by Rosie Batty
Watching his car pull out of the cul-de-sac, I leaped on the phone and called triple zero. The police arrived some ten minutes later. Two young constables got out of the police car and came to the front door. Visibly distressed, I explained they had just missed Greg, that he had gone for a coffee and said he would be back in twenty minutes. I felt comforted that they were there: at least I wouldn’t have to face Greg alone.
‘We can’t wait, ma’am,’ said one of the constables. ‘If he comes back, just call triple zero again and a patrol car will return.’
I was incredulous. ‘What?’ I heard myself say. ‘But you can’t go! You can’t leave me here! He threatened to kill me yesterday!’
The constables stood awkwardly looking at each other. ‘We’ve had a call to attend another job, ma’am. We have to go.’
‘But you can’t leave me!’ I was starting to become hysterical. ‘I was in your station all afternoon yesterday and you told me to call triple zero, which I did, and now you’re just going to drive off and abandon me? He’ll be back here any minute. You have to stay and arrest him!’
‘With respect, ma’am, you can’t tell us how to do our job,’ one of the policemen replied. I could tell they were starting to form a perception of me as an hysterical woman. Neither of them had been at the police station when I had arrived, in a state of high agitation, the previous afternoon. Neither of them properly understood the history between Greg and me. To them, I was just another complainant, a crank with her crazy ex-partner conspiracies who had phoned triple zero and now had to be indulged.
‘Have you ever been threatened to be killed before?’ I continued, my voice rising shrilly, tears streaming down my face. ‘He’s a six-foot man! I’m terrified!’ All the emotion of the past fourteen hours came tumbling out.
They made to leave. Sobbing uncontrollably, I went back into the house and slammed the door, convinced I had once again been abandoned by the very people whose job I thought it was to protect me.
Luckily, the police had been sufficiently moved by my hysteria that they had radioed their inability to attend the other job and, instead, waited at the top of my cul-de-sac. When eventually Greg returned, they intercepted him, arrested him and put him in their car for transport to Hastings police station.
They came back to my door to apologise. One of them introduced himself as Constable Paul Topham. ‘I just wanted to say sorry about the misunderstanding,’ he said. ‘He is a dangerous man. When we arrested him, he started ranting and raving and hurling abuse. We nearly had to use capsicum spray.’
I felt a massive surge of relief and felt validated. At last, people were seeing Greg for the mentally unstable, potentially violent offender I had known him to be for the past decade. Apparently, after shouting at the police all the way to the station – calling the two arresting officers ‘faggots’ and ‘big girl’s blouses’ – Greg had continued to abuse them as they put him into a holding cell. While the officers started processing the paperwork that accompanies an arrest, Greg continued abusing them from the cell, continually pressing the duress button to force them to come to the cell, even though there was nothing wrong.
‘You’re the ones who are criminals!’ Greg shouted at them repeatedly.
Later that day Greg was charged with threatening to kill me, threatening to inflict serious injury, contravention of an IVO and use of an unregistered vehicle. He was remanded in custody overnight and taken directly to Frankston Magistrates Court to answer the new batch of charges.
Police opposed bail, with the police prosecutor arguing that the combination of Greg’s violation of the IVO, plus the seriousness of his threat and history of violence meant he should be held in custody until he faced trial later in the year. But for a variety of reasons, including that Greg had no previous convictions, he was subsequently released on bail and walked from the courtroom again a free man.
Constable Topham, who had attended the court as one of the arresting officers, took me aside and urged me to seek a variation of the IVO – he was concerned its terms didn’t go far enough – but I told him I had no idea how to do that or even where to start. To date, I had simply been carried along by police processes, fronting up to court each time I was told to, blindly confident the system would take care of things. I was starting to suspect it was all a waste of time.
My experience had shown that reporting to police, making a statement and turning up to court only ended up with you leaving court dissatisfied, having stood by and watched as decisions were made on your behalf about points of law you didn’t understand. And at the end of it all, nothing fundamentally changed.
‘He’s a real nasty piece of work,’ Constable Topham said to me. ‘Have you thought about going back to England?’
I smiled benignly and nodded. He didn’t know the half of it.
I heard later the police were frustrated that Greg had been released on bail.
Coincidentally, just over a week later, another set of completely unrelated charges were laid against Greg, and a warrant issued for his arrest. From the Child Sex Offences unit headquarters in South Melbourne, Detective Senior Constable Andrew Cocking made email contact with Constable Topham, enquiring after Greg’s whereabouts. Two months previously, on 17 November 2012, Greg had been caught accessing child pornography on a computer in the Emerald Hill public library. DSC Cocking was in charge of investigating the case. For a complicated set of reasons involving current privacy laws, I was never informed.
Yes, I was involved in a custody dispute with Greg. Yes, the authorities were acutely aware that despite Greg showing troubling behaviour, he still had court-authorised access to Luke on weekends. Yes, Greg was facing a series of charges (for which he never fronted up to court), among which were a threat to kill me. And yes, Child Protection had been called in to assess whether Luke was in danger and had deemed he wasn’t. Yet no one was permitted to inform me that Greg had been arrested for accessing child porn on a computer. It would be months before I was to find out – and then, only by accident.
