The Closer I Get

by Paul Burston

  Anyway, there she was again this morning, my arresting officer, standing in the witness box and looking very pleased with herself, as if she’d apprehended some major offender and not a woman whose only crime was to fall for the wrong man. From the way she described you, I could tell that you’d obviously worked your charms on her, too. That’s a real gift you have there, Tom. Pulling the wool over people’s eyes. Getting them to do your dirty work. Playing the victim when really you’re the one pulling all the strings. How clever you are, my darling. And how deceitful. Even the criminal justice system’s finest minds are no match for you.

  Not that I consider Detective Inspector Sue Grant an intellectual giant. If anything, she seems a bit thick. She has one of those faces that suggests lower intelligence – fleshy cheeks, a short nose, hooded eyes and a fat chin. I can easily picture her sitting at the back of a classroom, unable to complete her assignment, chewing on a ballpoint pen, oblivious to the blue ink staining her lips. And nothing she has said or done during this whole sorry affair leads me to believe that I’ve been remotely harsh or hasty in my judgement. On the contrary, each encounter has only served to reinforce my initial impression of her as someone who isn’t quite up to the job.

  You’ll be pleased to hear that she stuck to her script – the one I’m sure you had no small part in writing – and was helped along by the prosecutor, who looked suitably stern with her severely arched eyebrows and dark hair in a French pleat. It hasn’t escaped my attention that the people lining up to help you destroy my reputation are mostly women. So much for the sisterhood, eh? But I did find myself wondering how much say you had in all of this, and whether there was a reason for it, other than to provoke me. Is a female prosecutor more likely to curry favour with a woman judge? It certainly seemed that way today.

  When they first told me there’d be a district judge presiding, I took it as a good sign. According to the government website, judges are only called upon to try cases in magistrates’ court when a case is deemed too complex or sensitive for mere magistrates to handle. What could be more fitting in our case? I’m complex and you’re far too sensitive. So I had high expectations of Her Ladyship’s mental faculties. Here, surely, was someone of great learning who would cut through the crap and get right to the heart of the matter.

  From where I was standing, there were plenty of holes in DI Grant’s evidence. And she came unstuck a few times under cross-examination, getting her dates and times confused and failing to explain why, if I posed such a threat to you, it had taken her so long to secure an arrest warrant.

  It’s a shame you weren’t there to see it – the great detective, fumbling with her notebook, fluffing her lines. I know the system forbids you from hearing another witness’s testimony until after you’ve given evidence, but this whole trial is such a farce anyway, I doubt it would have made any difference. To me, it was perfectly clear that Ms Grant fell a long way short of making a convincing case. But for some strange reason, the judge seemed willing to take her at her word. It’s at times like these that one’s faith in the system is put to the test – and on this occasion it failed miserably.

  They actually called in a Twitter expert next. Can you believe it? The CPS have people to explain how social media works. I’m assuming the judge isn’t a big fan of Twitter, because she looked a bit confused and needed some things explained to her several times. The poor man did his best, but I could tell from her responses that she wasn’t entirely sure where all this was going.

  Finally, after a lot of waffle about hashtags and tagging and Twitter interactions, the prosecutor got to the point. And the point she was trying to make is that my interactions with you on Twitter were tantamount to harassment. Honestly, it was all I could do to stop myself from laughing out loud. I’m sure the thousands of women who’ve experienced real harassment will be delighted to hear that their experience has been equated to someone sending a few tweets!

  By the time this ridiculous charade was over, it was time for lunch. Her Ladyship glared at me over her spectacles, telling me in no uncertain terms that I would be on bail during the lunch break and was legally obliged to arrive back at the courtroom no later than five to two. What did she expect me to do? Do a runner? And miss the rest of the day’s entertainment? As if!

  There aren’t a great many options for a girl looking for a nice spot of lunch within easy walking distance of Camberwell Green Magistrate’s Court. To be honest, I wasn’t that hungry anyway, but my dad said I ought to eat something and escorted me to a local sandwich bar. In case you’ve forgotten, that’s my dad who has a weak heart and is now forced to sit through this sham of a trial. As we sat eating our sandwiches, he assured me that he didn’t believe a word of what people were saying about me. I was so touched, I almost broke down and cried. He looks so frail these days, and yet here he was, putting on a brave face for my benefit. Remember what I said yesterday, about not blaming you for any of what’s happened? I’d like to revise that statement. I do blame you for the impact it’s having on my dad. If anything should happen to him as a result of this, I’ll hold you personally responsible.

  After lunch it was back to court for the star performance – the one I was permitted to hear but not see. My objections to your request for a screen fell on deaf ears, and I was forced to hold my tongue as you took your place in the witness box. As it turned out, the screen wasn’t a fixed screen, but a curtain. Part of me wanted to leap across the court, pull back the curtain and expose you for the fraud you are, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. But that would have only played into your hands. I could still feel your presence, though – the way the curtain moved in response to your body, the faint smell of your cologne. (Tom Ford Noir, if I’m not mistaken. How like you to wear your namesake next to your skin. Could you be any more narcissistic?)

