Part 3: Bedtime stories.
I now know more about the hymen, particularly those found in prepubescent girls, than anyone other than a doctor should know. The one to blame for this is Dr Emmett Brown. Or at least a doctor who looked like him. Long, grey hair that was balding on top with a bright and welcoming smile. That's exactly the kind of smile you need when you're going to be poking around the vagina of an 8 year old.
Listening to the examination process was almost as uncomfortable as listening to the original testimony. To look for clefts or tears in the hymen, the girl must be placed in two different positions. First on her back with her legs spread and then on her hands and knees, also known as "doggy style", although funnily enough no one used that phrase in the courtroom.
"As you can see here from the diagram, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the tear indicates that a rather large object has penetrated Emma's vagina, therefor backing up her story" is what I wanted him to say. Unfortunately this was not going to be that easy. The examination proved nothing. Any slight clefts that were found were also occasionally found on young girls who had not been abused. Of course, other doctors were called. Another professional who had been with Dr Brown also concluded that it showed some support of abuse, but could not be used as evidence. This wouldn't have been quite so annoying if we hadn't had to wait a whole fucking day for her to arrive to tell us that. And this was supposed to be the prosecution?! Of course we had to again wait for the defense doctor to arrive to give her verdict.
This third doctor fit the bill perfectly. She looked like she'd worn a business suit about as many times as she had brushed her hair. No wedding ring to be seen. She walked across the courtroom floor in a similar fashion to a child trying to walk along a curb. I figured she must have been scraped from the underside of the same boat as the defense barrister. She had not even been present at the examination, so I had already decided I wasn't going to bother listening to what was basically just her opinion of a rough pencil drawn diagram of a vagina. The plot thickened when the crown questioned whether or not she had seen the DVD recording of Emma's tests. "No" She replied, "Unfortunately this DVD was lost before I could view it". That was a bit of a head-scratcher. A doctor had lost footage of a close up of a child's genitals and they were still employed? Was it just floating around out there for anyone to see? Maybe there was something more sinister behind it... Had the footage vanished on purpose to cover up the defendant?
Either way, after 2 days of sitting around and waiting for these testimonies, we were now in an even worse position than we had been before. We now realised any evidence we had to look at was going to purely be he-said-she-said.
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Catherine had been 10 years old when the abuse started. Her mother had met Ricky G when she was very young. He was the only father figure in her life, which is why she always referred to him as Dad. She couldn't remember exactly how it first began, but it was usually at bedtime. Her step-sister would be in the upper bunk while should would sleep in the lower. Almost every night, Ricky G would come in to tell them bedtime stories. He'd make up silly little tales like 'The Bear with no hair' and 'The Frog who couldn't jump'. Perched on the edge of Catherine's mattress, he'd slowly snake his way underneath her duvet and start rubbing her non-existent breasts and nipples, before moving down to put his fingers inside her privates.
Confusion clouded her judgement. Was it normal? Should she tell him to stop? Why wasn't he doing it to her sister? That created a disturbing feeling of happiness for her. He never paid her as much attention as his own daughter, so maybe this was his way of showing her that he really did love her. Similarly to Emma, she couldn't tell anyone out of fear of making people upset. She did however try to prevent it. She would wear two pairs of pyjama bottoms and wrap herself up in the duvet. This proved to be a very small challenge for the strength of her Dad, who would usually unwrap her and carry on. Occasionally he would simply tut, finish the story and leave the room. These were peaceful nights for Catherine.
"But.... That never happened.... Did it?" asked the defense barrister, Agent Smith, during the cross-examination. "He never touched you. He never touched anyone. This is made up, along with the fabrication you have brainwashed your own daughter with". He was obviously desperate. The best idea he could come up with was to basically call bullshit on her. The abuse ended when she was age 12, after her telling Ricky G that her periods had started. "I don't believe you would have told him that at all" another desperate attempt from Agent Smith, "A 12 year old girl would not discuss such things with her step-father". "Maybe in your house", she replied. My loud snigger seemed to interrupt Agent Smith's train of thought, as he was now giving me a death-stare across the room.
"I was scared and confused. Even years later, I still couldn't accept that what he did was child abuse. I thought it was just playing that had gotten out of hand. How could he have been a paedophile? He was, in his own words, the kind of man that would beat up a child molester before he'd even got him into the cell"
A burst of electricity shot through my veins. I quickly scanned my notes, although I knew I wouldn't see anything there. The juror to my left had the same look of sheer confusion. What did that mean? Had I heard her right?
The defendant was a policeman.
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