Take It Back

by Kia Abdullah

  ‘Thank you, Dr Bussman.’ Leeson turned to the judge. ‘We have no further questions, My Lord.’

  Zara exhaled in relief. Dr Bussman worked frequently with Artemis House as an expert witness on rape cases. Once again, she had proven to be calm, composed, knowledgeable and believable. She was skilful as a witness and had greatly bolstered the prosecution. Zara prayed that she held up under cross-examination.

  Stark stood and asked his first question. ‘Ms Bussman, are you familiar with the work of Richard Felson and David Tedeschi?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell me about it?’

  ‘They work in the field of gender, sexual violence and aggression.’

  ‘Have you read their book of 1994, entitled Violence, Aggression, and Coercive Actions?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was the main premise of the book?’

  ‘That the primary motivation for rape is sexual fulfilment.’

  ‘Not anger or power or sadism?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what you said before is just one of several theories.’

  ‘It’s the prevailing view in the field,’ said Dr Bussman.

  ‘Prevailing view? So it’s not fact?’

  ‘A view supported by evidence. Also, as I said before, even if all rapes were entirely motivated by sexual gratification, many men have a desire to experience the other.’

  ‘What do you mean by “other”?’ Stark frowned as if baffled by the ambiguity.

  ‘I mean something that goes beyond the norms of sexual desire. There are entire subcultures dedicated to “other” and so, for these boys, Jodie could have been a special kind of contest. They may not have seen her as they would a traditionally attractive woman but it is feasible that they felt a desire to own her, to experience the otherness of her.’

  Stark feigned confusion. ‘Ms Bussman, exactly what proportion of the population would you say are attracted to this “other” you speak of?’

  ‘It is difficult to say. First, we would have to classify what categories we would like to include.’

  ‘Can you elaborate?’

  She glanced at the jury. ‘Well, we would have to decide where we draw the line. Do we include mild deviations from the norm or only those more extreme? For example, some men prefer larger women and society labels that because it goes against the norm. Do we include these so-called “chubby chasers” and men of their ilk?’

  A quiet wave of laughter rippled through the court.

  ‘Well, what would be your best guess?’

  Dr Bussman smiled kindly. ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that without knowing your parameters.’

  Stark sighed. It was barely perceptible but a red hue was rising in his neck. ‘Okay, would you say this so-called condition that you can’t quantify is—’

  ‘I believe you misunderstood me, sir,’ she interrupted. ‘It’s not that I can’t quantify it; it’s that you haven’t given me the necessary parameters.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Stark, stretching the second syllable like a sarcastic teen. ‘Would you say this condition is common?’

  ‘What would you classify as “common”?’

  Stark exhaled audibly. ‘Ms Bussman, what would you say are the chances that all four of these boys would be so attracted to this “other” that they would go to the lengths of raping a girl to satisfy their desire?’

  ‘Firstly, I would say it isn’t common but it’s not unlikely either. Like-minded individuals tend to band together, be it those who are into goth subculture or sports or movies. This holds true when dealing with something darker. Look at the 2012 Delhi gang rape – six men came together to plan and carry out an unthinkable crime. They beat, raped and tortured a twenty-three-year-old woman on a bus they had commandeered for the sole purpose of the crime. Is it common for men to do things like that? No. Is it possible? Of course. Secondly, I would say that even if it were one defendant that instigated it, there is a chance the others followed because of the instigator’s strong personality.’

  Stark looked at the jury incredulously. ‘Ms Bussman, are you saying they raped her because someone told them to do it?’

  The doctor remained unfazed. ‘There is a substantial body of evidence that suggests a strong ringleader can exert enormous influence. Myriad cases have proven this. I can list them if we have time?’

  Stark raised a curt hand, keen to downplay her expertise. ‘That won’t be necessary.’ He paused to find a new tack. ‘Ms Bussman, as an experienced psychologist in the field, do you know the prevalence of false accusations of rape?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There is no definitive figure but evidence from England and Wales suggests that three to four per cent is a reasonable estimate.’

