Perfect Victim

by Megan Norris

  ‘Would we care that he’d been bullied at school, had feelings of despair over his parents’ marriage break-up, or his general depression? Would we listen to his bizarre writings being read out in court and feel sorry that his cries for help didn’t receive an appropriate level of response? How would being a male misfit excuse murder? Even if he hadn’t gone to the extraordinary lengths of planning the killing in fine detail like Robertson did, would any of these same arguments raise any sympathy? Do the crime, do the time. No sympathy.’

  So Wright is certain that a medical explanation for a male’s criminal behaviour would raise little public sympathy. ‘Research amongst offenders shows that just as many males as females have been sexually abused as children, probably more. Yet experts assessing females are much more likely to raise these issues in pre-court assessment reports, sometimes perhaps suggesting to offenders during interviews that there might be such a background. I note from Robertson’s case that in cross-examination one of the assessing doctors admitted he had asked her if there was a past of sexual abuse. Robertson had not volunteered this information, but had raised it only after being questioned by a doctor.

  ‘The defence use the argument that if it had been a lie, she would have raised it earlier in the proceedings, especially if she was making it up for sympathy,’ says Wright. ‘But earlier in the proceedings she was maintaining her innocence and going for trial. The issue of sexual abuse was raised pretty quickly once she changed her plea and was about to front court, where she’d be facing a heavy jail sentence.’

  One thing that Wright finds intriguing is what she sees as a general community discomfiture at seeing women as wilful, violent aggressors, just as capable of venting unresolved rage on victims as men. ‘Why do we find this notion so hard to grasp?’ she asks. ‘Women can be just as angry, just as violent, and kill for all the same reasons as men. They too might want something so badly that they would be prepared to kill for it. Men do. Yet it is not socially acceptable to see a woman being outwardly destructive and angry. We prefer to think she must be mad rather than bad, and look for a medical reason to explain the behaviour away. It is so much easier to see the woman as a victim, one that couldn’t have really wanted to deliberately cause harm. So if she says she was abused, coerced or just unbalanced, it is simpler to believe her.’

  Robertson, observes Wright, relied on all three of these rationales in her defence. First, in her original story, she claimed that she’d been coerced by others. When that didn’t look like working, stories of her depression and disturbed mind were raised. And finally, when she was staring at a lengthy jail term, the abuse story reared its head.

  ‘And let’s not forget the amnesia,’ adds Wright. ‘She wouldn’t be the first offender to raise that. It is not unusual for perpetrators charged with serious crimes to have memory lapses about the most crucial parts of their crime: “I don’t remember exactly what happened, but one minute I was standing there and the next minute he was dead on the floor and I had a knife in my hand.” ’ Wright wonders if this ‘blacking out’ is just a convenient way of avoiding recall on the part of a criminal who cannot face consciously acknowledging the rage they are capable of effecting during a homicide. Loss of memory allows them to reconstruct a different version of events, one they can live with, one that makes the aftermath of a murder more bearable. Or, as she suspects in Robertson’s case, one that allows her to continue masquerading as the real victim. ‘It’s interesting that she remembers some things quite clearly about her crime: she’s certain she hired a van and that no one helped her dump the body; she remembers for sure that she didn’t drug the pizza – then forgets other important information.’

  Though Dr Pathe describes Robertson as a despairing young woman whose writings were filled with desolation, Wright focuses on the hate lists where the killer writes, ‘I hate not getting what I want.’ This, she says, offers a vital insight into the mind of a determined young woman who is focused entirely on her own wants and needs. A woman who would later be prepared to smash the object she hated for having everything she lacked.

  But Dr Pathe says she believes it was the ultimate blending of fantasy and reality that led to Robertson’s unrealistic switched-identity scheme. ‘It is almost magical thinking, childlike in many ways. Yet this warped perception of reality convinced her that, given a new nose and cosmetic surgery, she would be a new perfect person with a perfect, happy life. In reality, of course, it could never happen.’

