperate. Ignoring Kramer’s clue as to
the altruistic nature of the tests, three of the players
are killed. When only two survivors remain, they
finally understand their connection: collectively, the
members of the fatal five were responsible for the
deaths of innocent people in a fire. The two survivors
also realize that the deaths of the others were
unnecessary: Jigsaw’s traps had been designed so that
each of the five could survive if they worked
together. For example, in the final trap, ten pints of
blood are required to win; if five players had lived,
they would have each sacrificed only two pints;
instead, the two survivors must each sacrifice five
pints of blood – half of the blood in their bodies.
John Kramer employs both general and specific
deterrence in his games of punishment. In Saw
(Hoffman et al., 2004), images of newspaper articles
with headlines reading “Psychopath Teaches Sick
Life Lessons” and “Victim Survived Maniac’s
Game” demonstrate significant media attention to the
Jigsaw crimes. Accordingly, under a theory of
general deterrence, newspaper readers should be
deterred from the behaviors that Kramer punishes.
Knowledge that a vigilante killer is at large and
administering
“sick
life
lessons”
should,
theoretically, deter criminal conduct. Similarly, under
the theory of specific deterrence, survivors of
Kramer’s traps should be less likely to commit
further crimes. But Kramer’s punishments do not
deter effectively: Although his games are severe, they
are neither proportionate, nor swift, nor certain.
Consequently, although Kramer threatens offenders
with the ultimate penalty of death, even this threat
cannot deter all offenders. It does not even deter all
those who experience his traps: For example, after
surviving Kramer’s tests in Saw (Hoffman et al.,
2004), drug addict Amanda Young recidivates. She
does not use drugs, but she does return to crime. In
Saw II (Hoffman et al., 2005), she joins forces with
Jigsaw, and becomes a sadistic punisher. The
infliction of suffering becomes her new drug.
John Kramer also employs techniques of
incapacitation. Like deterrence, the incapacitative
theory of punishment is consequentialist (utilitarian),
prospective, and instrumentalist. Incapacitation can
involve spatially removing the offender from society
(e.g., prison) and/or physically eliminating the
capacity to offend (e.g., cutting off the hand of a thief
or chemically castrating a sex offender to blunt the
sex drive). Death is the ultimate incapacitant: It
eliminates all possibility of recidivism (McCord,
1998). John Kramer’s tests incapacitate his victims in
two ways. First, as soon as they are kidnapped and
41
imprisoned in Kramer’s torture warehouse, they are
removed from the general population, and no longer
able to engage in their crimes. From the moment they
are seized, Jigsaw’s victims are incapacitated (at least
vis-à-vis the general population). Of course, just as
incapacitated prisoners can offend against other
prisoners, Kramer’s victims can turn against one
another. In Saw V (Hoffman et al., 2008), his victims
are tested on this basis: In order to survive, they must
cooperate. Kramer also uses incapacitation in a
second way: Victims who do not demonstrate the will
and resilience to escape his traps are killed. Just as
pioneering criminologist Raffaele Garofalo (1968)
suggested that criminals lacked the fundamental
human quality of altruism, viewing their deaths as
enhancing society’s survival (Barnes, 1930), so, too,
John Kramer understands the death of unsuccessful
victims as a means of increasing the continuing
viability of the human gene pool. Although Kramer
considers the act of killing “distasteful” (Hoffman et
al., 2008, 46:11), he does not regret culling from
society those individuals who lack an instinct to
survive.
Although John Kramer’s treatment of his victims
invokes diverse elements of retribution, deterrence,
and incapacitation, his traps, tests, and games are
related ultimately to the theme of rehabilitation.
Rehabilitation—along
with
deterrence
and
incapacitation—is consequentialist, prospective, and
instrumentalist in its orientation: “If people commit
crimes because of inherent defects, one
straightforward way to reduce future crime is to
simply correct the defect, regardless of whether the
defect is physical (e.g., a chemical imbalance),
psychological (e.g., criminal thinking patterns), or
social (e.g., association with criminal peers)”
(Oleson, 2007, p. 365). Based on notions of crime-asdisease, rehabilitation involves treating an offender to
restore him or her to a state of non-criminal social
health. Meta-analyses suggest that rehabilitation
works (e.g., Andrews, et al., 1990; Dowden &
Andrews, 1999; Manchak & Cullen, 2015). John
Kramer believes that, after kidnapping and
confronting his victims with the moral consequences
of their wrongdoing (elements of retribution), his
devices and tests force victims to choose—and to
choose immediately—between death (incapacitation)
and rehabilitation. In Saw V, Kramer explains,
“[T]here is a better, more efficient, way [than killing]
.... It’s a different method that I’m talking about. If a
subject survives my method, he is instantly
rehabilitated” (Hoffman et al., 2008, 46:21). Some of
Kramer’s victims share his vision of the experience.
For example, Amanda Young, a self-harming drug
addict who survives a potentially lethal test in Saw
(Hoffman et al., 2004), describes her ordeal in the
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language of a therapeutic intervention. She says, “My
life was saved that day” (Hoffman et al., 2005,
1:26:13). Kramer cites the conversion of Amanda
Young as proof that his method works. But Kramer
does not see Young’s life as saved; rather, he sees it
as reclaimed. In explaining her challenge, Kramer
characterizes it as a rebirth: “You must meet death in
order to be reborn” (Hoffman et al., 2005, 1:26:25).
In Saw II (Hoffman et al., 2005), however,
Kramer’s method is cast into question, as it is
revealed that Amanda Young has returned to her old
habits. She is a recidivist. For her new offenses, she
is punished again; again, she survives Kramer’s
testing. Yet even after two rounds of Kramer’s short,
sharp, shocking treatments, Young remains
unrehabilitated. In Saw III, she states, “It’s bullshit.
Nobody changes. It’s all a lie…. Nobody is reborn”
(Hoffman et al., 2006, 1:37:56). The unfulfilled
promise of Amanda Young epitomizes the flaws of
rehabilitative theory in the wider field of corrections.
While from the 1940s into the 1970s, many experts
believed that crime was a social problem that could
be successfully treated, Robert Martinson’s (1974)
article, “What Works? - Questions and Answers
about Prison Reform” precipitated the wholesale
rejection of rehabilitation as a legitimate basis of
punishment in the United States. Rehabilitation very
nearly died (Cullen, 2005), and in its place, a
retributivist penology emerged and dominated for
decades (Pillsbury, 1989). Determinate sentencing
replaced indeterminate systems of parole, sentence
lengths increased, and prison populations soared.
According to the Pew Center on the States (2009),
when the populations from jails, probation, and
parole systems are added to the 1.5 million people in
U.S. prisons, the number of people under U.S.
correctional control increases to more than 7.3
million (or 1 in 31 people). Only in recent years has
genuine interest in rehabilitation reemerged within
mainstream policy circles, in the form of offender
reentry (e.g., Petersilia, 2003).
The creators of the Saw films may not have
intended to create a franchise that recapitulates the
larger penological debates of the late twentieth
century, but that is what they produced. John
“Jigsaw” Kramer’s mission-oriented killings are
represented in the films as acts of punishment, and it
is therefore hardly surprising that his actions should
reflect macro-sociological debates about the
appropriate forms of punishment: retribution,
deterrence, incapacitation, and rehabilitation.
The Social Functions of the Saw Franchise
As the most successful horror franchise in the
world (Kit, 2010), the Saw films obviously resonate
with audiences, providing them with thrills and
narratives about a serial killer who does not want to
see his victims die, but the series may do more than
provide an escape from the ennui of viewers’ daily
existence. In addition to entertaining, the Saw films
inform. Of course, the Saw films distort the very
phenomenon of serial murder that they depict (c.f.,
Surette, 2015), but while John “Jigsaw” Kramer
possesses a constellation of characteristics unlikely to
co-occur in real offenders, his crimes do resemble
those of known offender David Parker Ray (Fielder,
2003). The films reveal the inner workings of a serial
killer to viewers, including his origins, his motives,
and his modus operandi. Similarly, through watching
Kramer’s acts of punishment, viewers of Saw can
glean something about retribution, deterrence,
incapacitation,
and—especially—rehabilitation.
