Authors: Barbara Copperthwaite
The judge was not impressed. ‘You will be quiet, please,
or you will be taken from the court,’ he warned.
You can’t blame him for his outburst though – I certainly
couldn’t. Some of the graphic things we’ve heard have been horrific, but
somehow listening to this woman trying to excuse Daryl’s actions is even worse.
This witness had a last
twist of her knife left for me though, involving the final rape, in Turkey.
‘No one can have failed to
notice how much his final victim resembles his spouse,’ she said. I quickly
stared down at my lap as all eyes turned to me momentarily, then swivelled back
to the stand.
‘He and his wife try to have
sex but he can’t manage it. Let me read this section:
“This problem of his has been happening on and off for the last two
years or so, and seems to have got worse since I really started hammering home
how much I want a baby. I’d hoped that
him
agreeing to
that would mean the problem wouldn’t happen again, but seems I was wrong. Am I
not enough
woman
for him? Don’t I turn him on?”
‘They have a huge row, and
he immediately has to go in search of a victim because now it is the only way
he knows for handling his rage. He finds a woman who looks just like the source
of his anger…’ Again, people looked at me, accusing rather than appraising this
time. ‘…and while he is attacking her, ultimately he is attacking his wife, but
lacks the emotional maturity to confront her.’
The defence lawyer turned to
the jury. ‘Lacks the emotional maturity,’ he repeated slowly.
‘Yes, and because of that, I
believe he lacked the ability to control himself or his rages, and now lacks
the capacity to comprehend what he has done, hence his ‘not guilty’ plea.’
No one said anything, but there was an uneasy
stirring through the public gallery. But now it was the
turn
of the prosecution to cross examine
the psychologist. I hoped to God he
could undo any damage the defence had done to the chances of Daryl going down
for life.
He made sure everyone had settled
and was giving him their complete attention before he spoke in a gentle yet
commanding voice. ‘Surely you would agree that someone’s partner desiring to
have a child is not normally an excuse to go around raping and killing people?’
he asked.
The witness frowned.
‘Certainly not.
But the right pressure exerted on the right personality type can definitely
create extreme reactions.’
‘The right personality type… And what personality type
does the accused have.’
‘He clearly has psychopathic traits, and some sociopathic
too, I’d say by the way he is able to charm people. Characters such as this
tend to have an inability to comprehend emotions, or the emotional impact of
their own actions on others. The accused would have simply ‘acted out’ as a way
of regaining control over a life he felt he was losing control over’
‘He’s a psychopath?’ checked the prosecuting barrister,
throwing a knowing look at the jury. Well, being described like that isn’t
going to help Daryl –
good
.
‘In her diary, his wife describes a trip to Tilbury and
Manchester that the accused takes her on,’ he added. Then he read out an
excerpt where I described the great sex Daryl and I had in the cab, when he
wore his latex gloves. I didn’t think I could have been made to feel any worse,
but having that private, intimate moment shared with a room of strangers
managed it.
The psychologist nodded her understanding. ‘He definitely
would have enjoyed what in his mind was a re-enactment. Revisiting two sites
where he raped women, then donning the type of gloves he used during those
attacks would have excited him emotionally and physically a great deal.’
‘At one point in another part of the diary the wife also
mentions him wrapping a present with duct tape and smiling…’
‘Yes, it would amuse him a great deal to know he was
showing off his skill with the bindings, and she was clueless.’
‘A show off, someone who relishes
re-enacting his despicable crimes…this doesn’t sound to me like a man who
doesn’t comprehend what he’s done.
It sounds like someone who
is all too aware of his actions, and has thoroughly enjoyed himself,’ the
barrister said, his formerly gentle voice suddenly biting.
The room was
silent,
the psychologist didn’t say a word, looking flatly
at her adversary. He let his words sink in then continued. ‘You say that the
first attack was an unplanned explosion of anger. What about the following
attacks? Why didn’t they happen near his home? They show definite evidence of
planning, do they not?’
‘There was an element of
planning, definitely. Although the victims were chosen opportunistically…’
‘Tell us about the
planning,’ the QC interrupted.
‘He would have chosen places
that were away from his home deliberately, because he wouldn’t want to be
linked with the crimes; it lessened his chances of being caught and he knew it.
At the same time, he wanted locations that he knew well and therefore felt
comfortable in. That’s why he chose places at either end of his regular
trucking runs,’ the expert admitted reluctantly.
Right, so basically, he was
in control enough to know he didn’t want to shit on his own doorstep! Ha, argue
with that, bitch!
‘Then there was the rape kit
he put together, the disguise to put women at ease, the cunning way he then
covered his tracks by covering his outfit with his overalls,’ prompted the
lawyer. ‘These are the actions of someone who recognises what they are going to
do, plans it, enjoys it, and does not wish to be caught. Correct?’
‘Yes, but it’s more
complicated…’
‘Yes or no answer, please.’
She narrowed her eyes.
‘Yes.’
‘Incidentally,’ the lawyer
added, having a
Columbo
moment, ‘why bind the victims
when the assailant is so powerfully built? He clearly is strong enough to
overpower someone if he chose to. Could it be that it’s about the ritual of
binding more than the physical restraint?’
‘There is evidence to
suggest that, yes. The act of binding someone then being able to step back and
see how helpless the victim is would heighten his pleasure,’ she admitted
reluctantly.
Her reward was a brilliant,
triumphant smile from the prosecution as he thanked her and told her she was
free to leave the witness box.
