Partners in crime [11]

In this episode, Phil and I find out something shocking about the crime when we are asked to attend a meeting at the Crown Prosecution Service HQ in central London. The police request Bea's school records and Bea's suffering goes on....

Trigger warnings: this podcast deals with rape, sexual assault, anxiety, depression and eating disorders.
 
 Most mothers will never have to find out what happens when their child becomes the victim of a horrendous crime. I, Lisa Lennox, never imagined that it would happen to my family, to my 17-year-old daughter. But one benign, ordinary summer's day, it did. And so began my family's immersion in the horror unleashed by such a crime, the trauma, the fear, the on-going nightmare of dealing with a police and criminal justice system which, if not completely broken, is certainly fatally fractured and struggling to cope. 
 
 Everyone is Talking About This is the true story of an ordinary family forced to face an extraordinary circumstance. I’ve tried to be honest and forthright about my desperate struggle to help my child get justice - and, on many occasions, to see the reason to go on living.

Please be aware that this podcast mentions sexual assault, rape, eating disorders and mental health issues. There is occasional strong language and some graphic detail. 

If you have been affected by any of the issues in this podcast, here are some organisations you can contact in the UK:
Rape Crisis
0808 500 2222 - calls are free.
Or you can visit their website - https://247sexualabusesupport.org.uk/

Beat, the UK's eating disorder charity
08088010677 - calls are free.
Or visit their website - https://www.beateatingdisorders.org.uk/

You can also speak to your GP or, if you are still at school, someone from your safeguarding team. 


To my listeners - please do tell your friends about this audiobook podcast and encourage them to listen so that as many people as possible are aware of the reality victims of rape are up against on a daily basis here in the UK and across the world. 

Help me to spread the word!

And contact me on: everyoneistalkingaboutthis@gmail.com 
or via Twitter: @63136_survivors to tell me what you like about the podcast and what I could improve. 

Thank you! 