Unwittingly, viewers might even emerge from the
theater with a sense of the penological debates about
rehabilitation and retributivism. Thus, while the Saw
franchise distorts the phenomenon of serial homicide,
it exposes viewers to elements of crime, punishment,
and conceptions of justice.
Morality tales are an ancient teaching device to
help society discern between right and wrong.
Classics include Aesop’s fables (Gibbs, 2008) and
Grimm’s fairy tales (Hunt, 1944). Like the Saw
franchise, these classics were often scary and
gruesome, but as Patton (2013) notes, it is precisely
their grisly imagery that made them so memorable.
The Saw franchise operates as a contemporary
morality tale: the moral is not to become a vigilante
and do as Kramer did, but to cherish one’s life and
those of others: “The movies put both their fictional
subjects and their real-life viewers in uncomfortable
situations in order to teach morality, but if the traps
become real and people died in them, the value of the
good messages would be lost” (Patton, 2013, p. 82).
On the films and morality, Gregg Hoffman, one of
the producers observed, “That’s one of the things that
attracted us to the film immediately, that it was trying
to say something and it did have a theme, that it did
have a moral message despite...the smears of blood
throughout the bathroom and everywhere else”
("Hacking Away at Saw," 2005). The Saw films
establish a celluloid universe in which notions of
good and evil, crime and punishment, justice and
redemption can be explored by viewers.
Some commentators suggest that Saw (and other
films like it) afford audience members a safe
environment to confront and explore their fears (e.g.,
Apter, 1992). Although it may be dangerous—quite
possibly lethal—to meet a serial killer in real life, it is
possible for the audience member viewing the Saw
films to safely witness—even to vicariously engage
with—a killer known to be responsible for the deaths
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of 52 people. Seeing John Kramer at work, the
audience member might feel some of the fear and
terror that a real encounter with a serial killer would
trigger, but he or she can walk away from the theater
unscathed (Rafter, 2006). This experience of
catharsis may allow viewers to exercise control over
their fears and to experience feelings of satisfaction
when John Kramer’s vigilante killings mete out a
kind of justice that seems to elude the American
criminal justice system (Exline, Worthington, Hill, &
McCullough, 2003).
Of course, it is precisely this ability to safely
indulge in cinematic experiences of screen violence,
vicarious torture, and simulated death that so alarms
the critics of “torture porn” (e.g., Edelstein, 2006). In
On Photography (1977) and Regarding the Pain of
Others (2003), Susan Sontag argues that the
proliferation of images—especially difficult images,
such as war photographs—cheapen underlying
experiences, desensitize viewers, and inhibit the
willingness of viewers to act in the face of real
atrocity. Viewing the Saw films might fatigue the
compassion of audience members; if confronted with
real violence, real murders, and real death, they may
equate it with the film representation and fail to feel
the horror of real experience. Although the empirical
research on exposure to media violence and
desensitization is contested and equivocal, some
researchers have reported a significant association
between the viewing of violent content and
physiological desensitization (Krahé, et al., 2011).
Other commentators, however, argue that media
images invigorate. They suggest that photographs are
“so valuable: by refusing to tell us what to feel, and
allowing us to feel things we don’t quite understand,
they make us dig, and even think, a little deeper”
(Linfield, 2010, p. 30). In this view, the Saw films
might enrich the experience of audience members,
allowing audience members to appreciate violence
and murder at a deeper level. Furthermore, the films
may reinforce prevailing norms and enhance social
solidarity in the manner suggested by Durkheim
(1895/1958). After all, Kramer operates as an
avenging angel, persecuting those who have
transgressed and taking the lives of those who do not
value them. Kramer does not want to kill his victims;
rather, he wants to redeem them. Audience members
may interpret Saw as a vindication of existing social
values, a condemnation of crime and immorality, and
a collective affirmation of the belief that wrongdoing
does not go unpunished.
Finally, the Saw films might also provide
audiences with a modern expression of an ancient
ceremony: human sacrifice (Pizzato, 2005). They
43
might allow anomic, heterogeneous audiences to
engage in a shared understanding about the nature of
justice and the corrective of punishment (Oleson,
2015). For most of human history, punishment was
corporal, brutal, and public: “[P]reindustrial people
were familiar with the existence of public executions.
These were part of life for them and on the whole
were not considered as objectionable” (Spierenburg,
1984, p. 87). Justice was enacted as a public
spectacle, in a theatre of vengeance and redemption
(Madow, 1995). Through these rituals, the offender
was publicly transformed from a citizen into a
criminal and was denounced for his or her
transgressions. Following the logic of Hegel
(Ezorsky, 1972), the criminal (who victimized the
community through his or her offense) was in turn
punished—made victim—and moral equilibrium was
thereby restored. Public punishments safeguarded the
public order. Members of the community were
reassured of their safety and in seeing the offender
punished for his or her crimes, were reassured that
they were doing the right thing by following the laws
(Durkheim, 1895/1958). In cases of non-lethal
punishment (e.g., flogging or the pillory), the ritual of
public punishment allowed for the possibility of
redemption and reintegration (e.g., Braithwaite,
1989).
In the early 1800s, however, criminal executions
began to be sequestered, occluded from the public
gaze. By the end of the twentieth century, through the
removal of executions from the public sphere and the
introduction of new techniques such as the electric
chair, condemned criminals were transformed from
“the central actor in a public theatre of justice” to
“simply the object of medico-bureaucratic technique”
(Madow, 1995, p. 466). The media devotes a great
deal of attention to crime (Reiner, 2007; Surette,
2015), but it focuses on the front end of the criminal
justice system (e.g. victims and arrests) and devotes
little attention to issues of punishment (Katz, 1987).
To the extent that earlier public displays of
punishment had operated as cathartic rituals (Duncan,
1996), providing moral instruction and affirming
social solidarity (Durkheim, 1895/1958), the removal
of these displays created a moral vacuum. In films
such as Saw, however, audiences are able to witness
the apprehension and execution of guilty offenders;
they can see the redemption of worthy survivors,
creating new meaning for what Madow calls the
“public theatre of justice” (1995, p. 466). Thus, the
Saw films may provide audiences with an experience
of vicarious punishment that affirms notions of right
and wrong, reinforces conventional mores and norms,
and cements social solidarity (Oleson, 2015).
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
44
OLESON & MACKINNON
Conclusion
Revolving around the crimes of fictional serial
killer John “Jigsaw” Kramer, the Saw franchise has
been enormously successful. In addition to generating
box office revenue and merchandising, the seven Saw
films have even spawned theme park attractions
(Thorpe Park, 2014). Indeed, Saw has been named
the most commercially successful horror franchise in
the world (Kit, 2010). The public’s fascination with
Saw may say as much about the public as it does
about the films. Indeed, study of the series might
reveal something about the kind of society that both
produces serial killers and that remains transfixed by
them. Although some critics (e.g., Edelstein, 2006)
have denounced the Saw films as mere “torture
porn,” the franchise does far more than titillate
audiences’ sadistic impulses with glib dialogue, lethal
traps, and sadism. The franchise does so in at least
four ways. First, in addition to entertaining, the Saw
films breathe life into taxonomies of serial homicide,
revealing John “Jigsaw” Kramer as an organized,
mission-oriented (Holmes & DeBurger, 1986) serial
killer who is responsible for the deaths of 52 persons.
Although Kramer is a fictional figure, in several
respects, he resembles the real-life offender David
Parker Ray (Fielder, 2003). The Saw films
simultaneously inform and disinform, shaping the
public’s vision of the serial killer. They present some
elements of serial homicide that correspond faithfully
to criminological research, but they distort other
elements (c.f., Oleson, 2005b). Second, the Saw films
also illustrate the cardinal bases of punishment:
retribution, deterrence, incapacitation, and—
particularly—rehabilitation. Kramer’s traps are
designed to immediately rehabilitate those who
survive them, instilling survivors with a newfound
capacity to cherish their lives. Although the Saw
films present a distorted view of crime and
punishment, they have meaningful roots in criminal
justice theories of crime and punishment (Oleson,
2007). Third, the Saw films operate as contemporary
morality plays, illustrating normative concepts of
good, evil, virtue, and responsibility (Patton, 2013).
