The charges were reported in the national press. I looked online and saw their mugshots on news websites: they looked like tramps. Over the following weeks I came to terms with my involvement, even though I didn’t have faith that the court case would get very far or that the jury would believe us. I was hopeful, however, and, although the police could not give out too much information, they did reassure me that they had a strong case.
Even though the gang were remanded, I was worried that someone associated with them would find out where we were; the network they were associated with was vast. The reality of my involvement in the case set in and, in the following weeks, I lost grip of the optimism that I had painstakingly built. I found it exhausting to think about the details of the case and old feelings that I had moved on from long ago were dredged up. Sometimes I felt angry that I had become involved again; I suffered panic attacks, I became reclusive and, when I went out, I worried that people knew who I was and what I’d been involved in. I became paranoid. I also began arguing with Mum once again because, while I was reluctant, she was enthusiastic and ready for it all to happen. I wanted to forget all about it. She felt she had failed so much and needed to get justice to make up for her perceived failings.
‘You never failed me, Mum,’ I told her. ‘You did everything you could possibly have done and more to protect me.’
As she was a witness in the trial, too, we weren’t supposed to talk about what we had discussed with the police. I was also told that, because we were both involved, we would not be able to be together in court. Mum was my main support and the thought of going through cross-examination alone filled me with dread.
Mum still did not know the full details of what had happened to me and I couldn’t warn her how graphic some of them would be.
‘It is not going to be nice,’ I tried to explain. ‘You are going to hear some horrible things. You are going to hear things that will upset you.’
I don’t think anything could have prepared her for the full details of the abuse. I still thought I was partly to blame and was worried about what she would think of me. She knew about the drugs but she didn’t know the details of the sexual exploitation.
The psychological strain became immense. Some days I couldn’t get out of bed, I felt so down and lethargic. I had no energy, I was tired all the time but I couldn’t sleep. Some days I wouldn’t eat, other times I would binge. I hadn’t told any of my new circle of friends about the case and my previous life, so I had no one to talk to.
Eventually I realised I was becoming depressed and so I went to my GP. I was prescribed Sertraline tablets, which are antidepressants given for depression and anxiety. When I told the doctor some of the background as to why I was feeling the way I was, she gave me details of a local support organisation specialising in supporting the victims of sexual exploitation.
I called and a few days later had an appointment. Mum and I went along to meet a guy called Graham who worked there. I was nervous because he was a man but I needn’t have worried; he was absolutely lovely. Middle-aged, he looked innocent and posh but had tattoos everywhere so I could tell there was another side to him and that he had probably been around a bit. I warmed to him straight away; he put me at ease and he listened. Graham explained that if I wanted to use the charity’s services he would be my court support; he would try to make sure everything was as easy as it could be for Mum and me. He put my mind at rest and I felt I could tell him anything. After that we had several other meetings and he went into more depth about what I could expect and what he could help me with.
Graham was very easy to talk to – he always started by talking about something funny. He made discussing difficult subjects easy; he never interrupted. He explained what I could expect, both in the run-up and through the trial. Also, he arranged for a pre-trial visit to London to familiarise myself with the court and said he would accompany me on that. Graham was the interface between me and the justice process. He took the pressure off me so that I could concentrate on the task I was going to have to perform and, more importantly, he was in my corner and he became my friend.
The months passed and the case progressed through hearings and committals. Like cowards, the gang pleaded not guilty, which meant there would definitely be a trial and that me and any other witnesses the police had would have to give evidence and face cross-examination in court. Eventually the case was scheduled to be heard at the Old Bailey in London, the most famous criminal court in the country. It was obvious how big it was going to be and the national and local news followed the story closely.
I knew nothing about the legal process and then the day arrived for my pre-trial visit, which was like an induction day, where I would get to meet the witness support team and look around the parts of the court where I would be. I wanted to be reassured that I would not be visible to the rest of the courtroom.
I went on the visit with Mum, Graham and one of his colleagues, Eloise. We had arranged to meet WPC Jane Crump in London, in a cafe near the Old Bailey.
When we did, she was with another woman who none of us had met before. Jane introduced her: she was from Oxford Social Services.
I was furious.
‘What is she doing here?’ I said. I hadn’t heard from social services for years and both Mum and I had a deep-seated mistrust of social workers. The last run-in I had with them was when I thought they were going to take Noah away from me and I wrongly assumed that was why she was there: because there was concern for Noah due to the case.
‘Get her out,’ I demanded. ‘I’m not doing anything if she’s here!’
It wasn’t the woman’s fault: she was just doing her job and was there because Oxford Social Services had been involved in Operation Bullfinch. But given my history with social services I should have been pre-warned. I’m afraid I was openly hostile to her and it must have been a very uncomfortable afternoon for her.
