by Bri Lee
‘It’s Sean Thompson here.’
‘Hi Sean, thanks for calling, how’s it going?’
‘Yeah, look,’ he began, and my stomach dropped out of my body. It was the moment you realise your wallet isn’t in your bag. The moment you go to open your front door and realise the lock is busted. ‘I’ve just finished the interview with Samuel and it’s looking pretty clear that he’s going to fight the charges.’
I backed into the wall of City Hall as my knees buckled. ‘I see.’
‘He arrived with his solicitor and his barrister, and they all seemed quite surprised that we were pushing ahead with the charges.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’re still saying he was a child when the events took place and that it’s not in the public interest to proceed.’
‘So even with Dylan’s statement he’s still saying he was ten?’
‘Well, they’re arguing he was twelve, and that there’s no evidence that the trampoline wasn’t always being moved to different parts of the backyard.’
‘Right.’
‘He also became…’ Sean paused. ‘Samuel, that is, became,’ he was choosing his words, ‘quite animated. When I informed him that there would be two separate charges of indecent treatment based on the acts you allege occurred that afternoon—and the specifics of the second charge, with it being clearly more severe.’
‘But my statement never changed!’ I blurted out.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but they were surprised. When I told them that stuff, about the two separate charges, his barrister asked me to leave the interview room to let them discuss the matter with Samuel.’
‘And when you went back in?’
‘His position is quite firm.’ There was no optimism in Sean’s voice. ‘I think you need to prepare yourself for a long fight.’ I put my head between my knees and tried to take deep breaths, but I thought I might vomit. Sean reminded me, again, of how excellent Samuel’s barrister was, and spoke a little more about needing another statement from someone, maybe my mum, about the trampoline. He seemed to be pre-emptively curbing my impatience. Apologising for delays he hadn’t even let manifest yet.
‘So what happens now?’ I cut him off.
‘It’s listed for the first mention in the Magistrates Court on Monday twenty-first of November,’ he said, ‘but there will likely be a few mentions before things start happening. We’ll need to finalise all the evidence before we put it together in a brief and hand it over to the DPP, then it’ll be in their hands, and things will take a while on that side as well.’
Why!? I wanted to scream at him. Why was everyone telling me to be patient? It was the simplest matter that could come across their desks: I responded instantly, I never wavered in my intentions, and we had the pretext phone call. Samuel had said I wasn’t the only one! Didn’t they want to get him on record too?
‘Can you call me after the mention and let me know what’s happening?’ I asked calmly.
‘Of course, absolutely. I’ll be in touch that afternoon and I’ll let you know if there’s any news in the meantime.’
‘Okay, thanks, Sean.’
‘No worries, talk soon.’
I hung up and my phone slipped from my hand into my bag, and the bell tower above me began to strike its midday notes. The low, long clangs reverberated down the building and rang in my ears. They came slowly and I rocked back and forth to them, jamming my ears with the insides of my knees, squeezing my eyes shut.
It was broad daylight and I was in my home city with hundreds of happy Christmas shoppers bustling around, but I felt Samuel’s eyes on me, I felt sure that if I looked up I might see him walking toward me through the mall.
I rocked until I realised the bells had stopped minutes ago, and then I found my notebook in my bag, scribbling down the basics of what Sean had told me before it all dribbled out of my mind. I could feel something coming, a storm rolling into my brain. I shifted onto my hands and knees, on the ground, and pulled myself up against the wall, and I put on my sunglasses and returned to the bus stop. The woman and her child were still there chatting happily. I wanted my own mother.
The bus arrived and I took a seat at the back and felt a different fear returning: the possibility that I was wrong. That I was a stupid little bitch. That Samuel had been a child and that I might be ruining his life as well as my own. That what he’d said on the phone to me was true—by pursuing this matter I was bringing ruin to everyone, instead of just dealing with it myself. The bus bumbled along its usual route as I sat in terror. I started to imagine being cross-examined, the super-smart barrister’s questions barrelling at me, accusing me of being boy-crazy and deranged. My breathing was shallow and I was pinching my thighs as hard as I could through my jeans, trying to keep my mind inside my body.
When I went to get off at my stop, the step from the bus to the pavement was higher than I thought; I hadn’t been looking, and the jolt broke whatever tiny membrane of togetherness I’d been clutching, and I panicked. Some switch flipped and normal functions shut down. It was only three blocks to my home but it took me over twenty minutes to get there. All my senses were telling me I was underwater—my muscles weren’t responding, I was wading instead of walking, my hearing was muffled and my vision was blurry, my eyes wouldn’t open properly and the sun burned them, and I couldn’t catch my breath. People passed me and I could tell they were staring but they said nothing; people saw me shuffling by from the fronts of their houses and said nothing. I gripped each tree and each parked car I passed for support, lurching between them, stumbling over roots and driveways with my fingers splayed, reaching forward but as though I was drugged.