Film villains are effective mechanisms for such
matters:
Film provides an opportunity for dialogue;
in that sense, it has always been an
interactive medium. If David Lynch or
Martin Scorsese displays the human face of
evil in Frank or Max Cady, that is only half
of the conversation. The other half is ours.
It’s our responsibility to mull over our
feelings about these characters, understand
them (or not) and, in the process, define our
own moral boundaries. (Hinson, 1993)
Fourth and finally, the Saw films shape public
attitudes.
Because
popular
representations
disproportionately shape public understandings of
crime and punishment (Rafter & Brown, 2011), crime
films in general (and the popular Saw franchise, in
particular) have the potential to influence public
attitudes. Cinematic portrayals of violence can
increase the fear of crime (Heath & Gilbert, 1996)
and thus fuel penal populism to mediate anxiety
(Cheliotis, 2010; Mason, 2006). Crime films are
therefore important objects of criminological study
(Frauley, 2011; Rafter, 2006). While the Saw
franchise’s representations of vigilantism and serial
murder could desensitize viewers to violence, sadism,
and torture (Krahé et al., 2011; Sontag, 1977, 2003),
the films—alternatively—could prompt viewers to
think more deeply about pain, justice, and suffering
(Linfield, 2010). The Saw films have precipitated
copycat violence (Dolan & Reilly, 2012), but they
can also operate as a vicarious form of public
punishment (Pizzato, 2005), reinforcing social
solidarity (Durkehim, 1958; Oleson, 2015) and
strengthening prevailing norms. A careful
examination of Saw might increase our understanding
of the mechanisms through which popular film shape
attitudes, beliefs, and behaviors related to crime and
punishment.
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James C. Oleson earned his B.A. in psychology
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California, his M.Phil. and Ph.D. in criminology from
the University of Cambridge, and his J.D. from the
law school at the University of California, Berkeley
(Boalt Hall). Between 2001 and 2004, he taught
criminology and sociology at Old Dominion
University in Norfolk, Virginia. In 2004, he was
selected as one of the four U.S. Supreme Court
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appointed as Chief Counsel to the newly-formed
Criminal Law Policy Staff of the Administrative
Office of the U.S. Courts, and served in that capacity
between 2005 and 2010. He moved to New Zealand
and joined the University of Auckland in 2010, and
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Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
VOLUME 16, ISSUE 1, PAGES 51–67 (2015)
Criminology, Criminal Justice Law & Society
E-ISSN 2332-886X
Available online at
https://scholasticahq.com/criminology-criminal-justice-law-society/
Help-Seeking Behavior among Same-Sex
Intimate Partner Violence Victims:
An Intersectional Argument
Megan Marie Parry and Eryn Nicole O’Neal
Arizona State University
ABSTRACT AND ARTICLE INFORMATION
Few studies have examined the barriers that lesbian and gay male IPV victims face when attempting to access social
services which has resulted in an area of theorizing that remains underdeveloped. The paucity of research on this topic is
problematic, as extant inquiry indicates that these victims encounter several barriers when engaging in help-seeking.
Moreover, a small number of studies have used intersectional thinking to guide analyses of IPV help-seeking behavior in
the lesbian and gay community. The current theoretical paper identifies the barriers that lesbian and gay IPV victims
encounter when attempting to access social services because prior work has failed to synthesize what is known about
their experiences using an intersectional approach. We identify help-seeking obstacles that are specific—and often
unique—to lesbian and gay IPV victims with the goal of providing synthesized information useful for future research
and theory development. In the first section, we discuss relationship barriers (e.g. threats of outing). Section II describes
structural and institutional barriers (e.g., gender norms, minority stress). In Section III we examine legal barriers (e.g.,
justice system, anti-homosexual beliefs). The last section offers recommendations for practitioners and future research
based on prior literature.
Article History:
Keywords:
Received 13 October 2014
Received in revised form 27 January 2015
Accepted 2 February 2015
intersectionality, intimate partner violence, barriers to service, same-sex, gay, lesbian
© 2015 Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society and The Western Society of Criminology
Hosting by Scholastica. All rights reserved.
"Based on how the incident
started, there's very little to justify
such extreme action [by a police
officer] other than homophobia."
Cynthia Conti-Cook, lawyer
(as quoted in Rayman, 2013)
Research on intimate partner violence (IPV)
victims has historically focused on the experiences of
heterosexual women. Considerable progress has been
made by feminist scholars in examining the social
support, intervention, prevalence, risk factors,
consequences, and justice responses associated with
opposite-sex IPV (i.e., men battering women; see
Belknap, Hartman, & Lippen, 2010; Kimmel, 2010;
Tellis, 2010; Tjaden & Thoennes, 2009).
An
Corresponding author: Megan Marie Parry, School of Criminology & Criminal Justice, Arizona State University, 411 North
Central Ave., Suite 600, Phoenix, AZ 85004, USA.
Email: [email protected]
52
PARRY & O’NEAL
underdeveloped area of inquiry, however, includes
the IPV experiences of victims in same-sex
relationships (see Ard & Makadon, 2011; Chan,
2005; Merrill & Wolfe, 2000; Simpson & Helfrich,
2007; for review, see Ball & Hayes, 2010). This
oversight is problematic because research indicates
that IPV between same-sex partners occurs at higher
rates when compared to similarly situated oppositesex couples (Strasser, Smith, Pendrick-Denney,
Boos-Beddington, Chen, & McCarty, 2012). Overall,
prevalence estimates for same-sex IPV vary widely;
studies report that between 11% and 73% of these
couples experience abuse (for review, see
Klostermann, Kelley, Milletich, & Mignone, 2011).
In their recent study examining multiple types of
abuse (e.g. physical and physiological), Kelly,
Izienicki, Bimbi, & Parsons (2011) found that
approximately half of same-sex partnerships involve
IPV. The dearth of inquiry surrounding the
experiences of same-sex IPV victims is arguably due
to their marginalization and historical reluctance to
report violence (Blosnic & Bossarte, 2009).
Furthermore, in instances when IPV victims in samesex relationships are studied, examinations often
ignore the experiences of males and/or lack a
theoretical basis (Ball, 2011; Valentine, Bankoff, &
Pantalone, 2013; for review of male same-sex IPV,
see Jeffries & Ball, 2008). This limited approach is
likely due to the fact that one research paradigm—
feminist theory—has traditionally dominated IPV
research (see Yllo & Bograd, 1988). This approach is
questionable, however, because feminist theory is
limited in its ability to provide insight into the
experiences of sexual minority victims (Ball, 2011;
Bell & Naugle, 2008; Marrujo & Kreger, 1996).
Feminist theory fundamentally posits that IPV
occurs as a consequence of gender power
differentials maintained by a patriarchal society
(Burgess-Proctor, 2006; Renzetti, Edleson, & Bergen,
2001). Power dynamics, however, are often difficult
to assess in same-sex relationships, as most models
assume that power and gender/sex are inextricably
linked (Renzetti, 1998; Ristock, 2003). Bell and
Naugle (2008) have argued that the principles of
feminist theory would have to be drastically altered
in order to be applied to same-sex IPV. Overall,
feminist theory’s application to same-sex IPV is
challenging. Neglecting to focus on individual
experiences independently from sexual orientation,
gender, ethnicity, class, race, and other aspects of
identity creates a distinct voice that often ignores the
experiences of those on the margins (e.g., lesbian and
gay individuals; Harris, 1990). Extant IPV research
approaches have resulted in theory development that
offers few answers for gay and lesbian individuals.
Instead, acknowledging the ways societal and cultural
categories—sexual orientation, race, ethnicity,
gender—work together results in a more
comprehensive investigation of the contextual
dynamics that influence experiences (Crenshaw,
1989, 1991). Using an intersectional framework and
integrating the analysis of sexual orientation into IPV
research
will
move
discourse
beyond
heteronormativity toward a deeper understanding,
where all aspects of identity are equally considered.
Indeed, a recent Institute of Medicine (IOM; 2011)
report suggested that scholars employ cross-cutting—
linking the traditionally separated—perspectives to
examine the experiences of same-sex IPV victims.