We walked from the cafe to the court and were guided around the building; we were shown a courtroom and shown behind the scenes. We were taken to where I would enter the building and I was shown that it was secluded and that I could not be seen by people. I was shown around the area where the witnesses wait to be called and was taken into a courtroom similar to the one I would give evidence in.
The Old Bailey was a big scary building; it felt like there was lots of nasty history there. I sat in one of the docks where the defendants sit and tried to imagine how they would be feeling; I hoped they would be as scared as I had been for many years.
‘How strong is the door?’ I asked a guide.
She locked it.
‘Try it,’ she said.
I shook and rattled the door and leaned all my weight against it; it wouldn’t budge. Now I was satisfied none of the men would be able to break out.
The guide showed me the public gallery, which was above the courtroom. I was worried someone would be able to jump over and get to me. She explained that if there was any danger the front section of the gallery would be closed off and assured me that no one in the gallery would be able to see me.
The visit lasted for four hours. It was close to Christmas so afterwards we went to Oxford Street to see the lights and then we went to Selfridges and had some wine.
It took another six months before the trial started. All during that time, I worried. The police did everything they could to make the experience comfortable; they even hired a safe house in London near the court for the witnesses to stay in while we gave evidence. I knew that I had no real choice and that if I decided not to give evidence then I would have been summoned anyway. It took almost a year between the gang being charged and the case coming to court; they were on remand all that time. Throughout that year, I had to give loads of statements. I saw the police frequently and had to relive many difficult memories. Sometimes I went over the same thing again and again as they built the case.
I knew there were six girls who were victims and I thought that one of the girls may have been someone I knew from Ox
ford because I had been asked about her.
In relation to crimes against me, Spider, Jammy and Mohammed were charged with conspiracy to rape. The Dogar brothers were further charged with trafficking me for sexual exploitation and facilitating child prostitution. Bassam was charged with rape. They also faced many charges in relation to the other girls.
I heard about a similar case in Rochdale but I didn’t watch the news and didn’t make the link between that case and mine. After the case was over I learned that, although the suspects were different, the method was the same. There, girls had been groomed and passed around between older men for sex. Nine men were convicted in that case, which took place in May 2012, two months after the gang had been arrested.
Chapter twenty-one
THE TRIAL
I was ‘girl three’ in the line-up of victims; the third to give evidence. I wasn’t needed at the beginning of the case while the first two victims gave their evidence and so I stayed at home until I was summoned.
One of the girls before me admitted to lying and the man she was testifying against was let off – that was a big setback. Once girl two finished, I was alerted. I was asked to travel to London on a Wednesday and I was due to give evidence the next day. Halfway there, I was told there were some legal technicalities that needed to be dealt with and that I would have to wait another day. Noah was staying with his auntie (I had told him that I had to go away for a few days to help a judge tell off some naughty men) and he was excited about staying away for a few days because he knew he would be pampered. As Mum and I were on the way we carried on and went to the safe house, where there were two police officers staying to look after us. Both girl one and girl two had stayed in the house while they were in court (once each girl had finished giving her evidence she moved out to make way for the next witness). The police officers were supposed to make us feel secure. They made me more nervous, however, because their presence reminded me that I was at risk.
Several months before the trial I had stopped the catering course I was on and I wasn’t working. There was no way I could have been employed, I was a wreck. Constantly shaking, I suffered anxiety attacks and depression. I couldn’t focus and my life was in limbo while I waited. I told the college that I was about to be a witness in a trial but didn’t go into detail. Once again, a part of my life and education remained unfinished and incomplete because of the men. The investigation and case had taken up over a year of my life.
The safe house was in a lovely part of North London called Hampstead. Eloise and Graham were also with us. We arrived in the evening and as the police officers stationed there were making their dinner in the kitchen we went to a fish and chip shop for supper. It was an easy night and we had a laugh.
I had a chest infection at the time and didn’t sleep well because I was coughing. Lying awake, I tried to picture what it was going to be like in court the following day. When I eventually did drift off to sleep, I had an awful dream that Mohammed had phoned me.
The following morning I got up and went downstairs in my pyjamas to make a coffee. There was a strange man and woman slouched on the sofa, empty bags of crisps and a takeaway pizza box on the couch. They said hello and introduced themselves as police officers (they had swapped shifts in the middle of the night). I was unsettled by the idea of waking up with strangers in the house. Mum agreed and we requested a change in the living arrangements. The police officers were removed and stationed in a hotel just down the road.
After breakfast, as I was psyching myself up for my first day in court, the message came through that I was not needed that day. But I had got used to the way the justice system worked and was annoyed but not surprised. I used the extra day to get a doctor’s appointment at a walk-in centre and got some medicine for my chest.
That night I Skyped Noah and it was lovely to see his happy face. I blinked back the tears and put on a brave smile. It had only been a day but I missed him and, even though I was allowed to see him at the weekend, I didn’t know how long I was going to be in London. Undoubtedly my evidence would run over into the following week.
‘Has the judge got those bad men yet, Mummy?’ he asked.
