Take It Back

by Kia Abdullah

  Jodie stared up at the room, physically stooping beneath its leaden weight. As she paused beneath the judge’s bench, a door to the court swung open.

  ‘Ever so sorry. I was waylaid.’ CPS barrister Andrew Leeson strode in.

  Zara had worked with him briefly before, finding him confident and disarming but with the absent air of a busy person thinking three things at once. His heavy-lidded eyes gave him a dim-witted look while his long face and fine blond lashes were somewhat effeminate. Nevertheless, Leeson was known as a competent lawyer with a decisive manner and likeable style. Zara trusted him to serve Jodie well.

  She introduced them tentatively, knowing that their interaction, however brief, was subject to scrutiny. A barrister and complainant could meet only under special measures and could not discuss the particulars of the case. As such, despite his intentions to put Jodie at ease, Leeson maintained a detached, business-like manner and offered no more than simple pleasantries.

  Mia stood to one side and made notes about the meeting. Mere minutes after his entrance, Leeson patted his pockets officiously. ‘Well, one must be off.’ He offered Jodie a perfunctory smile. ‘Do take some rest this weekend. I shall see you on Monday.’ He turned to Zara and Mia. ‘Ladies.’ He doffed an imaginary cap and strode out of the door he came through.

  Jodie listened to the echo of the door as it slammed shut. She gave Zara a watery smile, then wandered around the courtroom, pausing by a table to touch a whorl in the wood or the soft green leather of a chair. Jodie had a certain stillness. With her hands in her pockets and her head held low, she had the hushed composure of someone who had faced many a challenge beyond their years.

  As she watched, Zara felt a nameless yearning, the sort she felt when she saw an elderly person eating alone. She wanted to protect Jodie, to create a space around her that could not be breached, to prove to her that hurt could be quashed by justice, no matter how hard to win.

  Zara felt a hand on her arm, lifting her from her thoughts. Mia ushered her to a corner of the room. Quietly, she said, ‘We have a problem. Sophie Patel is refusing to testify. She’s being pulled off the witness list.’

  Zara baulked. ‘No. She needs to stay on the list. We still have time to convince her. If we pull her now, we won’t be able to add her back in.’ Zara’s hand was a fist, the thumb raised slightly like a politician’s plea. ‘It’s Judge Braun presiding over the case, no? He hates disruptions, but he’s sympathetic to young witnesses. If we have to withdraw Sophie at the eleventh hour, he will understand, but he won’t let us add her in last-minute. Make sure she’s left on the list.’

  Mia nodded once. ‘I’ll call the CPS solicitor and let you know what happens.’

  ‘Okay and please check the rest of the list. The teacher from Jodie’s school, Barbara Grant, should be testifying right after our expert witnesses.’

  Mia watched Zara’s stance, head up and shoulders back, and took in her commanding tone. She smiled softly. ‘I can tell you used to be one of them.’

  Zara blinked, jolted from her train of thought. She shrugged a single shoulder. ‘Not for a long time.’

  Mia noted the tinge of nostalgia but did not comment or probe. ‘I’ll double-check the witness list and ensure the teacher knows her date in court.’ She took a step towards the door and gestured out at Jodie. ‘You still okay to take her home?’

  Zara nodded and they exchanged goodbyes. In the fresh silence, Zara wandered across the courtroom and took a seat at the barristers’ bench. Jodie came over and joined her. Zara noticed the hollow of her cheeks – the sort you don’t note when you see someone frequently.

  ‘Hey, have you been eating?’ she asked.

  Jodie pulled at the cuffs of her sleeves. ‘Yes.’

  Zara watched her for a moment. ‘You’re used to taking care of yourself, right?’

  Jodie shrugged.

  ‘Shopping for food, shopping for clothes. You do it all yourself, so these last few months indoors have been hard.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘How long has your mum been like that?’

  Jodie swallowed. ‘I don’t know. Ever since I can remember. I used to wake up at seven when I was at primary school and make myself breakfast and sort out my clothes. It was great when I was old enough to use the washing machine. Before that, I’d sometimes have to wear dirty clothes to school. I’m sure no one noticed – all the kids were just as poor – but it made me self-conscious. In the end I figured if someone was going to look at me, it wasn’t my clothes they would notice.’