Sexual orientation interacts with gender,
ethnicity, race, socioeconomic status, and
relationship status to influence power relations
between partners as well as propensities for IPV (see
Anderson, 1999; Lockhart, White, Causby, & Isaac,
1994). Therefore, forcing gay and lesbian individuals
to exclusively identify with one category or another
results in an incomplete view of the oppression they
encounter. For example, lesbian Latinas who seek
out law enforcement assistance may encounter
officers who are neither bilingual nor bicultural
(Rivera, 1994) as well as homophobic (Little 2008;
Potoczniak, Mourot, Crosbie-Burnett, & Potoczniak,
2003). As a means of acknowledging these complex
facets of identity, intersectional framing can offer a
theoretical approach that considers the entirety of an
individual’s multiple circumstances. This approach
considers the social construction of power hierarchies
while examining the complex ways numerous
inequalities intersect to shape experiences
(Crenshaw, 1989, 1991). The intersectional approach
was initially developed in response to the idea that
women of color were often forced to choose one
status over the other—to either shape their identity
around being a woman or a person of color.
Conceptualizing one social category as dominant
over another ignores context and the fact that that
identity is rarely static and always socially mediated
(Crenshaw 1989; Harris, 1990). Focusing on the
intersections of sexual orientation, race, class, and
gender will facilitate the production of a universal
language that criticizes the hegemonic culture while
concurrently creating the foundation for unified
activity against discrimination (Crenshaw, 1989).
Synthesizing prior literature on the experiences of
same-sex IPV victims through the lens of
intersectionality
will
enhance
understanding
regarding IPV, victimization, and justice processes.
Few studies have examined the barriers same-sex
IPV victims face when attempting to access social
services, resulting in an underdeveloped area of
theorizing (Guadalupe-Diaz, 2013). The current
theoretical paper identifies the barriers that same-sex
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
SAME-SEX IPV BARRIERS TO SERVICE
IPV victims encounter when attempting to access
social services since no one has synthesized what is
known about their experiences using an intersectional
approach. Using an intersectional lens, we identify
service barriers specific to same-sex IPV victims with
the goal of providing synthesized information useful
for future research and theory development. In the
first section, we discuss relationship barriers (e.g.,
threats of outing). Section II describes structural and
institutional barriers (e.g., gender norms, minority
stress). In Section III, we examine legal barriers (e.g.,
justice system, anti-homosexual beliefs). The last
section offers recommendations for service providers
and future research based on prior literature. Placing
historically ignored victims, such as sexual
minorities, at the center of service barriers discussion
will facilitate the formation of knowledge (see
O’Neal & Beckman, in press). Doing so is necessary
for relevant theory and intervention development
because mainstream inquiry has generally ignored the
interests of those on the margins.
Intimate Partner Violence and
Barriers to Social Services
Relationship and Individual Barriers to HelpSeeking
The cycle of violence. The cycle of violence, a
term first coined by Lenore Walker (1979) to
describe the progression of violence in abusive
relationships, has been found in both abusive
opposite-sex and same-sex relationships (Burke &
Owen, 2006). Both types of relationships experience
a tension building phase, followed by abusive
behavior, and a cooling down phase--often referred to
as the “honeymoon” stage (Walker, 1979). The
abuse present in the second phase takes many forms,
ranging from physical and sexual violence to
emotional and psychological abuse, and is not limited
to any single type of abuse (Lundy, 1993). The
honeymoon stage of IPV is a period of resolution that
can take place immediately after or a few days
following a severe incident (Walker, 1979).
Throughout this period, the abuser appears
remorseful and caring, promising not to assault their
partner in the future. This behavior can result in the
victim placing blame on themselves, deciding not to
report the incident or dropping any legal charges, or
actually believing that the history of abuse has come
to an end (Kovach, 2004).
Given the nature of the cycle of violence and the
manipulation that occurs during the honeymoon
phase, it is no surprise that most IPV incidents go
unreported (Kay & Jefferies, 2010; Lundy, 1993;
Wolf, Ly, Hobart, & Kernic, 2003). It is estimated
53
that almost half of all IPV incidents remain
unreported to the police (Wolf et al., 2003), making it
one of the lowest reported crimes (McCart, Smith, &
Sawyer 2010; Wolf et al., 2003). Victims detail a
number of reasons as to why they decide to not report
IPV victimization. For example, Wolf and colleagues
(2003) compiled an extensive list that included
apprehensions about law enforcement personnel as
well as emotional barriers such as fear, shame, and
embarrassment. Moreover, victims report avoiding
contact with the police due to feelings of privacy and
the belief that IPV is not a matter serious enough to
warrant professional intervention (McCart et al.,
2010; Wolf et al., 2003). Another reason preventing
individuals from reporting and seeking help for IPV
victimization includes fears that their abuser may
harm or even kill family pets. In fact, Ascione and
colleagues (2007) reported that concern for the wellbeing of pets and companion animals factored into
victims’ decision to leave. This may be due to the
fact that most IPV shelters do not have the proper
facilities to provide shelter and protection for the pets
of IPV victims. (Ascione et al., 2007), complicating
the help-seeking process.
Fear of outing. Threats of outing, or exposing
an individual’s previously private sexual orientation
to others, create a unique barrier to social services for
same-sex IPV victims (Chan, 2005). Outing can be
used by perpetrators as a tool for abuse, creating a
barrier to help-seeking. In circumstances where
victims hide their outward expression of sexuality—
in fear of societal stigma or other repercussions—the
perpetrator may exploit this decision by threats of
forced outing. This can result in the manipulation of
victims, where they remain in abusive relationships
due to fears of isolation and rejection from the
community (for a discussion of gay male
relationships and threats of outing see Ashton, 2008).
Additionally, closeted individuals may be reluctant to
seek help from family, friends, and formal service
providers due to anticipated discrimination or
rejection (Hammond, 1988; Kulkin, Williams, Borne,
de la Bretonne, & Laurendine, 2007). For example,
Hardesty, Oswald, Khaw, and Fonseca (2008) found
that closeted lesbian IPV victims often modified their
help-seeking efforts due to foreseen stigmatizing
responses. It is clear that IPV help-seeking by samesex victims is complicated by the unique stressors
they encounter regarding outing. Turell and
Herrmann (2008) found that lesbians’ biggest
concerns were to maintain anonymity regarding this
victimization within the lesbian and gay community
as well as avoiding homophobic and heterosexist
responses when seeking out services. Until societal
attitudes become more positive and tolerant, threats
of outing will continue to be a tool used by
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
54
PARRY & O’NEAL
perpetrators of violence in sexual minority
relationships (see Burke, Jordan, & Owen, 2002).
Fears of outing are complicated when
considering the economic consequences that can
result when an individual’s previously private sexual
orientation is involuntarily made public. Research
suggests that employers are willing to discriminate
against gay and lesbian individuals and that their
willingness translates into actual discriminatory
practices in areas such as hiring and promotion (for
reviews, see Levine, 1979; Levine & Leonard, 1984;
Pizer, Sears, Mallory, & Hunter, 2011). The inability
to gain or maintain viable employment can directly
influence experiences of IPV and help-seeking
practices which can lead to reciprocal effects;
individuals who have less access to economic
resources are more likely to be severely battered and
suffer prolonged IPV (Alcade, 2006). In addition,
Guadalupe-Diaz (2013) found that lesbian and gay
male IPV victims were less likely to seek out help if
they were of lower economic class. The multifaceted
relationship
between
outing
and
financial
consequences indicates that it is insufficient to
examine IPV help-seeking without considering the
fact that sexual orientation can influence the
distribution of economic resources through
workplace discrimination.
Misinterpretation that abuse is mutual.
Misguided beliefs that same-sex IPV perpetration is
shared or equal between partners (Kulkin et al., 2007)
cause another help-seeking barrier that is relatively
unique to same-sex victims. Turell and Herrmann
(2008), in their qualitative study of lesbian IPV
victims, found that participants were concerned that
the violence would be perceived as mutual. These
concerns are not unwarranted. Research indicates that
service providers often assume that same-sex IPV is
mutual, which influences agency responses (Simpson
& Helfrich, 2007). This results in lesbian and gay
male victims being turned away by helping
professionals due to beliefs that genuine IPV does not
occur in same-sex relationships (McClennen, 2005).
