Without Consent (5 page)

Anya arrived early at the unit to catch
up on paperwork. She checked the time—seven a.m. Four hours before her meeting with Dan Brody.

Within minutes, Mary knocked on the door with a cup of steaming black coffee.

Anya looked up after smelling the brew. “What did I do to deserve this so early?”

“Actually, it’s what you’re about to do. Sorry, but there’s a call-out and no one else is on duty yet.”

Anya slumped and accepted the bribe. “How long before she arrives?”

“She’s already here, in room two. It won’t take long. She doesn’t want the police involved, just wants emergency contraception, and get this, a book list of references so she can read about rape. A real ‘type A’ personality.”

After gulping down the coffee, they entered the counselling room. Anya greeted “Just Elizabeth,” who paced the room.

“Good, you’re here. I’ve got to be at work by eight-thirty, so could we please make this quick? I’ve got someone waiting in the car and a science excursion this morning with sixty kids.”

“I’ll do what I can. I’m Doctor Anya Crichton. You asked to see me?”

Mary excused herself and retreated.

“All I want is a script for emergency contraception, whatever that is these days. I can’t afford to get pregnant. I’m not on anything at the moment.”

“If you were assaulted overnight, you’re probably going to feel pretty sore and uncomfortable at the very least.”

“I’m fine now. He must have seen me through the open window. I was watching a movie and fell asleep on the lounge. I woke up with him on top of me. When he’d finished, he left. That’s it.”

The woman continued to pace with her hands in her trouser pockets, shoulders raised, the way a small animal tries to make itself bigger as a form of defense.

“I’m healthy and I understand there isn’t any point in screening for infections just yet, so I’ll come back when it’s time. I don’t need anything but the contraception.”

Experience told Anya there was no use pushing a victim who refused to be examined or counselled. She had to respect every decision, not just the ones she agreed with. Elizabeth’s behavior was almost as if she knew her attacker—keen to quickly get on with life and loath to discuss any details. Most of all, it was the way she almost took responsibility by emphasizing the “open” window.

Anya sat at the desk and opened a drawer. She removed a pill packet and cut four tablets from the sheet. She added this to an envelope containing anti-nauseants. “Are you allergic to anything?”

“Nothing.”

“This contains written instructions. Take two tablets now along with one of these capsules. The hormones can make you nauseated, which the capsules counteract. In twelve hours, take the rest of the tablets at the same time. Here’s my mobile number. If you vomit within a few minutes of taking the tablets, please let me know and I’ll arrange more for you.”

“Is that it? I’ve got to get to work.”

“Elizabeth, you’ve been through a traumatic experience. I understand you want to get on with your life, but maybe you should take a day off to recover. I can give you a certificate for work. That way we could at least discuss your options.”

“Thanks, but it’s not necessary. I’m fine.”

“Can I at least call you later and see how you are on the pills?”

The woman, who looked like she’d run a marathon, rummaged through her bag and retrieved a notepad. Anya noticed she wore a turtleneck jumper despite the warm weather and wondered what injuries were being disguised. Worried that there was more to the assault than Elizabeth admitted, she had to concede that every victim had his or her own coping mechanism. It was their right to choose treatment or refuse it. All she could do was offer to be there if things went even more wrong.

“You’re not responsible for what happened.”

“I left the window open.”

Anya handed over the envelope. “That doesn’t make what he did any less of a crime. He forced his way into your home and assaulted you. You did not give him permission or the right to do that. If someone goes through an open door and steals the stereo, it’s no less of a theft than if he’d smashed that door to get in.”

“This is where I’ll be staying.” Elizabeth scrawled the numbers on the notepad and tore off the lower half of the page, minus the letterhead. “You can get me after school,” she blurted, and left.

Anya glanced at the piece of paper. On it was written the phone number for her own unit’s crisis line. Clearly, Elizabeth—if that was her real name—didn’t want to be contacted. She doubted they would ever see the woman again.

Anya enjoyed the decor of Dan Brody’s
chambers. Wall-to-wall books and the smell of leather-bound law tomes gave it an old-fashioned and authoritative feel.

A pot of freshly brewed tea sat on a glass tray on the sideboard—Irish Breakfast by the aroma, her favorite.