  Zara felt a tug of sympathy. ‘How old were you when you realised you were different?’

  Jodie laughed, bitterness hard in the centre. ‘Mum made me aware of it ever since I was young. She’d always tell me I was ugly but I guess I never understood what that meant until I was about five or six.’

  ‘And your dad left when …’

  ‘When I was two.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Jodie smiled wistfully. ‘You know what I dream of?’ She looked up at the ceiling. ‘I dream of being about twenty-six. I’m living in New York in a Bohemian area where no one cares if you’re different. I’m in a really bright flat – maybe one of those loft conversions – and I work as an architect.’ She smiled. ‘I dream of going to Barcelona and seeing that amazing church by Antoni Gaudí, or maybe Germany for its castles. Have you seen Habitat 67 in Canada? I don’t know if it’s beautiful or ugly, but I love it anyway. And then there’s Chicago. I hear it’s got some of the most beautiful modern buildings ever. But I want to settle in New York where you can be totally anonymous.

  ‘And my dream? My dream is to make a mark on the skyline. You know, the sort you see in the movies. I don’t care about money or fame. I just want to make a mark on the most famous skyline in the world.’

  Zara watched Jodie and felt a deep sadness swell in her chest.

  ‘And you?’ Jodie cocked her head.

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘What’s your dream?’

  Zara gestured towards the dock. ‘What, this isn’t living the dream?’

  Jodie smiled. ‘Seriously, though. What do you want?’

  Zara thought for a moment. ‘I—I want forgiveness, for others and for myself. I want to accept that the journey is all there is. That when you get there, there’s no there there and so you keep going, keep trying, keep looking for ways to fill that hole but it will never be filled because we are just human and life has a hole – it just does. That’s what I want.’

  A smile crept across Jodie’s lips. ‘Is that a lawyer’s long way of saying you want to be happy?’

  Zara laughed softly. ‘Yes, I guess it is.’

  ‘Me too.’ Jodie sat back and closed her eyes. ‘I’m glad it’s finally starting. These few months have been …’

  ‘Hard. I know.’ Zara reached forward and touched Jodie’s hand. Somehow it felt more natural now. ‘They’re just getting started. You know that, right?’

  ‘The papers?’

  ‘The papers, the circus, the baying crowds.’

  Jodie blinked. ‘Yes, I know.’ She tried to smile but it twisted to a grimace. ‘I’m ready.’

  Christine Wolfe flitted around the kitchen, opening and shutting drawers, swearing beneath her breath. Her floral leggings were faded around the seat and her baggy grey T-shirt was stained in three places. The veins in her hands danced as she opened another cupboard, then shut it again impatiently.

  Zara made one last appeal to her conscience. ‘It’s okay to be scared,’ she said softly.

  Christine continued her search through the sticky brown drawers.

  ‘Ms Wolfe, I know that it’s been hard raising Jodie by yourself. She cares about you so much. I know it’s hard to talk things out – real life isn’t like TV – but if you wanted, I could help you do it. Jodie cares about you and wants to have a relationship where you can talk to each other.’

  Christine stilled for a moment, swaying just a little. For a second, she loo
ked like she might cry. But then she turned with a smirk. ‘Don’t patronise me, miss big-thing lawyer. Just because you went to a fancy school and got a fancy degree and a fancy job, doesn’t make you better than me.’ She gestured at the window. ‘Some of the people here are smarter than you’ll ever be but they didn’t have the chances you had.’

  Zara blinked. ‘I’m not patronising you. I’m sorry that it came across that way. What I’m trying to say is that Jodie needs your support; just a few words of encouragement.’

  Christine turned her back to the room. ‘Just take her and go. She’ll be fine.’

  Zara bit down her frustration. ‘Okay, I’ll drop her off at the end of the day.’

  Jodie joined them in the kitchen, her entrance marked by her steady shuffle. She was dressed in a black cardigan with buttoned sleeves and a knitted turquoise skirt. Opaque tights, court shoes and a pea coat completed the ensemble. Zara had picked out the items and taught Jodie how to tie her hair in a loose chignon, adding a touch of elegance. She smiled now approvingly.