The police, for example, have been found to dismiss
same-sex IPV reports due to misconceptions
regarding mutual combat (Letellier, 1994). In
addition, gay men report negative perceptions of
police helpfulness due to learned expectations of
officer rejection. These learned expectations are often
fueled by heteronormative views that women, not
men, are the sole victims of IPV (Finneran &
Stephenson, 2013). Unfortunately, this troubling type
of response does not end with the police. Hammond
(1988) found that judicial system members often
(mis)interpreted lesbian battering as mutual, despite
their general sympathy toward battered women.
Inappropriate responses have real-life consequences;
when police cannot identify the true abuser, due to
lack of training and/or institutionalized homophobia,
both parties are either arrested or left to remedy the
problem on their own (Hodges, 2000). It must be
noted that, despite the myth that same-sex
relationships are teemed with mutual abuse, research
suggests that bilateral battering is not common.
Merrill and Wolfe (2000) found that, similar to IPV
between opposite-sex couples, violence in same-sex
relationships is not mutual. Misconceptions may arise
due to the fact that that gay males are more likely to
physically defend themselves from assaults by their
intimate partner; however, this should not be
conceptualized or understood as mutual combat
(Letellier, 1994). Accepting the notion of mutual
battering in same-sex IPV can result in the victim
self-identifying as a batterer due to efforts aimed at
self-defense; this further complicates help-seeking
behavior (for a discussion of lesbian IPV, see
Renzetti, 1992).
Homophobia and racism. The small body of
literature exploring the attitudes of racial/ethnic
minority groups toward gay men and lesbians
indicates that many have negative views of sexual
minorities (Greene, 1994; Herek & Capitanio, 1995).
This causes gay and lesbian people of color to feel
isolated within their racial and ethnic communities
(Greene, 1994) while racism often prevents them
from fully identifying with the lesbian and gay
community (Kanuha, 1990). This can result in
conflicting loyalties between the two communities of
identity (Greene, 1994; Kanuha, 1990). In addition,
minority stress—the negative life events that result
from living in a racist and heterosexist society—is
twofold due to their double minority status (Brooks,
1981). Minority stress can result from visible
incidents of discrimination, including hate crimes,
but may also result from covert incidents of prejudice
(Balsam, Molina, Beadnell, Simoni, & Walters,
2011) including denied access to social services.
Because of their double minority status and the
negative attitudes present in both communities of
identity, gay and lesbian people of color are at an
increased risk for experiencing negative responses
when attempting to access social services. These
deleterious responses can include loss of employment
or custody of children as well as anti-gay/race-based
discrimination (Loiacano, 1993). This research
suggests the salience of considering the connection
between both racial-ethnic and sexual identities in
terms of help-seeking (Crawford, Allison, Zamboni,
& Soto, 2002).
Institutional Barriers to Social Services
Gender norms and the preservation of
hegemonic masculinity. “Hegemonic masculinity" is
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
SAME-SEX IPV BARRIERS TO SERVICE
a form of gender practice constructed in relation to
other subordinated or less dominant masculinities as
well as in relation to women (Carrigan, Connell, &
Lee, 1985; Connell, 1995). Hegemonic masculinity is
the term used to describe the criteria for ideal
maleness within certain societies: “There is only one
complete unblushing male in America: a young,
married, white, urban, northern, heterosexual,
Protestant, father [….] Any male who fails to qualify
in any one of these ways is likely to view himself–
during moments at least– as unworthy, incomplete
and inferior” (Kimmel & Aronson, 2008, p. 4).
Although numerous multifaceted performances of
masculinity exist that inform gay male masculinities,
help-seeking is likely to be hindered by dominant
societal beliefs surrounding the ways in which men
“should” act. Therefore, a discussion of traditional
gender norms surrounding hegemonic masculinity is
most relevant here.
Traditional
gender
norms
surrounding
masculinity often shape the way male same-sex IPV
victims seek out social services (Ball, 2011). Western
society imposes strict gender norms on men that
require them to be heterosexual and homophobic
(Cruz, 2000). When men deviate from this
hegemonic ideal, they are in danger of facing social
stigma and even violent retaliation (Kay & Jeffries,
2010). Gay men are sometimes vulnerable to IPV
because their relationships necessarily involve two
men; this may result in heightened levels of
dominance, power, and control (Landolt & Dutton,
1997). First, gender norms surrounding masculinity
that emphasize independence and self-efficacy can
influence the way gay men seek out social services.
Research indicates that gay men are more likely to
solve personal problems independently than seek
informal or formal help (Cruz, 2003; GuadalupeDiaz, 2013; Meyer, 2008; Turell, 2000; for review,
see Ball, 2011). Second, hegemonic ideals
surrounding toughness--beliefs that men should be
tough and strong--may be particularly salient in the
discussion of barriers to help-seeking. Gay male
victims may be less likely to reach out for help due to
general belief systems regarding strength; research
suggests that attitudes toward traditional male
toughness are correlated with negative attitudes
toward gay men (Davies, 2004). These two examples
are by no means exhaustive, but they provide
illustrations of the barriers gay men may encounter
when seeking IPV help. Generally, when gay male
victims do reach out for formal help they are often
met with adversity due to violations of hegemonic
masculinity and violations of rigid gender
expressions (Barbour, 2011).
Female gender norms also shape lesbian helpseeking as societal beliefs can result in lesbian IPV
55
being viewed as less severe. Indeed, some lesbian
IPV victims have reported that they feared violence
would not be taken seriously (Turell & Herrmann,
2008). Societal beliefs surrounding gender norms
posit that women are less violent and aggressive than
their male counterparts. Because of this, when
violence occurs within a relationship, the male is
typically assumed to be the perpetrator (Brown,
2008). This assumption is sometimes applied to
lesbian IPV incidents. Typically, the perpetrator is
often presumed to be masculine or “butch” individual
while the victim is expected to be the feminine
partner (Brown, 2008). This heterosexist way of
thinking may result in individuals avoiding reporting
if they present a gender or role that deviates from
what is labeled “ideal” for the victim. The abovementioned gender roles are frequently reinforced by
numerous sectors of society including families,
communities, and the media. In the community
context, norms of nonintervention (i.e. the failure to
intervene or offer help) in cases of IPV can impart
messages about how to respond—or ignore—
violence (Miller, 2008). The following section
discusses how community can act as barrier to IPV
help seeking.
Isolation: Denial in the lesbian and gay
community. Social networks are defined as the
structure of personal ties that serve various functions
including emotional, social, and economic support
(Barrera, 1986). Numerous studies have examined
the link between lack of support networks—or social
isolation—and violence against women (Bauer,
Rodriques, Quiroga, & Flores-Ortiz, 2000; Heise,
1998; Menjivar & Salcido, 2002). This research,
which overwhelmingly examines the experiences of
heterosexual women and the racially marginalized,
indicates that fewer social networks prevent IPV
victims from gaining access to social services. Helpseeking researchers, however, fail to consider the
unique ways isolation affects gay and lesbian
individuals. For example, “family” is a term used by
gay and lesbian individuals to designate members of
the community. Unfortunately, despite the underlying
assumption that this community is a cohesive one,
gay men and lesbians often ignore IPV within the
family and can respond in unsupportive ways (Istar,
1996; Turell & Hermann, 2008). Research indicates
that friends of lesbian and gay male victims
sometime minimize violence, convince victims to
stay in abusive relationships, or outright deny IPV
incidents to evade marginalizing stereotypes (Fahmy
& Fradella, 2014; Ristock, 2003). The widespread
denial of IPV in this community is complicated by
the fact that lesbians often feel the need to hide abuse
in efforts of maintaining intact images of lesbian
relationships, or what has been coined “lesbian
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
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utopia” (Turell & Herrmann, 2008). Denial of the
problem is even more ubiquitous and problematic
when discussing the experiences of gay men. Due to
the overall invisibility of male victims, lack of
recognition results in feelings of isolation by victims
who have experienced and continue to experience
IPV in their relationships (Barbour, 2011).
Denial within the community is twofold for gay
and lesbian racial/ethnic minorities, making a
discussion of this intersection particularly relevant.
