Without Consent (3 page)

Geoffrey Willard sat at the table in his
donated clothes, waiting for his breakfast. Six a.m. came and went and the rumbling in his stomach got louder. Still, he stayed at the battered wooden table and waited for someone to tell him what to do. An hour later, his mother appeared in the kitchen in a pale blue dressing gown.

“Good morning,” she said, and brushed his forehead with her lips.

“I’m hungry,” he said, annoyed, “and thirsty.”

“Oh, of course you are,” Mrs. Willard said. “I didn’t expect you to cook something for yourself.”

Her youngest son stood and pushed the chair back. “I’ll be watching TV.”

She put the already full kettle on the stove. Each evening, without exception, she put water into a jug in the fridge and the stainless-steel kettle. That way, if the pipes froze overnight, there would always be a cuppa in the morning. She thought about the social worker’s predictions. This wasn’t going to be easy, but no one knew how difficult it would be for her, and always had been. Life was cruel, delivering her a pathetic spineless husband and a deviant child. If it hadn’t been for the pregnancy she would never have married Geoffrey’s father. He could never cope with a child who was different and left the first chance he got.

Geoffrey had always been different, and no amount of discipline stopped him behaving that way. She would never know what had happened to him in prison, or why he did that vile thing to end up there. Her son always was and always would be evil. There was no other explanation.

And now, after twenty years of respite, he was here again, living with her.

Locating a frying pan in a cupboard beneath the oven, she opened a carton of eggs then went to the fridge for some butter. Suddenly, she became aware that she only knew what Geoff liked as an eighteen-year-old boy. Not a man—as he now was, with stubble for hair and lines etched on his long, angular face. Her child was almost forty—a middle-aged man. At least he still had his pretty blue eyes—a blessing and a curse.

The thought of all those years missing, wasted, brought an ache to her chest. How do you begin to get them back? If only she’d had a normal child.

Now she had to make the most of things, starting with bacon and eggs. She cracked the eggs into the pan as the kettle whistled. Making a pot of tea seemed the only sensible thing to do. She began to wonder whether Geoffrey still drank tea. A quick search through the cupboard made her realize that she hadn’t put coffee on the shopping list for the social worker. What sort of a mother didn’t know what her own child drank? She tried to block out the guilt.

Never mind, she’d make do, just like she always did. And, Lord knows, it had never been easy. She grabbed a spatula from the second drawer and turned over the eggs. She’d make sure he ate something, so she put two pieces of bread, one white, one brown, in the toaster.

Geoffrey reappeared and sniffed the air, without saying a word.

“What would you like to do today? There must be so many things you’ve been wanting to do and see?”

“I want the TV in my room.”

Lillian Willard quietly buttered the toast and put the eggs on top. Her son didn’t thank her. Instead, he shovelled food into his mouth, as though he hadn’t eaten for days. She studied his face—how hard it seemed. His teeth had yellowed and one in the back had either rotted or been knocked out. She hadn’t dared ask how or why he had lost it.

“We can get a small one for there, if you like. Maybe with some of the money you saved. Televisions are a lot cheaper now than they used to be.”

Geoffrey nodded.

“I thought we could go to the main street shops and get you some clothes one day this week. The bus takes you right there. But we don’t have to go today if you don’t want. You might like some time just getting used to the place. At least, that’s what June said.”

“All right,” he replied through a mouthful of egg.

“I’ll just clean up and get dressed, then.” Lillian checked her watch. “If you decide you want to go, we should wait until peak hour’s finished. That way we’ll have less chance of drawing attention to ourselves.”

“Can I watch TV now?”

Before waiting for an answer, Geoffrey hurried out of the kitchen, bumping into Nick in the corridor. His cousin carried a basket of dirty washing.

“I’m just doing a load. Anything you’d like washed?”

“Looks like you’ve already got it all.” Lillian put the frying pan in the sink and dried her hands on her apron. “It’s a godsend having you here after so long.”

The older woman had been relieved when Nick had agreed to move in to keep an eye on Geoffrey. Lillian knew she was no physical match if her son was violent, and Nick would not hesitate to keep Geoffrey in line. With a divorce behind him, her nephew was happy to have free rent for as long as he was needed.

“We modern men are all like this. Just have to train Geoff up a bit and you’ll be laughing.”

Childish giggling emanated from the lounge room.

“Speaking of laughing, what is it your cousin’s watching?”

