9. Guest v. Finbow Day One
GUEST V. FINBOW: DAY ONE
Anna has mastered the art of the subtle gesture.
It’s all those years in front of the camera.
When she returns to the witness stand in the early afternoon and removes her jacket, revealing her yoga-toned arms, she’s conveying her strength.
Moving slowly and purposefully, her very thinness reflects her self-discipline, which sits at the heart of her legal defense.
Anna needs the judge to conclude that she is a restrained woman in all her dealings.
Her piece in The Peony wasn’t carelessly published, but thoughtfully contrived. Factually accurate. Steadfastly true.
But under the pressure of cross-examination, Anna soon buckles. Her oral evidence proves far harder to control.
“I’d like to ask some questions,” Ms. Ibrahim says, “about the events of the seventh of March this year. Could you talk me through the events of that day?”
Anna’s chin dips, as if she is anticipating a blow in the face. “That was Mary’s twenty-fourth birthday. It will have been quiet.” Her voice trembles. “Since she left, that day is a source of great pain for us.”
“Specifically, if you can tell me, what did you get up to?”
“I did some yoga, as I generally do in the mornings. We might have had a few friends for lunch.”
“And after that?” Ms. Ibrahim presses her. “In the early evening, just before seven o’clock?”
Anna looks straight ahead. “I was visited at home by two members of the Metropolitan Police,” she says, with strained dignity. “They arrested me.”
Up in the gallery, the journalists fidget and whisper.
Those press photographs were notorious: the domestic goddess, tripping down the steps of her frothy pink villa in Notting Hill, flanked by two policemen.
The scandal that this caused, I knew, was partly what drew her up to Stoke the following month.
She couldn’t face the humiliation of it.
“Would you inform the court of the reason behind your arrest?” Ms. Ibrahim inquires.
“I believe my crime was delivering a birthday card to my daughter.”
Ms. Ibrahim wipes the skin beneath the seam of her wig. “You were arrested for breaching an injunction to stay away from your daughter, Mary. According to the police report, you even resisted arrest. You kicked a police car.”
Anna colors. “It wasn’t my intention for things to turn physical—”
“You didn’t mean them to, but they did.”
“I have since apologized to everyone involved,” she snaps. “I wasn’t myself. I was deranged with grief. And nothing came out of it. They brought me in for questioning, and I was eventually released without charge, only a warning.”
“Let’s return to the birthday card,” Ms. Ibrahim says. “Do you confirm that you entirely disregarded your daughter’s clear wish not to be contacted by you?”
“It was not her real wish.”
“But, more importantly, you entirely disregarded an order of the court, didn’t you? An order that was made for Mary Finbow’s protection?”
The muscles in Anna’s neck stiffen.
“Do you believe that you are above the law, Mrs. Finbow?” Ms. Ibrahim continues.
“Of course not.”
“Then why did you disregard the law?”
“I was desperate,” Anna cries. “I didn’t think that—”
“Did you think you could get around it, just as you thought you could defame my client’s reputation and face no repercussions?”
“No.” Anna’s voice cracks. “That is not the case at all. I was simply telling the truth.”
There is a grim pause. A smile passes across Ms. Ibrahim’s face. She has wound Anna up in precisely the way she wanted to.
“Let’s move on. Could you tell me a little about the book you are writing now? According to your publishers, this is your third memoir?” She clasps her slim hands in front of her in a posture which no longer belies rapt attention, but sarcasm.
Anna straightens. “Well, this one’s rather different. It’s about our current situation; it’s full of practical advice for families who are going through the same thing as us.” She turns to address the judge. “Your Honor, there are hundreds of families facing this exact nightmare.”
“May I ask if your daughter is named in the book?”
Anna’s expression hardens. “It’s a work in progress. I can’t give too much away. Not without my publisher’s permission.”
“What about Ms. Finbow’s permission?”
Anna snaps back defensively, “It’s been pretty bloody hard to get a message to Ms. Finbow.”
Ms. Ibrahim gives a withering smile. “But you don’t think she’ll mind? Is it much the same as when you published your piece in The Peony , Mrs. Finbow? That you haven’t considered the risk?”
“She won’t read it,” Anna scoffs. “My daughter doesn’t read books. And never has.”
I flinch at this blunt admission. Meanwhile, the force of Ms. Ibrahim’s argument is building. It is undeniable: Anna Finbow plays out all her family dramas in public, utterly ignorant of the impact her public statements will have on the lives of others.
“Your daughter has faced this level of media intrusion from the moment she was born,” the barrister continues.
“For instance, and this is just one example out of many, photographs of Mary’s childhood birthdays were published each year in Hello!
magazine.” Ms. Ibrahim sighs heavily. “Could it be possible that your daughter simply wants a break from all this?”