Miller (2008), in her study of gendered violence,
found that nonintervention was common in areas
characterized by urban inequality (Miller's work
focused on the experiences of African American
girls). She found that bystanders often justified their
neutralization and reluctance to intervene by denying
the victim. The problem of nonintervention is also
perpetuated in the Latina/o community through
assertions that IPV is a “private matter” where
exposure can result in the division of community
(Rivera, 1994, pg. 255). This is problematic, as
norms of nonintervention are linked to an increased
prevalence of severe nonlethal partner violence
(Browning, 2002). Therefore, it is important to
recognize how norms of nonintervention (among
gay/lesbian and racial/ethnic communities) and
gender norms shape violence against gay and lesbian
individuals. For example, Agoff and colleagues
(2007) found that Latina/o family members often
justified IPV by blaming the victim for not fulfilling
gendered family duties. In order to understand the
role of social isolation as it applies to gay and lesbian
IPV victimization, it is necessary to move discussion
beyond one community and explore the problematic
norms of nonintervention that can be present in
multiple communities of identity.
Reaching a deeper understanding of the ways
social isolation and support networks affect gay and
lesbian victims of IPV is necessary for
comprehensive
service
efforts.
Using
an
intersectional approach, where various aspects of
identity are considered, can aid in gaining insight into
the unique experiences of these individuals. For
example, the discussion of social isolation and IPV is
complicated when considering the many spaces gays
and lesbians are denied access (e.g. see employment
discussion above). This intersection of isolation and
denied access results in exclusion that fosters abusive
situations by making gay and lesbian individuals
more vulnerable. For example, Renzetti (1996) found
that, although the majority of IPV shelters reported
that they accepted lesbian clients, only 10% offered
services or educational material specifically designed
for lesbian victims. Moreover, research suggests that
IPV service providers are least likely to provide
services to sexual minority males (for a review, see
Hines & Douglas, 2011). According to Knauer
(1999), “[f]or abused men, there are simply no
shelters” (p. 346). The lack of appropriate resources,
due to the overall lack of recognition, can perpetuate
feelings of isolation among gay male victims (Burke,
1998).
Due to the unequal distribution of social support
prescribed by sexual orientation, social isolation must
be examined using an intersectional approach, where
various aspects of identity are considered. In other
words, it is necessary to consider the unique ways
same-sex IPV victims are isolated through denial in
the lesbian and gay community, nonintervention in
racial/ethnic communities, as well rejection in
traditional shelter settings. This can aid in gaining
insight into the unique experiences and barriers
facing same-sex IPV victims.
Legal Barriers to Social Services
Inappropriate law enforcement response. The
justice system has historically used legal criteria to
avoid formal responses to IPV incidents (Phillips &
Sobol,
2010).
Government-sanctioned
homonegativity continues to shape the experiences of
gays and lesbians who attempt to access justice
system services (Murray, Mobley, Buford, &
Seaman-DeJohn, 2007). Existing literature on the
legal issues facing gay and lesbian IPV victims has
primarily, and narrowly, focused on whether lesbians
have legal rights to interventions (Aulivola, 2005). In
terms of legal social services, gay and lesbian
individuals often cite fear of homophobia as a barrier
to help-seeking (Balsam, 2001). Legal help-seeking
among this group is complicated by the fact that
openly gay and lesbian individuals were once
branded criminals because of their sexual activity and
their refusal to comply with gender norms (that is
currently no longer the case; however, the stigma and
cultural memory remain; Merrill & Wolfe, 2000).
Discrimination based on sexual orientation and
gender has affected how law enforcement officials
respond to victims of same-sex IPV (Little, 2008;
Potoczniak et al., 2003). Gay and lesbian victims
report fear and mistrust of justice system personnel
due to issues of past conflict, a culture of
heterosexism, and institutionalized homophobia and
homonegativity (Eaton et al., 2008; Hammond, 1988;
Murray et al., 2007). Sexual minority crime victims
often report inadequate and inappropriate police
response in the forms of mocking, blaming, and
laughing (Wolff & Cokely, 2007). Renzetti (1992)
reported that police are less likely to intervene in
same-sex IPV situations due to prejudice and
attachment to gender norms and stereotypes (e.g.,
beliefs that men are the only IPV perpetrators).
Likewise, Seelau and Seelau (2005) found that sexual
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SAME-SEX IPV BARRIERS TO SERVICE
orientation affected law enforcement response as well
as other legal interventions. This is demonstrated by
the gay and lesbian individuals who have long
reported both verbal and physical abuse at the hands
of police (Renzetti, 1992; Wolff & Cokely, 2007).
These types of abusive law enforcement activity
influence help-seeking behaviors. Sexism and
homophobia can prevent lesbians from reporting
incidents of abuse because prejudice “disempowers”
them from seeking formal assistance (Potoczniak et
al., 2003). In addition, research indicates that helpseeking gay men are often met with homophobic
attitudes from law enforcement officials (Cruz, 2003;
Merrill & Wolfe, 2000). Police responses to IPV
between gay men are further complicated due to
beliefs about the male body and its inability to be
victimized in the domestic sphere. Consider
Barbour’s (2011) relevant scenario: police officers
respond to an IPV call and assess the situation as a
fair fight between two men and, as a result, do
nothing to assist the male victim. These reasons may
prevent an individual from reaching out for help
when victimized.
Police responses to complaints of IPV must also
be contextualized through the historical relations
between racial/ethnic minorities and law enforcement
officers. Despite positive reforms surrounding the
police response to IPV—resulting from outcries
made by feminists, advocates, and the overall
community regarding inappropriate tactics (see
Sherman, 1992; Smith, 2001)—legal changes have
often been called narrow-minded for failing to
consider the experiences of racial and ethnic
minorities (Rivera, 1994). For example, research
indicates that people of color often avoid contact with
law enforcement officials due to feelings of fear,
frustration, and distrust, coupled with perceptions of
ineffectiveness (Erez, 2000; Miller, 2008).
Avoidance may be the result of the long history of
discrimination towards ethnic and racial minorities
by law enforcement officials (Rivera, 1994). Overall,
stereotypes based on racism, ethnic discrimination,
homophobia, and sexism create unique experiences
for victims of IPV. Therefore, in order to understand
the role law enforcement play in preventing sexual
minority victims from accessing social services, it is
important to also recognize how experiences are
shaped by race/ethnic relations.
Anti-gay/lesbian beliefs and laws. Stereotypes,
which are fundamental to the construction of sexual
orientation-based discrimination, result in the
differential treatment of gay and lesbian individuals
in social service settings. Law enforcement officials,
for instance, sometimes believe that lesbians and/or
gay men are promiscuous or dissolute; they view
same-sex partnerships as illegitimate and ephemeral,
57
rather than valid relationships where IPV can happen
(Hill, 2000). In addition to the police, research
suggests that therapist trainees hold negative
stereotypes about gay men in relation to their mental
health (Boysen, Vogel, Madon, & Wester, 2006)
resulting in the differential treatment of same-sex
IPV victims in healthcare settings. Wise and
Bowman (1997) found that graduate-level counseling
students categorized lesbian IPV incidents as less
violent compared to heterosexual incidents; they
were also less likely to suggest charges be pressed
against lesbian batterers. These findings suggest the
importance of examining help-seeking using an
intersectional framework, as gay and lesbian victims
encounter unique barriers when attempting to access
competent law enforcement and mental health
services.
Anti-LGBTQ legal policies, like stereotypes,
also create barriers to social services. When laws are
created that burden gays and lesbians, they result in
collateral consequences, where individuals become
victim to not only the impact of law, but their
intimate partners as well (for a discussion of race,
anti-immigration laws, and IPV, see Crenshaw,
1991). States have historically adopted laws and
measures that explicitly excluded same-sex IPV
victims and perpetrators from the legal interventions
that opposite-sex victims and perpetrators receive
(Hardesty et al., 2011; National Gay and Lesbian
Task Force, 2005). Barbour (2012) argues that these
types of laws demonstrate that “power and
recognition to homosexual men by society is much
less than that given to heterosexual men” (p. 4).
Overall, when laws are passed that exclude same-sex
IPV victims from accessing services, such as legal
intervention, they are prevented from using services
that directly impact their experiences of IPV.
Although the legal landscape for gay and lesbian
couples has become more favorable (e.g., the
majority of states grant same-sex couples the right to
marry; National Conference of State Legislators
[NCSL], 2014), several states are currently
challenging the laws that allow gay men and lesbians
to marry. Additionally, because these laws are in
their infancy, it is unclear how changes will affect
laws governing other legal spheres such as tax- and
inheritance-related issues as well as those
surrounding IPV.
