The trial begins [19]

Lisa Lennox returns with the next episode of her audiobook podcast in which the trial of the man who raped her 17-year old daughter Bea begins. The jury is sworn in and Lisa is forced to face the horrifying reality that these twelve random strangers hold her daughter's future in their hands.

Trigger warnings: this podcast deals with rape, sexual assault, anxiety, depression and eating disorders.
There are references to unwanted sexual contact and some strong language.
 
 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 0:03

Hi everyone, Lisa here. I promised a while ago that I would bring you the story of the trial as soon as I could, but that I was finding it very hard to relive the trauma of that time. It's still hard, but I feel that I have to do it. I need to get this story out there in order to draw attention to how dreadful the experience is when victims try to get justice for terrible things that have happened to them. Some of you have inquired how B is, and all I can say is that she's up and down. Every day is a battle. All we can do is support her and love her and hope that over time things will improve. Thank you so much for continuing to listen, and please do spread the word to your friends, family, and associates. Don't forget you can contact me via email or Twitter. The details are on the webpage of this audiobook podcast. After all the months and weeks and days of waiting, the trial is suddenly upon us. The day when the reckoning begins. It's hard to take this reality on board. The reality that twelve people randomly chosen will decide the outcome of the case that has riven our family apart, all but destroyed our daughters, consumed our every waking moment, and troubled us through every sleepless night. I imagine a not guilty verdict. I've been kidding myself all this time, convincing myself I'll be okay with that. I won't. If that happens, I don't know what I'll do. But at the same time, the truth is that whatever the verdict, all of our lives were irrevocably changed that day in July, and nothing that occurs in the courtroom is going to alter that. I have been given time off work to attend the trial, for which I am profoundly grateful. Early in the morning I take Iris to the tube and see her on her way to school. On the way back I smell the scent of freshly mown grass wafting towards me on the breeze, sweet and delicious. I remember reading a study once that assigned a smell to every European country. Luxembourg's, as I recall, was money, though I'm not sure what that actually smells like. The UK's was cut grass. Phil and I set off for the Crown Court together. There we meet our friend and semi-retired metropolitan police officer Caroline, who has taken time off to support us through this. The court is in an underwhelming area of London, on a road lined by dilapidated looking houses with grubby windows, where litter lies caught in the hedges and along the pavements. There's a garden in front of the court building, but it's still winter, and the plants haven't woken from their months of slumber yet. The thorny branches of the rose bushes are bare and aggressive looking. Visitors have to go through airport staff security to enter the court, but the staff are friendly and welcoming. Inside it's like a particularly run down school. We seek out the canteen, stopping first to study the electronic display board. When I see Mr Y's name on the list I can hardly believe it. It's as if I still expected something to go wrong, the whole thing to be called off again, like it was when he allegedly contracted COVID. I'm as sceptical about that as I ever was, by the way. No one ever answered my questions about who administered the test, and whether we can be sure it was genuine. But we're here now, and for better or worse, there's no going back. The canteen is bare and cold, the food offering nothing more than a few sad sandwiches and a display case, and packets of crisps in a wicker basket, presumably intended to make them look more attractive. Paper lampshades hang down from the double height ceiling, swivelling gently in a breeze coming from some unknown source. All the windows are closed. There are dark grey cobwebs strung between the lights. The whole ensemble reminds me of the decay and atrophy of Miss Havishin's mansion in great expectations. Phil and I order coffee and Caroline asks for a mug of boiling water so that she can make her own tea. They don't have decaf. We sit at the furthest table, huddled together, even though there's no one else there. Be ready to hear some things that are going to be distressing, Caroline says. And remember that court cases are like a pendulum. One day everything seems to be swinging in favour of the prosecution. The next day it swings back again in favour of the defence. She pauses, sighs. The officer in charge, Megan, should be telling you all this. It's her job to prepare you for what it's going to be like. She's never spoken to us other than at the meeting with the CPS, I reply. Nor has she emailed, or texted, or anything. We've had no communication from her whatsoever. I know. Caroline leaves it at that, but the expression on her face reveals her true opinion. Time contracts and expands as we sit there in that depressing room, waiting for the Tannoy to announce the start of the trial. Eventually the case is called. As we make our way to the courtroom on the second floor, I feel physically sick. All I've got to do is sit there and listen. I can't imagine what people feel who actually have to stand up and face questioning. The first thing to say about a trial in an English crown court is that it's nothing like the movies or the TV dramas. There are gowns and wigs and deference to the judge and references to my learned friend, which must rank as one of the world's top sarcastic phrases. But there's no drama, no histrionics, no objection, Your Honour, or gavels thundering down. For a start, there are no gavels