by Bri Lee
We arrived ten minutes early and had a cigarette, joking that it wasn’t the right place to flick our butts when we couldn’t see a bin. As we walked up the cement ramp to the square concrete building I thought back to the last time I was there, shaking after the pretext phone call, my mother practically carrying me out to the car. Sean met me inside and he looked tired. I was surprised that I didn’t really recognise his face despite having met him twice, for several hours each time. I tried to remember first meeting him but it made my shaking worse so I turned my mind back to the present.
‘Thank you for making the time to see me again,’ I said.
‘Oh no, not at all, thanks for coming in so late,’ he replied, explaining he was working nights.
Vincent took out his phone and sat down to wait at reception, and Sean and I went upstairs. We sat in a small room with a small computer and began the frustrating process of recording a statement. I remembered how the anger had boiled up inside me the first time I was there, when I’d repeated myself for the fourth time as Sean typed agonisingly slowly with his index fingers. I was much more calm this time. I wasn’t being forced to relive the memory now. It felt more like an unpleasant elephant in the room.
We spoke about what would happen next, and Sean minced his words as he tried to ask me if I’d be willing to go to trial. ‘I just need to know if there are any alternative resolutions that you’d be happy with?’ he asked.
‘Like what?’
‘Like, a letter, or some kind of reconciliation meeting, or something like that.’
I pictured Samuel sitting at a desk, bashing out some piece-of-shit apology in ten minutes then going for a beer.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I mean, for one thing, he admitted on the phone to me that he did it, and then hired two lawyers to try to weasel his way out of it. He’s obviously not the least bit remorseful. And two, he said I wasn’t the only one. At least this way if any other girls ever come forward they won’t be the first. It’ll be on his record.’
‘Good,’ Sean said and nodded. He was too professional or perhaps just too tired to smile, but I knew enough—from observing my father—to know that on some level Sean was pleased. ‘I just needed to make sure I knew what your feelings were before I marched ahead with things.’
‘Of course,’ I said calmly as I held my hands together under the table to stop them shaking. ‘I’ll take this as far as it needs to go.’
‘I mean, it’s a bit off—his lawyers sent us a letter basically accusing us of only going ahead with your complaint because of your father’s connection to the police and his work at this station.’
‘What!?’
‘I know. They said the matter isn’t in the public interest, that proceeding with such a small and historical matter isn’t worth the time or the resources, so we must have some ulterior motive.’
In the car on the way home I told Vincent about the lawyers’ letter.
‘What incompetent arseholes,’ I said, speeding up to get through an orange light, still shaking.
‘I know, right? Way to get a ton of cops to pay attention to the case and make sure they do everything right.’
‘I hope his lawyers are that fucking stupid about the rest of this case.’
‘I hope they’re bleeding him dry.’ Vincent smiled at me and put his hand on my thigh again.
‘I’m gonna take this motherfucker down,’ I said, driving across the Story Bridge.
I put my foot right down on the accelerator, going over the limit, and as the lights of the city fanned out in front of us I felt the fire come back to my belly. I wondered if this new argument would be raised in court—that the allegation was insubstantial and that it was only investigated and pushed through ‘because of the complainant’s father’s relationship to the police’. What a classic loser move: something happens he doesn’t like and so he automatically claims a conspiracy against him. Which was worse: if he believed that, or if he was just seeing what might get him off the hook? I held the car fast and steady, and the thumping of the wheels over the steel beams of the Story Bridge reverberated through me like drums of war. Ba-dum ba-dum. Perhaps eggshell skull worked both ways. Ba-dum ba-dum. You have to take your victim how they come. Ba-dum ba-dum. Samuel was just the unlucky dipshit who’d picked the daughter of a gnarly cop who refused to back down. Ba-dum ba-dum. Back then I was small, and now I was strong. Ba-dum ba-dum.