  ‘Let’s go. Mia’s waiting in the car.’

  Moments later, they set off for Central Criminal Court, the great Old Bailey in St. Paul’s. In the car, Jodie raised three fingers and wiped the condensation from her window. She peered at the city streets outside, thronging with commuters, winter frowns etched deep on their faces. Small puffs of air misted at their mouths as they huffed through the December chill. Jodie watched them in silence, her mind empty of thought. There were no dancing nerves or jangling doubts as they neared the court. It was far too late to turn back now.

  The car rounded the final corner onto Old Bailey. As a barrister, Zara would enter the building via South Block, reserved for lawyers, police, witnesses and bailed defendants. Today, they drove on towards the secure gateway reserved for sensitive witnesses and defendants on remand. Zara glanced up at the golden statue of Lady Justice, standing sentry over the hundred-year-old building. Twelve feet tall and twenty-two tonnes, she held a broadsword in her right hand and a pair of scales in her left. Contrary to the maxim that justice is blind, this statue’s eyes weren’t covered, a fact not lost on Zara as Jodie tensed beside her. Waiting ahead was a group of reporters, some huddled by the gate, others leaned against the mottled concrete wall. They spotted the car and rushed around it just as it reached the gate. They barked competing questions, each of them desperate for an original quote. These reporters worked in an age with more news outlets than news; where the same story was regurgitated in a hundred different places. A story like Jodie’s – pure gold even without names and faces – could find its way onto a million web pages. As the car eased through the gateway, the reporters’ questions snaked past the barrier.

  ‘We’ll compensate you for your time!’ shouted a gruff voice to the right.

  ‘A source tells us it was consensual,’ said another.

  ‘We want to tell your side of the story!’

  The reporters ramped up their pleas. ‘Jodie, is it true you sent Amir sexy snaps?’

  ‘Why doesn’t your best friend believe you?’

  Zara and Mia ferried Jodie to the building and directly through to a waiting room. Inside, Jodie sat down, her shoulders square and spine rigid as if bracing for a blow. Zara sat too and explained the next steps once again: she would leave now for her place in court and Jodie was to wait for the usher. Once in the witness box, Jodie would give her testimony from behind a screen, visible to the judge, jury and counsel. Zara explained that as there were four defendants, Jodie would be cross-examined by four different barristers. She watched the girl react and felt a dull ache. Few victims emerged from this gauntlet unscathed.

  Zara gripped her shoulder. ‘Remember: this is it, Jodie. You don’t have to come back after giving evidence.’

  ‘I know,’ she replied. ‘Thank you.’ She looked up at the ceiling and took a thready breath.

  Inside courtroom eight, the four rows of desks were full with barristers, one for each defendant, and behind them their solicitors. Large folders lined the desks, each spilling with documents and transcripts. There was no bustle or noise, however. Instead, the lawyers sat in silence, tensely waiting for proceedings to begin. Zara sat near the witness box, permitted to do so for Jodie’s testimony. She glanced at the press and public galleries, full but also silent, the weight of anticipation pressing heavy on tongues.

  There was a rising murmur as Judge Nicholas Braun swept into the courtroom and asked the assembly to take its seats. His crimson gown hung squarely off his shoulders and his dark-rimmed glasses, low on his aquiline nose, made him look quintessentially sombre beneath his horsehair wig.

  Zara was aware that the judge personally knew one of the defending barristers, William Stark QC. If she remembered correctly, their sons went to the same school. She wondered who Judge Braun with his Oxbridge pedigree and Conservative charm would believe: poor, uncultured Jodie Wolfe with her Estuary accent and mangled face, or four Asian boys held up as shining examples of the immigrant dream: Eastern ethics adorned with Western wealth.

  Judge Braun cleared his throat, a needless prelude in a room already silent. ‘Mr Stark, thank you for being in attendance this morning.’

  ‘Always a pleasure, My Lord,’ Stark replied dutifully.

  The judge turned to the prosecutor. ‘Mr Leeson, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’

  Andrew Leeson sprang to his feet. ‘No, My Lord. Much obliged.’ His horsehair wig and fluttering gown seemed distinctly effete as he sat back down.