in UK courts. They are an American accessory. What there is is a lot of faffing around. Minutes pass and nothing seems to happen. It's all very low key. Our barrister Sarah is there, but we are not allowed to communicate with her in any way. The defence barrister is, of course, also present. Megan is in attendance with David and another woman who we assume is also a police officer that have never met before. There are various officials, the User and the Court Clerk, but a couple of others. There is no sign, however, of the defendant's extensive family for whom we were supposed to give up our seats in the public gallery when the original trial was scheduled to take place at a much smaller nightingale court. Nada, Silch, no one. Must have something more important on this week, I can only suppose. A door in the wood panelled wall behind the judge's desk opens. All right, says the usher. I nearly fall over myself trying to stand up as quickly as I can. I want the judge to see what a decent, law-abiding family we are, how we have been drawn into something horrific through no fault of our own. The judge enters, makes her way to her desk, and sits down. We follow suit. I study her as she arranges her laptop and paperwork. She has a no-nonsense look about her and exudes a calm, quiet confidence. I feel a little reassured. They say you can't judge a book by its cover, and maybe you can't judge a judge by her appearance, but I'm hopeful that she's no Judge Pickles, the infamous man who, in the 1980s, said a rape victim had been asking for it by going out wearing a short skirt. Caroline has told us that it is a common occurrence during trials for the jury to be sent out whilst the lawyers and the judge engage in a legal argument. Those in the public gallery can stay to listen to these discussions. No sooner has the judge arrived, and before the jury is even sworn in, than one such argument begins. The prosecution barrister has submitted an application for evidence from the conspiracy to pervert the course of justice crime to be presented to the jury as evidence of the defendant, Mr. Y's bad character. Thank goodness this has been done. Only the week previously it had made the news that police and prosecution lawyers were failing to use this facility, which can be crucial to getting a conviction. Obviously, the defence barrister opposes its inclusion. The judge makes it clear that she has not agreed to the defence's argument and that she will deal with it when all the evidence about the rape has been given. This is hopeful. It's my absolute certain belief that if the jury is allowed to find out that Mr. Y sent his girlfriend to our house to find B and try to bribe her to drop the case, this will weigh heavily against him. If he were innocent, why would he do such a thing? I try to suppress my simmering anger about the fact that it's only because of my insistence that the police looked into this crime at all, that it's only because I refused to take no for an answer that we got to the stage where both Mr Y and Miss X pleaded guilty to conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. If this evidence doesn't get presented to the jury, my victory over the police on this will be a pyrrhic one. Finally, there's a stir of movement behind the glass screen of the dog. So this is the moment the moment when we will lay eyes on the defendant, Mr Y, for the first time. I've almost forgotten that I have seen a picture of him, albeit briefly, the selfie on his WhatsApp profile that he hastily changed when B did not respond to a single one of his bombardment of phone calls. I had only glimpsed at it, unable to take a long look at the kind of monster who accosts the young girl who's just walking home, minding her own business. Flanked by security guards, Mr Y is brought into the dock, which is in effect a glass box to the right of the public gallery and facing the judge. The interpreter follows behind. I watch, trying to look impassive. There have been cases recently of people in the public gallery being asked to leave for glaring at defendants. Or is it the other way round? Or for glaring at the jury? I can't remember, and I'm paranoid. I don't want to do anything wrong, cause anything to happen that might jeopardize the case. But of course I can't help but look at him, the worm, the slime ball, the scumbag. He's not that big, dressed in scruffy clothes and a weird hat, unshaven. I can find only one word to describe his appearance. Ugly. He's an ugly little toad with a ratty face and an expression of affronted faux innocence that surely wouldn't deceive a three year old. I don't hate him. He doesn't deserve that much of my energy. I just want him to disappear from the face of the earth so that he can never harm another woman or girl. You'd think his defence would have told him to have a shave and make sure he had a suit to wear, wouldn't you? Whispers Caroline in my ear. I don't care. The more disruptible he looks, the better. Hopefully the jury would judge him poorly for it. Eventually we get to the point where the jury is sworn in. I can't help but appraise each one as they walk in. The first is a woman who could be of Indian or Pakistani heritage. By dint of being first, she will be the forewoman. There are two black women and a black man, a man and a woman with Spanish sounding names, a man with a Greek name, a young woman with short hair I immediately dub the feminist and no will be on our side, and two other white men. There's a Chinese man who appears to be asleep for most of the proceedings, and an older man I can't see once he's sat down, as he's hidden from my view by the dog. I try to gauge them, these five women and seven men, to predict what they will decide. But it's impossible impossible to know whether they are likely to find Mr Y guilty or not guilty. These twelve people hold my daughter's future in their hands. All I can do is hope and pray that they will make the right decision.