I HAD COME BACK TO the courts in January 2016 fresh after the Christmas break, hoping to leave on a high note, but our last trial together as judge and associate was a downer. In the elevator after I’d taken the not guilty verdicts, I turned and said to him, ‘Not for the first time in our year together, Judge, I don’t think he’s necessarily guilty of this offence, but he’s definitely guilty of being a dickhead.’
He laughed.
He took me out for lunch and we ate a fancy dish that had fried black ants on it. I had written him a letter saying all the things I knew I’d get teary about if I tried to enunciate them in front of him. We promised each other we’d stay in touch, and I promised him I’d eventually finish my PLT and get admitted.
I hung up my robes and took one last look at them, saying goodbye to all that prestige. I sensed some analogy there, that they never really fit me, but I couldn’t find it, so just switched off the lights and went for a beer with Megan. Over the summer she and her boyfriend had decided they’d move to Sydney together when her contract ended.
‘So this is goodbye?’ I said dramatically, but I also felt forlorn.
‘Nah, come see me in Sydney, and I’ll be back to visit my family here too.’
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ I nodded seriously, and held my beer up, and we clinked pints again. ‘And what is Lizzie going to do?’
‘She found out she got a job at some government agency on Monday.’
‘Oh, thank God!’ I tipped my head back in relief.
‘I know. She’ll find a little sweet spot in the public service somewhere, with nice people in the office, and she’ll be fine.’
‘She’ll be fine, you’ll be great, and I’ll be—’ I paused, ‘here.’
I called Sean to ask for an update because over a month had passed since I had made my addendum statement.
‘Rest assured, he will be charged. His solicitor indicated their intention is to take it to trial if he might have been fourteen, but plead if he was definitely fifteen. So first we need to wait for those hospital records proving the year Dylan broke his nose.’
‘Right, okay, sure.’
‘We’re expecting him to just fall on his sword,’ Sean said. ‘His solicitors are going to tell him to plead, and hopefully he’ll listen to them.’
‘Yeah, I agree,’ I said, nodding. It was going to be fine. I had other things on my mind.
I stared at the Hills hoist as I delivered my eulogy for Tuttu in my grandparents’ back garden. The autumn was wet and so the gardens were lush. I spoke about the natural world being understood as a series of actions, and equal and opposite reactions. We mourned for the loss of the woman in relation to how deeply we loved her. The pain we felt at her passing was a testament to the happiness she brought us in life, the missing and longing a reminder of how lucky we were to have her with us. It was the ultimate risk we all took, as humans, when we took love into our lives.
My mother and I held each other, and I felt something shift that fortnight. I went from being the youngest of three women to the second of two. I was a young woman delivering a eulogy, not a girl whose birth was the most recent significant family event. Next it would be my turn to deliver a child or disappoint those around me by conscientiously objecting.
I stared up at the Hills hoist and felt all the waves colliding at a giant break. Who would bring a child to this place?
The following week my dad drove us in a clean rental car from Adelaide out to the Barossa Valley. We were in South Australia for Tuttu’s second funeral and Mum had suggested an overnight trip to the vineyards. It was going to b
e great—the four of us having some solid family time and chilling out together. We would sleep in one cheap motel room with beds for each of us. The weather was perfect: a crisp breeze with strong, clear sunshine.
Arron and I were having a pretend-argument in the back seat when my phone started vibrating beside me. A private number—a warning sign. I didn’t pick up, just watched the display. A voicemail—another warning sign. Only one person calls me from a private number and leaves a voicemail. The text message came a few minutes later from Sean Thompson: Please call.
I knew it was bad news. I could tell by the words he had used—having spent so long reading over and over our text history, trying to find extra information, trying to find any hint of annoyance or disappointment, or maybe optimism. This time it was obvious: something had happened and something was wrong. I fell silent. A few minutes passed, and Arron asked if I was alright.
‘Just a little carsick,’ I replied, smiling, wondering how long until we stopped. Wondering if it was something Sean needed to tell me urgently. Planning when I could make the phone call out of earshot. I couldn’t hide subtle mood swings from Mum, she knew me too well, but if I was lucky she’d be too wrapped in her own grief to notice mine.