  Judge Braun requested the jury and waited for them to settle. Zara studied them as they took their seats. There was an even mix of men and women: seven white, three black, two Asian. She watched the two Asians. The first was a middle-aged woman in the front row. She had greying hair and heavy glasses and wore a long white tunic with an aquamarine scarf slung casually around her shoulders and chest. Behind her was a younger man in his late twenties or early thirties. He had a meticulously maintained beard and wore black slacks with a light grey summer jacket that held a slight sheen in the light. Zara tried to discern if they were Muslim. Had they lost two jurors already?

  With everyone in their places, Judge Braun began to speak: ‘Members of the jury, you have already been briefed on the sensitivities around this case but I would like to reiterate them. Over the past few months, much has been printed about this case. Please refrain from reading this material. You must make your decision based only on what you hear in this courtroom, so please be discerning in what you consume outside it.’

  Zara watched the jurors and caught a few shifting in their seats. It was clear they already knew too much. Judge Braun ran through court formalities, then handed the floor to Leeson.

  The prosecutor stood with energy and greeted the jury. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Andrew Leeson. I will be representing the Crown.’ He studied the faces of the jury, making eye contact with each of them. ‘I woke up this morning and threw on a shirt and tie. I picked a random pair of black trousers, grabbed a jacket and was out the door. I have a female colleague, Catherine, who is an exceptional lawyer. Unlike me, she spends an hour in the mornings picking out an outfit and getting ready for work. Why? Because she has to craft a persona inside and out of court. She has to create just the right amount of warmth, credibility and self-deprecation. Is this because she’s not warm, credible or humble? No. It’s because there are very specific standards placed on working women. They need to be feminine but not sexy, firm but not bossy, compassionate but not emotional. Catherine confessed to me the other day that she grew up frightened of turning thirty. She was taught that it was over the hill, the age where beauty begins to fade. No one told her the truth, which is that your thirties are wonderful. She told me that she’s finally figured out who she wants to be. She’s stopped worrying about the fact that she doesn’t look like Scarlett Johansson. She’s stopped feeling like an imposter.’

  Zara noted a nod from a female juror. Leeson knew what he was doing.


  He continued, ‘Catherine said her twenties were full of people making judgments. She couldn’t go out with her male colleagues – men with no ulterior motives – because aspersions would be cast on her character and theirs.’

  A male juror now nodded.

  ‘Catherine had to think twice about what she wore, what she said, what she did in case it would be construed the wrong way. With her confession, she made me realise that it’s such a privilege to not be judged skin deep; to not have people decide – just by looking at you – what kind of person you are. She made me realise just how precious that privilege is. And because I know how special it is, I beg that you extend it to our complainant, Jodie Wolfe.

  ‘Jodie knows what it’s like to be judged. She knows what it’s like to have every single person that ever looks at her make a judgment about who she is, what she is. Jodie has been called every pejorative in the dictionary but the one that has been whispered most between the column inches is ugly.’ He paused for the muted draw of breath.

  Zara felt relief that Jodie was outside. Despite the girl’s continued courage, ‘ugly’ was the word she feared most. Hearing it in the harsh acoustics of the courtroom would have shaken her confidence before even entering the witness box.

  Leeson continued: ‘Your first thought about Jodie may be that she is shockingly deformed, she is undesirable, pitiful. You will hear that she threw herself at her classmates, that she was “asking for it”.

  ‘My learned friends on the defence team will try to beguile you with words, but you must look past the veneer. On Thursday the twenty-seventh of June 2019, Amir Rabbani and his co-defendants raped Jodie Wolfe, a defenceless young woman whom they lured into a deserted warehouse with the sole purpose of harming her. They took it in turns to hold her down and rape her.

  ‘We will show you repeated inconsistencies that contradict the defendants’ testimony. First, they said she wasn’t even there. Then, they claimed that Jodie came to them but we have witness statements that prove otherwise. Then, when we found Amir Rabbani’s semen on Jodie Wolfe’s clothes, they suddenly changed their story again. Suddenly, they remembered that they did have sex, but apparently it was consensual! The defence will downplay what happened as modern child’s play, as if giving fellatio to a boy while three others watch is just a thing young girls do these days. Amir Rabbani’s story has changed again and again. What’s to say he’s telling the truth now?