diners.
Anya spoke first. The rash on her chest and neck was fading, but her disbelief at what had occurred in the courtroom had not. She felt like breaking something. Anything.
“How are the victim’s family and friends meant to feel, hearing that garbage about painful sex? And poor Bevan Hart, I saw him in there as well.”
“Afraid I suggested he come along, given the charges involving his daughter’s assault are temporarily on hold. He knows that if we get this conviction, there’s a better chance of successfully prosecuting them for Giverny’s rape.”
The drinks arrived and Anya placed hers on a coaster.
“I can’t believe Pascoe supported the defense. Is he going to sit back and let Stilton suggest that Rachel injured herself masturbating, then Sophie came in, tied her sister up and stabbed her multiple times? Oh yeah, then went outside, interfered with herself and cut her own throat.”
“Maybe Stilton’s hedging his bets to get Harbourn acquitted, in case diminished responsibility fails. I wouldn’t put anything past Pascoe. Being one-eyed isn’t just physical with him.”
Anya glanced around to make sure no one was listening. Mocking a judge within earshot of other lawyers wasn’t a wise move.
“Was he seriously supporting the concept that pain and sex are compatible?”
“Afraid so. He always gives the defense much more room than us, even if it means the victim is violated over again.”
Anya wondered how long it would be before judges with archaic views, many of whom seemed far removed from modern reality, would die out. “Judges like Pascoe are on borrowed time. He’s close to retirement.”
She sipped her drink and noticed a well-dressed man at the bar watching Natasha.
“Not our old ‘Unsinkable.’ Philip Pascoe would have survived the
“Why Unsinkable?”
“Apparently he survived a rare childhood cancer and lost that eye.” She ticked off on her fingers. “Then he was in a car accident years ago that completely mangled the car, but he walked away without a scratch. He’s just back from time off. He had part of his leg amputated for some obscure kind of bone cancer. Old boy looks stronger than ever. If you ask me, he’s got some deal going with the devil.” She took a sip from her gin and tonic.
People in suits filed into the cafe. A man Anya had noticed greeted some of the newcomers but kept an eye on Natasha in between conversations and bouts of laughter.
“Do you know the guy at the bar, dark suit, silver tie?”
Natasha looked around. “Met him once or twice. From what I hear he’s a pretty good litigator.”
“Well, he’s been watching you since he got here.”
“Really?” Natasha finished her drink, pulled a compact out of her purse and fiddled with her hair.
As if on cue, the lawyer approached their table and offered to buy them a round.
Natasha smiled and gestured for the man to take a seat. Anya waited for an introduction, but suspected the prosecutor didn’t remember his name. He reeked of cigarette smoke, and that alone would have been enough to put Anya off staying.
Still fuming from the judge’s comments, she grabbed her bag and stood to excuse herself. There had to be another way to make the judge and jury see sense.
At that moment Natasha’s phone rang. After muttering “Yes,” then “No,” then “Right,” she hung up and gave a wry grin.
“Who’d have thought? Harbourn must have figured he took a decent hit today. He’s just fired his lawyer. We’ll find out in the morning if the trial’s on hold.”
For someone claiming diminished responsibility, Gary Harbourn was proving pretty adept at using the system to his advantage, holed up in a cushy private psych hospital instead of prison while he delayed the trial with legal games.
Anya left, wondering how she could support a system that catered to the Harbourns at the expense of people like the Harts and Goodwins and lauded judges like Pascoe.
She thought about Natasha’s comments about the unsinkable judge and decided what she had to do.
Outside the cafe, she dialed Dan Brody’s number. The call went to voicemail.
“Anya here, please call me as soon as you get this, it’s urgent.”
She noticed a message from Hayden Richards. Damn. Her phone was still on silent after court.
There had been a female sexual assault. She pulled out a notepad to document the address and recognized the street name. It was Saint Stephen’s Private Clinic.
30
Anya was greeted by a nurse who quickly ushered her down the corridor, past the gym, toward the consulting room. Doctor Temple stood outside, in jeans and a striped shirt, hand on his chin.
Hayden nodded at her. “Thanks for coming so quickly. We have a female inmate-”
“Inpatient,” the psychiatrist corrected. “This is a medical facility.”
“She says she woke up and found a man on top of her. She screamed, but he covered her mouth until he’d finished having nonconsensual intercourse with her, then ran off.”
This wasn’t Anya’s first call-out to a hospital or clinic. She’d attended sexual assault victims at elderly nursing homes and facilities for the severely intellectually and physically disabled. This was her third psych clinic. In previous cases, members of staff routinely preyed on society’s most vulnerable.
“What’s her medical condition like?”
“She’s stable and as far as I can tell there are no signs of her having been assaulted.”
Anya tried to remain calm. If the psychiatrist had already examined her genitally, without collecting forensic specimens, he may have ruined any chance of her collecting physical evidence, and traumatized the patient further, making all of their jobs far more difficult.
“As you know, Doctor Temple, in sexual assaults there is often no physical sign of injury.” Hayden put his head down. He looked as frustrated as she felt right now. “What’s her background and mental state?”
“Schizophrenia since the age of eighteen, with severe psychotic episodes. She’s had numerous admissions for violent behavior associated with treatment cessation and substance abuse. Her parents admitted her when the police picked her up for urinating in public. Prior to this episode, she’d held down a clerical job for three months. She is, however, something of a fabulist, which is why I have to question whether or not she really was assaulted. She is delusional. This isn’t the first time she’s reported something like this.”
Anya put down her bag. A woman suffering delusions would never have her claims taken seriously, so was the perfect victim for a sexual predator. It’s possible she had been sexually abused before, rather than just imagined it.
“What about cameras?”
“Privacy prevents us from having cameras in the rooms or private areas. This corridor isn’t monitored either.” Doctor Temple was pleading for something from Hayden and Anya. “Our patients are voluntary and we’ve never had anything like this happen before. There hasn’t been any need for cameras except in the gardens and entry foyer.”
“In other words, something like this getting out could ruin this place’s reputation,” Hayden said. “And you’re telling us the woman is unreliable as a witness.”
“That’s correct.” Temple seemed to relax.
“If you don’t mind, we have our jobs to do. I need to speak to whoever was on duty this afternoon and get the names of any visitors, delivery staff or kitchen hands, and I’ll need to talk to the other patients.”
The psychiatrist stiffened again. “I’m afraid that is fraught with confidentiality issues.”
“Rest assured, Doctor,” said Hayden, “I won’t be telling anyone unless we find out one of your patients committed rape under your watch. No amount of privacy can stop me charging whoever did this.”
“Where was Gary Harbourn when this occurred?” Anya wanted to know. With his history of sexual assault, he