Nearly an hour of driving passed and I didn’t have to fake nausea anymore—I’d had kilometres of rolling hillside and smooth highway to consider the worst-case scenarios. Had I said something wrong and the pretext phone call was no longer admissible? Had Dylan given a witness statement and the dates didn’t line up with my account? Had Sean decided my matter simply wasn’t worth pursuing?
‘How’s Poppa doing?’ Mum asked. ‘How does he seem?’
I looked to Arron to answer; he gave a half-shrug.
‘Sad, but okay,’ I said. ‘I dunno, I guess he is how you’d expect. Nothing good, but nothing alarming?’ I didn’t know what she wanted me to say. He and Tuttu had been together since they were seventeen and sixteen, and Poppa was about eighty. I couldn’t even fathom how much life happens over ten adult years, let alone sixty. Every time I thought I was processing Tuttu’s death and coming to some closure, I’d look at Poppa and my heart would break again.
Dad remarked that a servo was up ahead on the right. I suggested he stop for petrol in case we didn’t see another station for a while, and took my opportunity as soon as he pulled in by the bowsers. I got out of the car and walked about twenty metres to where some gum trees and scrub were at the edge of the concrete.
‘Hi Sean, I’m just returning your call,’ I said, trying to shield the receiver from the loud trucks rushing past me on the road.
‘Hi, yeah, thanks for calling me back,’ he said, and now I could hear it wasn’t good news. He went on to tell me that Samuel’s lawyers had just suggested that regardless of the timing of the offending, they would challenge the charges, because they’d re-listened to the pretext call and thought it wasn’t very ‘strong’. Sean was calling because he was obliged to ask me if I still wanted to proceed with the matter or if I’d consider round tables or letters of apology.
‘It’s completely up to you,’ said Sean, ‘but I just want to make sure that we’re still acting according to how you want things to go. We want to know what your motivations and intentions are. What do you want to get out of this?’
I thought of her. She was somewhere out there in the world, pretending to be fine, struggling to come to terms with an ugly thing inside of her. What did I want to get out of this? Justice.
‘Nope, fuck that,’ I said into the phone, ‘sorry, I mean, I will take this as far as it goes. What I want is for him to be held accountable for his actions.’
‘Okay, sure.’
‘And also, juries love pretext phone calls! I know how all this shit works! No. I’m not backing down here. He’s had all this time to just admit what he’s done, and he’s been dragging it out just because he can, and just, no. He picked the wrong girl.’
‘Well look, I’ve relayed to his lawyers that your recollection of the events is compelling and that, with the strength of your testimony and the call recording, you have a very strong case,’ Sean said, backing me up.
Tears came to my eyes again. I knew he didn’t mean it as a compliment, but I felt flattered in an odd way. Sean’s confidence in me was a signal that I was strong—and maybe strong enough—for this. I thanked him for calling and updating me. I presumed he would have told me if anything was significantly amiss in Dylan’s statement.
I stepped behind one big old gum tree, out of sight of Mum in the front seat of the car, and slapped my face a few times, taking deep breaths in and out. This was the first day of happiness my family had had together in months. Someone we all loved had just died. Today isn’t about you. I told myself this wasn’t the time to bring it up, and that there was no reason to mention anything until I knew if there would be a trial.
I kept it together for about ten minutes back on the road until I couldn’t. The tears came pouring out and I pretended they weren’t, but I couldn’t stop them, so I sat quietly and stared out the car window.
Mum noticed first and asked Dad to pull the car over. ‘What’s wrong, lovey?’ she asked, reaching out her arm to me, nothing but love and concern in her face.
‘I thought if we proved he was fifteen he would plead guilty!’ I was wailing. ‘But now Sean says they’re going to trial no matter what!’ My mouth was gaping open, a gurgling noise coming out, and I was bashing my fists hard against my thighs.