  ‘Is it possible that Ms Wolfe is falsely accusing my client of rape?’

  ‘Unless we have concrete proof, then of course there’s a possibility. I—’

  ‘Thank you, Ms Bussman. I have no further questions.’

  The doctor hesitated for a beat or two, wanting to say more. Then, she stepped down with a polite smile and exited the courtroom.

  Zara relaxed in her seat. Despite Stark’s attempt to instil doubt, the prosecution had gained a footing. Dr Bussman had successfully unpacked the belief that Jodie’s appearance would have dissuaded her rapists. Coupled with the DNA evidence, there was a real chance at conviction. Judge Braun adjourned for the day and Zara slipped out before the courtroom cleared.

  She retrieved her phone to find forty-eight emails from various news outlets and publications, a clear consequence of her profile in Visor. Just as she began to delete them, her phone began to ring. She cursed when she saw her mother’s number.

  Fatima’s tone was abrupt. ‘Your brother said your name is in the news. Is it true?’

  Zara swallowed a scoff. ‘If Rafiq said it, then it must be.’ She took a few steps into a corner of the hall and took refuge next to the cool, grey marble.

  ‘Your cousin Munir knows one of the families.’ Fatima sounded weary. ‘He said there is no possibility that those boys are guilty.’

  ‘Then they don’t have anything to worry about.’ Zara aimed for reassurance but her tone came off as breezy; an intentional slight in the face of her mother’s concern.

  ‘Your name is in the news. Can’t you see that it will cause trouble?’

  ‘Few things change without trouble.’

  There was a beat of silence before her mother spoke. ‘You have always done things your way but you must stop and think sometimes, Zara. There are many things working against those young men. Why must you be one of them?’

  Zara leaned into her phone when a group of lawyers strode by, their banter loud in the bustle of the courthouse, stirring sharp nostalgia in her. She turned away from them and cupped a palm over the phone. ‘Are you worried about me or them?’ Her mother’s loyalty lay with Rafiq and maybe Zara could understand that – he was the only son – but why the concern for men she’d never met? Did Amir and his friends win allegiance purely for their faith and gender?

  Fatima grew impatient. ‘I’m worried about you. People won’t understand that you’re doing a job. They will only see that you’re attacking one of your own.’

  ‘They are not my own.’ Zara’s tone grew sharp and drew the gaze of passers-by. She turned to face the marble wall. ‘You can cry about their misfortune if that’s what you want to do, but don’t tell me I owe them anything because they’re “one of my own”. We are not the same.’

  Her mother, fazed, said nothing.

  Zara waited, then softened her tone. ‘Look, Mum, please don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.’ She glanced up at a guard by the opposite wall. ‘I shouldn’t be on the phone in here. I have to go.’ With an assalamu alaikum, Zara hung up, her fingers rigid from gripping the phone. She shook her wrists to ease the tension, but knew that it was useless. Her mother’s words of doubt always slipped beneath her skin, sprouting and wrapping lik
e roots around limbs. Thrumming with frustration, she tossed her phone in her bag and exited the courthouse.

  Within a few steps, a herd of reporters surrounded her, shoulder to shoulder to box her in. Her media training had taught her to keep walking without breaking stride so that reporters would move forward with her. When she tried this, however, they held firm in a ring around her frame.

  A man in his late forties, dressed in a suit and thick khaki jacket, stuck a microphone beneath her chin. ‘Are you confident you will win this trial?’ he asked, less a question than a demand.

  She met his gaze coolly. What are you doing? she wanted to ask. Is this your fight for justice? Is this your battle for truth? Do you have nothing better to do? Instead, she just said, ‘Excuse me.’

  A second reporter pushed forward. ‘Ms Kaleel, is it true that Jodie sent Amir love letters?’

