KATE
28 April 2017
Twenty-six
And so we reach the moment I have been waiting for: that I have envisaged ever since Brian handed me the case papers; and that, on some more visceral level, I have been anticipating for over twenty years. The burden of expectation presses down. My hands shake as I rise to begin my cross-examination and I feel that curious tightening over my scalp that comes in the few moments in life when we experience pure fear. It happened in those cloisters, when it became clear there was nothing I could do to stop him; and it happened when I realised Ali had guessed at the connection and I knew that everything I have worked for, my stellar career and this chance to bring him to justice, could all come tumbling down.
I breathe deeply, imagining my lungs expanding and pushing down to my diaphragm; drawing in as much oxygen as possible. It doesn’t matter that the court must wait; the jurors sitting up straight, for they are attuned to the rhythm of the trial now and they sense that this is a critical moment, one during which their eyes will flit from me to the defendant as if watching a tennis rally – the sort that makes spectators gasp in anticipation and hold their breath. And I will make him wait. It may seem like a petty power play but everything has been about him today: we have been immersed in his story. Now is the time for me to offer an alternative narrative. To cast doubt on every single thing he says.
My problem is that James Whitehouse’s entire persona is persuasive, reasonable, credible. Each trait, from the fingers placed together in prayer to his calm baritone, a voice that soothes with its richness and effortlessly imparts authority, lulls you into feeling that it is only right that he should be believed. I must limit the amount he speaks; and not give him an inch: ask closed leading questions that do not permit him the luxury of explanation; of commanding the airtime and conveying his story. Despite my anger – boiling hard and fast, now – this is not the forum for histrionic showdowns. He will be rational and forensic and I need to remain as clinical and controlled as him.
‘I have just a few points to clarify,’ I tell him with a brisk smile. ‘This issue of the blouse being opened. Miss Lytton says you wrenched them open but you have suggested that she helped you to unbutton it.’ I pause and glance at my notes, making a show of my desire to be accurate. ‘You said: “I’m not brutish. Not the sort of man who would ever wrench a woman’s clothes off. That’s not my kind of thing.” ’
‘Yes. That’s right,’ he says.
‘You’re a strong man, Mr Whitehouse. A former Oxford rowing blue. An athletic man, dare I say. Have you never wrenched a woman’s blouse in a moment of passion?’ I ask, for it is worth hoping that there will be a flicker of unease in his reaction, the hint of a memory; or even some foolish touch of machismo that leads to a moment’s hesitation. But if I half-expect him to recall my rape, or something similar, I am being naive.
‘No.’ He wrinkles his nose, cautiously bemused that I could suggest a thing.
‘Not even in a moment of heightened passion? Such as the moment with Miss Lytton in September – when you had consensual sex in your office?’
‘No.’ He is on firmer ground, here.
‘What about when you helped tug her tights down and ripped her knickers, in the lift – as you admit you did?’
‘Your Lordship,’ Angela is on her feet. ‘There is no proof that my client was responsible for any damage.’
Judge Luckhurst sighs and turns to me. ‘If you could rephrase your question, Miss Woodcroft?’
I pause. ‘You have admitted that you helped tug down the tights and knickers; that things “got a bit frenzied in the heat of the moment”. It’s perfectly possible that in this frenzied moment you wrenched down her tights, isn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘That, in the heat of the moment, you ripped her knickers.’
‘No.’
‘Really?’ I affect to look unconcerned, but inside I seethe for I know he is lying about this. He wrenched my shirt open, all those years ago; I still remember the strands of thread and the two lost buttons that popped as he grappled with my Wonderbra. ‘That’s helpful. I see.’
I clear my throat and make a rapid assessment. Rather than going through reams of evidence about the bruise – ‘just something she liked in the heat of the moment’ – and facing this wall of self-assurance, I must head straight for the nub of the issue. Bounce my narrative off him, and hope to unmask him – in my utter disregard for his answers – as the liar he is. But first I need to expose his arrogance – for the man the jury need to see is one who puts his needs entirely above all others; impervious to the desire of any young woman who says no to him.
‘If we can turn to the incident in the lift, we know that you and Miss Lytton had had sex in the Commons before.’
‘Yes.’
‘On two occasions: September 27th and September 29th, I think?’
‘Yes.’ He clears his throat.
‘And so you might have reasonably expected that she would be willing to do this again? To have sex in another Commons setting?’