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:04

In the media, in society, it seems that everyone is talking about rape. Journalists and editors have woken up to the daily travesties of justice that are occurring in our country. Barely a week goes by without some new report or programme or high profile case. I'm sure it's all well meant, that rape is hitting the news because people can see how wrong it all is. Yet nothing is actually changing. As if to prove my point, Phil sends me a text with a link to an article about a forthcoming documentary on Channel 4 entitled Rape Who's On Trial? Reading it is depressing, shocking, and all too familiar, most significantly that only 1.5% of rape cases reach court, and of those only sixty percent end in conviction. So many women let down, so many perpetrators left to walk away scot free. How much longer are we as a country, as a society, going to put up with something so clearly fundamentally flawed, impossibly broken? It doesn't hold out much hope for B. Will she just end up as another one of these appalling statistics? It's with a heavy heart that I set off with B and Phil for the meeting with the Crown Prosecution Service. I should feel uplifted, I suppose, that we have got this far when so many don't, that the case is definitely going forward, even though B can hardly remember anything that happened, even though the defendant is happily lying his way right to the courtroom door and into the witness box. The CPS building is huge, lowering and grey, a forbidding example of brutalist architecture. It seems fitting as a place for the process of law to be exercised. Waiting to go in with us are David and the DC in charge, Megan. This is the first time we've met her, and will be the only time we have any contact with her whatsoever, right up to the first day of the trial. Also there is Nicole, Bee's advocate from the Beacon, who's come to support B through what is likely to be a traumatic event. Inside we have to enter via Doctor Who style doors that open, allow you into a pod, and then spit you out on the other side. I don't know what is happening when one is inside the pod, but if someone had told me that they suck out your organs and replace them with replicas, while simultaneously reading your mind and implanting microchips between your ears, I wouldn't have been surprised. Once we've emerged we are in a huge internal courtyard with a cafe and an imposing sculpture that soars towards the vaulted roof. It's quiet at the moment because of COVID, explains Emily, the CPS lawyer who meets us on the other side. Lots of people are still working from home. It used to be manic in here all the time. She leads us into an enormous boardroom where dozens of chairs line a colossal table. Immediately I worry about my dodgy hearing and whether I'll be able to make out what everyone is saying. Sitting at one of the chairs is a woman, tall, dark, and looking as if she means business. She introduces herself as Sarah, the barrister. I wonder how much she'll be billing the taxpayer for this meeting, which turns out to last nearly two hours. It's not just the harm this asylum seeker has done, Mr Y, but the money he has cost us all. Sara begins to explain the procedure. So, we're dealing with two counts of rape, she says, looking down at her notes. Her words ring in my ears. What? Hang on a minute, I say, as Sarah begins to speak again. Two counts. What do you mean? We've never been told this before. Yes, two counts, confirms Emily. Oral penetration and vaginal penetration. The room falls silent. I feel sick, my head swimming. I look at Phil. He's staring down at the table and I can tell he's holding back tears. And even worse that he's harnessing his rage. Rage that I know will be consuming him. We didn't know that, I say, as mildly as I can manage. I want to add, we're three months down the line, and we should have known that. Why have we never been told that? But this isn't the place to get antagonistic. I'm acutely conscious of Bee sitting beside me. I can't look at her. I can't look at Sara. I stare at my notebook, silently screaming. Sarah moves briskly on to the next subject, B's memory, or lack of it, as she can remember so little. David has arranged for her to see an expert witness who can apparently talk about this. I wanted someone who could analyze B's difficulties processing information, and the way she finds it hard to think on her feet. But I guess her memory is important too. Sara has raced on ahead and is explaining about the special measures process, also known as Section twenty eight, whereby B will do her cross examination in advance, so that she does not have to attend the court case and will not ever have to see the defendant, though he will be watching her on a live video link. I'm trying to concentrate on what Sara is saying, but I can see B shaking and crying beside me. Nicole comforts her, quietly, gently, and non intrusively. A couple of times I get tearful myself but I rein it in. I ask about something Caroline has told me, that Mr Y might choose not to appear for cross examination. Sara explains that, unless he has a very good reason, the judge can direct the jury to make an adverse inference from a non appearance. Mr Y's prepared statement will be read out in any case. It's the first time we've had confirmation of what Caroline guessed was the case, that Mr Y did not answer any questions in his police interview, but just gave a written statement. Then I bring up the subject of the original two men who were arrested, who gave the information about Mr Y that led police to him. Meghan grimaces. The man who provided the intel, he is not my friend, she says. But he gave information when he was interviewed under caution, didn't he? I question. And I know you can't tell me what he said, and I know I can't be told the evidence, etc, etc. But presumably what he said is important for the prosecution. So what happens if he refuses to come to court? I'm recalling David telling me that witnesses do not have to appear. He can be summoned, explained Sara. Oh, okay. Did I get that wrong or did David? He definitely told me no one has to appear. So the jury can get to hear what his story is? Emily nods. Possibly. They're closing ranks again and I realise I'm getting too close to the evidence, the things they can't discuss with us. My blood boils again. He, my daughter's attacker, can hear everything, every single thing the prosecution are going to put forward, so he can plan his excuses and how to worm his way out of what he has done, and we, B, are not allowed to know anything whatsoever about what he has said, nor anything anyone who will appear for the prosecution or the defence has said. B cannot prepare at all, in the least little bit, for what she will be asked, for the questions they will put to her, for all the ways they would try to trip her up, a child, my little girl, whose innocence was snatched away from her by a brute and a liar. She is not allowed to hear his mendacities so that she can refute them. And this is justice. A fair trial, as we keep being told. And what about Miss X? I ask. What about her trial? And when will Mr Y also be charged with the conspiracy to pervert the course of justice offence? Meghan signals with her eyes to the barrister, who nods. Meghan's sitting at the furthest end of the table from me, but when she speaks I find I can hear her quite well. Perhaps it's the acoustics. Perhaps my ears know how important this is, and don't want to let me down. He'll be produced from prison for interview next week. There's a very realistic chance he will also be charged with conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. And if this happens, Sarah takes up the reins, we will ask for the charges to be linked, because of course one has led to the other. And for the conspiracy charge, we will ask for them to be tried together as co defendants. Good, I say, at the same time as I'm thinking, Miss X lied and dissembled and did something totally illegal for him, Mr Y. Despite what he had done, she still wanted to marry him. Well, they'll be partners in crime, if nothing else. I resist mentioning that none of this would be on the table if I hadn't insisted the matter was dealt with properly. But I can't stop myself from expressing my astonishment at Miss X's stupidity. I just don't understand. I don't understand