Kathryn Fox - Without Consent

In the third-floor bathroom, the most aggressive in the pack, Dr. Lyndsay Gatlow, applied the finishing touches to blood-red lips. Coordinator of the northern regional SA unit, she was not known for subtlety of any kind, and the canary-yellow suit was testament to that fact.

“Should be an interesting meeting.” She smirked at herself in the mirror. “The department’s putting more pressure on to replace us with nurse practitioners. If we don’t act quickly, some of us could find ourselves redundant by the end of the year.”

Anya washed her hands to remove the remnants of the greasy make-up. “It’s been a budgetary disaster in the UK. Three nurses doing eight-hour shifts cost more than a doctor on call for twenty-four hours, seven days a week. When you factor in nurses’ holidays and superannuation, costs blow out.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Good to see we’re on the same side.”

With that, the lioness in canary’s clothing took her leave, to stalk some unsuspecting prey.

True to form, Lyndsay materialized in the boardroom on the stroke of nine with an excessive pile of papers.

“Welcome everyone, we’ve got a lot to get through today. So if we can get seated.” She deposited herself at the head of the table. “Today we’ll be joined by Jennifer Beck, from the Office of the Director of Public Prosecutions, whom we all know. She wants to discuss ways to increase the effective collection of evidence.”

Complying, the six doctors and four social workers took their places alongside a Detective Inspector from the Physical Evidence Section and the department’s own representative.

Anya glanced at Mary Singer, one of two people present she deemed allies. Mary responded with a wink.

A document was immediately passed around the table with Anya’s name on the top. She felt her pulse quicken as she recognized the correspondence. This was a private letter written to her by a leading UK forensic physician on the topic of photography in sexual assaults-Lyndsay Gatlow’s favorite agenda. The one agenda she hoped would make her National Director of SA units responsible for hiring and, in Anya’s case, firing.

So far, Gatlow had managed to convince the police that photos would be ideal for court. It sounded good in theory: if a photo of a crime scene was convincing, photos of anatomy should be far more effective than an expert’s verbal evidence. Worse still, she believed the evidence would be irrefutable.

Anya’s experience suggested the opposite. Photos could be misinterpreted and it was too difficult to control access to them. She felt that lawyers and even the attacker viewing photos of genitals added to the victim’s abuse.

Detective Chief Inspector Haddock flicked through the handout and clearly focused on the underlined section. “The president of the International Association for Forensic Physicians seems to think that photography of all wounds is likely to result in more convictions. Isn’t that what we all want?”

Lyndsay Gatlow interrupted, barely able to contain her excitement. “I think we should do things properly, and according to the agenda, so everything said can be documented in the minutes, don’t you agree?”

For the first time, the group unanimously concurred, delaying the inevitable fight Anya was bracing herself for. Her name was back on the menu.

Feeling the heat on her neck rise, she couldn’t believe Gatlow had got hold of private correspondence to her from a colleague, then had the gall to present it publicly. Predictably, Gatlow had taken his comments out of context. The missing pages in the letter outlined why photography had been unsuccessful when trialled in the UK.

Anya controlled her irritation as the agenda covered the usual-rosters, specimen collection, chain of evidence and inadequate storage facilities in SA units for the number of assaults seen. This inevitably led to disposal of vital evidence that could be useful in the future, something which frustrated police and lawyers, but didn’t increase the funding for the units.

“Now,” Lyndsay announced, “I’d like to table a document by one of the world’s foremost proponents of something we must embrace if we are to move into the next era of evidence collection-colposcopic photography.”

Mary Singer interrupted, “Excuse me, but why are you tabling this?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Anya started. “It is a private letter never intended for public dissemination.”

Anya had written to colleagues in the UK discussing the advantages and disadvantages of using the equivalent of a microscope on a flexible tube to examine and photograph inside women’s vaginas.

Lyndsay Gatlow smiled-insincerely. “Why, I phoned the author personally and he gave permission for me to use his opinion to precipitate discussion on the subject.”

Anya could imagine how the conversation had gone. No doubt Gatlow argued that the controversy here about colposcopic photography continued, but omitted to mention she was the sole instigator of the debate.

“We’ve covered this before.” Anya dug her fingernails into her palms. “The trial in the UK failed, if you read the rest of that letter, which, incidentally, appears to be missing from the copy you gave us.”

The other committee members shifted in their seats.

Anya continued, “As doctors, we’re advocates for patients, or in this case, the victims. We do whatever we can to collect forensic evidence, but only with the victims’ informed consent. We’ve gone out of our way to make the whole experience less sterile and invasive, which is why we don’t do colposcopies. Now you want us to film and photograph victims’ genitalia, for potentially hordes of people to see in a courtroom.”

“We owe it to them to get a conviction wherever possible,” Lyndsay interrupted.

“That is not our purpose.” Anya placed both palms on the table. “Our role is to empower them, not turn them into a freak show, where people stare at their genitals and give varying opinions as to whether or not an assault took place.”

The predatory smile returned. “I hate to say it, but I think Doctor Crichton is being overly sensitive about this. As with medical records, we can restrict who has access.”

Anya felt the heat rash on her neck spreading. No one patronized women better than women. “Don’t think that we can control who sees the images. If admitted, they’ll be viewed by police, judges, lawyers, juries, and even the perpetrator in the victim’s presence.”

“I don’t see the problem,” said the detective inspector. “If the assault is particularly brutal, the defense lawyers could argue that photographic evidence is prejudicial, and have the images excluded.”

“Taking that argument alone, any images that fail to show trauma could be used as evidence that no assault took place. As everyone at this table knows, the majority of sexual assaults don’t have signs of genital trauma. In those instances, any photos that appear normal will be prejudicial to the prosecution’s case. We’d be disadvantaging the victims.”

“Sorry I’m late,” announced Jennifer Beck as she entered the room, pulled a spare chair from the corner to the table and sat down. “Who’s disadvantaging victims?”

Lyndsay Gatlow gushed, “We were just debating the merits of photographing genital injuries.”

“Good, that’s why I wanted to speak with you today.” Jennifer pulled up the sleeves of her pale blue cardigan and glanced around the table. “You’ve all heard by now that prosecutors are losing the fight against sexual assault. With only twenty percent of assaults reported to police, what we see is the tip of an enormous iceberg. With other crimes declining in recent years, sexual assault stands alone as the one crime category in which the number of offenses is on the increase. Even with the evidence doctors collect, and the statements of the victims, the majority of offenses don’t result in a formal investigation. Most trials don’t lead to convictions.”