Mummy Where Are You? (Revised Edition, new) (25 page)

              My father in his younger days had run a large business on the Island employing fifty people and my cousins and other family members also ran prominent businesses.  Those who didn't know me directly, would most likely know someone related to me.  As such, these were the people we were left with.  A list of names had been given to me prior to going in and I didn't  recognise any of them which was a pity, because I would have liked a chance to lose at least a few of them.

              The Judge then proceeded to read out those people who would be witnesses in our case and also the name of M’s school, the names of the Department members who would give evidence on behalf of the Prosecution and the names of the various lawyers.  The potential jurors were advised that they must declare any possible conflict.  One by one jurors left the group until there were only thirteen.  This, most likely because they had connections to the Department or had been in trouble with the law and hence knew the Prosecutor or other local lawyers.

              From this number, names were drawn from a hat to narrow it down to seven.  I then had the option of seeking the removal and replacement of any four on the basis of knowing them and two on the basis of not liking the look of them. 

              I didn’t like the look of any of them, but when Brian reached the dock to ask me if I had any objection, he whispered, “I think we’ve done the best we can with this lot.” 

              There were two that I especially didn’t like the look of and perhaps should have sought to remove.  One of these was a Jehovah’s Witness, the only one wearing a suit.  There was something about him that I couldn't place, but I had a bad feeling about him and told Brian.  His response being,“well he’s carrying a copy of the
Telegraph
, so he’s probably okay.” To place my fate and liberty in the hands of someone merely because they read a particular periodical was ludicrous, but looking around at the other possibilities I had to concede we could do no better.  I also had an ominous feeling  about  a woman with dyed blonde hair and a harsh expression but again, I could see no one who potentially would make a better juror, so I agreed to the group and hoped for the best.  Surely any human being would empathise with M’s ABE evidence and even more so a woman.   I had to keep faith in that.  My fear was that they would not relate to me at all and would see me as privileged, true or not, I was at their mercy now and from that moment on, I could do nothing about it.

              I tried to look over at them to see if I could read their expressions as they filed into the two rows of benches to my left.  I could see nothing but blank faces which became increasingly pictures of boredom as the trial progressed.  I was convinced that at times they were not even listening and one appeared to be dropping off from time to time. 

              There were three women on the jury out of the seven and I hoped that that would help.  Surely mothers or Grandmothers would relate to my plight and show me some compassion, but I saw nothing in the small pool of faces that indicated that they were sympathetic to me whatsoever.  I sat there dressed in my grey suit, wearing my anguish for all to see, but I suspected that most of these people, even if they didn't know me personally, would know that our family had money and seek to punish me for that alone.  My father was fast running out of his and I had little of my own resources left, but I feared they would just see privilege and no doubt think I deserved all I got - much like the left-wing Social Workers.

              The first day dragged on interminably. The Crown Prosecution put their case to the jury and Phillip put mine.  All I could do was listen and try to observe the reactions of the jury as each witness took the stand. I kept looking for signs, anything that would show me that even one of them understood or felt something for me, but there were none.  The blank, bored faces stared straight ahead or at the various documents in the jury bundles before them.  Occasionally one would look over at me, but it was more with curiosity than anything else.  Behind the glass of the dock, I felt like a circus freak  on display.  I didn't know how to reach out to them and plead for their compassion and understanding.  At times I didn't hear what was being said as my mind would wander into thoughts of M and our happier times together.  I felt cold all the time in my thin suit and wondered if I should have come in warmer clothes, jeans and a sweater, but I wanted to show the Court respect.  This was a new Judge from the UK and I wanted to show him that I was an honourable person, calm and balanced and not the crazy person the CPS sought to portray me as. 

              We broke at lunchtime for an hour and I left Court with Liz, Sophie and Mags and headed to a nearby pub for a warming drink and some lunch.  Before the trial had begun, Sophie had put a bracelet on my wrist that had some kind of religious significance for her.  She was Portuguese and a Catholic and there was some connection with the Virgin Mary in the symbols.  I wore this throughout the trial and often found myself twisting it round my wrist as a kind of rosary.  I fingered it nervously as we awaited our food.