Of course, all of this – court proceedings being adjourned (because Greg failed to show) and a child sex offence investigation – was going on without my knowledge.
After Greg’s latest threat to kill me by chopping off my foot, and after I had subsequently watched him be granted bail and go back to his life, I tried to get on with my own life. But nothing seemed to be gelling. The teddy-making business was not working out as I had hoped and I was in a permanent state of high anxiety. I would wake in the morning after a fitful sleep and spend the day rushing around at a million miles an hour, trying to do everything at once and, as a result, not achieving a single thing. I couldn’t even sit still long enough to read an email. I had an overwhelming sense of not having enough time. I was incapable of prioritising – everything had a sense of heightened priority – and so very little got done.
A friend recognised my dilemma and started picking Luke up for school and bringing him home. It was simple, small acts of kindness like that which kept me from going completely off the rails.
I would start off the day feeling all right, but by mid-morning, I was having trouble breathing and feeling a tightness in my chest. I finally took myself to a doctor, and she explained I was suffering from anxiety brought on by post-traumatic stress. It made sense. She advised I undertake a course of medication, against which I immediately bridled. I had always felt like medicating yourself was a cop-out. But in the end I took her advice and felt better almost immediately. I am on the same anti-anxiety medication to this day.
My situation wasn’t helped by the fact I had somehow fallen through the cracks in the system. I would come to learn later that usually a woman in my predicament would have been referred to family violence support services, that a case worker would typically have been assigned whose job it then was to hold my hand through the various legal processes that were unfolding around me. As it was, I was left to navigate it on my own.
At a court hearing in mid-February 2
013 for the issuing of a final IVO (stemming from Greg’s attack on me with the vase some nine months previously), the magistrate refused to issue a final order because Greg was not present and therefore unable to answer the claims being made against him. Greg was hardly ever present. He had come to understand that non-appearance in a courtroom was a sure-fire way to keep the system tying itself in knots, leaving him to walk the streets and do as he pleased. Another interim order was issued, with a return date of 17 May set for another mention.
I was confused again. And upset. I left the courtroom crying, feeling that the magistrate was somehow angry with me – and once again feeling as though I had been left in limbo.
18
Threat
While Luke made a good show at school of appearing like the happy-go-lucky, goofy kid, it masked a much more complicated little soul. There would often be moments in his last year of school when I would come across him morose, convinced he didn’t have any friends. If you had pulled out a class photo and gone through it with him, of course you would have identified four or five boys he was close to. But any acts of carelessness on the part of his friends often knocked Luke’s self-esteem for a six.
If you asked me what it was that set him apart from other kids his age, I would say it was his sensitivity. It wasn’t just that he was the first kid in any group to be moved to tears – especially if he thought he had been the victim of some sort of injustice – but also that he was the kid that seemed so completely in tune with the moods and temperaments of those around him.
He really just wanted to please and fit in and, to a large extent, make those around him feel comfortable. I often wonder if perhaps he had been forced to grow up in that sense faster than other kids. Maybe kids who come from broken homes or have parents with dysfunctional relationships, as Luke did, become mediators between their warring elders, taking onto their little shoulders at an early age the responsibility to placate Mum and Dad. If that was what Luke felt compelled to do, it makes me sad. All I ever wanted to do was to give him as normal and happy an upbringing as possible.
*
As much as we were able, Luke and I resolved to get back to leading our lives as normally as possible in that first half of 2013. I felt like I was in court every other week, as the succession of charges against Greg were called for mention, then adjourned because he had failed to show. It was wearying in its predictability.
One afternoon in April 2013, I collected Luke from school as usual and drove him up the hill to home. He’d been unusually quiet in the preceding week. I did my best to shield him from the ongoing court processes, and was especially careful not to badmouth Greg in front of Luke, but I worried that he was being caught in the web of negativity nonetheless. It transpired that was the least of my concerns.
‘Dad showed me a knife,’ Luke said out of the blue as we drove up the hill.
I almost drove off the road. Determined not to show my shock and to encourage him to share, I feigned nonchalance. ‘Oh really?’ I replied, trying not to sound alarmed. Maybe it was one of those fruit knives he kept in the car, I told myself. Greg was always eating meals in his car. Perhaps it was an innocent gesture.
Luke was sitting in the front seat, staring out the window as I drove. It was a textbook case of a child using the safety of a car ride to divulge a confidence, knowing you are sufficiently distracted with the job at hand to not overreact.
‘Why did he show you a knife?’ I asked.
‘We were in the car and I was playing on my iPad and he was praying, then he pulled out a knife and said, “It could all end with this. Cain has spoken.”’
I felt like I was going to vomit. My heart sank as my mind began to race.
‘He said he was tired of this life and wanted to go to the next life,’ Luke continued. ‘And he said he wanted me to go with him.’
Apart from feeling sick to my stomach, I felt so sorry that this ten-year-old boy – my baby – was having to carry all of this around. I felt sorry and guilty. But mostly I just felt terrified. Things had been serious before, and Greg had dialled up the intensity of his violence towards me, but this was something else. I felt Greg had gone to the next level – and it was clear I had to shut down any access he had to Luke.