  Pathe, Minisini and Wright all agree that, ironically, Robertson no longer has the need to escape an intolerable reality. In prison she now has a structured, secure environment suited to her organised nature – and one where she possibly has more purpose and more sympathy than she ever had before.

  And all three experts agree with Dr Barry-Walsh that Robertson has gained considerably from her victim’s death. She has finally achieved her dream of creating a newer, happier, more contented version of herself and is settled in an environment where there is no pressure on her to perform or compete. ‘That’s the tragedy of it all, isn’t it?’ says Dr Pathe. ‘Through this awful crime she has transformed herself, achieving her dream of becoming slim and attractive and much closer to the image of her victim. She is much more at ease now, having succeeded in removing herself from the ‘nobody’ she perceived herself to be. The court case and surrounding publicity has, no doubt, given her considerable fame. By killing a pretty young girl with so much promise, she is liable to have gained a degree of respect in prison and would have earned a bit of a name for herself. She’s hardly going to be surrounded by a bunch of particularly glamorous girls, so there won’t be too much competition for her in jail. And being a murderer would certainly place her on the top echelon inside, so she is much more likely to be one of the celebrated ones.’

  Furthermore, Dr Pathe suggests that Robertson may well have fused with her victim in the way that stalker-killer Mark Chapman did with his victim, John Lennon. In jail, he began to resemble Lennon, even marrying a Japanese Hawaiian woman who in turn closely resembled Lennon’s widow. In killing Lennon, Chapman became more like the musician he fantasised about being than he ever was before. This type of situation is typically true of someone like Robertson as well, says the doctor. ‘In a strange, twisted kind of way Robertson has finally achieved what she set out to do … she has acclaim, notoriety and what she dreamed of most – recognition. She is somebody now.’

  Judy Wright agrees, though she believes Robertson’s newfound contentment in prison might be more to do with the fact that Robertson finally achieved her goal of destroying her victim. ‘Robertson dreamed about it, wrote about it, thought about it – and finally she did it. Why wouldn’t she be happy now? She got what she wanted. Her victim’s death. And I don’t believe for a moment she’s sorry – just sorry she got caught.’

  Wright joins Claude Minisini and Michele Pathe in supporting Justice Vincent’s view that, for the time being at least, Robertson presents a ‘real danger’ to the community at large. As Minisini concludes, ‘Justice Vincent refers to the danger of someone else becoming the unfortunate subject of her fixation and took this into account as a significant factor in his sentencing of Robertson. I couldn’t agree more. I believe we are dealing with someone really dangerous here – someone who is still role-playing her new fantasy – even now, in jail. Playing the victim suggests to me that she would continue retreating into fantasy, continue role-playing, and is therefore capable of transferring her fixation onto someone else.

  ‘I note from her doctors that they say she is remorseful for her crime. But I find that hard to believe given her personality. It’s superficial to accept her explanation that she changed her plea out of remorse. I think she’s incapable of it. In my opinion, while waiting for her trial, she’s regrouped, reassessed her situation and thought to herself, “No, this isn’t going to work.” On the premise that she’d get a lighter sentence by pleading guilty – she’s admitted to her crime.

  ‘I see her
as a calculating, clever, though superficial, individual,’ says Minisini, ‘with a reckless disregard for anyone but herself – and no conscience. And that’s why she’s not telling anyone what really went on. The only thing we are sure of is that this crime was the first time she actually acted out a fantasy … and she got caught. What we don’t know is exactly how long she had been role-playing it. And it leaves me wondering, given that she’s finally removed the object of her fixation – whether, in her fantasies, she might find someone else in the future.’

  In the Deer Park Women’s Prison another transformation was

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  INSTANT RECALL

  already under way. Caroline Reed Robertson was reinventing herself into yet another persona – that of a model prisoner.

  This new identity shared none of the characteristics of the enraged young woman who had formulated a plan for murder. Slender and fragile-looking, this new person was co-operative and pleasant; sociable with staff and fellow inmates; helpful to the less capable women prisoners; compliant in her own rehabilitation. Comfortable and at home. This dramatic change was noted by assessing psychiatrist, Dr Justin Barry-Walsh, who found her rapid adjustment to the regimentation of prison life very ‘disconcerting’.

