They Stole My Innocence Page 11

  They said nothing more to me. After all it was beginning to seem that the case was nearly closed. With our main supporter suspended and his deputy, Lenny Harper, retired, who was left to hear us?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  There was nothing left for me to do over the months that followed but to wait for the first trial. The Jordans were being brought back to Jersey. Although I had been told that Graham Power was on an extended holiday, I still hoped I would receive another phone call from him. Meeting him had given me confidence that at last our voices would be heard. Now I was convinced that this trial was only the first of what was to come. Others would follow, and those abusers would be made accountable for their crimes. We must have been believed, after all. That thought consoled me for what the opening of the inquiry had cost my family.

  At some point my husband had gone. A good, decent man, had he left because he couldn’t take any more? Or had I told him to go? I wasn’t quite clear on that.

  When the day came for the Jordans to face a prosecutor determined to see justice done, I and others like me made our way to the court. That morning I walked with buoyant steps and optimism in my heart. I took a seat on the hard wooden bench and waited. Eventually a door opened and I watched as two elderly people were led in.

  My first thought was that, although Anthony Jordan was still a bulky man, dressed in a pale grey suit, he seemed utterly respectable. Where, I asked myself, was the coarse bully who had punched me so hard in the stomach that I had fallen to the ground? The man who had squeezed budding breasts and said, with a leer, ‘Oh, you’re going to grow up to be lovely, all right. No one would guess by looking at you where you’ve come from. Mind you, as soon as you open your mouth they’ll find out you’re nothing but trash.’ A blast of bad breath would hit me as he laughed, twisting my nipple.

  Morag Jordan, who had picked girls up by their hair and brought terror into our lives, looked so small and helpless. Just a woman approaching old age with a pale, lined face. Her eyes, which had scorned and mocked me, were now hidden by glasses, so I could not gauge her expression. I observed that she looked straight ahead and paid no attention to the room. There was arrogance in her demeanour.

  The people I had known were hard to see in the couple my eyes were fixed on. Would they have recognised me if they had seen me in the street? Could they have stripped away the years to see past my middle-aged exterior to the girl they had tormented?

  They must have known, I was sure, that some of us would be there. The ones who were not so damaged that appearing in public frightened them. Yes, they would have been aware that we were there to watch their downfall, hoping with every fibre of our being that they would be locked away for many years.

  We understood that all prisoners hated those who had hurt children: would their lives be turned into a living hell as ours had been? I hoped so.

  Yet when I looked at them, then glanced at the jury I felt a faint apprehension. It was not a cross-section of the poor and not-so-poor. It was a group of twelve people in which the men were wearing well-cut suits, gleaming white shirts and discreet ties perfectly knotted. The women varied from sleek and well-groomed to comfortable middle-aged. The one thing they had in common, I was convinced, was that none of them lived in social housing.

  At last the charges were read out. Inflicting ‘casual and routine violence’ while working as house-parents at the children’s home, said the prosecutor. He went on to outline how the pair had acted as ‘intimidating bullies’ while they had carried out ‘frequent and callous’ assaults on vulnerable residents. He stated that they had force-fed children, rubbed their faces in urine, locked them in the punishment cells for days on end . . . Those were just some of the offences, he told the jury.

  Every day for two weeks I heard the defence barrister denying the Jordans’ guilt. The couple had only done their duty in disciplining damaged and difficult children. He hinted that many of the inmates had, on their release, given nothing but trouble to the police. Did he, and others like him, believe that bad genes were the cause, not the system that had let them down so badly? I already knew that was the belief of many.

  The prosecutor stated that the Jordans had grossly abused their power.

  He called some of those who had suffered under the Jordans’ regime. Damaged people who, with their lack of education, schooling and fragile self-esteem, were no match for the smoothness of the defence. I heard them stumble over their statements and saw the woman whose face had been rubbed in urine burst into tears. The jury’s faces gave little away as, one by one, the witnesses did their best. There was no compassion in their expressions when tears fell or faces flushed scarlet.

  Our ministers and priests tell us we are all born equal in the eyes of God, but I felt then that that was not how Haut de la Garenne’s victims were seen in the eyes of the rich and influential. Eventually the case was summed up and the jury sent to reach their verdict. After deliberating for more than eight hours, the jury found them guilty on eight counts but acquitted Morag Jordan on a further twenty-eight counts and Anthony Jordan on four. Both defendants remained silent as the verdicts were read. They would be sentenced in January. Bail was set. They were free to go until then.

  ‘So they can have Christmas as free people,’ I muttered.

  ‘Still,’ said my son, ‘they’ve been found guilty on eight counts. That’s good, Mum.’

  No, it wasn’t.

  At that moment I hated all those in authority. Had that defence barrister not seen the bravery of those people giving evidence as he tried his best to tear it apart? If he had, he’d decided to remain oblivious of it. There was no justice in that courtroom as far as I could see. The others and I consoled ourselves that January was not far away. The Jordans would surely be worried as to how long their sentence would be. It would spoil their Christmas if they believed it was their last before they were locked up for a very long time. That was what we told ourselves as we waited.