Anna shakes her head. “She may say that she does, but I know it is not her real wish.”
Ms. Ibrahim pauses, allowing the court to reflect on the insubstantiality of Anna’s claim.
“In her witness statement, Ms. Finbow talks of how unhappy she was, growing up in your home. Is this also your understanding?”
“No. That is not my understanding nor the reality,” Anna quips. “My daughter’s notion of her childhood has been poisoned by your client. Her present selfhood, too. Just look at that independent report we commissioned. He concluded that my daughter was suffering with depression.”
Ms. Ibrahim’s eyes widen. “But, Mrs. Finbow, it also concluded that your daughter displayed no obvious indicators of psychological entrapment during the meeting.” She reads aloud.
“?‘No impulsivity, no signs of cultic indoctrination or aggression. Mary also referred proudly to her growth as a professional artist, which has helped her to overcome a previous dependency on recreational drugs.’ She pointed to the fact that she no longer engages in substance abuse as evidence of her life satisfaction. Is it not your view that this sounds healthy and well-adjusted?”
“There was never any real substance abuse going on,” Anna scoffs, off script now and avoiding her lawyer’s furious glare. “Nothing excessive. More a case of having fun.”
Ms. Ibrahim looks purposely grave. “Most people,” she says slowly, “would see any drug misuse as a reason to seek the professional help of a counselor or therapist.”
“Your client is not a professional.”
Ms. Ibrahim sighs. “But nor can your witness statement be relied on as factual. For instance, you describe Ms. Finbow’s home life as a happy one. Whereas she has made allegations of drug taking in your family home.”
My pulse quickens. Ms. Carr rises with an objection, which Ms. Ibrahim calmly refutes.
“My lord, my questions are relevant to rebut the defense’s preposterous idea that my client harbors some fanatical demand for separatism.
To the contrary, Mrs. Finbow’s daughter chooses to live apart from her family milieu for incredibly logical and sensible reasons.
She alleges that her home life, for example, was not a safe nor healthy environment to grow up in.
Here, we have a typical text exchange, there are many, but in the interest of time, let’s just study this example on page 311.
The defendant writes to her daughter, Mary, ‘Darling have you seen Daddy’s weed?
’?” Ms. Ibrahim turns to Anna. “Do you have it there, Mrs. Finbow?”
Anna is thin lipped. “I do.”
“And have you located your daughter’s reply? I’ll read it for you. She says, ‘It’s with me upstairs.’ She sends an emoji of a devil. You reply: ‘Save some for us.’ Can you confirm the dates of this exchange for the courtroom?”
Ms. Carr rises again. “My lord, I think we are now in an area where my client cannot be compelled to answer, and ought to be fairly and properly given the usual warning.”
Anna quickly cuts across Ms. Carr. “No, I want to answer. I have nothing to hide.” She glances toward her barrister, who shoots her a warning stare. “I expect it was our Carnival party.”
“August of which year, Mrs. Finbow?”
Anna’s voice grows quieter. “2009.”
“When your daughter was how old?”
Anna pauses as she calculates. “Fourteen.” There is the stirring of voices in the gallery. Jean smiles down at her notebook, her cheeks pink with excitement. “We’ve always had a permissive household.”
“In the eyes of the law, that isn’t permissive, Mrs. Finbow, it is criminal. But, as we have already seen, you prefer to pick and choose when the law applies to you, don’t you?”
“That’s not right.”
“In her statement, Mary talks of how badly this—what was your term?— permissiveness affected her mental health. But, then again, you were already aware of that, weren’t you?”
“There had been some issues,” Anna says softly. “But when she was a lot younger.”
“And did you and your husband support your daughter during those previous bouts of poor mental health?”
Anna’s posture stoops. She bites her lip as she looks helplessly over to Ms. Carr. Finally, in a defeated voice, she admits, “We hired a therapist.”
Ms. Ibrahim smirks. “What is the difference between Mary Finbow’s choice to work with my client now, and the care you provided for her in her adolescence?”
Anna stumbles over her words. “Yes. We engaged experts. People with real accreditations.”
“Is it possible that you are simply not satisfied with the outcome?”
“No!”
“Is that why you are seeking revenge against my client?”
Anna brings one hand to her forehead and uses the other to steady her at the witness box. “You’re wrong…” she stutters.
Ms. Ibrahim smiles beatifically and nods at the judge to signal she has reached the end of her cross-examination.
Her manner softens. “We understand how unhappy you are with your daughter’s life choices, Mrs. Finbow.
Your desire to place blame on my client is understandable in these contexts, given your great personal sadness. But that does not mean it is right.”