Dan returned with a matching jug of milk and bowl of sugar. No food in the room, because that inevitably left crumbs and mess, something the barrister was averse to.

He poured two cups and fumbled with the sugar cubes. For the first time, he seemed uneasy about being with Anya, which made her feel on edge. Pulling a file from her briefcase, she wondered whether his uneasiness was because he felt awkward seeing her, or if it had something to do with his mother’s recent death.

He put down the cup and saucer on a coaster within reach.

“Thanks.” Anya handed him the file of the original case notes. “There’s a fair chance the eye-witness who identified him made a mistake. There is a definite possibility your client didn’t expose himself to all of those women. There’s nothing on the forensic examination I performed after his arrest to suggest he’d recently had intercourse or ejaculated.”

Dan stirred his cup and picked up a gold fountain pen from its stand. He listened as Anya continued.

“The prosecution could argue that he either didn’t ejaculate after exposing himself in the park or that he washed himself before they picked him up. But I can’t see how he could have washed himself that thoroughly in a public toilet.”

“Any other possibilities?”

“Swabs don’t always pick up the semen or saliva, given the shape of the penis. I can explain how I took the specimen to increase the yield, but they still have the very real possibility that I missed it. Where humans are involved, error is always a possibility.”

“Precisely,” he said, drawing an exclamation mark on the legal pad.

“There’s something else about your client that’s significant.” Anya sipped her tea and leaned back. “He has what’s known as Peyronie’s disease. If he supposedly exposed himself to all of those women, someone should have noticed.”

“How would you define that in layman’s terms?”

“Simple. He has scar tissue underneath the skin of his penis, which causes it to bend in a sharp curve if he has an erection.”

The lawyer pulled a face, which she ignored.

“If a woman was staring at his erect penis, she may well have noticed.”

“May I ask how you know, if he didn’t have an erection when you saw him?” He paused. “Please tell me he didn’t—”

“Dan, he
told
me after I declined to see his ‘party trick.’ Not many men would boast about something that made them the butt of jokes in the locker room. Besides, I didn’t just take his word for it. I couldn’t feel much scar tissue when I examined him so interviewed some of his teammates who admitted they liked to masturbate in the showers after a winning game. From what they described, he definitely has Peyronie’s disease.”

“Anya, your conscientiousness knows no bounds.” He raised an eyebrow, and doodled more small boxes, something he did when digesting information.

“Okay, so we know he has it. What sort of issues could arise out of your report?”

“Apart from the deviant behavior in the showers?”

Dan closed his eyes. “Even the innocent ones don’t make it easy.”

“I have to say women may not be too sympathetic to a group of muscle-bound sportsmen who masturbate together, boast about each other’s sexual conquests and even ‘share’ women. They thrive in a culture of misogyny and lack the insight to see it’s not acceptable to anyone else.”

Brody frowned. “Then I have to find inconsistencies in the eye-witness’s testimony. I’ll work on it.” Brody seemed preoccupied, not his normal cocky, aggressive self.

“Is that everything?” Anya stood to leave, keen to escape the awkwardness.

“Actually…” He rose and pushed the leather chair back. “Fancy a walk? I can buy us lunch.”

“All right.” Anya collected her jacket and Dan held it for her to get into.

In the foyer, Dan grabbed an umbrella and they headed through a revolving glass door into Castlereagh Street. A gust of papers circled ahead of them. Anya buttoned up her jacket. Dan didn’t seem to notice the cold change through his shirt.

“I’d like to talk to you about something sensitive.”

She tried to deflect the conversation with humor. “I think you’d already know if you had Peyronie’s.”

Dan remained stony-faced.

They walked for a while and crossed at the lights into the Pitt Street Mall. Descending the escalators to a food hall, they found an empty plastic table and deposited the umbrella.

“Have a seat. How about a beef kebab?”

“Chicken—” Although the possibility of food-poisoning from under-heated chicken didn’t appeal. “On second thoughts, beef sounds good, thanks.”

Brody quickly returned with two doner kebabs and four serviettes. Anya waited until he’d finished wiping both chairs to sit.

“I meant to say sorry about your mother. She must have been an amazing woman. I mean, with all her accomplishments.”

He studied the foil wrapping. “In spite of her art and writing, she was very private. She was one of the kindest, most intelligent people I’ve ever known, and had one of the driest wits as well. Now that I think of it, she was actually a lot like you.”