I didn’t look up, even to cross the road, when I finally reached the corner of my street. I leaned against the high fences of the neighbours’ houses and a whining noise came out of me as I dragged myself along the final few metres. I pushed open my gate and as I stepped through it I fell to the ground and wailed. I had expected relief at finally making it home, but instead I realised there was just nowhere else to go. That I wasn’t safe in the house where I lived, that I couldn’t do anything to avoid the coming trial. The hot concrete burned my face and hands, and I was glad for it. How many times would I have to realise that I carried this matter within me? No time I waited for and no place I waded to would deliver me from the feeling of his hands on me and the years of shame I had let fester. How many revelations of powerlessness did I have to endure? My cheek and chin, and the pads on my fingers were singed, and the wails kept pouring out of my mouth from somewhere within. Snot dripped onto the cement too, sizzling in the sun. I was watching my paralysed self, it was like a night terror, but I was wishing I was asleep instead of wishing I could wake up, my body more separate from myself than ever before.
A figure blocked the sun above me and spoke my name, and arms reached down to lift me, carrying me up the stairs and into the house. He took my bag and sat me on the couch and I cried. He kissed my forehead and held me in his arms and I cried. He asked me questions and said things to me, and I only repeated, ‘I’m so scared.’ Time passed and he brought me a glass of water. More time passed and he sat with me, and when I finally heard his voice asking me what I wanted and I replied, ‘I want to die’, he kissed me more and hugged me more, and I wondered, not for the first or last time, where I’d be if I came home to an empty house.
Later in the day when I had calmed down, we sat together on the deck smoking and I explained what I actually knew. I took out my notebook and saw I’d written more in it when I was on the bus. It was scribble. Now he’s saying he was twelve. But first he said he was ten. He would have to be twelve for me to be in my school uniform.
‘He’s just picking dates and defences that suit him,’ I said to Vincent.
‘It’s nice to know he’s sweating,’ he replied.
‘Yeah. I have a feeling “quite animated” was an understatement. He’s such a fucking shithead, I bet he really lost it. But I don’t understand why
they were surprised that there would be two separate counts. I can’t believe Sean didn’t tell them that from the beginning. It’s in my statement, that he did two things to me, and the second was way worse.’
‘Yeah, that’s weird.’
‘I asked Sean, and he said he was “pretty sure” he told them that earlier, but he mustn’t have, right? They’d remember that. Jesus.’
‘You’ve got the whole system on your side now, though. The cogs are turning and they’re turning against him.’
‘But he’s got that gun ex-cop for a barrister. He makes me frightened.’
‘Yeah, but you have—’
‘I have Sean!’
‘Mighty Sean!’ Vincent said in a funny announcer’s voice.
‘My knight in shining armour!’ I exclaimed in my best damsel-in-distress impression, and we both laughed. ‘Well, soon he’ll have to turn it all over to the DPP and then I might get someone good.’
‘True.’
‘And at least now it’s in court, Sean can’t just drag his fucking heels with nobody on his back, you know? If people want delays now, they have to ask the magistrate for an adjournment and give a reason. They can’t just ignore my calls.’
‘Yep.’ We both fell into silence for a moment. ‘How’re you doing?’ Vincent asked.
‘I dunno. I’m worried they’ll cross-examine me about being a feminist because of things I’ve said and written online, and I just can’t believe he’s not pleading. I really can’t. I know you might think it’s silly, but it feels like Trump again. Like nobody thought the nightmare would become real. I feel like I’ve been sideswiped. Like a fucking deer in the headlights or something, like such an idiot. And that they were all so shocked to hear he was really being charged!? Like, what the fuck? The most awful thing that’s ever happened to me, that is actually illegal, is frivolous and vexatious? How the fuck am I supposed to feel about that? They’re basically telling me my life and my experiences don’t matter. That Samuel is being caught up in something silly, that he shouldn’t have to be bothered by this.’ I paused to take a drag. ‘I guess I start doing okay every time I start getting angry instead of sad again. But I’m really frightened.’
‘You were looking straight through me for a while there,’ he said.
‘What a diva, huh?’ I smiled and butted out my cigarette.
The next morning Vincent walked with me down the street to get a coffee.
‘You know in Lord of the Rings,’ I said, ‘when Gandalf the Grey dies but then he comes back as Gandalf the White, and he’s even more badass and is, like, the most powerful motherfucker ever?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s gonna be me after this,’ I said.
‘True,’ he replied and nodded.
‘If I can get through this I’m fucking invincible. If I can make it through this trial, regardless of how it goes, I’ll be untouchable. Seriously, nothing could be worse than this. I’ll ride out of that courthouse on a giant eagle.’
I organised to meet my parents for coffee and an update. I needed to explain the process, then ask them to call Sean and go give him an extra statement about the trampoline. When they arrived at the cafe we exchanged hugs and kisses and chatted about silly little things, as though we’d silently agreed to place our orders before we got down to business. I remember thinking how strange it was, all these ways we separated things as being civilised or appropriate. I was short with them that morning. Dad kept interrupting me and defending Sean when I complained about his delays, and Mum had to scold him and tell him to actually listen to what I was saying, but then Dad and I would speak about the legal stuff and Mum would get confused and interject with simple, angry questions.
‘I don’t understand why he’s not in gaol!’ she said, almost too loudly. ‘He already said he did it, didn’t he?’