“Sounds like
Scooby-Doo
.”

Lillian ventured into the lounge room and found her son lying across the recliner chair with a pile of junk mail on the floor. He’d torn out the underwear sections from the Kmart catalogue and lay snickering at the scantily dressed models.

Less than twenty-four hours out of prison and her son was ogling innocent young women. Maybe prison had made him worse.

The thought made her heart palpitate.

Exhausted after the late-night rape
examination, Anya had to be at court by ten o’clock. This time another young woman needed all the support Anya could muster.

“It’s almost over,” she said, squeezing the teenage girl’s hand. “You’ve come so far. I know it’s not easy, but for your own sake you have to try to keep it together just a bit longer.” Anya stroked the dry, flaking skin, a barometer of the young woman’s level of stress. She’d never seen dermatitis that bad.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Naomi said, releasing Anya’s hand before running to the court toilets. Her mother quickly followed.

Anya could see that the prosecutor, Jennifer Beck, seemed distracted when talking to her assistant counsel. Jennifer excused herself from the conversation and walked the few feet across the gravel drive to Anya.

“We can’t afford for her to lose it now.” She tugged at her bar jacket. “Any hysterics she shows today will just make her look unstable and give the defense the gift they’re after.”

Anya sensed that the usually sympathetic prosecutor was feeling the pressure. Today’s closing argument had to convince the jury that the men on trial had deliberately drugged and raped the young woman.

“She hasn’t got over the cross-examination and knows it doesn’t look good for a conviction.” Anya lowered her voice. “What do you think?”

“If we had more physical evidence this case wouldn’t have been a farce. I’m recommending a review of evidence collection procedures in all SA units. You have to give us more evidence, or we’re telling the community it’s easier to get away with sexual assault than shoplifting.”

Anya sighed inwardly. This wasn’t the time or place to debate the introduction of more invasive investigations for assault victims.

Jennifer Beck obviously disagreed.

“If you doctors hadn’t pushed so hard to minimize evidence collection—”

“The invasiveness of examinations is what we fought hard to reduce, for the victims’ good.”

“What you’ve done is weakened our ability to present solid, irrefutable evidence. Sexual assault cases are tough to get up even with that evidence. Take it away and you hog-tie us, but still expect a good result.”

As acting head of the Western Regional Sexual Assault Service, Anya Crichton had discovered that so often in the politics of policy, administrators, police and lawyers lost sight of the purpose of medical examinations after an assault. It was to provide the best possible medical care, not treat victims as a human crime scene and little more than a forensic reservoir. Even so, she appreciated the prosecutor’s point.

“We’ll try to calm Naomi down before she goes back in,” Anya said. It was the best she could do.

Anya had first met the traumatized nineteen-year-old the morning after her school’s farewell dance. Naomi had awoken naked in a strange hotel room with two boys from her class. She told a typical story of a date rape: having a drink or two then feeling woozy and losing a large block of time. All she knew was that she wouldn’t have voluntarily gone to a hotel room, or had sex with the boys.

“At least you’ve got the carpet burn to her nose. It’s not easy doing that to yourself.”

“Pity she scrubbed herself raw in the shower and destroyed anything more tangible,” Jennifer answered, adjusting her wig and bar jacket. The fidgeting looked more like a nervous gesture than essential grooming.

Anya felt very sorry for the young victim but knew the chances of a conviction were slim, despite examination supporting the girl’s story. A carpet burn to her nose and top lip, and fingermark-sized bruises on her upper arms, were consistent with her being dragged along the floor to the bed while unconscious.

Her mother had found Naomi at home, scouring her bleeding skin with steel wool, and immediately brought her in to the sexual-assault unit.

Anya was quick enough to contact the hotel to secure the room before it was cleaned. Crime scene discovered semen on the sheets and DNA pointed to one of the boys in the room. This turned out to be the most damning evidence. Mysteriously, the sheet had disappeared from the evidence room during the trial. Whether it was deliberate or through sheer incompetence, the prosecution’s case had been irrevocably damaged.

The wig and jacket managed another readjustment as Jennifer watched people move toward the courtroom. “I’d better go in.”

The only evidence the prosecution had was a urine sample that showed the presence of Rohypnol, a powerful amnesic benzodiazepine.

“Good luck,” Anya said, more to herself, at the prospect of calming Naomi.

