Take It Back

by Kia Abdullah

A wave of noise rippled across the courtroom. Zara shifted forward in her seat and captured Jodie’s gaze. There she found concern and confusion, a reflection of her own emotions. Jodie hadn’t told her about these attempts at contact – what else was she yet to reveal?

  Stark let the noise bloom for a moment. ‘Ms Wolfe, what did you mean by “you’ll regret it”?’

  Jodie floundered. ‘I meant that … I just needed him to acknowledge what happened. I was giving him a chance to say sorry.’

  ‘Are you lying to me, Ms Wolfe?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you lying to the members of this jury?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you’re claiming that these boys lured you into an abandoned warehouse and raped you, and that you only came forward after threatening one of them that they would regret it?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘What, Ms Wolfe?’

  Jodie’s face flushed in anguish. ‘I just wanted him to talk to me.’

  ‘You just wanted his attention. Well, now you have it, Ms Wolfe. Now you have it!’ He tossed the transcripts onto his desk in disgust. ‘My Lord, I think the situation is clear. I don’t need to ask her anything more.’

  Murmurs broke out in the courtroom and burgeoned to a din. Zara felt a deep unease. The slightest shadow of a doubt could thwart a conviction and Stark was well on his way to crushing Jodie’s credibility. She looked on as Judge Braun silenced the crowd, then handed the floor to Rupert Baker, the barrister representing Mohammed Ahmed.

  Baker stood and cleared his throat. ‘Ms Wolfe, would you say that you are close to any of the defendants?’

  ‘No,’ she replied softly, fighting for composure.

  Baker flipped through his notes. ‘In your interview with Detective Constable Mia Scavo, you said, “Mo has been kind to me before”. What did you mean by that?’

  Jodie’s right shoulder rose in a shrug. ‘He’s helped me in class.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘We—we did a science project together in year eleven. He helped me keep up.’

  ‘Is it safe to say he corrected your mistakes and explained things to you, ultimately helping you get an A?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Baker examined a sheet of paper. ‘And was it only in school that he helped you?’

  Jodie hesitated. ‘No.’

  ‘Will you tell the court about the events of Tuesday the 8th of January this year? You remember this day?’

  Jodie nodded. ‘Yes.’

  Baker gestured outwards, handing her the floor. ‘Please.’

  She took a shaky breath. ‘I was walking home when I was stopped by a group of kids from another school. It was a quiet road and they pushed me against the wall. Mo came along and helped me.’

  Baker smiled. ‘Ah, that’s not the whole story, is it?’

  Jodie trained her gaze on a spot above the jury. She clasped her hands together and began to recount the story. ‘There were four of them. Two boys and two girls. The girls had me up against the wall, calling me names, calling me a frog, saying I made them want to vomit. One put her arm against my throat and began to press. Mo found us like that and pulled the girls off me. He shouted at them, told them to stop. That’s when the boys started on him. They pushed him, knocked off his glasses so he couldn’t see. They held him against the railing by the canal and told him to leave me there with them but he refused. They hit him but he refused to leave me.’ Heavy tears rolled down her cheek. ‘Eventually, a family came down the road and the group ran off. Mo walked me home.’

  ‘Because he wanted to make sure you would be safe?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So my client, in your words, was kind to you, helped you and looked after you. He took on extra work at school to help you get an A grade. He rescued you from local thugs and took a beating because he didn’t want to leave you alone. Is that accurate?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it fair to say his actions were heroic that day?’ Baker was laying it on thick, but juries loved a hero.

  Jodie swallowed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you want us to believe that a boy like that – a boy who protects the weak and puts himself in the way of danger to do what’s right – forced you to have sex with him! Does this sound like the same person to you, Ms Wolfe?’ When Jodie failed to answer, he continued: ‘Only Amir Rabbani’s DNA was found on your clothing, Ms Wolfe. Isn’t that because you only had sexual relations with Mr Rabbani on the night in question?’

  ‘No, that’s not true.’

  ‘Isn’t it true that you were ashamed about what was merely banter between young boys, and set out to exact revenge?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Isn’t it true that Mohammed Ahmed did not even touch you?’

  ‘No!’ Her voice rang high and bitter, cracking under its own weight.