It’s an odd feeling, wanting
to cheer someone who is putting the nail in your husband’s coffin. As
well-trained as Pavlov’s dog, I couldn’t help feeling guilty, and glanced automatically
over at Daryl.
He didn’t look shocked or
worried. He looked amused. Catching my eye, he smiled cheekily, like that first
smile he’d given me all those years before, the first time I’d clapped eyes on
him. Then he mouthed something. I frowned, unable to work it out.
A
quick check around to see if anyone else was looking, and he silently repeated
the words, pointing at me.
‘Your
fault.’
Then he settled back in his seat, satisfied, a little grin
playing across his face and his eyes twinkling.
Well, it’s nice to know
someone is happy with the psychologist’s conclusions.
Tuesday 19
I was tempted to stay at home
today yet I find myself, against all logic, unable to stay away from court.
Macabre curiosity, maybe?
A
sado
-masochistic tendency to have pain inflicted upon
myself?
No, more like I don’t know what I’d do otherwise, so, on
automatic pilot, I get ready while Mum and Dad look on in despair; drag myself
through the crowds (rather hoping they’ll succeed in their bid to tear me to
pieces) and then sit in my usual seat and watch the court circus.
Both sides made their closing
arguments, each taking about an hour and a half to summarize the case from
their point of view. It basically went something like this - the prosecution:
he’s guilty and evil; the
defence
: he’s guilty but
can’t be held responsible, so technically he’s not guilty.
Daryl just
looked bored.
Sitting slightly slumped in his seat, staring into
space, all pretence of acting like the concerned, innocent man seemed to have
disappeared. The mask was well and truly off.
The jury then disappeared,
filing out slowly and solemnly. All that was left to do for the rest of us was
wait
…
Not for long though. Within
two hours we were called back in. Victims and their families held hands, the
atmosphere tense but hopeful. For a moment I felt an affinity with them; we all
wanted the same outcome. But then, watching them, I felt…it’s so wrong to
admit, but I felt a stab of envy.
They are all in it together,
and I’m all alone. They’re helping one another, leaning on their support
network. No one wants to come near me, as if I might contaminate them. As if
Daryl’s badness has rubbed off on me, and may infect them too. I get it; in
their eyes I’m on his side. But I’ve never felt so alone.
In fairness, my parents ask
every single day whether I want them to come with me, but I always so no. I
can’t possibly expose them to this, and besides…I am alone in this. No one can
understand what I’m going through…
Quiet settled instantly as the
judge walked in. All eyes were on the jury as they gave their verdict.
Guilty of all charges.
Of course.
Cries of relief rang out,
people hugging and cheering, it was chaos. The judge shouted for order. Daryl
barely reacted though, apart from a roll of his eyes.
The crowd outside were
euphoric as I left court. They barely noticed me as I slipped away.
All that’s left to sort now is
how long he will serve. Apparently court will reconvene on Friday for that.
I’m almost there now, almost
at the end. I’ve just got to keep going for a little longer, and then I can
collapse in an untidy heap. It can’t come too soon; I’m running on empty,
nothing but fumes keeping me going.
Wednesday 20
Why don’t I feel anything?
Angry, betrayed, devastated, something for all Daryl’s done to me. Relieved
even, now that the truth has come out and he has been found guilty? Instead, I
am a ghost haunting my own body.
Thursday 21
Maybe the problem is that I
can’t get my head round what’s happened. I went to court, I saw it all with my
own eyes, heard things that, well… But there is a part of me that still doesn’t
believe.
I mean, I believe. I just
don’t believe…
Because
Daryl is guilty.
He did it. I’ve stood by a killer, a rapist,
a pervert. I’ve loved him, missed him, longed for him, when all the time... My
life has been destroyed, because I fell for the wrong man. It is, for want of a
better word, unbelievable.
Friday 22
For one final time I pulled
on my court outfit of smart suit and appropriately-named court shoes. Mum and
Dad asked if I wanted them to come with me, but I shook my head, unable to
summon the energy to speak.
Instead they will stay at
home and scrub off the graffiti daubed across the front door. Why bother? It’ll
only be back again tomorrow, just like it always is.
An
eternal reminder that I am scum and should die.
At court, lead weights
seemed attached not just to my limbs as they dragged through the crowd, but
even to my eyelids. I seemed to be fighting a losing battle to keep going.
Halfway through my
now-traditional early morning fight through a screaming mob, I suddenly
stopped, swaying slightly as I looked around. I was in a bubble, even the sound
deadened as I stood taking it all in. So much anger mixed with so much glee,
they seemed to be enjoying themselves.
Seconds ticked by and still
I simply stood. Finally my protection officers prodded me gently forward and I
managed to remember how my legs move.
The same sense of detachment
clung to me as I took my seat one final time in the public gallery. Slowly I
became aware of a hissed conversation seeping through the membrane that seemed
to be surrounding me.
‘…should be ashamed. Why
does she keep coming here?’ stage whispered a woman.
‘You’d think now he’d be
found guilty she’d stay away,’ came the reply.
Still I stared straight
ahead, didn’t flinch as the words washed over me.
‘Sat there like she’s so
high and mighty when… She must have known
,
how could
she not have known?’
‘He must have come home with
blood on his clothes, so why didn’t she question him?’
‘Because
she knew!
He
must have been acting funny as well, but she didn’t bat an eyelid, I bet.’
‘Thank God they didn’t
manage to have kids.’
‘Can you imagine the kind of
feral beast they’d produce? When I think of that poor woman who’s pregnant by
him… Oh, there she is now…’