‘I told you, Mum, he’s not arguing the acts took place, he’s arguing when they took place, and he’s saying he was too young to know what he was doing.’
‘But he’s so much older than you,’ she pushed on, and I sighed loudly, letting Dad take over and explain things to her again.
I resented having to relay everything to them—what a big deal it always was, to tell them about the stages of the investigation—but I also resented that they didn’t know I only told them about a fraction of the trips and calls and messages I made. I didn’t know what I wanted from them. I managed to convince Dad that having patience was one thing, but Sean’s incompetence was quite another. It was bugging me that Samuel and his lawyers would be ‘surprised’ that he was being charged with two counts. I thought maybe he wouldn’t have fought so much, so early on, if he knew that I remembered the fully depraved extent of his actions. Sean should have told Samuel the particulars of what he was being charged for.
‘The other thing you have to be prepared for,’ Dad said, looking at me, ‘is that once your file gets handed over to the DPP, they get to choose what happens.’
‘I know, they might not even proceed with it.’
‘But even if they do go ahead, the first thing that barrister is going to do is call the prosecutor and try to make a deal.’
‘Oh shit.’ I felt like one of my few scraps of surety had been snatched back from me.
‘Yep.’
Mum interjected. ‘What do you mean?’
‘They can make a deal to reduce the charge, or agree on a younger age, or anything, and they don’t have to ask for my permission,’ I said, shocked that I could forget that part of the process. Perhaps I had thought that my case was somehow special or different because of my work and expertise, but there I was, again reminded that I was at the mercy of the system like any other complainant.
‘How can they do that?’ Mum asked.
‘Because it’s not Me versus Samuel anymore. I’m not the one bringing the charge. It’s the Crown. The state is the one fighting him.’
‘I’ve seen some prosecutors,’ Dad said, ‘who constantly communicate with the victim and make sure they know what the victim wants. But I’ve seen others who will be standing in court with a defence barrister, and defence will offer them a deal, and they’ll take it on the spot without even making a phone call.’
Mum was perplexed. ‘Why!?’
‘Because then they don’t have to do all the work,’ I said with a sad smile, realising yet again that trying to exercise control over my situation was futile. ‘Accepting a guilty plea is easier than running a trial.’
‘So what can we do?’ she asked, and I told her that it would help if she went to the station and provided an addendum statement, clarifying the time when the trampoline was moved.
‘Don’t think about what I want, or what effect it has on me, Mum,’ I said to her, trying to be stern but bordering on condescension. ‘Where do you really remember the trampoline moving to and from?’
‘It was far out the back,’ she said, determined, ‘then Dylan broke his nose, and we moved it to the grassy area so it would be safer.’ She nodded, concluding, and a waitress came to take our cups. ‘I remember,’ Mum added, handing her cup up and smiling at the young woman, ‘because we had to move the old Hills hoist to fit it there.’
I stared at her, gripping my empty cup after the waitress left the table, fending off confusing physiological responses to this new piece of information. It was a silly detail, a thing of no significance to literally anyone else in the world but me. How does this all fit together? I thought, very confused. Why does this mean something?
But that’s the shit thing I know now about PTSD symptoms: they’re not special. Shivers and panics aren’t Lassie telling you some boy is trapped in a well, or pointers to clues you’d really known all along and just couldn’t string together. You don’t have special powers and your panic attacks aren’t here to help.
We chatted about nicer things for a little while before Mum and Dad left, agreeing to go straight to the police station to give that extra statement to Sean. I couldn’t give him an excuse to drag thin
gs along.
Every duck on my side was lined up in a neat row. Everything would be ready for that mention later in November, and when it got to court I might start seeing progress, my matter might really start to get somewhere. The date was in my diary but I couldn’t have forgotten it even if I tried.
The final week went by, and when the Monday hit I waited by the phone from 8.30 a.m. By midday I was busting and held my phone in my hand as I peed. Two p.m. arrived and I rolled another cigarette, keeping my eyes on my phone, constantly checking it was still on ‘loud’, but Sean never called.
I texted him late in the afternoon, politely asking what Samuel’s lawyers had said, what the outcome of the mention had been.
The matter was mentioned and has been adjourned to 19/12/16 for another mention. I don’t think we will get any result before Christmas but we should know what his intentions are on the next court date.
And so I got sad again, and then I got mad again, and waited another month until the 19th of December.
The lead-up to Christmas in Brisbane was the same relaxed affair as always, but it bustled around me without sweeping me up. I went and bought wrapping paper and tape and made a crappy joke about Michael Bublé to the teenager at the checkout and he didn’t get it, so I called Anna. She told me about her job as one of Santa’s elves in a shopping centre. ‘It’s the perfect fucking example of the wage gap,’ she raged down the line. ‘We do the same hours, but we’re the ones who have to deal with the kids and operate the photography equipment, and he gets three times the cash for just sitting on his arse!’
‘Dude, that’s fucked!’
‘I know! And our contracts say we have to wear makeup—foundation and mascara and lipstick—and makeup is so fucking expensive, and we don’t get money for that.’
‘Makeup is so expensive, I think about that all the time.’
‘And he gets his whole costume provided but we have to bring our own stockings and socks and shoes.’