It is salient to discuss anti-LGBTQ laws and
policies in relation to the laws that prevent racial and
ethnic minority IPV victims from help-seeking. Like
anti-LGBTQ laws and policies, anti-immigration
laws create obstacles to social services that primarily
burden individuals of color. For example, Dugan and
Apel (2003) theorized that immigrant individuals
may be hesitant to disclose victimization if the
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offender is undocumented, fearing deportation of
their significant other. In addition, when antiimmigration laws are passed that prohibit
undocumented immigrants from accessing services
such as health care and public education,
undocumented victims are prevented from using
institutions that directly impact their experiences. For
example, Bauer and colleagues (2000), in their study
of health care barriers encountered by battered
minority women, found that some respondents feared
deportation. Participants believed that simply
entering the health care system presented a risk for
deportation. If undocumented immigrant individuals
are unable to seek medical attention (due to either
real or perceived policy-based barriers) for the
violence experienced in their relationships, they are
further prevented from exiting the partnership. In
order to understand the role anti-LGBTQ laws and
policies play in preventing sexual minority victims
from accessing social services, it is important to also
recognize how race-based laws shape the helpseeking of racial/ethnic minorities. Gay and lesbian
IPV victims of color may encounter laws that burden
both of their communities of identity by
systematically preventing them from seeking formal
help.
Directions for Service Providers
and Future Research
The general refusal to recognize IPV in the
context of same-sex relationships—coupled with the
barriers identified above—suggests that gay and
lesbian victims may feel that their experiences of
abuse are not legitimate. This can result in
assumptions that their help-seeking will not be taken
seriously. Lesbians often believe that community
services are solely available to serve heterosexual
women (Renzetti, 1996), and research suggests that
IPV agencies are least likely to provide services to
sexual minority males (for review, see Hines &
Douglas, 2011). Therefore—similar to the movement
to improve the response to heterosexual IPV—police
training, legal changes to afford more protections,
and increased community services appear critical in
providing same-sex IPV victims avenues for exiting
abusive relationships. Based on the literature review
above, we now offer recommendations for service
providers and future research.1
Recommendation I: Law Enforcement
Individuals receive subtle, yet powerful,
messages regarding their social standing as citizens
through their interactions with legal authorities (Tyler
1989; Tyler, Degoey, & Smith, 1996). These
interactions are significant because they provide
individuals information about their relative
worthiness in the community and in relation to
authorities (Tyler et al., 1996). When an individual is
treated fairly, messages of respect and value are
communicated
whereas
unfair
treatment
communicates
disrespect
and
reinforces
marginalization (Tyler et al., 1996). Due to their
contentious history with law enforcement and other
governmental institutions, gay and lesbian
individuals may avoid reporting IPV victimization or
minimize the seriousness of an incident when police
are called (Little, 2008; Potoczniak et al., 2003).
Underreporting may be a result of prior ubiquitous
negative treatment resulting in anticipated
unfavorable treatment (Tesch, Bekerian, English, &
Harrington, 2010). Conversely, research suggests that
citizens are more likely to reach out when they feel
supported and valued by authorities (Tyler, 1989).
To this end, it is our recommendation that law
enforcement personnel receive adequate training to
better understand the historical mistreatment of gay
and lesbian individuals to encourage empathizing
with the population. In efforts to reduce real and
potential police-community problems between
officers and sexual minority complainants, some
police departments (e.g., Atlanta Police Department,
Metropolitan Police Department of the District of
Columbia, Phoenix Police Department, Salem Police
Department, Dallas Police Department ) have
developed programs that include gay and lesbian
liaisons, specialized units that respond to hate crimes
aimed at minorities (racial/ethnic, gender), and
special outreach teams that work to strengthen the
relationship between sexual minorities and officers.
These programs represent first steps in addressing
service accessibility problems as they work to create
an atmosphere that acknowledges intersections and
the variety of factors that shape IPV experiences.
Although more research is required to identify the
most effective types of outreach programs, it makes
sense that communities with growing lesbian and gay
male populations should develop specific programs
to address their needs.
Recommendation II: Shelters
Gay and lesbian shelter services are limited and
even non-existent in some areas, resulting in the
invisibility of sexual minorities in this setting
(Hammond, 1988; Pattavina, Hirschel, Buzawa,
Faggiani, & Bentley, 2007). As mentioned above,
Renzetti (1996) surveyed United States IPV shelters
and found that only 10% offered services or
educational material specifically designed for lesbian
victims. This could be due to the fact that some state
laws expressly exclude gay individuals from
receiving state funded assistance (Knauer, 1999;
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SAME-SEX IPV BARRIERS TO SERVICE
Murray et al., 2007). Extant research should guide
shelter services. For example, Turell and Herrmann
(2008) found that lesbian help-seeking IPV victims
wanted their first contact to be with a trained IPV
advocate sexual minority woman. In addition, crisis
hotline workers often assume that the perpetrator is
male and the victim is female, sending subtle
marginalizing messages to gay individuals when they
call for service (for a discussion on lesbians’ crisis
line experiences, see Turell & Herrman, 2008).
Furthermore, although shelters now admit lesbian
women, many shelters have historically either turned
away lesbian victims or made them feel unwelcome
(Lundy, 1993).
Shelters that provide services for gay males are
even more lacking, resulting in hundreds of
thousands of male victims remaining in abusive
homes because they have limited formal options
when seeking safety (Letellier, 1994). Most shelters
devote their resources to assisting female victims of
IPV (Ashton, 2008). The lack of formal protection
for gay males stems from the misconception that
females are the sole victims of IPV (Burke, 1998;
Merrill & Wolfe, 2000; Turell, 2000); women’s
shelters often turn away male help-seekers due to
safety concerns for the women present (Island &
Letellier, 1991; Merrill & Wolfe, 2000). As a result,
gay male victims are typically forced to rely on
HIV/AIDS treatment centers or homeless shelters—
an environment that can foster hate-based violence—
when attempting to flee violent relationships
(Barbour, 2011). Even more disheartening, women’s
shelters often report that serving gay men is not a
priority (Short, 1996 as cited in Merrill & Wolfe,
2000). It is no wonder that men who seek help from
shelters report that the services they receive are not
very helpful (McClennen, Summers, & Vaughan,
2002). These findings suggest that IPV shelters
should work to overcome this marginalizing history
and mend relations.
It might prove helpful for shelters to draw
inspiration from the various anti-violence campaigns
that outline best practices for stopping violence in the
lesbian and gay community (e.g., Anti-Violence
Project, “Lifting the Mask off of Domestic
Violence,” Jane Doe, Inc., Aids Council of New
South Wales). One way to achieve this goal is to
develop trainings that help service professionals
understand the factors that shape the experiences of
same-sex IPV victims. For example, research
suggests that closeted lesbian IPV victims often
modify their help-seeking attempts in fear of
stigmatizing responses (Hardesty et al., 2011).
Shelters can encourage help-seeking through
campaigns targeted at same-sex victims. Educational
public service announcements that communicate
59
welcoming atmosphere may promote help-seeking. In
addition, Ard and Makadon (2011) have suggested
several steps that providers can take to address IPV
among lesbian and gay male clients including
adapting institutional IPV pamphlets, posters, and
visual material to include same-sex relationships.
Recommendation III: Support Networks
Research has established a link between the lack
of support networks and interpersonal violence
(Heise, 1998; Menjivar & Salcido, 2002). IPV
between gay and lesbian partners is more invisible
compared to abuse occurring in heterosexual
relationships; this has resulted in a lack of support
systems (Ashton, 2008). According to GuadalupeDiaz (2013), gay men may not have the supportive
networks that are critical to exiting abusive
relationships. In addition, Turell and Herrmann
(2008) found that lesbian and bisexual women rarely
used services provided by the general community.