  I sat at my kitchen table on 6 January, a bleak, cold day, listening to the cheerful voice of Chris Stone on Jersey Today as I waited for the hands of the clock to move. At last it was time to leave, and again the others and I walked to the court. Outside, groups of us huddled together, while the same cameramen and reporters buzzed around us. The doors opened and we filed in. As before, the benches were crammed.

  There was utter silence when the judge started his speech of how he had come to the amount of time the couple would be sent away for. At least ten years, I prayed, my whole body rigid with tension. Then she said the words that, for a second, I could not comprehend. Nine months for Morag and six for her husband.

  A collective gasp of dismay sounded in the court when the judge handed it down.

  As Morag heard her sentence, I saw in her eyes, behind her glasses, a look of satisfaction but not of surprise.

  It was too much for me. All those interviews, the digging into my memories, the nightmares that had been released, and for what? Pain shot through my chest and, in a burst of uncontrollable fury, I shot to my feet.

  My son tried to stop me. ‘Mum, don’t,’ he pleaded, but I was deaf to anything but the rage pounding in my head. I screamed out at the injustice of it. Shouted that they were all in cahoots and much worse. My anger had wiped out my self-protection. Still shouting, I was removed from the courtroom.

  The policeman, the one who had questioned me at length, was there. ‘A mistake, Madeleine,’ he said.

  And so it proved to be.

  There was one man left who wanted to fight for us. He publicly stated he believed our statements: Bob Hill, the deputy in St Martin’s parish. He refused to accept the findings of the so-called ‘experts’, who had been called in after Graham Power’s suspension. He insisted that the areas, suddenly called voids, were, as we had said, cellar rooms high enough for grown men to stand, that building work done in the 1970s had lowered the ceilings. He had contacted me. He wanted to find the secret doors leading to the rooms where, as children, we had been
taken. ‘I know it was long ago, Madeleine,’ he had said, ‘but can you remember where they are?’

  I replied that some things could never be forgotten.

  There was one, I told him, behind the pigeonholes where our shoes were kept. Yes, there were others, and, yes, I could show him.

  Then I received another phone call. ‘It would not be good for you to go with Mr Hill,’ a cold voice told me. ‘It would not be healthy for your mind.’ And, as I held the receiver in a hand suddenly grown clammy, a question came into my mind that made the back of my neck prickle with fear. How had this man known what was planned?

  I never went.

  I would have done but, as I had found, there are ways to make courage disappear.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was after the trial, after that last interview, that my world fell to pieces. First I was angry with myself. Why had my courage deserted me? I was hurt by the lack of justice given to us and, above all, I was frightened. Frightened by the deep depression that enveloped me. It was as though a damp, dark fog had wrapped itself around my limbs and curled around my mind. It obscured my vision of day-to-day living, visited me at night and woke me each morning with its mocking scorn at my futile efforts to live my life.

  My drinking increased. The amount I consumed crept up daily. My best friend now came in liquid form. Every time it slid down my throat, the muscles I had been clenching relaxed. Now I understood my mother. ‘I’ll be careful,’ I told myself. ‘I can handle a few drinks. Just until this is over, until I feel a little better.’ One excuse bled into another.

  I flailed out at my children and my husband when he visited. Their needs were not as great as mine. Hadn’t I given them everything? Now it was my turn, though I didn’t know what for.

  ‘No, you’re not going out,’ I said to my fifteen-year-old daughter who, looking pretty, was heading for the door.

  ‘I am,’ was her reply.

  I can’t remember what else she said to me, or I to her. After all, my liquid best friend was doing the talking. I’m sure she said she hated me before she burst into tears and ran out of the house. Engulfed in a rage that had little to do with her, I flew through the door and grabbed her arm. Her temper came up to meet mine. We fought. I had never hit my children when they were young but now I lashed out. Her gold chain caught in my fingers and, without meaning to, I pulled it. It bit into her neck. She screamed.

  What happened next is a blur. I remember my son talking to me, trying to get us both to calm down, and my daughter disappearing back into the house.

  Then the police, with blue lights flashing on their car, arrived. Someone must have called them but I didn’t know then who it was. ‘Drunk and disorderly,’ said the policeman, with cold eyes. ‘And assault, Madeleine. Assault of a minor. That means we’re going to charge you.’

  My arms were held as they started to march me towards the car. I heard my daughter begging them not to arrest me. It was her fault, she said, all her fault. She had started it. She needed her mother.

  Her pleas fell on deaf ears. ‘She’s coming with us,’ said the policeman. ‘I’m not leaving her here after what she’s done.’

  ‘She’s been under a lot of stress,’ said my son. ‘She needs rest. I’ll look after her. Get her to bed. There won’t be any more trouble.’

  They didn’t listen.

  ‘You’re going to spend time inside, Madeleine,’ said the policeman, when we reached his car. ‘Just like your mother did. You’ll have a record that will follow you.’ A hand landed firmly on my head and I was pushed into the back of the car.

  They booked me, then put me into a cell.

