A Mother's Story (18 page)

I called back an hour or so later and got another policeman. He said he was familiar with the circumstances that had led to the previous night's debacle (my words, not his), and promptly went into an explanation of the delay that sometimes occurred in the reception of warrant papers.

If the trauma of the night itself hadn't been enough to destroy my faith in the police, their reactions the next day certainly did it. They also set the tone for the remainder of the year, tipping me into a heightened sense of anxiety from which I never really emerged. I lost all confidence in the system that night. It was clear that the people who were supposed to protect me weren't going to. If Greg was going to be stopped, I was quite clearly going to have to do it alone. The very thought exhausted me.

What the police could never begin to understand was how much fear and anxiety goes into having someone arrested. They didn't consider the impact it might have on Luke to see his father arrested. They didn't think of the sense of shame Luke would feel in front of his peers and I would feel in front of other parents. Not to mention the absolute fear I felt at having Greg arrested in
public and provoking him in this way. I felt like the police were dismissing me as just another melodramatic victim of domestic violence. They had no idea of my history, no idea of the years of abuse. Because they dealt with so many people and so much drama on a daily basis, I was just another one to be appeased and humoured.

Three days later, I was summonsed back to Frankston Magistrates Court for yet another hearing on the variation of the IVO. Driving there, I felt increasingly anxious. My heart was racing, my emotions were swinging wildly between feeling desperately upset and extremely angry. When I arrived, police prosecutor Darren Cathie greeted me and apologised immediately, explaining that I didn't need to be in court after all. There had been a mistake: Greg still had not been served, so he was not present and therefore I wasn't required.

I lost it with him. ‘What is the fucking point of all this? I mean, I jump through all these hoops and do everything the police and courts advise, and it doesn't make a scrap of fucking difference. I don't know why I even bother.'

Darren apologised as I stormed out to my car.

Here we all were again: me, Luke, the police and courts all being controlled and manipulated by a madman who knew how to play the system. I had finally decided to take the stand that friends, counsellors and authorities had been urging me to take for years – and this was the result. I'd attended court four times regarding varying the IVO and Greg hadn't attended once. I felt more vulnerable and exposed than ever. But it's not like there was any turning back. Once the process is in play, you are committed – the lines are drawn.

My decision to participate in Greg's arrest had set in train a course of events from which it was now impossible to withdraw.
I emailed DSC Cocking late in the evening of 21 May – thirteen days after the previous failed arrest attempt.

‘I received a telephone message from Greg this evening to say he will be at Tyabb football ground tomorrow (Wednesday) evening to watch Luke training. He usually arrives around 4.30 pm and training concludes by 6 pm.'

The following morning, DSC Cocking emailed me back. ‘I have emailed a request to Sergeant Ellams of Hastings Police Station to assign some members to attend the club tonight.'

And so I braced myself for round two. Arriving at the football oval, I noticed Greg straight away. I scanned the car park for any signs of a police car – marked or otherwise – but saw nothing to reassure me. I parked and watched nervously as Greg greeted Luke. In the time it took me to locate my phone in my handbag and pull it out to dial triple zero, Greg had disappeared. No doubt aware that the dragnet was closing around him, he opted to skip out. But he had made his point, flouting court orders, thumbing his nose at the police who had failed to arrest him to date. It was a typical act of bravado and arrogance from a man who thought he was above the law.

That evening, I emailed DSC Cocking.

‘I arrived at footy at 4.39pm. Greg greeted his son for only a few minutes and then apparently left. He arrived on foot and was returning to St Kilda by public transport, I believe, from what Luke told me. I did not notice any police present and I'm not aware that they apprehended him unfortunately.'

The following morning, DSC Cocking replied.

‘I was off yesterday so I arrived at work this morning and received an email reply from Sergeant Ellams that he was not able to attend to my request because his patrol units were tied up with an urgent matter elsewhere. Please contact Mornington Police
with any further information as to Greg attending the footy and CC me in the future.'

I read his email at the end of my working day. I'd had enough of this tedious process. My frustration was palpable and I fired back a reply. ‘Sure,' I wrote. ‘I contacted them during the afternoon too but he'd disappeared before I called 000.

‘He appears to be aware that they are likely to arrive so I don't have much faith next time. They have other priorities and my experience so far hasn't been great.

‘He is not pressuring me to see his son or making unreasonable demands so until he does I shall accept the situation and hope that the next time I have to call them isn't because I am being threatened again with violent behaviour. Such is life.'

DSC Cocking responded, asking me if I might know places that Greg might frequent. To the best of my knowledge, the sum total of the investigation that had gone on to locate Greg between football training sessions was to ask me if had any leads and do a cursory check of the White Pages. If it wasn't so tragic, it would have been laughable.

