Smithton

The old sex scandal from Smithton Grammar reared its ugly head again. It just seems to be the case that won't go away. 

It resurfaced last June, when we got back from Europe. There were two messages on my answering machine, one from a lawyer and one from a detective. (Don't get involved with the law, or the police, as my dear old grandma used to say - that is the one who used to wheel and deal in property, and not the who used to drink a bottle of brandy a day) Oh, what can I say? (I look back now and just shake my head) I was fresh home from Europe, rested and invigorated, all at the same time, which distracted me sufficiently from the realities of day to day life, and my interest was piqued. Really, I just wanted to find out the goss. It's true.

Seemingly, gone was my resolve not to get caught up in this.

So, I called the lawyer, and as it so happened, I was heading into town that day and I was going to walk right passed his office, as it turned out, so I said I'd drop in and have a chat to him.

I just wanted to know, who'd been up who and who was now braying for blood. (Too many episodes of SVU?) It turned out to be the usual suspects, really it did. The broken and the lame, broken long before Peter Nelson came along, who were pursuing the claims.

Then I rang the detective, and she was willing to meet me any where, anytime. (I'm guessing now that should have been a red flag) She came to me, and I blabbed my story.

There was a moment, you know, when I got to the touching bit, such as it was, (that's getting touched, not the sweet bit, you understand) I felt like I was a diva telling my story. A bit of a shudder at that point, I remember feeling it. Hesitation. Looked to her for reassurance, I remember that distinctly. Why? I don't know. But, you know, as you do. Was my hand clutching at my throat? I can't remember.

We had a nice chat. Then she left And I didn't hear from the good detective again.

It crossed my mind that may be even she was a lawyer for the defendant, finding out what the defence had. I'm not sure. I didn't see any ID.

Then when I thought it had dissipated back into the ether, like a fart disappearing into the atmosphere, we were back in contact. 

Could I read the statement. Could I come to her office to sign it. "The lawyers are very keen for you to tell your story."
"Tell my story?" I was important because I was someone who corroborated the evidence who wasn't directly involved in the case.
"In court."
"In court?" (How naive had I been?)
"Yes."
"I don't want to do that."
"Can I ask why?"
I don't want to be arsed. (Then it came out) "I don't want to see him." Oh, okay, that's as good as anything.
"You can give your evidence remotely, by video. You don't have to see him."

She clearly thought I was traumatised, of reliving the trauma that I obviously felt. Yeah, no. I just felt embarrassed that my trivial little drama would be used in evidence against him. I just wanted to find out the goss. If the other guys felt some kind of permanent trauma then that was their story and they should pursue it, but I didn't feel that, that wasn't my story. I just wanted to know what was going on.

"Did I want time to think about it?"
Not really. "Okay." She seemed keen for me to think it over.

So, she called a few weeks later. I told her I didn't want to go to court. She said she was disappointed but understood. And that was that. (I never heard from her again.)