  A third tugged at Zara’s sleeve. ‘Is this all just the fantasy of a lovelorn teenager?’

  Zara snatched her arm from the woman’s grip. The flash of photography popped off around her and she raised a hand to shield her face. She pushed through the crowd, pulling free of eager hands and dodging a dozen cameras. The barked demands and pleading appeals blended to a din as she fought to keep her composure. She struggled through the outer band of the scrum and emerged onto the street.

  Without pause, she fled to her car on Limeburner Lane and locked the doors behind her. Her nerves jangled in the sudden stillness and her heart raced much too fast. Her hands moved restlessly from the rear-view mirror to her lap, to the wheel of the car, to the glove box. She took a deep breath and tried to remember when she last felt peace without the aid of a chemical kick. Her thoughts went to Michael Attali and a thrill of remembrance ran through her body when she recalled the last time they met: the comforting bulk of his body on hers, the purity of unthinking sex, the simplicity of parting still strangers.

  Zara rifled through her bag for her phone and sent a message to Michael. His reply was immediate and she read it with an oily satisfaction:

  I’m leaving the office now. Meet me at Potters Fields Park in thirty minutes.

  She noted with approval that it was minutes from his flat. They had seen each other a dozen times since their first night together in the summer and he’d learnt quickly that she needed no pretence at romance and courtship. This was merely transactional.

  Half an hour later, Michael found her in the park, flanked by Tower Bridge to her right and the listing silhouette of City Hall to her left. He pulled her off the long concrete bench, both his hands hooked into hers in a simulacrum of love. He pulled her to him and greeted her with a kiss.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, wrapping his fingers around the crook of her elbow and leading her along the Thames to his coveted riverside flat. Inside, he pushed her against the wall and breathed in her perfume; a hint of bergamot seductive on her skin. ‘You want me to take off that classy little skirt of yours?’ he asked, his breath on her neck but his lips not yet on skin. ‘You want me to slip my fingers underneath and stroke your little clit?’

  Zara pressed against him, feeling her body respond. She closed her eyes and surrendered control. His touch was aggressive and unthinking, and in his forcefulness she found sweet relief from having to think. He gripped her wrists and pinned them above her. She bucked against his weight as he pulled her skirt to the floor. He unzipped his trousers and guided himself to her. She cried out as he pushed inside. He held her to him, then lifted her up and took her to the bed. She lay beneath him and in a state of numbing rapture let him wrap his fingers around her neck, let him pull her hair, let him push into her mouth. Here, in physical surrender to Michael, she forgot that she was angry, forgot that she was lonely, forgot that all she felt was distance when near the ones she loved. Here, she felt a silken oblivion that almost swelled to peace.

  Day three started solemnly. The courtroom chill lingered despite the full-blast heating and the jurors sat in silence, mindful of the media attention. Tabloid editors had seen soaring performance around their ‘Monsters of Bow Road’ coverage and were pushing reporters for more of the same. One article in particular – ‘Monsters of Bow Road TURNED ON by schoolgirl’s deformities’ – had garnered over two million shares online. It was a twisted interpretation of Dr Bussman’s testimony and the disgusted public lapped it up like sugarcane. Spectators had started to gather by the courthouse, shouting obscenities at the four accused. Those in courtroom eight could not hear the crowd outside but they knew it was there, angry and swaying, lying in waiting.

  Dr Benjamin Chase was the first in the witness box. Zara swallowed a smile as she watched the jury watch him. Dr Chase was forty-two years old with a chiselled face and salt and pepper hair that, as Erin once put it in candour, made you think of autumn bonfires. Trusting him felt completely natural.

  ‘Dr Chase, how long have you worked in forensics?’ began Leeson.

  ‘I started straight out of college so that’s twenty-one years – far longer than I prefer to admit.’

  ‘Would you say you’re an expert in your field?’