Anya had a mouthful of beef and stopped chewing. She swallowed, unsure how she felt about being compared to Dan’s mother.

“How is your father handling it?” Muzak filled the food hall but had competition from crying children and frustrated parents.

“It’s hard to tell. He seems all right in the nursing home, but finds it difficult to communicate. We never really had heart-to-hearts even when he could speak. How are you and your son going?”

“Ben is enjoying preschool, I think. I guess he feels a bit confused sometimes.”

Dan wiped his mouth. “That’s understandable, though.”

“In some ways, with both parents apart. Not many four-year-olds have two homes. With me he likes books and craft, but with his father he kicks a ball and does all kinds of sports. It’s like he divides himself into two separate people.”

“Weren’t you thinking about starting him early at school?”

“Right now, Ben needs to mix with his peers and learn to socialize. Being a boy and having fun is what’s most important at the moment. Academic stuff can always wait, but missing out on social skills now could cripple him for life.” Anya took another bite, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s about the only thing Martin and I agree on.”

Dan cleared his throat. “Does that mean you two are getting on?”

“Nothing’s changed. He’s still looking for the right job, whatever that is, and keen on having a great life. As far as he’s concerned, I am antisocial, which is why I lock windows and deadlock doors. He’d rather let anyone and everything in, no matter how mangy.”

“Sounds like my ex,” Dan laughed. “Yin and yang.”

There had been a time last year when Anya could have fallen for Dan Brody. He had brought that bottle of champagne to her home and asked her out to dinner, which had never eventuated. Since then, this was their first personal conversation. It felt strange, but good at the same time.

A loudspeaker announced a lost two-year-old boy wearing a Spiderman shirt and matching pants.

Anya’s heart raced.

The announcer then said that the child was located at the information booth and asked the mother to collect him there.

The pair sat quietly finishing their lunch when Dan ventured, “Any word about your sister?”

For some reason, Anya didn’t recoil from the question. “After all the publicity last year, a psychic contacted Dad, saying he knew where Miriam was buried, but it was another crank. After thirty years, we don’t really expect to ever find out what happened to her, but you still live in some sort of hope. You can’t help it, I suppose.”

“Losing my mother to breast cancer was bad enough,” Dan said. “Not knowing what happened to an abducted child is, I can only imagine, inconsolable grief.”

Anya was unsure whether he had meant to speak out loud or not.

Brody checked his watch. “I’d better be going. Walk you back?”

Drizzle fell and they wandered back in silence, sharing the umbrella. Anya wondered what was bothering Brody. He seemed agitated, not his usual confident, obnoxious self.

“Before lunch, you mentioned a sensitive matter.”

“Oh, nothing that can’t wait,” he said as they approached his chambers. Outside, Veronica Slater paced beneath cover. “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting five minutes!”

“Sorry, I had a conference.” Brody turned to Anya. “Have you met the newest addition to our chambers, Veronica Slater?”

“Yes, I have.” Anya forced a smile. She didn’t know that Veronica had wormed her way into Brody’s chambers. Maybe that explained the high heels. Without them she wouldn’t even make it to Dan’s chest.

Veronica put her arm in Brody’s and held the umbrella handle with the other hand. “I’m starving. Let’s go celebrate my latest win.”

Like a lapdog, the oversized barrister obliged. “Thanks for the advice on that case,” he said, and wandered off for his second lunch.

Anya stepped out into the rain, trying to hide her disappointment.

“Celebrating” meant the verdict in the drug-rape trial was in. She shuddered and hoped that Naomi and her family could accept the news. She didn’t know what annoyed her more—Veronica gloating after humiliating a victim or the sight of Veronica’s talons in a colleague like Dan Brody.

As she stepped around a puddle, she thought about putting victims through even more detailed forensic examinations. Somehow, it didn’t seem worth it when all that offenders suffered was an over-inflated bill for a high-heeled lawyer.

For the first time, Anya felt glad she didn’t have a daughter. She loathed the Veronicas of this world—people intent on beating the system at any cost. They ensured rapists and murderers walked free—to rape and kill again—for nothing but ego and money.

With bile rising in her throat, Anya wondered how she could continue to work for and support a system she was fast losing faith in.