  ‘The woman before the court was certainly not the young woman I interviewed in prison,’ he observed some months after her incarceration. ‘And she is absolutely not the same shy, overweight girl who killed Rachel Barber. She is so well adjusted there and so “at home” that you can’t help but feel prison has filled her emptiness. In a sense I think this is because prison provides structure and constraints. For someone like Caroline, it undoubtedly offers a sense of purpose and identity.’

  Still, he admitted that her very rapid transformation made him uneasy. ‘Her ability to settle so comfortably and to establish an entirely new lifestyle so quickly, has, perhaps, been the most troubling aspect of this bizarre case,’ he said. ‘She has adapted, perhaps, too well; there’s something certainly very creepy about that.’

  Despite a tumultuous introduction to prison life, there was no doubt that Robertson had finally found a safe environment where she could rebuild her life. Far from being lonely and unhappy, she appeared more at ease psychologically and had even made new friends. Thanks to the protection of a group of women inmates, she was no longer the target of beatings or threats. She was no longer intent on injuring herself, or feeling suicidal. And even her epileptic seizures had ceased, supporting medical opinion that they had probably been anxiety related.

  In the two years since Robertson’s arrest for the murder of Rachel Barber, no one had ever witnessed any signs of violence or aggression from the prisoner towards any of her fellow inmates. Even Sneddon, who was supporting her in jail, found this quite remarkable, saying that violence within the system is commonplace and provocation is part of everyday life. He recalled that during Robertson’s early days at Deer Park, when she was noticeably depressed, she didn’t even have the strength, let alone the desire, to fight stronger, more violent offenders who would have targeted her for the prescription medication issued to her by prison doctors. He considered it unlikely that she ever gained any benefit from the anti-depressants, sleeping tablets, or even her epilepsy medication. They would have been seized without any resistance from her.

  While Robertson had apparently never had a drug problem, nevertheless in prison she completed a drug education program. She also assisted staff in helping some less able prisoners with their educational programs. Her new self-confidence could perhaps have been attributed to her involvement in a number of self-improvement and study courses. She was pursuing new interests, from creative writing to woodwork, and had embarked on a Bachelor of Arts degree. And finally she was fulfilling her true goal – studying film and drama. Robertson’s work with Sneddon brought other rewards too: she had completed courses in spiritual development. Caroline Reed Robertson had come full circle.

  Yet Robertson’s treating psychologist, Michael Crewdson, detected a certain irony in the prisoner’s new life. ‘She is very dependent on prison life. Her unit is her home and her current close fellow prisoners are her family,’ he wrote. ‘There is a sad desperation in the way she has adapted. In many ways she has no choice.’ He found it tragic, he said, that after many tearful sessions with her during those early months of incarceration, she would end their sessions saying: ‘I have to go home now.’ Others assessing Robertson expressed concerns that the prisoner’s youth and her lengthy period of incarceration undoubtedly placed her at risk of becoming severely institutionalised. This would have important implications for her long-term future management in prison.

  Robertson’s defence lawyer Colin Lovitt told her plea hearing she was happier in prison than she’d ever been in the outside world. And while she’d rejected authority and regimentation at home, inside it suited her. But the stark contrast between Robertson’s new life and the circumstances of her victim had not been lost on the Crown. Even Justice Vincent noted the tragic disparity in his sentencing, saying that finding an appropriate penalty had been ‘extremely difficult’ in a situation where everyone had lost. ‘But none as much as Rachel Barber from whom you took everything.’

  The prisoner, he noted, might pose an ongoing threat to the community – to anyone who might become the unfortunate object of her fixation in the future. Her potential for re-offending had been a significant consideration for him in determining her twenty-year jail term. It was one which reflected the gravity of her crime and illustrated the concept of retributive justice. A term substantial enough to protect the public and serve as a general deterrent to other like-minded individuals. And more importantly, one which upheld the ‘unequivocal denunciation of our community in such fatally destructive behaviour’.