              We talked of nothing but the trial over lunch each day. We would try and see glimmers of hope in the day's proceedings and hang onto them.  My little group of supporters did their best to keep my spirits up and encouraged me to stay optimistic and believe that I would retain my freedom.

              The Crown’s case was put forward first - the burden being on them to prove me guilty beyond reasonable doubt, rather than on me to prove my innocence.

              Witnesses were called from the Department, Miss Whiplash, the Reviewing Manager and the Police Officer who had interviewed M.  Each one testified against me and justified their actions.  I listened as lie after lie was told, but could say nothing – it was not my turn, but my blood boiled and I wanted to cry, “that’s not true” to every falsehood.  I sat in silence as each cruel fabrication, wounded me further.  With so much hostility and vitriol directed at me, I couldn't believe that I would walk free, but as Phillip reminded me after the hearing, we had yet to put our case and he still believed that I wouldn't go down. 

              After the hearing I went to a nearby hotel to be interviewed by the
Telegraph
which Brian had arranged.  Further photographs were taken, but in the end they delayed the interview because they wanted to write something for the next day’s paper based on what had been said on the first day.  They had limited time to get this out and decided to interview me later in the week.  Dad picked me up and I went home.  I couldn't discuss the case with anyone during the trial, so I cuddled the dog and watched television and tried to get what little rest I could. 

              The second day was much the same, more witnesses for the Crown Prosecution, more lies and more hurtful falsehoods levied at me and my behaviour.  I was glad to be right at the back of the room behind the glass.  I tried to detach myself from what was going on in front of me and looked over at my friends for reassurance.  They would give me smiles of support, but they were also chastised at times for voicing angst in loud whispers as they couldn't contain their horror at the things that were being said about me, which they knew to be untrue.

              On Wednesday, M’s father gave evidence.  I had seen him chatting to the Police Officer who'd arrested me outside the Court. They were laughing and joking as if old friends.  The officer made no attempt to hide the fact that the police were supporting him. I thought this very unprofessional and tried to ignore it. 

              The Judge decided that this would be the point at which M’s evidence would be played to the Court so that R could be asked questions about it, but we'd already been told that we were not allowed to raise the sexual abuse issue or go behind the original finding of the Family Court Judge.  This almost totally prevented us from putting our defence of necessity argument, as there were questions that needed to be asked to demonstrate why I had felt my only option was to run.  

              M’s father sat down as the DVD was played.  He registered no emotion whatsoever.  He seemed totally unaffected as he had done when it had been first played in the Family Court. I couldn't contain my own reaction to it.  Tears coursed down my cheeks once more as I saw my son, frightened and so small telling the police what his father had done to him – “He put his winky in my bum and it hurt”  "He pushed and pulled it until it was hard."  "It hurt when I sitted on it."  “Please make it stop;”-  the words of a six year old child begging the police for help and the callous blank response of the lady detective, telling him she could not make it stop. 

              Through my haze of tears I looked over at my friends. Sophie had her head in her hands, clearly unable to watch and the others looked mortified.   I looked over at the jury who were  still showing no emotion whatsoever and wondered how they could not be affected by what they were seeing and hearing. Having said that, they had already been told that there was a finding of "No Abuse," and that many professionals had viewed the evidence and reached this conclusion.  This wasn't even true as not one expert had viewed the DVD to date, the Judge a contract lawyer by trade, with no expertise in these matters, had acted as his own expert. 

              The Judge had predetermined the case and the jury were clearly being led to discount M's evidence.  From their lack of response, it seemed that their belief in the system was strong and hard to shake and likely with no personal experience of the establishment, the majority were bound  to blindly accept what they were told and be unprepared to accept that it makes mistakes.  I imagined that with all that the CPS had put before them, the jury were now desensitised but I still found it inconceivable that they could not be moved by M's testimony.  I expect it would have been very different if it had been their child or a child that was known to them. 

