From report to court, part eight – Being on the stand

I didn’t want Jon to be in court with me. As much as knowing he was there would be a comfort, it would also make me conscious of what I was saying. I know my past upsets him, simply because it causes me pain and he can’t fix that or protect me from it.

I also knew the court gallery was virtually empty, which was a surprise to me. Every TV court drama has the gallery full of people watching, but in reality, no one wants to watch. I followed the usher through the second set of double doors, and the room was quiet. I’d been in a court room once before when witness services gave Alfie and me a tour so we’d know what to expect. It was quiet then too, but also empty. This time it was quiet, but in that hushed way where a hoard of people are trying not to make any noise.

To stop me from having to see Tim, he’d been removed from the dock, and I took my seat on the witness stand behind an ugly red curtain that obscured my view of the dock, and importantly, Tim’s view of me. The judge, a stern but gently spoken man, explained about the oath I was about to take, and then I looked at the usher stood in front of me. He spoke and I repeated. It was like getting married, except this time I’d be married to the truth.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at the jury. Something about them sitting in judgement of me, watching me, holding my future in their hands, I couldn’t separate me being part of a trial, from me being on trial. The video recorded interview I’d done four years earlier had been played to the court before I came in, so there were no questions about what’d happened in what was referred to as ‘The bedroom incident’. The barrister appointed to the prosecution set a scene of why I’d been around Tim, and my interactions with him, but didn’t go into any depth, and far sooner than I expected, she sat down, leaving me disappointed and confused. Why wasn’t she asking me questions that could bring more information or solidify my position before the defence questioned me?

The defence barrister stood up. I’d been told she was a nice person. I’d been told that due to the nature of the trial she couldn’t badger me. I’d been told that she was just doing a job and I couldn’t hold that against her, but I couldn’t see how anybody who chooses to represent a convicted child pornographer on charges of child rape could be someone worthy of my respect. But, I’d also been told I had to be nice, calm, likable for the jury. I suffer from chronic sarcasm with a healthy dose of scorn, but I was going to try my best.

She inflated her chest, and laid into me. Suddenly everything I’d been told about my composure and attitude made sense. If I stay calm while she’s being aggressive and rude, she comes off worse. She spoke in a no doubt practiced condescending, mocking tone, I assume designed to get a reaction from me. But I knew that she was someone who chose to work against the victims of these predatory men, trying to put them back on the streets and into the public domain. That meant I had very little respect for her, and didn’t give a fuck if she wanted to patronise me or thought she was better than me.

Before going on the stand, multiple people had said I should try to answer with yes or no, and not offer more information unless directed to. Barristers are wise to this and try and pose a question in a way that is difficult to answer that way. However, years of living in Asia means I’ve picked up a lot of the local speech patterns, and I’m more likely to answer correct or incorrect. This made her get quicker and quicker with her questioning and I answered each as she threw them at me, so she changed tactic and began starting her questions with “I put it to you.”

Her entire case seemed to be making me out to be an evil genius who’d somehow managed to rope in two other victims and a selection of witnesses, all to victimise her client. I desperately wanted to point out that she was preposterous, and what possible motivation could there be for multiple people to all perjure themselves to the point of prison time just to upset her client. But I stuck with ‘correct’ or ‘incorrect’. I did say more than those two words, arguing with her when she started presenting timelines that were made up or deliberately misrepresenting established facts. But eventually she ran out of different ways to call me a liar, more than once just making that statement, and I was released from the stand with court adjourning for lunch.

As I stepped off the witness stand, I made eye contact with the one person sat in the gallery. It was my therapist. We’d spent hundreds of hours over multiple years together, and I could read his face just as well as he could read mine. He was almost lounging in the theatre style seating, and had a smile that read, ‘well done, I’m proud of you’. For the second I looked at him, all the defensive barriers I had up, broke, and before I was out of the court room, I was crying. I made it back to the witness room, and clung onto Jon like I needed him to anchor me.

When I stopped crying, Jon and I were taken down for a cigarette. I had two in the time it took Jon to smoke one, and as we returned to the witness room, Ross was stood outside it.

“I’ve got bad news,” he said.

My capacity to process thought was so fried I couldn’t think of a single thing he could say that would be bad news.

“The defence wants you to come back after lunch. She has one more question.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me?”

But he wasn’t. I’d been on the stand for over an hour, most of which time was taken up by her, and now we had to wait for the judge to come back from lunch to decide if she was allowed to call me back.

When I entered the court for the second time, the jury wasn’t sitting, and Ms Nadia Chbat, specialist in representing paedophiles and rapists, waited for most of them to enter the room before putting on a gentle voice, saying “Sorry. Sorry, Thank you, I’m sorry.” This was obviously for the jury, as she could have said it before they came in. I wondered who she thought was buying it as she was about to stand and return to being aggressive and rude.

The question she had for me, which was of so much importance I needed to be called back, was about a photograph I entered into evidence. A picture taken of me from inside Tim’s kitchen, sat in the garden.

“I put it to you,” she said with her normal voice back, “That my client didn’t have net curtains.”

The net curtains could be seen on the right-hand side of the photograph. But that was the important question she had for me, interior décor of the ‘90s. Although it was ridiculous, I responded, and we argued back and forth. But it was nearly 2p.m. by this point, I’d not eaten anything as I couldn’t stomach food that morning. I’d not even had much water as I didn’t want it making me need to pee while I was on the stand. This was my second day in court, my second time on the stand, I was emotionally exhausted, and my patience was running thin. As she repeated again, that her client didn’t have net curtains, I snapped back, “I’m assuming you have a picture to disprove me.”

She fumbled her words, turned her body and raised an outstretched arm towards the dock. “I’m just acting on my clients’ instructions.”

Before I could stop myself, I rolled my eyes. It sounded like she just pointed at Tim and said, ‘he made me do it.’

The judge brought the farce to a close asking if she had anything more to ask, and I was dismissed from court for the second time. This time, picking up my bag, thanking witness services, and fleeing before the defence could call me back to ask me about upholstery choices.