Without Consent

“Actually, it’s what you’re about to do. Sorry, but there’s a call-out and no one else is on duty yet.”

Anya slumped and accepted the bribe. “How long before she arrives?”

“She’s already here, in room two. It won’t take long. She doesn’t want the police involved, just wants emergency contraception, and get this, a book list of references so she can read about rape. A real ‘type A’ personality.”

After gulping down the coffee, they entered the counselling room. Anya greeted “Just Elizabeth,” who paced the room.

“Good, you’re here. I’ve got to be at work by eight-thirty, so could we please make this quick? I’ve got someone waiting in the car and a science excursion this morning with sixty kids.”

“I’ll do what I can. I’m Doctor Anya Crichton. You asked to see me?”

Mary excused herself and retreated.

“All I want is a script for emergency contraception, whatever that is these days. I can’t afford to get pregnant. I’m not on anything at the moment.”

“If you were assaulted overnight, you’re probably going to feel pretty sore and uncomfortable at the very least.”

“I’m fine now. He must have seen me through the open window. I was watching a movie and fell asleep on the lounge. I woke up with him on top of me. When he’d finished, he left. That’s it.”

The woman continued to pace with her hands in her trouser pockets, shoulders raised, the way a small animal tries to make itself bigger as a form of defense.

“I’m healthy and I understand there isn’t any point in screening for infections just yet, so I’ll come back when it’s time. I don’t need anything but the contraception.”

Experience told Anya there was no use pushing a victim who refused to be examined or counselled. She had to respect every decision, not just the ones she agreed with. Elizabeth’s behavior was almost as if she knew her attacker-keen to quickly get on with life and loath to discuss any details. Most of all, it was the way she almost took responsibility by emphasizing the “open” window.

Anya sat at the desk and opened a drawer. She removed a pill packet and cut four tablets from the sheet. She added this to an envelope containing anti-nauseants. “Are you allergic to anything?”

“Nothing.”

“This contains written instructions. Take two tablets now along with one of these capsules. The hormones can make you nauseated, which the capsules counteract. In twelve hours, take the rest of the tablets at the same time. Here’s my mobile number. If you vomit within a few minutes of taking the tablets, please let me know and I’ll arrange more for you.”

“Is that it? I’ve got to get to work.”

“Elizabeth, you’ve been through a traumatic experience. I understand you want to get on with your life, but maybe you should take a day off to recover. I can give you a certificate for work. That way we could at least discuss your options.”

“Thanks, but it’s not necessary. I’m fine.”

“Can I at least call you later and see how you are on the pills?”

The woman, who looked like she’d run a marathon, rummaged through her bag and retrieved a notepad. Anya noticed she wore a turtleneck jumper despite the warm weather and wondered what injuries were being disguised. Worried that there was more to the assault than Elizabeth admitted, she had to concede that every victim had his or her own coping mechanism. It was their right to choose treatment or refuse it. All she could do was offer to be there if things went even more wrong.

“You’re not responsible for what happened.”

“I left the window open.”

Anya handed over the envelope. “That doesn’t make what he did any less of a crime. He forced his way into your home and assaulted you. You did not give him permission or the right to do that. If someone goes through an open door and steals the stereo, it’s no less of a theft than if he’d smashed that door to get in.”

“This is where I’ll be staying.” Elizabeth scrawled the numbers on the notepad and tore off the lower half of the page, minus the letterhead. “You can get me after school,” she blurted, and left.

Anya glanced at the piece of paper. On it was written the phone number for her own unit’s crisis line. Clearly, Elizabeth-if that was her real name-didn’t want to be contacted. She doubted they would ever see the woman again.

9

Anya enjoyed the decor of Dan Brody’s chambers. Wall-to-wall books and the smell of leather-bound law tomes gave it an old-fashioned and authoritative feel.

A pot of freshly brewed tea sat on a glass tray on the sideboard-Irish Breakfast by the aroma, her favorite.

Dan returned with a matching jug of milk and bowl of sugar. No food in the room, because that inevitably left crumbs and mess, something the barrister was averse to.

He poured two cups and fumbled with the sugar cubes. For the first time, he seemed uneasy about being with Anya, which made her feel on edge. Pulling a file from her briefcase, she wondered whether his uneasiness was because he felt awkward seeing her, or if it had something to do with his mother’s recent death.

He put down the cup and saucer on a coaster within reach.

“Thanks.” Anya handed him the file of the original case notes. “There’s a fair chance the eye-witness who identified him made a mistake. There is a definite possibility your client didn’t expose himself to all of those women. There’s nothing on the forensic examination I performed after his arrest to suggest he’d recently had intercourse or ejaculated.”

Dan stirred his cup and picked up a gold fountain pen from its stand. He listened as Anya continued.

“The prosecution could argue that he either didn’t ejaculate after exposing himself in the park or that he washed himself before they picked him up. But I can’t see how he could have washed himself that thoroughly in a public toilet.”

“Any other possibilities?”

“Swabs don’t always pick up the semen or saliva, given the shape of the penis. I can explain how I took the specimen to increase the yield, but they still have the very real possibility that I missed it. Where humans are involved, error is always a possibility.”

“Precisely,” he said, drawing an exclamation mark on the legal pad.

“There’s something else about your client that’s significant.” Anya sipped her tea and leaned back. “He has what’s known as Peyronie’s disease. If he supposedly exposed himself to all of those women, someone should have noticed.”

“How would you define that in layman’s terms?”

“Simple. He has scar tissue underneath the skin of his penis, which causes it to bend in a sharp curve if he has an erection.”

The lawyer pulled a face, which she ignored.

“If a woman was staring at his erect penis, she may well have noticed.”

“May I ask how you know, if he didn’t have an erection when you saw him?” He paused. “Please tell me he didn’t-”

“Dan, he told me after I declined to see his ‘party trick.’ Not many men would boast about something that made them the butt of jokes in the locker room. Besides, I didn’t just take his word for it. I couldn’t feel much scar tissue when I examined him so interviewed some of his teammates who admitted they liked to masturbate in the showers after a winning game. From what they described, he definitely has Peyronie’s disease.”

“Anya, your conscientiousness knows no bounds.” He raised an eyebrow, and doodled more small boxes, something he did when digesting information.

“Okay, so we know he has it. What sort of issues could arise out of your report?”