              How many times have any of us opened a paper or watched the news and been faced with the most awful horrors and tragedy?  Whilst we might register some immediate shock, we are so used to this, that we give it little thought after that moment.  We are daily bombarded with images of suffering from various charities seeking funding and whilst we know the most terrible atrocities occur in our world, from our protected westernised arm-chair life, we cannot associate or empathise on any real level.  Perhaps this was why those seven people seemed so cold and uncaring whilst my son voiced his pain.  Or perhaps they simply couldn't believe that sexual abuse happened in a world they experienced as safe and untainted by such things.  Whatever the reason, it did not bode well for the outcome for either M or myself.

              By the fourth day of trial, we had reached the time for my case to be put forward.  I would be the first witness taken through my evidence in chief by Phillip.  I did at least feel in safe hands and knew that this would be the easy part.  It would be much harder once the Crown Prosecutor came to cross- examine me.  He would be brutal and do his best to put words in my mouth.  I would need all my wits about me.

              I took the stand nervously, my legs like jelly and hands trembling.  I was sworn in and given some water and told that I could sit down if I so wished.  I had no wish to sit.  The bench in the witness box was low down and I wanted to feel confident and be both seen and heard by the jury as I gave my evidence.  I only had to tell the truth and I trusted that hearing it and seeing my sincerity, I  would at last be able to reach the jury.  For the first time I would have a proper voice for M and I and I was determined to fight for him as well as myself.  I prayed again to my fallen God, to give me the right words and strength to reach the hearts of the seven people who were now watching me intently.

              Phillip took me through my evidence, focusing hard on the parts which were problematic.  He quickly addressed the fact that I had not been entirely honest in my statement to the police in regards to our reasons for running, telling them I had gone away to forge a plan and that we had intended to return after respite. 

              Phillip advised I come clean about this and not try and hide it.  I was not being charged with Perjury after all and there were very good reasons why I had lied, mainly that I hadn't wanted to be remanded in custody as that would have prevented me seeing M. I explained this to the Jury as best I could and looked for any sign in them that they understood, but still the blank faces registered nothing.

              Soon came the turn of the Prosecutor and the breath caught in the back of my throat, as he looked at me with pure hatred and anger - a short, stocky man with a bushy black moustache, who had the appearance of Dickens's
Mr Pickwick
.  His face was red and seemed to turn redder as the hours passed.  With each question he fired at me, he looked like he might explode with rage at any moment.  I had known that this part of the trial was going to be the hardest, but nothing could have prepared me for just how brutal, aggressive and bullying he would be. He fired questions at me in staccato succession, barely giving me a chance to reply - each one a cutting accusation.

              “You took him to stop him being taken into Care, didn’t you?” He shouted.

              “No, I took him to avoid him being further abused.”  I fired back.

              “But you knew he would be going into Care and not to his father and you took him to avoid that didn’t you?”

              Again I responded:- “No, I took him to stop him being abused."

              Repeatedly the Prosecutor fired questions at me, trying to elicit the response he sought, and again and again I stood my ground.  Through the stillness of the Courtroom I could hear Phillip whispering loudly to Elaine, “She's doing everything we wanted her to, she's throwing it straight back at him every time.”  I looked at Phillip and saw that he was half smiling and gave me an imperceptible nod of encouragement.  My palms were sweating and my body trembled as I tried to withstand the increasingly brutal attacks by the CPS.  I was  weak with exhaustion, but there was no let up, as evidence was placed before me and I was asked to read out selected passages of the Care Plan.  I knew what he was trying to do and each time, I would counter with the same answer and refer them to the final paragraph of the Care Plan which stated that it would be at the discretion of the Judge as to whether M went into Foster Care or straight to his father which I believed would place him at risk.