  Baker stared at her for a moment and shook his head slowly in a show of pity and contempt. ‘My Lord, I have no more questions for this witness.’

  Jodie sagged in the witness box, her energy spent like smoke. She bent her head low, hiding the tears that streaked down her cheek. It was the stance of a woman branded with a scarlet letter. Zara urged her to look up, urged her to be strong for more was yet to come. Over the next hours, Jodie’s resolve wavered then broke as first Hassan’s barrister and then Farid’s asked question after question, demanding a technicolour rendering of the worst night of her life. By the time that court adjourned, she was irreversibly bruised: a punching bag beaten for hours until it lay on the floor in a pool. She left the witness box in a daze, blinking as if she had stepped into sunshine from a pitch-black room. All these words, all these hundreds and thousands of words she had spoken since June, and none of it assured justice, none of it mattered in the face of a single number: forty-nine. Forty-nine times she had tried to contact Amir. The number dogged her as she returned to the witness room, following the usher through a yellow-brown stupor.

  Zara, when she joined her, didn’t bring up the number but Jodie felt the need to explain. ‘I didn’t lie,’ she cried. ‘I just wanted to talk to him. I just wanted him to apologise.’

  Zara searched the young girl’s face, knowing that the number would haunt the jury. Had he known, Leeson could have introduced the evidence himself, manoeuvred it to work for them, but instead they were caught exposed. Zara leaned forward and said gently, ‘I asked if there was any contact between you after the event.’

  Jodie looked inexpressibly sad. ‘He didn’t reply so I didn’t think it mattered.’

  Zara sighed. Calmly and without accusation, she asked, ‘Jodie, is there anything else you haven’t told us? Any text messages, sexy snaps, anything that might imply this is a vendetta against Amir?’ She caught the girl’s eye. ‘If there is, I need to know – now.’

  ‘There’s nothing else, I promise.’

  Zara studied her for a second. ‘Christ,’ she said softly. Forty-nine times.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Jodie traced a stain on the table, her finger whispering on the hard wood surface. ‘How bad is it?’

  Zara smiled tightly. ‘Don’t worry. You held up really well in there and that’s what matters.’ She wanted to offer more reassurance but the truth was that the jury needed just one thread of a credible alternative story. Just one hint of an untruth and there would be reasonable doubt. It was, after all, ‘they said, she said’. Four against one. Zara gestured to the door. ‘Come on, let’s get you home. We’ll have to wait and see how this plays out.’

  Later, after dropping Jodie off at the Wentworth Estate, Zara found herself cornered by a burly journalist. He leaned a hand against the stairwell and ducked his head towards her.

  ‘Come on, love. Give us a quote. We’ll anonymise it. Just one titbit and we’ll leave you alone.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ she replied coolly. ‘Can you anonymise that?’ She stepped around him and saw another two reporters hovering by her car. The papers had started to fixate on Zara. Leeson looked like any other lawyer on a prosecut
ion case: tall, white, rich, male. Zara was far more interesting: an attractive Muslim woman leading a charge against her very own brethren. There was enough there for a hundred headlines. She strode to her car, pushed past the reporters, and headed home to safety.

  Day two began as a typical December morning. Crackling cold snaked between seams, giving Zara’s clothes a starchy, wooden feel as she took a seat in the public gallery and appraised Jodie’s mother in the witness box. Christine Wolfe’s gaunt face seemed old beneath her makeup, her fragile skin dark below the eyes and her red lipstick bleeding at the seams. Her whitish-blonde hair was held back by a scrunchie but wisps had broken free, making her long face seem longer. Her neat navy jumper and grey slacks hung off her frame, making her look sloppy instead of smart. She scanned the room with a suspicious glare, thoroughly outside her comfort zone.

  Leeson smiled at her warmly. ‘Ms Wolfe, I’d like to talk to you about the days following Thursday the twenty-seventh of June. I know it was a few months ago now so it’s absolutely fine if you can’t remember certain details. Please just tell me if that’s the case. Otherwise, please share as much detail as you can. Does that sound okay?’

  The woman’s raspy voice was quiet at first, so she cleared her throat and tried again. ‘Yes,’ she repeated more loudly.

