Anya sighed inwardly. This wasn’t the time or place to debate the introduction of more invasive investigations for assault victims.
Jennifer Beck obviously disagreed.
“If you doctors hadn’t pushed so hard to minimize evidence collection-”
“The invasiveness of examinations is what we fought hard to reduce, for the victims’ good.”
“What you’ve done is weakened our ability to present solid, irrefutable evidence. Sexual assault cases are tough to get up even with that evidence. Take it away and you hog-tie us, but still expect a good result.”
As acting head of the Western Regional Sexual Assault Service, Anya Crichton had discovered that so often in the politics of policy, administrators, police and lawyers lost sight of the purpose of medical examinations after an assault. It was to provide the best possible medical care, not treat victims as a human crime scene and little more than a forensic reservoir. Even so, she appreciated the prosecutor’s point.
“We’ll try to calm Naomi down before she goes back in,” Anya said. It was the best she could do.
Anya had first met the traumatized nineteen-year-old the morning after her school’s farewell dance. Naomi had awoken naked in a strange hotel room with two boys from her class. She told a typical story of a date rape: having a drink or two then feeling woozy and losing a large block of time. All she knew was that she wouldn’t have voluntarily gone to a hotel room, or had sex with the boys.
“At least you’ve got the carpet burn to her nose. It’s not easy doing that to yourself.”
“Pity she scrubbed herself raw in the shower and destroyed anything more tangible,” Jennifer answered, adjusting her wig and bar jacket. The fidgeting looked more like a nervous gesture than essential grooming.
Anya felt very sorry for the young victim but knew the chances of a conviction were slim, despite examination supporting the girl’s story. A carpet burn to her nose and top lip, and fingermark-sized bruises on her upper arms, were consistent with her being dragged along the floor to the bed while unconscious.
Her mother had found Naomi at home, scouring her bleeding skin with steel wool, and immediately brought her in to the sexual-assault unit.
Anya was quick enough to contact the hotel to secure the room before it was cleaned. Crime scene discovered semen on the sheets and DNA pointed to one of the boys in the room. This turned out to be the most damning evidence. Mysteriously, the sheet had disappeared from the evidence room during the trial. Whether it was deliberate or through sheer incompetence, the prosecution’s case had been irrevocably damaged.
The wig and jacket managed another readjustment as Jennifer watched people move toward the courtroom. “I’d better go in.”
The only evidence the prosecution had was a urine sample that showed the presence of Rohypnol, a powerful amnesic benzodiazepine.
“Good luck,” Anya said, more to herself, at the prospect of calming Naomi.
The young woman walked back from the toilets, wiping her face with a tissue. Her mother held a protective arm around Naomi’s shoulders. Anya thought about Louise Richardson and others like her who had experienced every moment of their assault, but felt particularly sad about Naomi’s situation. Not knowing what happened that night was in some ways even more traumatic. With the effects of the benzodiazepine, it was as though her mind was like a video camera without the record button. No memory had been laid down to recover, no matter how hard she tried. All that the girl had was her imagination and anxieties, which could be more frightening than the attack.
“Will you please sit with me just for this?” the girl pleaded.
Anya sighed. “I’m sorry, but I still need to be seen by the jury as being independent. If I support you in there, they start doubting my evidence. That just hurts your case.” She gently touched Naomi’s arm. “Mary is due any minute. She’ll be here for you for as long as you need her.”
The sexual-assault unit’s most senior counsellor arrived outside the court puffing, apologized, and led her charge into the courtroom. Jennifer Beck was already at her table when Anya quietly slipped in and took a seat at the back.
Within minutes, Jennifer’s closing argument had begun.
As she listened, Anya thought about the humiliation Naomi had endured both in the hotel room and in the multiple statements she’d had to make to police, as well as in the witness box. The young men had hired Veronica Slater, a defense barrister known for being ruthless.
Veronica’s cross-examination of victims was like watching a wolf dissecting a lamb. Anya could imagine Naomi faltering with each question. How could she do anything else? She couldn’t remember any of the events that night, which is precisely what the perpetrators wanted.
Jennifer Beck concluded the case for the prosecution and sat down.
Veronica Slater stood, a little over five foot tall, in heels that even a supermodel would balk at.
“The alleged victim thinks something terrible happened to her in that hotel room. Actually, she isn’t even sure that’s what she thinks. You see, she cannot remember anything about the hotel room or the defendants, whom she danced with at the graduation dance. She can’t identify people she thinks attacked her, and the physical evidence doesn’t prove she was in any way violated. We’ve heard about the carpet burns to her nose from Doctor Crichton. This young woman passed out on the floor of the carpeted hotel room. No one disputes that. These two young men,
Great, Anya thought, the girl’s weight was now on trial.
Veronica continued. “These young men aren’t experienced in carrying a drunk woman. So they did the best they could, awkwardly lifting her onto a lounge.” She paused and clasped both hands. “I don’t doubt that Naomi Gallagher is distressed by her own behavior that night and panicked at the thought of what she might have done. But to save face, she vindictively accused these two young men of a heinous crime. Teenage girls are renowned for their melodramatics and cattiness, but this accusation goes way beyond that.”
Anya watched the predictable palms-up for emphasis. Next there would be counting points on one hand.
“It is malicious, vicious and completely unfounded.” The hands obliged.
Veronica Slater continued with the usual spiel about false accusations being so easy to make, and told the jury they had no choice but to acquit her clients and restore their good names.
That line always amused Anya, given the names of the accused in sexual-assault cases involving minors were not disclosed in the media. Even so, the jurors nodded in agreement.
Anya had heard enough. The files from Dan Brody had been delivered that morning and there were more departmental meetings to attend. Part-time work with a sexual-assault unit really meant full time, only part pay. She stood, followed protocol and nodded at the judge before slipping out the back door.
Naomi’s father sat on the step outside, covering his face with large, calloused hands. Anya pretended not to notice his moist, bloodshot eyes when he looked up.
“After everything my little girl’s been through, those bastards are gonna get away with it.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “What sort of justice is that?”
Anya never knew what to say in these situations, no matter how many times she went through it with family members and victims. Undecided whether to stand or sit down with him, she was almost relieved when her pager went off, reminding her of a meeting.
“Tell me this, Doc. What sort of a message does it send those lying, raping pricks? That they can get away with anything? Jesus, are we supposed to thank them because they attacked her when she was unconscious and didn’t bash her? Should we be grateful she
There was nothing more Anya could do here. She quietly left, with a sense of foreboding. Judging by Veronica Slater’s performance, the boys were about to be acquitted, and Naomi would spend the rest of her life trying to deal with it.
6