My dad reached over and held my hand but I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t look at anyone. The ugly thing inside me had come alive, Samuel had woken it up again, and now it was disturbing my family: uncontainable, inappropriate.
‘You don’t get to keep shitting on someone’s life!’ I screamed at my lap, smacking myself, rocking.
My family were perfect. They asked me if I still wanted to go to the wineries; they told me a few nasty things they’d like to do to Samuel; they told me they loved me, and that we could talk about it or not talk about it. I cried a little longer then spent the following forty-eight hours trying every wine I could find. We didn’t talk about it anymore and we all had a nice time. I kept it together for the rest of our time in the Barossa.
When we got back to Adelaide, Arron and I hung out together to get a break from some of the relatives. That’s when I told him that Anna had also been abused when she was a child, and what she had said about Samuel manipulating her. Arron told me that Samuel’s current partner had been sexually assaulted in the past as well, by another man.
‘I don’t know if it was when she was a kid or when she was older, but she told Sam once that she’s had something like that happen,’ he said.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ I sighed, wondering how she’d feel when she found out about what Samuel did to me. ‘You know,’ I said to Arron, ‘I’m lucky he’s such a piece of shit.’
‘Huh?’ He looked confused.
‘People believe me. They either aren’t or won’t be surprised, because he’s selfish and tries to scam people and is a shit friend. Imagine if people thought he was a lovely, top bloke. Can you imagine what they’d say about how I was ruining his life?’
‘But not if he pleads guilty or if the jury says he’s guilty.’
‘Even then, Arron, if he was a caring son and a loving partner—or imagine if people thought he was a good dad—it wouldn’t matter what a jury said, people would still, on some level, hold me accountable for ruining his life.’
‘You think so?’ Arron asked.
‘I know so. I’m still the one bringing up something that happened over a decade ago. Most people think I’m doing okay. It’s like I’m a drama queen or an attention-seeker already. Imagine if I was ruining some family man’s reputation? Imagine if he had a blue card and worked with kids and I ruined his career? It doesn’t matter if a jury says he did it, people will still see me as the cause of what comes next.’
‘People suck.’ He sighed.
‘In an ironic way, I’m
lucky he’s such a turd.’ I smiled and we laughed.
We were parked outside the house of one of our elderly relatives who lived by the beach. In the silence between us I listened to the waves crashing, trying to count in my head the number of women I knew who had been assaulted. In every circle there were several, and barely any had ever reported their experiences, but when I spoke to them they encouraged me. I felt supported by them, raised up by this silent mass of victims, but I also felt them all on my shoulders. Perhaps if I was strong enough they would know it was possible to survive the re-victimisation. Were they watching me? Looking to see if my relationships faltered or if I started drinking? If Samuel took things to court and got acquitted, it would send a message to all the women around me—ripples in a pond affirming their sense that people wouldn’t believe them. That justice was not for them.
But what if I won? How many women could I tell? How loudly could I announce such a victory? Less than one in three Australian women who are sexually assaulted ever go to the police. What if we all went at once?
I resolved then, in South Australia by the ocean, the night before my grandmother’s second funeral, that if I won I would tell anyone who would listen. I would put it on Facebook, I would feast, maybe I’d throw a big party. I knew how good it would feel to win because I had dreamed it so many times. I knew the tears of joy, the sunshine on my face as I stepped out of the courts building, because my brain kept reminding me while I was asleep and dreaming, because I had the memory of George in Warwick, that the feeling of closure was worth the risk.
Before the conversation in the car with Arron, I’d thought a lot about how, if Samuel pleaded guilty or was found guilty, I could make his life hell. I daydreamed about it, like a fantasy of retribution. I thought about it on a whim if I was having a cigarette and was left to my own thoughts, or when I was in the shower or about to fall asleep. For a few weeks I thought it was just a natural part of my grieving process: I had come to terms with what had happened but wasn’t quite ready to let it go. It was also an imaginary way for me to regain agency over this story that had come to be such a defining facet of my life.