This suggests that agencies should help same-sex IPV
victims
form
support
networks
through
unconventional approaches. Service providers could
assist sexual minority victims in joining community
groups through local organizations. By joining such
groups, individuals would have access to social and
emotional support while creating networks of
opportunity. Building strong support networks is a
salient service technique for all IPV victims. More
important still, is creating partnerships between
official services and the victim’s social support
networks (Goodman & Smyth, 2011). Using
intersectional thinking and recognizing the unique
factors that prevent same-sex IPV victims from
forming strong support networks will result in
services that are more responsive to their specific
needs. For example, coordinated projects that work to
establish community networks and strengthen
organized efforts include projects such as National
Lesbian and Gay Health Association and The
Domestic Violence Program of the Gay and Lesbian
Community Action Council. These organizations
advocate change by drawing on established
community resources and educating the public about
same-sex partner violence. Recognizing the unique
barriers that sexual minority IPV victims encounter
coupled with using joint approaches through
community collaboration can help distribute
problem-solving efforts more evenly throughout the
community. This signals to victims that stopping
violence within the community is a cooperative and
unified effort. It also communicates to victims that
support networks are more evenly distributed
throughout their residential community.
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Recommendation IV: Future Research
Future research that examines the experiences of
lesbian and gay male IPV victims using an
intersectional framework can increase meaningful
discussion regarding barriers to service. Specifically,
future inquiry should aim to (1) uncover the ways
sexual minority IPV victims reach out for formal and
informal assistance (e.g., non-profit organizations,
traditional IPV service providers, LGBTQ service
providers, friends, family), (2) identify the unique
barriers that sexual minority IPV victims face when
help-seeking (e.g., homophobia, disbelief, fears of
outing), (3) gain knowledge surrounding their overall
experiences (e.g., ease of service attainment,
assessments of service helpfulness), and (4)
understand the barriers to help-seeking that
transgender and bisexual IPV victims encounter
when reaching out for assistance. Gaining insight into
these areas will help inform the development of antiviolence strategies that cater to the specific needs of
sexual minority IPV victims.
To point number four, the dearth of research
examining the help-seeking behavior and experiences
of transgender IPV victims is particularly
problematic as research indicates that these
individuals may experience increased risk of IPV
compared to other sexual minorities (Landers &
Gilsanz, 2009). Transgender respondents have
reported a lifetime IPV rate of 34.6%, versus 14.0%
for gay and lesbian individuals (Landers & Gilsanz,
2009).
Additionally,
transgender
individuals
experience unique barriers to service not experienced
by other sexual minorities. For example, individuals
that identify as female but were born male may
encounter barriers when attempting to access
women’s shelters (Hines & Douglas, 2011; Pattavina
et al., 2007). A recent study of IPV service
professionals in Los Angeles found that non-LGBT
affiliates reported feeling inadequately prepared to
assist transgender persons (Ford, Slavin, Hilton, &
Holt, 2012). The higher prevalence rate of IPV found
in
transgender
relationships
coupled
with
underdeveloped service provisions signal the need for
increased scholarly attention investigating the unique
experiences of this historically understudied group.
Another area of particular concern is the lack of
research directed at understanding the specific needs
of bisexual victims of IPV. This research neglect may
be due in part to the fact that bisexuals run the risk of
being defined based on their current relationship or,
more specifically, their partner’s gender. For
example, a bisexual woman who is dating a woman
may be labeled as a lesbian whereas if she were
dating a man she may be classified as straight by
outsiders (James, 1996). The lack of focus on
bisexuals is particularly troublesome given that the
limited research on bisexual women and IPV has
shown that they represent a particularly at-risk
population. They are more likely to experience IPV
victimization than their lesbian or gay counterparts;
however, this victimization most often occurs in the
context of their opposite-sex relationships
(Messinger, 2011). The unique status that bisexuals
occupy may present additional barriers for IPV
victims, as they may not be welcomed or feel
comfortable
accessing
resources
designed
specifically for opposite-sex or same-sex victims. In
addition, bisexuality has a history of being
completely disregarded or unacknowledged by
service providers (for a discussion on the dismissal of
bisexuals and the overall denial of bisexuality see
James, 1996). Overall, further research should
address the specific needs, as well as the potential
risk factors, associated with bisexual men and women
in relation to IPV victimization.
Integrating qualitative methodologies, such as
focus groups, may prove useful in the study of IPV in
sexual minority relationships as these approaches
allow individuals to assign meaning to their
experiences (Adler & Adler, 1987) while extensively
examining the topic under discussion (Gerbert,
Caspers, Bronstone, Moe, & Abercrombie, 1999).
Focus-group methodology can tap into shared
experiences of marginalization and help develop a
structural examination of individual experiences
(Pollack, 2003). Feminist scholars have long
advocated the use of focus-group methodology for
researchers interested in investigating context-driven
gendered processes and experiences (Pollack, 2003).
This methodology is particularly salient with
interviews of sexual minority victims because it has
the ability to transfer power from the researcher to
the interviewees (Madriz, 2001), which is appropriate
for work with oppressed, marginalized, and
previously ignored research subjects.
From a feminist perspective, qualitative
approaches are significant in IPV research as they
offer a voice for marginalized groups (Davis, Taylor,
& Furniss, 2001). Qualitative methods help to
uncover the unique ways individuals function in
dynamic social situations and are better equipped to
draw on the numerous factors that shape individual
experiences (Tewksbury, 2009), which is especially
salient for intersectionality-driven work. Certainly,
qualitative methodologies often do not result in
generalizable findings. This limitation, however, is
balanced
by
gaining
in-depth
knowledge
(Tewksbury, 2009). Qualitative methods tap into the
aspects of identity that shape the experiences of
victims. Overall, further research on this historically
ignored group—possibly with a focus on gay men
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1
SAME-SEX IPV BARRIERS TO SERVICE
and transgender/sexual individuals given the scant
literature—is necessary to inform service providers
regarding their needs, perceptions, and experiences.
Conclusion
This paper should be used to guide future
research on gay and lesbian help-seeking behaviors
and inform the development of IPV interventions.
Intersectional thinking can reframe our understanding
regarding IPV, victimization, and justice processes
by offering insight into the experiences of sexualminority IPV victims (see O’Neal & Beckman, in
press). The interests of lesbian and gay IPV victims
have traditionally been overlooked in mainstream
inquiry—although this body of work is growing.
Further research is essential to establish a more
comprehensive knowledge base and to examine
cultural and subjective differences between sexual
minorities and heterosexuals. Indeed, approaches that
focus on multiple elements of experience will result
in a body of knowledge that can facilitate the
development of theory and policy (Simpson, 1989).
Alternatively, theory will continue to be relatively
uninformed as to the nature of barriers to service if
scholars continue to ignore the numerous aspects of
identity that shape the experiences of IPV victims.
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About the Authors
Wise, A. J., & Bowman, S. L. (1997). Comparison of
beginning counselors’ responses to lesbian vs.
heterosexual partner abuse. Violence and
Victims, 12, 127–135.
Megan Marie Parry is a doctoral student and
research assistant at Arizona State University in the
School of Criminology and Criminal Justice. Her
research interests include cultural criminology, police
legitimacy, and police officer stress, as well as the
systemic responses to and treatment of marginalized
populations.
Wolff, K. B., & Cokely, C. L. (2007) “To Protect and
Serve?”: An exploration of police conduct in
relation to the gay, lesbian, bisexual, and
transgender community. Sexuality and Culture,
11, 1–23. doi: 10.1007/s12119-007-9000-z
Wolf, M., Ly, U., Hobart, M., & Kernic, M. (2003).
Barriers to seeking police help for intimate
partner violence. Journal of Family Violence, 18,
doi: 10.1023/A:1022893231951
Eryn Nicole O’Neal is a doctoral student and
research assistant in the School of Criminology and
Criminal Justice at Arizona State University. Her
research interests include intimate partner sexual
assault (IPSA), arrest and charging decisions in
sexual assault and intimate partner violence cases,
poststructural approaches in feminist theory, and
qualitative methods.
Endnotes
1
Because this review highlights the unique barriers that sexual minority IPV victims encounter when engaging in
help-seeking, this section is aimed at providing recommendations regarding victim services. A discussion of
batterers’ interventions is outside the scope of this paper; however, we acknowledge that the topic warrants
future discussion. See Price and Rosenbaum (2009) for an assessment of American batterers’ intervention
across 45 states.
Criminology, Criminal Justice, Law & Society – Volume 16, Issue 1