  And then of course there was your voice. I have to ask: did you spend hours perfecting that voice you used as you gave evidence today? Because it’s not one I’ve ever heard you use before. That tremulous way you spoke, the slight catch in your throat as you told the court of your ordeal; it was so totally out of character. Whatever happened to the experienced public speaker, the great orator who can hold a room with his sharp wit and piercing insights? Today you sounded like someone who’s never been on stage before, who finds the whole thing nerve-wracking. At first I thought you must be ill or coming down with something. And then it struck me. This was your ‘good victim’ voice – another of your ploys to win sympathy. Honestly, Tom. These cheap tactics of yours. Anyone would think you had something to hide.

  I could see Emma in the public gallery, her features carefully arranged into a look of deep concern, like an overprotective mother watching her precious child tread the boards for the first time in the school play. That’s quite a double act you have there, though of course it was clear to me that parading her in court like that was a provocation. Were you hoping that her presence would unsettle me somehow? Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t fall for your tricks that easily. I watched her watching you, hanging on your every word. And on the rare occasion that our eyes met, I beamed at her as if she were an old friend and not someone I would gladly slap across the face if she came within three feet of me. I figured since we’re all so busy acting…

  The prosecutor began by asking you how it all began and referring you to sections of your witness statement. What a ridiculous situation. Surely if you were telling the truth, you wouldn’t need prompting? But prompt you she did.

  ‘And when did you first become aware of the defendant?’ she asked, as if I was the symptom of some mysterious illness and not a person. That’s the worst part about the whole court process, I think. It’s so dehumanising.

  Not that you seemed to care. Secure behind your safety curtain, you told the court how I ‘stalked’ you on Twitter and ‘bombarded’ you with ‘harassing’ emails.

  ‘And did you at any point encourage the defendant to maintain contact with you?’ the prosecutor asked.

/>   ‘No,’ you replied, shakily. ‘I asked her to stop, but she kept on. I blocked her on Twitter, but that only made matters worse. She started tagging my followers, so if anyone replied, her tweets would appear in my feed. I blocked her email address, but she kept creating new accounts.’

  Lies, all lies, right down to that phoney victim voice of yours. What you didn’t say, and ought to have said, is that you revelled in the attention. You led me to believe that what we had together was something special and worth holding on to. ‘A meeting of minds,’ you called it. ‘Kindred spirits,’ you said. I know that we were never really lovers, not in the traditional sense. And that never bothered me in the slightest. Physical love is so overrated anyhow. Passion soon burns itself out. What we had was so much more than that. Or what I thought we had. But you encouraged me to think it, Tom, whatever you told the nice lady judge today. You encouraged me, right from the start.

  It was only when you were cross-examined that I heard a voice I recognised as yours.

  My defence lawyer is an Asian chap, painfully polite, with a strong sense of social justice and a firm belief in freedom of speech – both qualities I once associated with you, ironically enough. He began by stressing that he was only here to do his job, and that nothing he was about to say was in any way personal. He then asked if it was fair to say that you’re an oversensitive man.

  You didn’t like that suggestion at all. ‘Not especially,’ you replied, sharply.

  ‘So you’re seriously telling me that you find these words offensive?’ He then read out a list of words I’m alleged to have used to describe you.

  I could feel you bristle, even with that heavy curtain between us. ‘Yes,’ you said. ‘I find them offensive.’

  ‘Really?’ My lawyer’s tone was incredulous. ‘You find the word “pansy” offensive?’

  ‘I do,’ you snapped. ‘Just as I’m sure you find the word “paki” offensive.’

  What I’d have given to have seen your face then! You realised, I’m sure, that he’d tripped you up good and proper, that he was tearing off that mask of yours, exposing you for who you really are. And he was just getting started.

  ‘You’ve told the court that you wanted no contact with my client,’ he continued. ‘And yet you chose to follow her on Twitter. Why was that?’

  ‘I follow lots of people,’ you replied.

  ‘Not nearly as many as follow you. I took a look at your Twitter account this morning. You’re currently following a few hundred people, compared to the tens of thousands who follow you.’

  Again, I could feel your anger rise. ‘So?’

  ‘So it seems to me that you’re quite choosy about who you follow on social media. And yet you chose to follow my client. Despite your claims that she was harassing you.’

  ‘The harassment came later,’ you snapped. ‘If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have blocked her immediately.’

  ‘Yet at the time you were perfectly happy to exchange pleasantries on Twitter and even reply to her emails.’

  ‘I’m not sure what point you’re making.’

  ‘My point is that you actively encouraged contact with my client, before turning around and accusing her of harassment. You’re an intelligent man. Surely you can see how confusing this must have been?’

  You didn’t have an answer for that. How could you, when we both know he had you bang to rights?

  ‘I’d like to turn to the issue of my client’s book,’ my lawyer said. ‘We’re aware, of course, that you yourself are a published novelist. You’ve told the court that you did everything you could to discourage my client from contacting you. And yet you offered her your professional guidance and agreed to read her manuscript. Why was that?’

