Rolando Bonilla And The Restraining Order He Buried.
- RL Barrett
- Apr 1
- 4 min read
Updated: Apr 10
A San Francisco court granted her a restraining order days after giving birth — but decades later, Rolando Bonilla’s narrative of denial and silence still defines the public record. It’s time to ask: who benefits from her absence?
San José, CA —In the heart of San José, where public and civic leadership should mean something, a disturbing truth has remained hidden in plain sight. Rolando Bonilla—a man who has shaped policy, participated on city commissions, and branded himself as a public servant—has never answered for the most serious stain in his past: a domestic violence restraining order granted in San Francisco County just eight days after the birth of his son.
Rolando Bonilla has cultivated a public identity centered around resilience, fatherhood, and public service. But a critical chapter in his personal history—a granted domestic violence restraining order filed in San Francisco County in 1999—remains shrouded in silence. And that silence has, quietly and powerfully, served his ambitions.
The order was not part of a custody fight. It was filed eight days after the birth of Bonilla’s son—in the immediate aftermath of childbirth. No custody or divorce actions were in process at the time. The filing was singular and urgent: a mother seeking protection. The court granted the order along with a mandate for Rolando Bonilla to complete Anger Management and Parenting Classes.
Despite this, Bonilla has consistently framed the episode as an outgrowth of a contentious relationship or “false accusations” linked to parenting disagreements. He rarely engages directly with the facts. And he has never publicly named his former partner—who has remained entirely silent.
Legal Timelines Matter
For those unfamiliar with family law: domestic violence restraining orders (DVROs) are not required to be filed during or after divorce proceedings. They are independent legal actions designed to protect individuals experiencing abuse, intimidation, or coercive control.
In this case, Rolando Bonilla’s former partner filed for protection in San Francisco County, just a day over 1-week postpartum. That timing is legally and psychologically significant. It signals that the request was not a strategic move, but a safety-based decision during one of the most vulnerable windows in a person’s life. Judges do not issue restraining orders casually. The bar for granting a DVRO includes evidence, testimony, or clear risk to the petitioner. The court reviewed her claim—and granted the order.
Silence as Political Asset
Bonilla’s approach to the matter has been deliberate. By speaking vaguely—never naming his former partner and rarely addressing the court action—he creates distance. He acknowledges a “difficult past,” but not the legal substance of what occurred. And with no rebuttal from the other side, he’s been able to control the narrative. It’s no coincidence that Rolando Bonilla has navigated this silence with such precision—he’s a seasoned public relations strategist by trade. Since before 2010, he has shaped public perception through his firm Ford & Bonilla, and later as Chief Strategy Officer at Voler Strategic Advisors, a consultancy known for managing image, crisis, and reputation for political figures and institutions. Bonilla didn’t just survive the circulation of a domestic violence restraining order—he outmaneuvered it. With the skills of someone who knows how headlines are made (and avoided), he has framed the order as a misunderstanding, distanced himself from specifics, and leveraged the public’s short attention span. This isn’t the accidental byproduct of a private man; it’s the calculated success of a professional who understands that controlling the story is as powerful as controlling the facts.
That silence, however, is not exoneration.
His former partner has never spoken publicly about the order or the circumstances around it.
Whether due to trauma, legal fatigue, personal safety, or the need to protect her current life, her silence has had powerful implications. It has allowed Rolando Bonilla to rise, unchallenged, despite a restraining order that suggests serious allegations were once legally validated.
Why It Still Matters
Some might ask: why bring this forward now, if he’s not currently running for office?
Because the internet doesn’t forget—and silence can still speak volumes. Bonilla’s version of this story—one that paints himself as the victim of “false accusations” during a painful time—has lived unchallenged online for years. It has been echoed in campaign statements, political interviews, and social media posts. That version has actively benefited his image, positioning him as a misunderstood father, a community leader, and a man who overcame an unfair attack.
But this story has another side—one we’ve never heard. One that, legally speaking, involved a court-granted domestic violence restraining order issued just eight days after his son was born. A filing made without the pressure or leverage of a custody dispute. That version has been absent, buried, or rebranded as a “misunderstanding.”
And even now, many questions remain unanswered:
• Who is the son Bonilla doesn’t speak of?
• Where is he today, and what did he grow up knowing about this story?
• What impact did that early violence—or the erasure of it—have on him?
• Why has no journalist pressed for clarity around the actual court records?
• And why has the silence of a woman who once sought the court’s protection been accepted as permission to rewrite the truth?
These are not small questions. They go to the heart of how we let people shape public legacies in the absence of accountability. They ask us to consider how silence—especially the silence of a woman who was likely vulnerable, overwhelmed, and afraid—can be weaponized for personal and political gain.
Call to Action: Demand the Whole Story
This story only scratches the surface.
It is not just about what happened in 1999—it is about what has been allowed to go unanswered ever since. It is about how easily a well-spoken man can turn a legal record into a vague anecdote, and how willingly the public will accept that version if no one asks harder questions.