As the full impact of Luke’s revelation began to sink in, I started to reassess the one fundamental belief I’d had in Greg up until this point. I knew he would happily do me harm: that much had been proven. But Greg lived for Luke, literally. As the rest of his life continued on its downward spiral, the only good thing left in it was his son, and the joy he derived from watching him grow. Greg would have given Luke anything. He would go hungry for Luke. If Luke was ill, Greg had been known to spend his entire Centrelink benefit for a week taking Luke to a naturopath. There had never been any hint that he would harm Luke – until now. This was a game changer.
It still seemed unbelievable, and part of me wondered if Luke had heard correctly or if the conversation had been taken out of context or if I had misinterpreted it. In the recounting of the story, Luke hadn’t seemed the least bit perturbed, but then, unusual was his normal, so who could tell?
I was due in court a couple of days later, where Greg was supposed to face the various charges against him. On 22 April, I went to Frankston Magistrates Court, a place I was getting to know well. Constables Topham and Anderson were also there to speak to the criminal charges that Greg was facing, including the threats to kill and assault charges. Greg didn’t show, meaning the matter was adjourned to the following day.
The next day, I went along again. Greg didn’t show again. As he wasn’t there to answer the charges, the matter was adjourned again. Each day was another day I wasn’t working. Each day that Greg wasn’t held accountable by a court of law or closer to being behind bars, my anxiety was reaching unprecedented levels.
I didn’t know it was possible not to show up to court. That’s how naïve I was. I attended each day on my own. Friends had offered to come along as a show of support, but I was determined to face Greg on my own, to show him I wasn’t so afraid of him that I needed a posse. Besides, my closest friends were all engaged in the business of keeping my life afloat – picking up and dropping off Luke, being at home to receive deliveries for the business – while I sat for hours in the court foyer waiting for my case to be called.
I didn’t have a lawyer because I couldn’t afford one. The business had left me so financially stretched that my cash flow was negligible. But Legal Aid was means-tested, and because of the capital value I had in my property, I wasn’t eligible. Ironically enough, Greg was eligible for Legal Aid. The legal system benefits those who are chronically poor or stinking rich. If you sit in the middle, you’re on your own. Not that I was especially comfortable financially. It was a huge struggle to keep my home, and I would lie awake at night worried about how I was going to pay the bills and mortgage. I had a child for whom I was solely responsible. The last thing I wanted to do was fall off the property ladder because it was nigh on impossible to get back onto it.
And so I fronted up to court alone. I figured if I spoke from the heart and explained the situation rationally, everything would be okay. I didn’t realise that there are pre-conceived ideas about victims on the part of judiciary and police prosecutors – I just assumed they were all there to help me.
On day two, I sat with the police prosecutor Darren Cathie, and we used the time to prepare my evidence for the following day. I told him about the knife incident.
‘He said what?’ Darren asked me, incredulous. ‘And you are sure about this?’
It was one of those moments where someone’s reaction to a piece of news justifies your own rising sense of panic. So used to playing things down or having my concerns dismissed as melodrama, I was heartened – almost relieved – to find the news of the knife incident shocked the police prosecutor as much as it had me.
On 24 April, the third day of court, I did expect Greg to show up. The matter to be mentioned on this day was the va
riation of the IVO. If a matter involved his continued access to Luke, I reasoned, he would most definitely show up to contest it. But Greg didn’t show up again. Darren Cathie called me to the witness stand nonetheless. The matter was being heard by Magistrate Goldsborough. Was it a coincidence that the first time my case was presided over by a woman was also the first time I felt like a judge actually listened to me and understood the danger Luke and I were in? I don’t think so.
Darren Cathie prompted me to reveal to the magistrate the details of the knife incident.
‘Luke told me Greg held up a knife, and I assume it to be a sharp knife, as his father would use to cut fruit or whatever. And he said, “It could all end with this. Cain has spoken …”’
The magistrate’s demeanour, which had previously been all business, changed immediately. She looked up from her notes. ‘He said that to you or he said that to Luke?’ she asked.
‘He said it to Luke,’ I replied.
‘How recently?’ Magistrate Goldsborough asked.
‘It would have been the Easter holidays, so that’s in the last two weeks,’ I replied. ‘I think Greg has spoken to Luke about wanting to leave this world. I had always believed that his religious beliefs would prevent him from committing suicide. But now I am concerned for Luke. Even if I feel bad about betraying his confidence here today, because he will be upset that I have told anyone.’
And it was true: Luke’s compulsion to tell me had been because he knew he could trust me. Of all the people in his little world, only I understood how complicated and complex his father was. Even at the age of ten, Luke knew that his dad was a person to be contained, managed and indulged. It was such a lot for a kid his age to be dealing with.
Magistrate Goldsborough had heard enough. She said my desire to want to foster a relationship between Luke and his father was commendable, but that things had clearly progressed beyond the point at which that was safe for Luke. Almost immediately, she tightened the IVO’s parameters, including an order that Greg surrender any ‘firearms or other weapons in his possession’. She also directed that he not be permitted to be anywhere near me or Luke.