  ‘At what time did your daughter, Jodie Wolfe, leave for the party?’

  Christine shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Around eight or nine I think.’

  ‘What time did she get back?’

  She shrugged again. ‘Late. I was asleep.’

  ‘Is that normal? For Jodie to stay out late?’

  ‘No. She barely ever goes out because of … you know.’ She gestured casually at her face. The action seemed somehow callous.

  ‘When did Jodie tell you about the events of that night?’

  ‘You mean the rape?’ She failed to keep the last note of incredulity from her voice. ‘She told me about it a few days later. On Monday I think.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  Christine shook her head. Those crazy kids, eh? it seemed to say.

  Zara listened to her testimony. If she had a choice, she would have kept the woman off the witness list, she with her cynicism and disturbing dismissiveness, but the prosecution was bound to call the first person to whom Jodie had told her tale. Zara noted with approval that Leeson kept his questions short and close-ended, forcing the woman to give succinct answers with little room to display her doubt. Slowly, he established consistency between her version of events and Jodie’s. Unfortunately, there were no tears. In fact, Jodie’s mother seemed decidedly undisturbed by the alleged atrocities her daughter had suffered. It was a fact not lost on Stark who took the mantle with delicious eagerness.

  ‘Ms Wolfe, are you and Jodie close?’ he started.

  ‘As close as anyone in my parts.’

  ‘How do you feel about what happened to her?’

  She thought about it then shrugged. ‘I feel bad. ’Course I do.’

  ‘Do you believe everything she told you?’

  Christine hesitated.

  Stark nodded sympathetically. ‘Has she lied to you before?’

  Leeson shot up from his seat but Stark quickly acquiesced.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the seasoned barrister. ‘That was insensitive. I think we’ll leave it at that.’ He didn’t need the witness to voice her answer. It was written all over her face.

  Zara tugged at the thick wool of her cream turtleneck. The windows in the court canteen didn’t open and the air inside held a strange sea-urchin smell. She unwrapped her forlorn sandwich and took a small bite. As she ate, she spotted a familiar figure in the doorway. Erin’s boots were surprisingly silent as she strode towards the table.

  ‘Sophie Patel is a tough nut to crack.’ Erin slid into the seat opposite.

  Zara frowned. ‘She’s still refusing to testify? She’s scheduled for court in two days.’

  ‘I know,’ said Erin. ‘I want to talk to her myself. Is that okay?’

  Zara swallowed a mouthful of dry bread. ‘Legally? Yes. Thanks for checking.’

  Erin nodded. ‘Listen, that’s not why I came.’ She reached into her jacket, pulled out an iPad and slid it across the table. ‘Have you seen this?’

  Zara picked it up and swore beneath her breath. On screen was an article from Visor, an online journal that fashioned itself as the irreverent voice of the generation. Their lead story in the UK was a profile on Zara. Alongside a headshot taken from her days in chambers sat a thousand words on Zara’s life and history. She scanned the first few paragraphs.

  ‘Femme Fatale,’ ran the lazy headline and, beneath, a provocative standfirst.

  Lawyer Zara Kaleel proves that Muslim women can be smart, subversive and sexy too. In her understated Lanvin suit and unapologetic Pigalle heels, Zara Kaleel sits serenely in the courtroom. Before her unfolds one of this year’s biggest legal dramas widely referred to as ‘The Monsters of Bow Road’. The case caught the nation’s attention after it came to light that a disabled young girl had accused four Muslim males of raping her. This is especially disturbing after the recent spate of cases in which Muslim men have targeted vulnerable native women.

  What’s notable in this case is that Ms Kaleel, herself a Muslim, is on the prosecuting side. After several years as a barrister, Ms Kaleel left her prestigious London chambers to join Artemis House as an independent sexual violence adviser and agreed to take on the case of the vulnerable young accuser.

  The most interesting aspect is that Ms Kaleel hasn’t let her Muslim roots hold her back and already a backlash is forming. One young man we spoke to in Whitechapel said, ‘When there is so much against Muslims, you would expect that we stick together. The fact that this woman is out there trying to put four Muslim boys away on just what that one girl has said is crazy. She’s a traitor.’

  Ms Kaleel of course doesn’t care about the criticism. The Visor team is especially impressed by her don’t-give-a-crap attitude.

