As Ezekiel Elliott's appeal hearing moves into its third day, we're not much closer to gaining answers to what really happened last July, when a former girlfriend accused the Dallas Cowboys running back of beating her. But one of the questions being asked during the hearing is entirely the wrong one.
The NFL suspended Elliott for six games earlier this month following a yearlong investigation, one that was fraught with a lack of transparency. The suspension follows the minimum penalty under the league's revamped domestic violence policy, which calls for an investigation independent of police and court action. But it's hard to know what to make of this particular case, with conflicting testimony from witnesses on both sides and an ongoing effort to discredit the accuser.
As we see time and again, the questions being asked of an alleged victim demonstrate a lack of understanding of the specific challenges in pursuing domestic violence cases. In 2014, people questioned Janay Rice, Ray Rice's wife, asking, "Why did she stay?" Now, inquiries surround the NFL's decision to keep Elliott separated from his accuser at his appeal.
If the NFL, acting extra judicially, wanted its process to resemble a courtroom's, a player would have the right to confront his accuser. The NFL's circumvention of the accused's basic legal protections simply reinforces the widely held perception that the league interprets facts "to generate a predetermined outcome," as ESPN's Kevin Seifert says sports attorney Peter Ginsberg once said.
But it's impossible to ignore the psychological relapse that many women encounter when confronting their abusers in court. This revictimization is part of the emotional abuse that usually accompanies physical violence, and is often used as an intimidation tactic by the accused. For this reason, domestic violence advocates support ending the practice of allowing defendants to cross-examine their accusers. In the U.K., for example, a Guardian investigation showed how abusers continue their harassment during cross-examinations, and in February, the Ministry of Justice banned the practice.
The NFL's unwillingness to allow Elliott to confront his accuser shouldn't be interpreted as a sign of his guilt or innocence. Instead, perhaps it's a sign that the league is actually listening to the domestic violence groups with which it has partnered in recent years to attempt to better understand the issue and guide its handling of such cases.
We've already accepted that the NFL's disciplinary process acts outside of the confines of the legal process -- for better (domestic violence cases) or worse (Deflategate). Many faults remain in the way that the NFL pursues these cases, but protecting accusers isn't one of them, especially if such protection makes an accuser more willing to talk to NFL investigators than to police.
Elliott's case isn't likely to end any time soon. Earlier this week, reports pointed to the possibility that he'd pursue the case in federal court should he lose his appeal. Hopefully by then we'll have gained more insight into both Elliott's actions and the NFL's investigation. For now, let's stop asking the wrong question.