  ‘Now you can sleep it off,’ the duty sergeant told me, and suddenly I was sober. They’re just trying to scare me, I said to myself, as I lay down on the hard mattress. After all, my daughter had told them it was just a family thing. And if I was drunk, I had been in my own home. Well, all right, I had followed her out to the pavement, but that was almost my own home. Those thoughts whirled around my head until the amount of alcohol I had consumed made me fall into a restless sleep.

  * * *

  My solicitor and my son, the latter carrying a case containing a change of clothes, arrived in the morning. I was not going to be released, as I had hoped. The police were pursuing the case and I was to appear in court later that day, the solicitor explained.

  ‘What? My daughter’s pressing charges?’ I exclaimed, feeling a wave of dismay.

  ‘No,’ the solicitor reassured me. ‘She absolutely refused, Madeleine. In fact, she’s been to the police and begged them again to release you. She told them it was just a family row and that it was mostly her fault, but they lost patience with her and told her to go away. In fact, they added that if she was incapable of doing her duty, they would do it for her.’

  They had been called out and were going to press charges and that was all there was to it.

  ‘What will happen now?’ I asked, feeling a surge of panic.

  ‘It’s not really an offence that merits a prison sentence, Madeleine,’ the solicitor told me. ‘Just a slap on the wrist and maybe a fine. In fact, you shouldn’t be here. Your daughter has told them it was her fault, that you just tried to stop her going out against your wishes.’

  ‘Well, that’s one way of putting it,’ I said, ‘but I was drunk.’

  ‘In your own home. Hardly a criminal act.’

  Notes were scribbled and reassurances given. Then the solicitor departed.

  ‘It’ll be all right, Mum,’ said my son. ‘I can’t stay long, though. They only let me in to give you your things. I hope we packed everything you need?’

  Then he was gone and I was left with fear blooming in my stomach. For what I had not told my son was that the solicitor’s eyes did not send out the same message as his words. He might know that I shouldn’t be there, but he had dealt with the police many times and understood what could happen.

  One thing I was sure of: they wanted me taught a lesson.

  The police let me shower and, looking in the mirror, I saw a pale-faced woman with dark shadows under her eyes. My head throbbed and I could still taste the previous night’s alcohol. I splashed my face, smeared a little foundation under my eyes and tidied my hair, which the mirror told me, was sticking up in all directions.

  I tried to remember everything that had happened the night before. Yes, I’d been angry with my daughter. Yes, we had fought, but why had the police arrested me? That part was a blank and I prayed that I hadn’t threatened them, then wiped it out of my memory.

  Still feeling nauseous, I changed into a pair of clean jeans. Maybe, I thought, I should have asked my son to bring something smarter, but jeans were what I was comfortable in.

  I waited in that small room, where the walls closed in on me and my stomach churned until I vomited. The face of the policeman was floating in front of my eyes, his expression when he told me I would do time. As much as I wanted to believe the solicitor, his reassurance meant little to me.

  I was taken to the court in a police car and, glancing through the windows as it pulled up, I thought that, with its grey, thunderous clouds, even the sky appeared angry. A hand grasped my elbow and I was led to where I would hear my fate.

  This time there were few people on the benches. My crime was of little interest. Just my children were there for me. I had sent a message for my husband not to appear. I didn’t want his pity.

  The magistrate was a woman, Judge Bridget Shaw. I had read about her when she was sworn in, knew that she had replaced the former magistrate, Ian Christmas, a man holding a position of trust who had been convicted of fraud.

  He had been found guilty and was waiting for his appeal to be heard. In the meantime, he was drawing his full salary. If I was found guilty, I would lose my job and there would be no pay packet. I hoped that she had a rebellious teenage daughter at home: she might just understand how our row had erupted. I just wanted the day to be over and to be back at home with my family. To add
to my nervousness I had to wait while another case was heard.

  A young man, clean-shaven with short hair, somewhere in his twenties, had been charged with driving while under the influence of a considerable amount of alcohol. When it was read out he looked slightly embarrassed, but not, I noticed, particularly worried. He was wearing light grey slacks, a dark blue blazer and a tie that I was sure had his university’s colours on it. Everything about his appearance said ‘establishment’, as did his voice when he was asked to state his name. I noticed that his fresh face showed little of his excesses and felt his confidence when he answered questions put to him.

  That man, I thought, had drunk just as much as I had before he’d got into his car. He was given a fine and had his licence revoked for twelve months. From the smile of relief on his handsome face, paying the fine was not a problem, or being restricted to public transport.

  I kept telling myself that surely what I had done was not as bad as his offence. He had endangered lives; I had had a row with my daughter. For the first time that day I started to believe that maybe my solicitor had been telling the truth after all. That I was going to receive a slap on the wrist.

  I watched as the policeman, who had taken me from my house, the one who had told me I was going to do time, was called to give evidence. He opened his notebook, cleared his throat, then read out his version of that night.

  He described a scene that, even to my ears, sounded bad. He said that I was drunk, out of control and still shouting at my daughter, who appeared terrified when he arrived. Then he went on to describe the red marks on her neck where he stated a chain had been pulled tight. ‘She’s fair-skinned!’ I wanted to cry out. ‘A bump on the edge of a table bruises her.’