why she would get involved, I say, why she would want to help him out of the hole he's dug. Sara shrugs and raises her eyebrows. I'm not sure any of us understand how or why she's got herself into the mess she currently finds herself in. She waves her hands in the air to demonstrate the inexplicability of it all. I think of Miss X languishing in prison, and I'm glad that she's paying some kind of a price for what she did to my family, my children. The conversation turns to the trial outcome. We have a good chance, Asara. We can never predict what will happen, but we have a good chance. I've been doing this job for nearly twenty years, and Emily is also very experienced. We wouldn't have got this far if we didn't have a good chance. I think of the statistics from the Channel four documentary. A chance is just that, a possibility only not a certainty. Emily is nodding her agreement of what Sarah has said. At every stage I review the case and decide whether we have enough to proceed to the next step, and we do. She looks at B, sitting so still and quiet. And Beatrice, you are being so brave to be here to be taking this forward, because not everyone does. I bite my lip. At this point in the proceedings I'm not sure I understand why anyone goes through with it. Why any woman would open herself up to the scrutiny, the invasion of privacy, the smears and stains on her character, that are an inevitable part of our hideous adversarial system. But of course the lawyers will tell her that the aggression, the mudslinging, are essential, necessary, for a fair trial. The fireball is colossal, painting the sky a virulent red, the explosion that accompanies it deafening. It mystifies me that no one else seems to have noticed it, but obviously, since I have, I must call the emergency services immediately. It's all down to me. Grabbing up my phone, I jab at the digits with fumbling hands, a nine, then another nine, then the final one, nine nine nine. I try to make the call, but nothing happens. Looking at the screen, I see the numbers 3672 displayed there. I don't understand. Why is the phone not dialing the numbers I have input? Where have these random digits come from? Time and again I try to dial 999, and time and again different numbers appear, and no emergency call is made. I'm getting more and more desperate, but still I seem to be the only one who has seen the conflagration and who is trying to do something about it. When my alarm goes off, I wake with a deep-seated sensation of fear and anxiety. It takes a few minutes to fully realise that the fire was a bad dream, as was my inability to phone for help. I lie in bed, mustering my energy, trying to dispel the unease that pervades my mind. If B or Iris were at risk, I would be able to help, I tell myself. The phone would obey my commands, the police would come. Though I wasn't there when B most needed me, that will never happen again. I will make sure of that. But how can I? I'm still horizontal, drained of all energy, unable to get myself out of bed. My sleep had been fitful all night, tossing and turning, jumping awake every time the new floodlight on the front of the house had come on because of a passing car, a cat or a fox. At one point I had got up to check, lifting the corner of the blind and peering out at the street, surveying our front garden alight with artificial illumination, the road beyond washed in pale, sickly moonlight. As I had watched, nothing stirred. I could not see what had activated the light sensor, but the fact that there had been no one out there did not ease my fears then, and neither does it now. The knowledge echoes through my mind constantly. They know where we live. They know who we are. They came to find my daughter once. Why not again? When I wake B, she's moody and grumpy, plagued once more by one of her crippling headaches. She can't go into school. I try to encourage her to take one of the pills the beacon pediatrician gave her and see if she can stagger in, but she's not having it. I give up and go downstairs to report her absence. I realize, as I'm on my way to the underground with Iris, that I don't feel too good myself. Over the next few days, however much I try to galvanize myself, I feel worse and worse. I carry on getting up, going to work, convinced as I always have been that I must provide an example for the girls, an example that shows them that you don't just give in and take to your bed at the slightest sniffle, that instead you take some paracetamol and carry on as normal. Now, especially, with B faltering at least once or twice a week, it seems even more important than ever that I model stoicism and resilience. But over the next few days I don't feel any better. Maybe that's why the first counselling session I have with one of the therapists from the Beacon doesn't go well. Bee and I had gone there to have an initial meeting just after the Majorca holiday, and now we both have separate sessions. Mine are once a fortnight online and hers are once a week in person. At first I had felt very grateful to get this support, but somehow during this afternoon session, nothing gels for me. The therapist, Lucy, seems sweet, but when she asks me about my relationship with B, I find myself both confused and defensive. The questions she asks befuddle me. Are you close? For example, if she was secretly sneaking out at night, would she tell you? Would you know? I think we're reasonably close, I say. I've never tried to be my children's best friend. I've just tried to be their mother. As for sneaking out, I don't know. I think I'd know, but maybe not. I pause. Is this a test? I mean, is she doing that? I ask. Has she told you she's doing that? Perhaps you know things I don't Oh no, says Lucy. Not at all. But I'm suspicious. Something just doesn't sit right with me. This organization is supposed to be on our side, so I can't explain my misgivings. I'm just not comfortable. What will be given to the police? What might be any of us say that could be used against us? I recall the doctor at the Haven saying it can be better to wait until after the trial for counselling. Is this why? Next day I get the call I've been expecting and dreading, from Miss Truman at Bees School. The police have put in their request for Bees School records. Miss Truman is flabbergasted. I'm speaking to her on the roof terrace of my school, just before I have to go to teach my awful year nine class. I don't understand what her time at school has got to do with what has happened, says Miss Truman. I know, I agree, but we have to give them everything. I don't know either why a demerit in year seven for forgetting her book is relevant, but apparently the law says it is, and the defence must know about it. The police have explained more than once that we must hand over everything that might undermine the prosecution's case and help the defence. There's a long silence. Well, I've dug everything out, she continues, eventually. And everything I look at, I'm wondering how they'll twist it against me. I want to cry. I know, I agree, but there's nothing we can do about it. Right, Miss Truman's tone is sharp and clipped. I'll send everything over then. We have no choice, I repeat. I can imagine what Miss Truman would say to the lawmakers if she got a chance, and it wouldn't be pretty. Double detention all round, I'm sure. You nine are as awful as ever. After the lesson it's my lunch break. I go to the toilet and lock myself in a stool, put my head in my hands and try to stem the tears. This is too much. It's just too much. That fucking man, the damage he has done, the destruction he has wrought, of a bee's life, Phil and Iris' lives. My life. Next day I phone in sick. My head is killing me, my throat feels like sandpaper, my cough is ripping my chest apart. Lateral flow tests are negative, so it's not COVID, but guess what? C nineteen is not the only virus, and certainly not the only one that makes you feel crap. Luke Gallagher sends an email. Miss Y has applied for bail, and an application is being made to produce Mr X from prison for interview, which will hopefully lead to him being charged with conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. This is good news, I suppose. But I'm not well, and all I can think is that it's never ending, this torture, this ordeal. And if I feel like that, is it any wonder Beatrice is struggling too?