struggle to bring governments to account (which was a good thing) with allegations of sexual misconduct (which were an entirely separate matter for the courts). Over the ensuing months, these two unrelated issues – the universal principle of freedom of speech, and Assange’s personal struggle to prevent extradition to Sweden – would become entangled. This blurring may have served Assange’s interests. But the talk of honeytraps had a nasty air: it fuelled a global campaign of vilification against the two complaining Swedish women, whose identities rapidly became known around the world.
In Wandsworth, Assange did his best to adjust to his new life as an inmate. He had been remanded in custody for a week. For a man used to spending 16 hours a day in front of a laptop, the underground corridors and clanking Victorian cells must have been a distressing experience. His legal team went away hoping to devise a more successful line of attack. Their job was to get Assange out of jail as soon as possible, certainly in time for Christmas.
Assange’s fame had reached what seemed like galactic proportions by the time of his second appearance in court on 14 December, when a maverick member of the British establishment was at last to ride to his rescue. The crowd outside Westminster court had grown even bigger, with the first reporters setting up their equipment at dawn. Obtaining a pass for the hearing was a bit like getting hold of one of Willy Wonka’s golden tickets; the usual humour and tribal solidarity among journalists gave away to flagrant pushing in and shoving. The court was overflowing by the time Assange – flanked by two private Serco company prison guards – was escorted into the glass-fronted dock. He gave a thumbs-up sign to Kristinn Hrafnsson, his faithful lieutenant. But for the rest of the hearing he sat quietly.
Gemma Lindfield, acting for the Swedish authorities, set out the charges once again. She concluded: “He [Assange] remains a significant flight risk.” It was then the turn of Geoffrey Robertson QC, the prominent human rights lawyer and Assange’s newly hired Australian-born barrister. Standing to address the judge, Robertson began seductively. In melodious tones he described the WikiLeaks founder as a “free-speech philosopher and lecturer”. The idea that he would try and escape was preposterous, he said. Robertson announced that Vaughan Smith of the Frontline Club, Assange’s previous secret hideout host throughout November, was willing to take responsibility for his good behaviour. “Captain Smith”, as Robertson winningly described him, was prepared to house Assange once again up at Ellingham Hall in Norfolk, should the judge agree to give him bail.
The WikiLeaks arrest saga had so far been short of jokes. But Robertson had one ready-made. It would not be so much “house arrest as mansion arrest”, he quipped. Not only that, but it was inconceivable Assange would attempt to escape “since darkness descends rather early in that area of Britain”. Additionally, Assange was willing to give up his Australian passport and wear an electronic tag. Finally, he wasn’t likely to get very far given that “media exposure” had made him “well-known around the world”.
Robertson invited Smith to give his own assessment of WikiLeaks’ controversial founder. “He is a very honourable person, hugely courageous, self-deprecatory and warm. Not the kind of things you read about,” Captain Smith said, loyally.
After establishing that Smith was a former Guards officer and one-time captain of the British army’s shooting team, the QC asked for details of Smith’s family home. That, it appeared, was the clincher. “It has 10 bedrooms and 60 acres.” Better still, there was even a police station. “It’s a short distance on a bicycle. I can cycle it in about 15 minutes … It’s about a mile. Perhaps a little bit more.” Smith added helpfully: “It’s an environment where he would be surrounded. We have members of staff. My parents live in proximity as well. My father was a Queen’s Messenger and a colonel in the Grenadier Guards. He patrols the estate.” Smith added that his housekeeper, too, could keep a beady eye on the Australian: “My staff will be reporting to me, sir.”
If the judge had class instincts, there could hardly have been a more pitch-perfect appeal. The prosecution had by this stage also conceded that Assange had arrived legitimately in Britain from Sweden on 27 September. Outside the crowded courtroom, celebrity supporters had gathered on the second floor next to the coffee machine. Pilger, Goldsmith and Loach were there again – Bianca Jagger had successfully got herself a courtoom seat. Jagger later told friends that women fans had been a similar problem for her rock star ex-husband. “It was much worse with Mick. When you are world-famous other women throw themselves at you,” she mused. Despite their show of support, the celebrities’ presence was much less crucial than their money. All had offered to provide sureties of
Inside the courtroom, Robertson moved to paint a picture of Assange’s time in prison. His conditions inside Wandsworth were a pure living hell: “He can’t read any newspapers other than the
The judge announced that, after all, bail would be “granted under certain conditions”. These turned out to be relatively onerous: an electronic tag, an afternoon and night curfew, and a requirement to report to Bungay police station near Ellingham between 6pm and 8pm every evening. Oh, and
The news – communicated via Twitter, of course – of Assange’s bail brought a loud cheer from the 150 people who had gathered opposite the court to cheer on their hero and brandish their banners and placards to the world. One read: “Sex crimes – my arse!” Another: “That’s just what we need – another innocent man in jail”. And a third: “Sweden: muppets of the US”. Three young activists were so thrilled they broke into an impromptu chorus of
Their jubilation was premature. Lindfield and the Crown Prosecution Service predictably appealed the judge’s decision up to the high court, leaving Assange still temporarily jailed. But in the dock, he seemed in good spirits. As the warders led him away, he managed a thumbs up for the dusky-haired Turkish TV reporter sitting in the gallery. She boasted: “I had an exclusive interview with him a month ago.”
Two days later, on 16 December, all gathered again at the Royal Courts of Justice in the Strand, for Assange’s third hearing. Outside court number four a queue of journalists waited in a more orderly line than before, drinking coffee and leafing through the morning papers. Among them was a group of Australian reporters, who in nasal tones lamented their country’s overnight collapse at the hands of England in the Ashes. But Assange’s own prospects were looking brighter. At 11.30am Mr Justice Ouseley strode into a courtroom decorated with leather- bound legal tomes and portentous Gothic wood panelling.
The judge’s first concern wasn’t Assange but the fourth estate – specifically the international journalists sitting on the packed wooden benches in front of him. Several were already playing furtively with their BlackBerry handhelds. They were micro-blogging the hearing live to the outside world. Mr Justice Ouseley made clear that tweeting – although allowed by Howard Riddle two days earlier in Assange’s previous hearing – would not take place in the high court. Twitter was banned, he said. Immediately, several journalists tweeted his ruling. It was probably the quickest contempt of court in the history of justice.
Lindfield reprised the allegations. She warned that if Assange was bailed he might not flee the country but simply vanish in the UK. The judge appeared unconvinced. He seemed to accept the claim that the Stockholm prosecutor had originally decided there was no case to answer, before a second prosecutor agreed to pursue the allegations. “The history of the way it was dealt with by the Swedish prosecutor would give Mr Assange some basis that he might be acquitted following a trial.” For Assange, sitting in the dock behind ornate bars, this was
