then looked down again at her hands twisting the handkerchief. She heard the prosecutor ask the question again.
‘Were you frightened, Mrs Bisson?’
She looked up, a nervous tic at the corner of one eye, her face strained. ‘Yes I was.’
‘And he tried to have intercourse with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you ran into the kitchen and got a knife?’
Susan sprang to her feet. ‘Objection, leading the witness.’
‘The question allowed, please proceed.’
‘Why? Why did you get the knife?’
‘To protect myself.’
‘What were you afraid of at this point?’
‘He might try to rape me. Or hurt me.’
‘Did he come after you?’
‘Yes.’
‘How was he dressed when he entered the kitchen?’
‘He was naked.’ Before the prosecutor could ask the next question, she added a detail that sent a ripple of amusement through the courtroom. ‘Except for his socks. He still had his socks on.’
The prosecuting sergeant took a deep breath. ‘His socks. Good. Then what happened?’
‘He tried to grab me and I swung the knife at him. I wanted to scare him off.’
‘Did you succeed?’
‘Yes. He ran out of the apartment.’
‘Did he say anything before he ran out?’
Again she paused and looked down at her hands. ‘I think he swore.’
‘At you.’
‘Yes . . . I think so.’
She hesitated, then replied softly. ‘I can’t remember.’
The prosecutor raised an eyebrow. ‘What did you do then?’
‘I rang the police and told them what happened.’
Susan worked constantly on her notes of the evidence, at the same time watching the witness as closely as possible, analysing every little movement of body language, every pause in her replies, every expression on her face. It was arelief when she heard the magistrate say, ‘Yes, cross examination of the witness, Miss Massey.’
Now a different kind of concentration was required, and different skills, and she relished this moment. She was convinced Shirley Bisson was not telling the truth, or at best suffering from a very faulty memory. The task was to get her to contradict herself, to make a clearly tense nervous system crack, and in the confusion create sufficient doubt about the quality and credibility of her evidence.
Susan rose and looked at the witness, catching a flash of worry and even a hint of embarrassment in her eyes. Susan smiled at her reassuringly. ‘You must be hating all of this, I imagine.’
The magistrate looked over his glasses. ‘Do you have specific questions for the witness, Miss Massey?’ The rebuke was subtle in the tone of his voice, but that didn’t worry Susan. She had succeeded in throwing the witness off guard.
‘Did you love Nigel Barwon?’ She stressed the word ‘love’. The effect on Shirley Bisson was dramatic. She fumbled for words.
‘Well, did you? Did you deeply love Nigel Barwon?’ pressed Susan with a voice that demanded an immediate answer.
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘At one stage. Yes.’
‘Please speak up, Mrs Bisson,’ said the magistrate.
‘And how long did you live together at your apartment in Darling Point Road, Darling Point?’
‘A bit over a year.’
‘And you and Nigel Barwon appeared socially together in public and at private functions during that time?’
‘Yes.’
‘You were lovers?’
‘Yes.’
‘And during the time you lived together, were there any serious domestic disagreements, fights or incidents?’
She thought for a moment. ‘No . Not really.’
‘So you never had cause to feel threatened or in danger from Mr Barwon?’
‘Not at that time.’
‘Even after your amicable parting, you never worried about him causing you harm?’
‘I suppose not . . .’
‘So you were never worried about him harming you. And did you agree to go your separate ways, when he said he wanted to go to Western Australia to find his mother’s family?’
‘Well, sort of . . . I . . .’
‘Just answer the question please.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘That means
‘Were you frightened, Mrs Bisson?’
She looked up, a nervous tic at the corner of one eye, her face strained. ‘Yes I was.’
‘And he tried to have intercourse with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you ran into the kitchen and got a knife?’
Susan sprang to her feet. ‘Objection, leading the witness.’
‘The question allowed, please proceed.’
‘Why? Why did you get the knife?’
‘To protect myself.’
‘What were you afraid of at this point?’
‘He might try to rape me. Or hurt me.’
‘Did he come after you?’
‘Yes.’
‘How was he dressed when he entered the kitchen?’
‘He was naked.’ Before the prosecutor could ask the next question, she added a detail that sent a ripple of amusement through the courtroom. ‘Except for his socks. He still had his socks on.’
The prosecuting sergeant took a deep breath. ‘His socks. Good. Then what happened?’
‘He tried to grab me and I swung the knife at him. I wanted to scare him off.’
‘Did you succeed?’
‘Yes. He ran out of the apartment.’
‘Did he say anything before he ran out?’
Again she paused and looked down at her hands. ‘I think he swore.’
‘At you.’
‘Yes . . . I think so.’
She hesitated, then replied softly. ‘I can’t remember.’
The prosecutor raised an eyebrow. ‘What did you do then?’
‘I rang the police and told them what happened.’
Susan worked constantly on her notes of the evidence, at the same time watching the witness as closely as possible, analysing every little movement of body language, every pause in her replies, every expression on her face. It was arelief when she heard the magistrate say, ‘Yes, cross examination of the witness, Miss Massey.’
Now a different kind of concentration was required, and different skills, and she relished this moment. She was convinced Shirley Bisson was not telling the truth, or at best suffering from a very faulty memory. The task was to get her to contradict herself, to make a clearly tense nervous system crack, and in the confusion create sufficient doubt about the quality and credibility of her evidence.
Susan rose and looked at the witness, catching a flash of worry and even a hint of embarrassment in her eyes. Susan smiled at her reassuringly. ‘You must be hating all of this, I imagine.’
The magistrate looked over his glasses. ‘Do you have specific questions for the witness, Miss Massey?’ The rebuke was subtle in the tone of his voice, but that didn’t worry Susan. She had succeeded in throwing the witness off guard.
‘Did you love Nigel Barwon?’ She stressed the word ‘love’. The effect on Shirley Bisson was dramatic. She fumbled for words.
‘Well, did you? Did you deeply love Nigel Barwon?’ pressed Susan with a voice that demanded an immediate answer.
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘At one stage. Yes.’
‘Please speak up, Mrs Bisson,’ said the magistrate.
‘And how long did you live together at your apartment in Darling Point Road, Darling Point?’
‘A bit over a year.’
‘And you and Nigel Barwon appeared socially together in public and at private functions during that time?’
‘Yes.’
‘You were lovers?’
‘Yes.’
‘And during the time you lived together, were there any serious domestic disagreements, fights or incidents?’
She thought for a moment. ‘No . Not really.’
‘So you never had cause to feel threatened or in danger from Mr Barwon?’
‘Not at that time.’
‘Even after your amicable parting, you never worried about him causing you harm?’
‘I suppose not . . .’
‘So you were never worried about him harming you. And did you agree to go your separate ways, when he said he wanted to go to Western Australia to find his mother’s family?’
‘Well, sort of . . . I . . .’
‘Just answer the question please.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘That means
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