And so, the following week at footy training, with a wearying predictability, Greg appeared again at the oval. Almost on autopilot, and this time with very little faith in there being a satisfactory outcome, I retreated to the main road as I had once before and called the police. Parents turning in to the oval who knew me were stopping to check if I was okay. I kept assuring them I was fine and urged them to drive on.

And then a police officer appeared. As he pulled into the driveway, I flagged him down and told him what Greg was wearing.

‘Can you hop in the back and point him out to me?' the officer asked.

‘No, I'm not really comfortable with that,' I replied, envisaging Greg's anger when he saw me colluding with the police. Just then, one of the mothers at training in whom I had confided the extent of my Greg troubles, called my mobile to tell me Greg was heading my way.

I leaped away from the police car, terrified, and hid in bushes near the tennis club. From behind the bushes, I watched as the police waited for and intercepted Greg. In what seemed like a very short amount of time – with what appeared to be an atypically small amount of fuss – Greg was handcuffed and put into the back of the van.

As the paddy wagon pulled out of the drive and onto the main road, I emerged from the bushes and watched it disappear from sight. Was that it? After all this time, could it really have unfolded in such an undramatic fashion? I had come so far and navigated such disappointment, I didn't dare to let myself believe it could all end so easily. Surely there was more drama to come.

Greg was taken to Hastings Police Station and transferred to an interview room. Whatever stores of composure he had called upon during the arrest had clearly dissipated during the short car trip to the police station. By the time he arrived, he was his usual belligerent self. He abused the arresting officers, calling them every name under the sun and telling them, ‘God will get you!' He continually pressed the duress button and let rip with a torrent of obscenities every time a police officer attended to him. The arrest warrants were served, bail was opposed and it was deemed that he would be remanded in custody until his next court appearance, some ten days later.

A flurry of communication ensued between Darren Cathie, DSC Cocking, and Constables Anderson and Topham, sharing information and preparing for Greg's next day in court. The
contention among them was unanimous: under no circumstances should bail be granted. Given the warrants already out for his arrest, his priors and his failure to attend any of the previous court appearances to which he had been party, it seemed impossible for there to be any other outcome.

But when Greg's lawyer (paid for by the Legal Aid that I was unable to access) applied for bail, the police prosecutor did not oppose it and Magistrate Franz Holzer granted it.

On the night of 3 July 2013, there was a knock on the door. I almost jumped out of my skin – Luke had gone to bed and Lee had gone out, so it was just me and the dogs pottering about the house.

Heart racing, I crept to the door, planning in my head how, if it was Greg, I would run to Luke's bedroom with the phone and call the police.

There was no need. It was the police.

I flung open the door, incensed.

‘Are you Rosemary Batty?' came the enquiry from one of the officers.

I was momentarily thrown. ‘Yes,' I replied angrily. ‘Why?'

‘We're here to serve a court summons,' the officer explained.

I was confused. ‘I don't understand,' I said, taking the envelope from the officer's outstretched hand and opening it.

Greg had been to court and made an application to have the IVO changed – requesting to have Luke's name removed from the order so that he could resume contact with him.

Before I had time to process the fact Greg had now started to try and use the courts against me, I rounded on the policemen standing on my doorstep. ‘And you had to serve this now? Of all the times during the day, you thought this time of night was the best time to come and serve papers on a woman you know lives in fear of her life?'

The officers looked at me wide-eyed. Clearly, they either knew nothing of my situation, or if they did, it had never occurred to them that knocking on my door at night might not be the most appropriate thing to do.

And so Greg was taking me to court. On top of everything else I had to deal with, I now had to go into a courtroom and defend my attempts to protect my son. It was yet another burden that my already trembling shoulders would struggle to bear.

When I walked into the courthouse two weeks later, there was Greg, already waiting in the foyer, smiling at me, clearly very pleased with himself. I couldn't make eye contact – I was seething with anger. The fact that Magistrate Goldsborough was presiding that day made me feel marginally less furious. At least there was a chance Greg's idiocy would be seen for what it was. Greg had legal representation, but again, I couldn't afford it.

As we waited in the foyer for our case to be called, the police prosecutor who had been assigned to the case, Ross Treverton, approached me to go through proceedings. Noting that SC Kate Anderson opposed any variation to the IVO, he asked me what I wanted to do. I told him that I didn't want Luke removed as a protected person on the IVO, but nor was I opposed to Greg seeing Luke. I still wanted to foster a relationship between them – I knew Luke still wanted to see his dad. And the threat that Greg would kill me if I ever prevented him from seeing
his son still echoed in my mind. We discussed the out-of-school activities at which I thought it appropriate for Greg to attend. Football, cricket and Little Athletics would be fine, I reasoned, because they took place in daylight and there were always lots of people around. But Scouts was not okay: it happened at night, the Scout Hall was in a dark grove, and the car park where kids were dropped off and picked up was not, to my mind, safe.