  ‘I didn’t agree to read it. She sent me an email with two attachments. One was a Word file that I presumed to be the manuscript and the other was a video of her talking about the book.’

  ‘Mr Hunter, we have an email from you to Ms Stokes in which you expressly agree to read her work. How do you explain that?’

  ‘I was just being polite.’

  ‘So you haven’t actually read the book in question?’

  ‘I didn’t even download it.’

  My lawyer smiled. ‘But that simply isn’t true, Mr Hunter. As the files were large, my client emailed them to you via a file-transfer service. Records show that the files were downloaded.’

  You hesitated before replying. ‘Then they must have downloaded automatically when I opened the email. Yes, I remember now. They were saved to my downloads folder. I deleted them shortly afterwards.’

  How did it feel, Tom, knowing that you’d been rumbled? Looking across the courtroom, I could see from Emma’s face that she wasn’t too impressed with your performance. There was definitely a flicker of doubt there. And that smug smile the prosecutor wore was beginning to fade, too. She knew, I’m sure, that your story was starting to unravel, that you weren’t the reliable witness she’d been led to expect.

  But the best was yet to come.

  ‘I’d like to refer you now to the emails dated February twenty-third this year,’ my lawyer said. ‘The ones sent after my client was first taken in for questioning. The ones you say you found alarming and distressing.’

  ‘I did find them alarming and distressing,’ you replied. ‘She was threatening me with violence.’

  Lies, Tom! All lies! I never wrote those words and we both know it!

  ‘You’re aware, of course, that my client categorically denies sending you those emails. Just as she categorically denies making similar threats to you the night she was arrested outside your flat.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, yes.’

  ‘You’re aware, also, that these dozen or so emails came from a Gmail account with no proven link to my client.’

  ‘She used various email accounts to harass me. As soon as I blocked one, she’d open another.’

  ‘But you didn’t block this one, did you? You received numerous emails from the same account; emails you say you found distressing and alarming, and yet you didn’t block the address. Why was that?’

  You didn’t answer.

  ‘Isn’t it the case, Mr Hunter, that we have no real way of knowing where those emails came from or who sent them? Gmail accounts are notoriously hard to trace. For all we know, you could have sent those emails to yourself.’

  You laughed then, a hollow sound that echoed around the courtroom. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous! Why would I do that?’

  ‘To further incriminate my client.’

  At this point your prosecutor friend interjected, reminding us that you weren’t the one on trial. More’s the pity.

  ‘I’d like to return to the question of hate speech,’ my lawyer continued. ‘We’ve established that there are certain words you consider offensive. And yet you’ve used some pretty offensive terms to describe my client. You’ve called her a troll. You’ve told the court that she’s mentally ill.’

  ‘She is a troll,’ you replied. ‘And I believe she is mentally ill.’

  I could really hear the arrogance in your voice now. You who must not be challenged, who refuses to consider the possibility that he might sometimes be wrong. How furious you must have felt.

  ‘And are you qualified to make that assessment?’ my lawyer asked. ‘You’re not a mental-health professional.’

  ‘I don’t consider her behaviour to be that of a normal person,’ you said, haughtily. ‘She’s obsessive and relentless. And the fact that she refused a psychiatric evaluation suggests to me that, on some level, she knows she’s mentally ill.’

  ‘And yet you encouraged your thousands of followers on Twitter to attack a woman who, by your own estimation, is somewhat fragile. You told her to drop dead. Not very noble of you, was it?’

  He certainly had you there. Hoist by your own petard, as they say. I couldn’t wait to hear you try to wiggle your way out of that one. And wiggle you did, Tom – like a worm on a hook.

  ‘I didn’t encourag
e anyone to attack her,’ you said. ‘I simply asked them not to include me in their replies to her. Telling someone to drop dead is just a figure of speech. She’d been harassing me for months. I was at my wit’s end.’

  ‘You called her a troll and made jokes about her mental health on a public forum where you are followed by tens of thousands of people. Surely you don’t seriously expect us to believe that you didn’t wish her any harm?’

  ‘All I wanted was for her to stop contacting me,’ you replied. ‘That’s all I ever wanted.’

  I must have laughed out loud at that point – an actual ‘LOL’ – because the judge called for order.

  ‘But he’s lying!’ I said, and was immediately threatened with contempt of court.

  I think I’m beginning to see how this whole thing works now. And more to the point, I now have the full measure of you, Tom. I know the lengths you’ll go to and what’s required of me if I’m to stand any chance of winning this case. And that’s good to know. But I can’t pretend I’m not disappointed.

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that people don’t really change. Who you are in your twenties is pretty much who you’ll be for the rest of your life. Your appearance will change – whatever the manufacturers of those age-defying face creams tell you – but your personality remains the same. A person’s belief system, values and code of conduct remain pretty much fixed for their entire adult life. Politically, they might move to the right as they grow older and feel they have more to lose, but even then they’re often quite embarrassed about it and will lie to pollsters before elections. Their world view remains essentially the same.