  The doctor smiled. ‘If you’ll excuse my American immodesty, yes, I would.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, my major was in Criminological and Forensic Science. I have worked in the field for two decades, published over one hundred papers in the field as well as two books.’

  Zara noticed Stark roll his eyes.

  ‘Dr Chase, your team worked on the forensics for Jodie Wolfe’s case. Can you describe to the court what this entails?’

  ‘Of course.’ He turned to the jury. ‘The complainant’s clothes were collected for trace evidence – hair and fibre, tissue, footprints, paint chips, soil and dirt, bodily fluids including blood, and, of course, fingerprints. Everything was sent to the lab for analysis. My team was first involved in July of this year. We received one semen sample from the blouse Jodie Wolfe was wearing on the evening in question and four DNA samples from the four defendants. The samples were forensically tested and the DNA found on Jodie’s clothes matched the profile from Amir Rabbani’s sample.’

  Leeson nodded thoughtfully. ‘And can you explain, Dr Chase, in layman’s terms how this process works?’

  ‘I can certainly try.’ He smiled at the jury. ‘Profiling works like this: a DNA sample is taken from the crime stain, which can be any piece of human matter left at the scene of the crime. A second sample is then taken from the suspect. In the lab, we cut the samples at specific locations and drag them through a gel to create a unique pattern. We then create a visual representation of this pattern, which allows us to compare one sample to another.’ He paused to make sure the jury was following.

  ‘Matching one part of the pattern doesn’t prove that the two samples came from the same source. By matching combinations of parts, however, you can gradually build up a more and more accurate comparison between the two samples. One combination, for example, might be shared by one in four of the population, but if you then match another combination, that might reduce it to one in sixteen of the population, or one in sixty-four and so on. Eventually, if the sample is good enough, you can work your way to the point where the match is so accurate that the chance of someone else having the same DNA profile has a random occurrence of one in one billion.’

  Leeson bounced on the balls of his feet, eager to ask his next question. ‘In Mr Rabbani’s case, what did you find?’

  Dr Chase faced the jury. ‘If the DNA in the semen sample came from some unknown person unrelated to Mr Rabbani, the probability of a match would be in the order of one in one billion.’

  A gust of noise rose across the courtroom. As the jurors absorbed this news, Zara felt a looping tightness in her stomach. She recognised it as the thrill of the law done right.

  Leeson’s features were arranged in awe. ‘One in one billion,’ he repeated. ‘So, even though Amir denied going anywhere near Jodie that night—’

  Stark shot to his feet. ‘My Lord!’ he cried. ‘My client h
as submitted a statement specifying that he and Ms Wolfe had consensual relations that night. It’s wilful obfuscation to imply otherwise!’

  The judge nodded once. ‘He’s right, Mr Leeson. Please reflect the facts in your questioning.’

  Leeson accepted the rebuke. ‘Dr Chase, in what you saw of the evidence, was there anything to suggest that the intercourse was not consensual?’

  ‘Yes. Jodie was examined four days after the fact. There was some bruising in her vaginal area and also on her neck.’

  ‘And are these types of bruises consistent with forced intercourse?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The courtroom hummed with noise. As those in the gallery whispered around her, Zara watched the jury. The young Asian man in the back row had a hand on his neck and rubbed his skin as if soothing a bruise. Physical evidence in rape cases was invaluable. When it was one word against another, any shred of tangible evidence supported the complainant’s credibility. Dr Chase, another stalwart of Artemis House, had helped the prosecution immensely.

  Leeson spent the rest of his time asking short questions with long answers, taking just enough time to wear down the jury before the defence’s cross.

  When his turn finally came, Stark began matter-of-factly. ‘Dr Chase, my learned friend has sought to illustrate two things with your testimony: first, that Amir Rabbani and Jodie Wolfe had sexual relations on the night in question and, second, that some of Ms Wolfe’s physical attributes were consistent with rape. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does the first contradict any of what Mr Rabbani has already stated?’

  ‘No, but he—’