  Here amid the vapid copy sat a video clip of Zara filmed the day before. ‘Fuck off,’ she said, her English accent perfectly calm. ‘Can you anonymise that?’ The article continued.

  Ms Kaleel says what she thinks and does what’s right, never mind the fact that her actions may expose her to a vast crowd of baying Muslims who clearly see her as a traitor to the cause. It’s not the first time Ms Kaleel has taken a stance against the groupthink mentality that afflicts certain communities. In a 2014 interview for Asiana magazine’s ‘most powerful Asian women’ special, Ms Kaleel railed against the expectations placed on British-Asian women, explaining that her peers are ‘more than subservient cooks and cleaners cajoled into arranged marriage by their patriarchal communities’.

  Oh, the irony, thought Zara now. She scanned the rest of the article, which styled her as a Westernised ‘badass’. In another time, she may have found it flattering but today, here, she knew it would bring only trouble. She wanted no part in the trope of the ‘Good Muslim’. She had no interest in being lionised as a role model, or used to peddle a positive, attractive, bourgeoisie brand of Islam. She just wanted to do her job.

  She slid the iPad back across the table. ‘Thanks for the heads up.’

  Erin tapped the screen with a finger. ‘Visor prints a lot of guff but it has a hefty readership. This is going to put you in the spotlight.’

  Zara laughed cheerlessly. ‘My mother always used to say that I chased trouble; that I could never just bite my tongue; could never leave something unsaid. Maybe she had a point.’

  ‘Yeah, well…’ Erin tucked the iPad into her jacket. ‘Just be careful, okay?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And stay off social media.’

  Zara nodded. ‘I will.’

  Back inside the courtroom, Leeson called his third witness. Dr Tilda Bussman stood in the witness box with an air of quiet confidence. In her mid-forties, she had long blonde hair now tied in a bun and high cheekbones unadorned with blush. Her pal
e, ethereal face remained neutral as she reeled off her credentials for the court. As a clinical psychologist, she had written three books in the field of sexual deviance, assisted hundreds of criminal cases and testified in dozens of others.

  Dr Bussman followed Leeson through a series of questions, answering each with informative but succinct explanations. She described her interview with Jodie and explained that the girl’s frame of mind was consistent with other victims of sexual assault: shame, guilt, embarrassment and anxiety – all reasons why Jodie hadn’t reported the rape immediately.

  It was twenty minutes into the testimony that Leeson asked the deliberately provocative question that stirred the jurors from their afternoon slump. He paused, finger poised thoughtfully on his lips, and said, ‘Tell me, Dr Bussman, in your learned experience, why would four healthy, happy, handsome boys want to rape a girl so extensively deformed like Jodie?’ His tone was taunting, just the way Stark might pitch it.

  Dr Bussman nodded once in understanding, excusing the jury for asking the same. ‘Rape is not an act of sexual gratification; it is an act of violence. The large majority of men rape because of anger, power or sadism. They either want to humiliate their victim or they want to exercise their masculinity because of underlying feelings of inadequacy, or they associate sex with violence so the only way they can get aroused is through sexual violence.’

  Leeson waved an inquisitive hand. ‘So, it’s a myth that only attractive women get raped?’

  ‘Absolutely. And even if a hundred per cent of all rapes happened for pure sexual gratification, this still wouldn’t preclude the scenario in question. Many people have a desire for the “other”.’

  ‘So from your expert point of view, isn’t it perfectly feasible that these four boys would have raped Jodie?’

  Stark stood and interrupted. ‘My Lord, leading the witness to a conclusion.’

  ‘Let me rephrase,’ Leeson countered. ‘Dr Bussman, from your expert point of view, is it feasible that these four boys would have raped Jodie?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the doctor. ‘Power rapists desire control, dominance, strength and authority. They rape in order to assert their competency. In a group scenario, this is exacerbated by peer pressure – if you don’t partake, then you are not masculine enough. Their language, their behaviour as described by the victim, is consistent with the behaviour of power rapists.’ She looked to the jury. ‘It may be hard to digest why four “handsome and healthy men” would rape Jodie but it is absolutely, one hundred per cent psychologically sound.’