  His optimism that time might allow a full recollection of events on Robertson’s part seemed forlorn at the time. But just five weeks later, a new development would change everything.

  By mid-December 2000, Robertson was back in discussions with her lawyers. Vital gaps in the evidence looked set to be filled, shedding new light on the circumstances of Rachel Barber’s murder. News of these new revelations emerged at a preliminary hearing before the Court of Appeal on 27 April 2001, when Robertson asked for leave to have her twenty-year jail sentence reviewed.

  Formal notice of Robertson’s appeal was first lodged with the Supreme Court on 12 December 2000, as the Barbers braced themselves for a second painful and empty Christmas without their eldest daughter. They were unaware of this new development until the end of January, when news of the pending appeal filtered through to the Office of Public Prosecutions. Robertson’s lawyers indicated that they intended to argue for a reduction in her sentence on the basis that it was too excessive given her age, her plea, and the lack of prior convictions.

  For the police, however, an appeal was not unexpected. Criminals facing lengthy jail sentences have little to lose, and often contest their sentences on the basis that they are too severe.

  To prevent many baseless appeals clogging up the judicial system, there is a filtering process in place. In a preliminary hearing at the Court of Appeal the presiding judge, or president, reviews all cases in which offenders are appealing against the length of their sentence. In some cases, prisoners appeal against both their sentence and their conviction. In these cases the appellant, maintaining innocence, asks for their case to be re-opened by the Court of Appeal in the interests of justice. They claim to have been wrongly convicted and want the conviction and subsequent sentence overturned. But the majority of offenders, like Robertson, simply contest the severity of the sentence itself.

  After hearing legal argument from counsel representing the Crown and defence, the president determines whether or not an offender has reasonable grounds on which to pursue an appeal. If he believes grounds exist, he will allow the appeal to go before a tribunal of three judges. If he feels there are insufficient grounds, he will dismiss the request.

  Five separate prel
iminary appeals were listed before the Court of Appeal president, John Winneke, on the morning of Friday, 27 April 2001, each involving offenders taking issue with the length of their sentences. In each, Winneke took extreme care to point out that his function was a supervisory one, and it was not his job to say whether a final appeal might eventually win or lose.

  Two requests from convicted criminals seeking to appeal sentences had already been knocked back that morning by the time Caroline Reed Robertson was brought into the Green Room of the Court of Appeal. She arrived in a security van from Deer Park more than an hour earlier and had been lodged in the cells underneath the building waiting for her case to be called. She walked across the plush green carpet and past the lines of olive-coloured leather seats from which the courtroom takes its name. She appeared to be a vastly different prisoner from the pale, downcast and nervous young woman who had stood before Justice Vincent in November the previous year.

  She was dressed in a white skivvy top and navy fitted pants, her golden shoulder-length wavy hair scraped back into a ponytail. Her close resemblance to the Jem Southall identity she had sketched in her stylised drawings was eerie. Her further weight loss, which attracted hushed comments from court staff, saw her looking more like her new persona than she could ever have dreamed possible. In her drawings she’d fantasised about a new slim figure, golden-blonde locks, a natural complexion, smart tailored pants. Now she was the living image of her sketch.

  There was also a confident new step in Robertson’s stride as she walked briskly up the side of the court towards the dock, separated from the public gallery by a reinforced glass partition. A few feet behind the glass sat the victim’s mother, Elizabeth. It had been Elizabeth Barber with whom Robertson had shared her aspirations of being an actor. And Elizabeth who had encouraged her to join a local children’s theatre group. Now she sat pale and nervous as she waited for another glimpse of the young woman who’d admitted to killing her daughter; the same young woman who’d babysat their children, chatted to Michael Barber as he’d mowed the lawns of the little house across the road from the Reids, and who’d sometimes used the Barbers’ family computer. Indeed, just weeks after the preliminary appeal hearing, the Barbers had accidentally discovered, when cleaning out the hard drive on their home computer, a draft of an essay written by Caroline in which the central character, named Rachel, ends up being locked in a mental asylum. A copy of this essay was subsequently passed to the Office of Public Prosecutions.