I was visibly distressed at having to be there at all – shaking and teary. I had so much pent-up frustration and anger. So much fear. All mixed in with an overwhelming exhaustion at still being involved in this two-person war of attrition. Finally our case was called and we entered the courtroom. If Magistrate Goldsborough remembered me or my case, she made no initial show of it. I took my place in the courtroom and sat quietly as the proceedings got going.

Greg's lawyer, a suited, middle-aged man from a local private law firm, went through his client's desire to have the IVO varied, and Prosecutor Treverton noted the opposition to it. Magistrate Goldsborough started querying Greg's lawyer about his client's long history of previous charges, including an outstanding matter that appeared not yet to have been heard by a court of law.

‘Those would be the child pornography charges, Your Honour,' Greg's lawyer volunteered.

I gasped out loud – my head was suddenly spinning. I let out a whimper. My stomach lurched as once again my world was upended. The child pornography charges? What was he talking about? I looked across at Greg, who was unmoved, staring straight ahead. The magistrate and lawyer kept speaking, but I could only make out the odd word, the rest a blur. Prosecutor Treverton looked to me imploringly, but I shrugged my shoulders and
shook my head, indicating I had no idea what they were talking about. I had broken into a cold sweat and felt the anxiety rise in me like a wave.

I was horrified. At the very mention of those two words – child pornography – my mind began racing, suddenly reassessing every interaction Greg had had with Luke since he was a little boy. The overnight stays, the camping trips, the pool parties. I felt nauseous. Was Greg grooming him? Had he been inappropriate with any of Luke's friends? Had he exposed Luke to things no child should ever be exposed to?

And suddenly cast in a new light were all the derogatory comments, overtly sexual comments by Greg about me and the men who had been in my life. The vile intimations about them sharing a bath with Luke, the hideous aspersions about sharing a bed: they all made sense now. They were simply a reflection of his own sick mind. His own dark inner thoughts.

I leaned forward and hissed at Prosecutor Treverton that I had changed my mind: in light of this new revelation, I wanted to withdraw any access Greg had to Luke.

Magistrate Goldsborough seemed to be shocked too. Suddenly, everyone in the courtroom, except for Greg and his lawyer, seemed to be performing mental gymnastics to recalibrate everything they understood this case to be about. A short adjournment was called so I could speak with Prosecutor Treverton. He took me to a private meeting room and closed the door.

‘Did you know about this?' he asked, incredulous.

‘No! I'm more shocked than anyone,' I said. ‘I feel sick about it. Why didn't I know this? Why wasn't I told?'

‘Well, it changes everything,' he continued. ‘I'm going to press for no contact at all.'

Feeling a small ripple of validation, I agreed. I didn't want Greg to have direct contact now although I
would
be prepared to allow phone contact.

Back in court, the magistrate gave her ruling. The IVO was to be varied after all, giving Greg access to Luke at sporting events, ‘such as cricket, Little Athletics and football' where he was permitted to ‘speak to Luke in the company of others'. Telephone contact was not allowed.

Prosecutor Treverton saw me sitting defeated in the courtroom foyer afterwards and urged me to contact a law firm. He explained how, because the child pornography charges had not yet been heard by a court of law, Greg had to be considered innocent until proven otherwise. Magistrate Goldsborough had acted to the full extent the law allowed her to. It seemed to me that the law was there to protect everyone else but the likes of Luke.

He further explained that if I wanted permanent change to the custody and access arrangements for Luke, I would need to initiate Family Court proceedings.

In an email the following day to the psychologist who had been recommended to me, I wrote: ‘It was a hideous day in court. Was there from 9.30 am until about 4.30 pm. I was emotional and angry at everyone and didn't handle myself well.

For a week or so following the court appearance, I withheld from Luke the news that his father was facing child pornography charges. I didn't know how to tell him. I was also conscious that he was still angry with me for betraying his dad to the police in the first place. Finally, I figured it was better that he heard it from me than from someone else. Following my experience with my mother's death, I've always felt strongly that children needed to be kept informed.

‘So Dad's a paedophile as well as everything else?' Luke responded with an air of defeat when finally I sat him down and told him. I was taken aback. I wasn't aware he even knew the meaning of the word. The news threw him into a funk.