‘Not yet, darling, but don’t worry – he will,’ I told him.
By Thursday night, I knew that whatever had prevented me from starting that morning had been dealt with and that I would be in court the following morning. Finally, it was real – it was going to happen. That night we all went to Pizza Express but I didn’t have much of an appetite. Subdued and withdrawn, I was lost in my thoughts and nerves.
The following morning, after a fitful night’s sleep, I woke and was absolutely terrified. I felt sick and chain-smoked to try to calm my nerves. The stress of the last year seemed to have concentrated into a ball and lodged itself in my stomach. Perhaps deep down I thought it would never happen because the case had been postponed so many times. Graham tried to calm me down and I could see that Mum was nervous too. I was physically sick several times.
‘Lara, you have to eat, you will need to keep your energy up,’ Graham fussed. I had no appetite but he forced me to eat a single piece of toast.
Several weeks before, I had gone shopping with Mum to buy an outfit for court. I didn’t need to be briefed about clothes. I knew I should dress smartly and I picked a black suit, which I wore over a brightly coloured top. My fingers shook as I did up the buttons on the jacket. I wore my hair up and minimal make-up.
At 8.20am we got a call from the two police officers who were taking us to the court, informing us they were outside.
‘I can’t go!’ I sobbed to Graham.
‘Yes, you can,’ he answered sternly. Like a little girl I stood in the corner of the room, terrified of what lay ahead. I was shaking as he gently led me out.
The car was a big saloon with blacked-out windows and the men driving it were close protection officers named Paul and Ollie. They explained that they had guarded the Prime Minister and the Queen so I had no need to worry and they were so lovely, they eased my nerves.
We drove purposefully across the city – we needed to be at our destination in plenty of time. At one point a woman driver cut in front of the car and forced us to stop suddenly. My heart lurched and, when Paul sounded the horn, she turned around and started to remonstrate, flashing him her middle finger. In response he flashed her his warrant card.
‘You’ve got a finger, I’ve got one of these,’ he said.
Sheepishly she turned round and drove off carefully.
When we turned a corner and I saw the Old Bailey in front of us I nearly passed out with nerves. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest; I gripped Mum’s hand tightly.
We drove around the side of the court complex and up to a large iron gate: it felt like we were going into a prison. A head popped out from a small opening next to the gate as we approached. It belonged to one of the guards, who checked to make sure we were an authorised vehicle. We slowed but before we stopped the huge doors slid open and we glided in and down a concrete ramp, which led into the car park. We parked directly in front of a door, which was opened for us by an usher as the car stopped. Ollie told us to get out and to keep our backs to the gates, which were sliding back shut so no one outside on the street could see our faces.
Once outside we bundled through the door and into a small lift, which whizzed us up to the Witness Services section of the court – a secure area where witnesses wait and where all the witness staff are located. From approaching the court to stepping out of the lift took just seconds and was swift and slick. It was impressive and would have been exciting had I not been so terrified of what lay ahead.
Every effort was made to make witnesses feel comfortable. There were staff on hand to offer an endless supply of tea and coffee; there was a kitchen, toilets and a lounge with a television inside. I couldn’t relax, though – I was having serious doubts.
As I waited, I felt waves of nausea and had to stick my head out of a window to gasp in a lungful of fresh air an
d stop myself from being sick again. Mum and Graham kept trying to force me to eat sandwiches. Paul and Ollie were assigned to be with me throughout and they followed me everywhere, even outside when I went out for a cigarette.
I spoke to WPC Jane Crump, who told me things looked positive because of the defence the gang had come up with. To counter the charges relating to me, Mohammed was claiming that I had forced him to take drugs and made him have sex with me when we first met when I was 13. I laughed when I heard this. How was anyone going to believe that? But it was all he could come up with and the others were going to say similar things: that I had forced and threatened them, and that I was a ringleader.
After two hours, I was called to the courtroom.
Before I left, I gave myself a pep talk. The men were sick and depraved, they had no respect and what they had done to me was wrong. They deserved to face justice and that’s what I told myself as I made my way to the courtroom.
Walking to the witness box was terrifying: I had to walk through the courtroom where there were boards in place forming a corridor to protect me from seeing the defendants and to obscure me from the public gallery. I could hear the hubbub of the court before I climbed up into the witness box. When I got there, I looked out and saw people everywhere. The room was packed and it felt intimidating. I looked across to the Judge’s bench and Judge Peter Rook looked at me and smiled in his red robes and white wig. Just in front of him sat the defence barristers. They looked like a pack of wolves and I decided not to focus on them. I looked at the jury and decided to keep my attention on them as they looked friendlier than anyone else. There was a black lady with an afro sitting in the jury and she reminded me of my son. She had a kind face and also looked at me and smiled. I realised then they were all humans with hearts while the barristers were obviously not and were instead preparing to rip me apart with their cross-examination.
Girl for Sale Page 22