The young woman walked back from the toilets, wiping her face with a tissue. Her mother held a protective arm around Naomi’s shoulders. Anya thought about Louise Richardson and others like her who had experienced every moment of their assault, but felt particularly sad about Naomi’s situation. Not knowing what happened that night was in some ways even more traumatic. With the effects of the benzodiazepine, it was as though her mind was like a video camera without the record button. No memory had been laid down to recover, no matter how hard she tried. All that the girl had was her imagination and anxieties, which could be more frightening than the attack.

“Will you please sit with me just for this?” the girl pleaded.

Anya sighed. “I’m sorry, but I still need to be seen by the jury as being independent. If I support you in there, they start doubting my evidence. That just hurts your case.” She gently touched Naomi’s arm. “Mary is due any minute. She’ll be here for you for as long as you need her.”

The sexual-assault unit’s most senior counsellor arrived outside the court puffing, apologized, and led her charge into the courtroom. Jennifer Beck was already at her table when Anya quietly slipped in and took a seat at the back.

Within minutes, Jennifer’s closing argument had begun.

As she listened, Anya thought about the humiliation Naomi had endured both in the hotel room and in the multiple statements she’d had to make to police, as well as in the witness box. The young men had hired Veronica Slater, a defense barrister known for being ruthless.

Veronica’s cross-examination of victims was like watching a wolf dissecting a lamb. Anya could imagine Naomi faltering with each question. How could she do anything else? She couldn’t remember any of the events that night, which is precisely what the perpetrators wanted.

Jennifer Beck concluded the case for the prosecution and sat down.

Veronica Slater stood, a little over five foot tall, in heels that even a supermodel would balk at.

“The alleged victim thinks something terrible happened to her in that hotel room. Actually, she isn’t even sure that’s what she thinks. You see, she cannot remember anything about the hotel room or the defendants, whom she danced with at the graduation dance. She can’t identify people she thinks attacked her, and the physical evidence doesn’t prove she was in any way violated. We’ve heard about the carpet burns to her nose from Doctor Crichton. This young woman passed out on the floor of the carpeted hotel room. No one disputes that. These two young men,
friends
since childhood,” she emphasized the word, “helped lift her onto a lounge to be more comfortable. Lifting an unconscious woman who weighs, what, around eighty-five kilograms?” She paused and pointed in Naomi’s direction for effect.

Great, Anya thought, the girl’s weight was now on trial.

Veronica continued. “These young men aren’t experienced in carrying a drunk woman. So they did the best they could, awkwardly lifting her onto a lounge.” She paused and clasped both hands. “I don’t doubt that Naomi Gallagher is distressed by her own behavior that night and panicked at the thought of what she might have done. But to save face, she vindictively accused these two young men of a heinous crime. Teenage girls are renowned for their melodramatics and cattiness, but this accusation goes way beyond that.”

Anya watched the predictable palms-up for emphasis. Next there would be counting points on one hand.

“It is malicious, vicious and completely unfounded.” The hands obliged.

Veronica Slater continued with the usual spiel about false accusations being so easy to make, and told the jury they had no choice but to acquit her clients and restore their good names.

That line always amused Anya, given the names of the accused in sexual-assault cases involving minors were not disclosed in the media. Even so, the jurors nodded in agreement.

Anya had heard enough. The files from Dan Brody had been delivered that morning and there were more departmental meetings to attend. Part-time work with a sexual-assault unit really meant full time, only part pay. She stood, followed protocol and nodded at the judge before slipping out the back door.

Naomi’s father sat on the step outside, covering his face with large, calloused hands. Anya pretended not to notice his moist, bloodshot eyes when he looked up.

“After everything my little girl’s been through, those bastards are gonna get away with it.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “What sort of justice is that?”

Anya never knew what to say in these situations, no matter how many times she went through it with family members and victims. Undecided whether to stand or sit down with him, she was almost relieved when her pager went off, reminding her of a meeting.

“Tell me this, Doc. What sort of a message does it send those lying, raping pricks? That they can get away with anything? Jesus, are we supposed to thank them because they attacked her when she was unconscious and didn’t bash her? Should we be grateful she
can’t
remember a bloody thing?” He bowed his head, silenced by the procession of people filing out of the courtroom. The distraught father stood, wiped his hands on his shirt and greeted his family with a forced smile.

There was nothing more Anya could do here. She quietly left, with a sense of foreboding. Judging by Veronica Slater’s performance, the boys were about to be acquitted, and Naomi would spend the rest of her life trying to deal with it.