A week or so later, he was still moping about. Normally happy-go-lucky (in spite of the turmoil that seemed constantly to surround him), he became sullen and detached. One evening he had returned from school particularly flat.

I asked him what was wrong, expecting to receive the standard response, ‘Nothing.'

But instead, he slumped at the kitchen table and told me he ‘hated' his life and didn't see the point of being alive. ‘I might as well commit suicide,' he said.

His words cut me to the quick. I was thrown into a blind panic. How did he even know about suicide? Where had he come across it as a concept? And how bad did an eleven-year-old's life need to be for him to consider it? It broke my heart.

Several days later, I took Luke to the first of his art therapy sessions. They had been recommended as the best way to determine how much he was being affected by traumatic events in his life, because he might express in drawings things he was unable to otherwise find voice for. Luke was initially reluctant to attend, but dutifully trotted off into the therapist's private office once we arrived.

I wasn't informed at the time, because what happened in the sessions was private between Luke and his therapist, but I would learn later that Luke's ideations of suicide – as immature and undeveloped as they were – were symptomatic of a wider malaise. He had been carrying so much for so long, it was bound to have an effect on him.

He sat and scribbled as the therapist gently asked him about his life. He said he was worried about me: about the stress I was under, trying to pay the bills, trying to manage his father, trying to keep up a brave face for his sake. He said he was embarrassed by his father, aware of his mental health issues, and he fretted about the effect they had on his friends. He wasn't able to share any of his worries with his mates because he worried they would judge him for it.

He told the art therapist that he felt ‘responsible' for his father's wellbeing, adding, ‘I think I am the only thing he is living for.' He said he worried that his father might have to go to jail, because he had hurt people in the past, including me. And Luke said that he had witnessed some of that violence. He said he wasn't scared that his father would hurt him: he had never felt in danger. But, chillingly, he was worried that I was going to be hurt, and possibly killed.

When I later heard about it, it struck me what a burden that had been for a little boy. And also how emotionally mature my son had been. Only eleven and able to give expression to these most profound, disturbing truths. My heart ached.

Even my strategy of keeping Greg engaged with Luke's sporting activities was backfiring. I had naïvely believed if Greg could interact with Luke and the other parents in his various sporting clubs, it would force him to behave normally in the company of others, and show Luke what it meant to have a normal father.

But Greg's mental state was deteriorating, and on a couple of occasions he quoted passages from the Bible to other dads. Luke was mortified. Increasingly, too, parents of other children became aware of the IVOs out against Greg and my ongoing court battle to restrict his access to Luke. Understandably, they were none too excited that this man who had been arrested
multiple times for assault was a semi-permanent presence in their own children's lives. Most parents were supportive of me, but unsurprisingly, they began to ostracise Greg and alienate him from club activities.

It all reached a climax without me even knowing.

Around this time, the mother of a boy on Luke's footy team approached me while the boys were playing, annoyed that I hadn't told her that Greg had threatened the coach with a knife.

‘He did what?' I replied, astounded. ‘But I had no idea! Nobody told me!'

It turned out that the coach had wanted Luke to play ruck, but Luke didn't want to play ruck. Greg had stepped in and told the coach under no circumstances was Luke going to play ruck – to which the coach quite rightly replied something to the effect of, ‘Mate, I'm the coach, I'll play Luke wherever I think is best.'

Greg's response had been to stare down the coach before saying something along the lines of, ‘I have a knife with your name on it,' and stalking back to his car.

I confronted the coach about it. ‘You have to tell me when these things happen,' I implored. ‘I need to know these things so I can protect myself and my son. You might not think it important, but that sort of thing needs to be reported to the police.'

Of course, it was exactly the kind of information I should have a right to know. The child porn charges were another case in point. DSC Andrew Cocking had known about the charges but had acted to the letter of the law by respecting Greg's privacy. However, surely in circumstances such as mine, there are mitigating factors that should be taken into account. Clearly DSC Cocking felt constrained by Victoria's privacy laws.

Why, I wondered, did the law regard my right as a mother determined to protect her son as less important than Greg's right
to privacy? If it were the child of a police officer or politician, for example, would he or she have thought it acceptable for authorities to withhold that sort of information?

Now that the child porn charges were out in the open, the law firm that Prosecutor Treverton recommended suggested I contact Child Protection and inform them of the latest developments. Child Protection agreed that Luke's file ought to be reopened (but only at my suggestion – at no point did there appear to be any official passing of information or referral of a possible child sex offence to Child Protection, oddly enough).

While they arranged for further investigation, they visited me at home and asked me to sign a written undertaking that I would ensure Luke was protected at all times. I knew that if I could not guarantee Luke's safety, they would be within their rights to remove him from my care.