‘Yes.’ He is a little more cautious, the syllable drawn out to indicate that his answer is circumspect.
‘When you entered the lift – which you say she called; and which she entered first, having indicated that she still found you attractive – I dare say you thought that sex might take place.’
‘Not initially.’
‘Not initially? It was a swift encounter, wasn’t it? Over in less than five minutes. “A bit frenzied,” you admit – so not much time for foreplay?’
He clears his throat. ‘It became pretty clear, pretty quickly that it was going to happen, but I didn’t enter the lift thinking that it would happen,’ he says.
‘But you must have thought something might happen. You weren’t going in for a meeting, were you?’
There is a stifled snigger from one of the jurors.
‘No.’ His tone hardens for he does not like to be laughed at.
‘No,’ I agree quietly. ‘So you enter the lift and immediately collide and kiss.’
‘Yes.’
‘Her blouse is opened – wrenched, she says; opened by both of you, you say – and you put your hands on her bottom.’
‘Yes.’
‘And her knickers are tugged down by both of you. You helped, you admit.’
A pause, and then: ‘Yes.’
‘And while this was happening, you were in “close proximity”, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a very small lift. Little more than a metre wide; less than that deep. How close would you say you were, exactly?’
‘Well, we were kissing and . . . being intimate . . . so face-to-face.’
‘So very close? Ten or twenty centimetres apart – or perhaps less?’
‘No more than thirty centimetres.’
‘No more than thirty centimetres,’ I repeat. ‘So if she had said: “Get off. No, not here,” you’d have heard her?’
‘Yes.’
‘In fact you have told us: “There is no way that if she said something like that – or indeed anything – I wouldn’t hear her,” that’s what you said.’
‘Yes.’ He juts his chin forwards, on the defensive, perhaps not sure where I am going here.
‘And you are not a brutish man. Not someone who would wrench clothes aside, you say, even if you might help tug in the heat of the moment. So you would have stopped if you’d been aware of this?’
‘Yes.’
‘And yet she told us, here in this court, that she did tell you to stop.’
‘No.’
‘She said: “Get off. No, not here.” ’
‘No.’
‘Not once but twice.’
‘No.’
‘She broke down crying, here in this court, as she said it, didn’t she?’
‘No.’ His voice hardens, guttural, like a fist.
‘You were face-to-face with her; in a clinch; no more than thirty centimetres away. She asked you to stop – and you still carried on.’
‘No.’ His voice is tight but I choose not to look at him: look straight ahead, instead, at the judge – not deigning to recognise James Whitehouse for this is war, now, and I am not going to pretend it is pleasant in any way.
‘She said it again – and you chose to ignore it again.’
‘No,’ he insists.
‘You entered her even though you knew she had said no twice.’
‘No.’
‘In fact, you knew she wasn’t consenting because you said: “Don’t be such a prick-tease.” ’
‘No.’
‘What does that phrase mean, Mr Whitehouse?’
‘What?’ He is momentarily thrown by this change of pace.
‘It’s particularly unpleasant, isn’t it?’ And here I have to rein myself in; to make sure the anger that is rising doesn’t engulf me. ‘It means don’t excite me sexually and fail to follow through. It acknowledges a reluctance to continue; a lack of consent, doesn’t it?’
‘That’s academic. I didn’t say it,’ he insists.
‘But you did say: “You’re teasing,” didn’t you?’ I glance at my notes. ‘My learned friend Miss Regan asked: “Did you say: ‘You’re teasing’?” And you replied: “I may have done . . . when we first kissed.” You sensed her reluctance,’ I push on, biting down on each word. ‘You knew that she was withholding consent, then.’
And there it is: a hint of anger, for his jaw juts. He is fighting some internal battle.
‘It was something that was meant to be endearing.’ His voice is as tight as an overwound watch. ‘Just something we said.’
‘You sensed her reluctance and then you raped her because when she said: “No, not here,” you chose to disbelieve it.’
‘No.’
‘You thought she didn’t really mean it.’
‘No.’
‘Or rather you didn’t care. You knew she had said no but you ignored her lack of consent because you thought you knew better.’ And here I look at him, at last: directly, in a challenge, and I wonder if I see a flicker of recognition – but no, it is just a flare of anger.
I turn to the judge; not giving James Whitehouse the chance to answer.
‘No further questions, My Lord.’