I was in court today. The wheels of justice move slowly and all that, and the event had happened six months before. I was a witness to what the victim had told me and I wasn’t sure what I would be expected to remember. As it turned out I was expected to have total recall. “I can’t remember,” became my frequent reply. I felt as though I was fucking it all up, me and my terrible memory. On a good day I might remember someone’s name an hour after they’d told it to me, and today was not a good day.
Not only that, but the conversation I needed to recall had, at the time, triggered memories of a traumatic event that happened to me thirty odd years ago, and the two events had become entangled in my memory banks.
So when I was cross examined I fell apart. I tried to hold it back, but I couldn’t stop shaking. The questions and the implications of guilt, negligence and lying weighed heavy on me. Gaslighting by defence lawyer. Nice.
Unreliable witness here. What the hell was I supposed to do? I had no choice but to attend. A clear illustration of our justice system’s feelings about consent. And ironically that was what the case hinged on too.
Recent news has been full of men in the public eye apologising for behaviour that mirrored that in today’s court case, I wondered whether that would affect the mood of the court and, if so, whether it would swing in our favour or against.
Gulity – one word. Vindication. Not that it made the past half year any less stressful. But the victim was believed this time. Others will look at her and not accuse her of lying, or attention seeking. Her pain has been acknowledged and she can try to move on. I hope in thirty years time she’ll be in a better place than me.