Praise for EGGSHELL SKULL ‘Brutal, brave and utterly compelling, Bri Lee’s extraordinary memoir shines a light on the humanity and complexity of our justice system and the limitless courage victims of crime must summon in a legal process stacked against them at every turn. In the age of #MeToo, Eggshell Skull is a prescient personal account of a young woman’s fierce and unflinching battle against her abuser. I can’t remember a book I devoured with such intensity, nor one that moved me so profoundly.’ Rebecca Starford, author of Bad Behaviour and co-founder of Kill Your Darlings ‘An illuminating meditation on society’s complicity in sexual assault, told through one woman’s pursuit of justice in a system that has failed women and survivors for too long. Powerful as it is timely, Eggshell Skull is a courageous, heartbreaking and ultimately hopeful memoir from one of Australia’s sharpest young writers.’ Liam Pieper, author of The Toymaker ‘Eggshell Skull is as finely wrought as its name suggests—a sensitive and clear-eyed account of childhood sexual abuse that ripples out to encompass both its psychic aftershocks and the gruelling work of seeking legal redress. Lee doesn’t flinch from the ugliness of the crime, but her eye for detail is always compassionate, never gratuitous. This is a book that honours its survivors, and one that should establish Lee as a serious name in Australian nonfiction.’ Jessica Friedmann, author of Things That Helped ‘Eggshell Skull is a page-turner of a memoir, impossible to put down…A great book with which to open a conversation about sexual assault and the way in which the legal system has let women down for too many years. If you are confused or disturbed by the sudden upsurge of #MeToo accusations, Eggshell Skull will give you an insight into the anger and vitriol of many survivors.’ Krissy Kneen, author of An Uncertain Grace ABOUT THE AUTHOR Bri Lee is a writer and editor whose work has been published in The Guardian, Griffith Review, the VICE network and elsewhere, and she regularly appears on ABC Radio. In 2016 Bri was the recipient of the inaugural Kat Muscat Fellowship, and in 2017 was one of Griffith Review’s Queensland writing fellows. She is the founding editor of the quarterly print periodical Hot Chicks with Big Brains, which has published nonfiction about women and their work since 2015. In 2018 Bri received a Commonwealth Government of Australia scholarship and stipend to work on her second book at the University of Queensland. This book is a personal account based on real events and features a mix of both transcribed and reconstructed dialogue. Assertions of innocence or guilt are occasionally expressed merely as the author’s opinion, independent from court rulings. It has been necessary to obscure identifying features of some individuals for both legal and moral reasons, and so dates, locations and other identifiers have been changed where required. Every single name has been changed, therefore any correlation to real individuals is purely coincidental. First published in 2018 Copyright © Bri Lee 2018 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act. Allen & Unwin 83 Alexander Street Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100 Email: [email protected] Web: www.allenandunwin.com ISBN 978 1 76029 577 6 eISBN 978 1 76063 618 0 Set by Bookhouse, Sydney Cover and design illustration: Lisa White Cover images: iStock CONTENTS Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 Acknowledgements The eggshell skull rule applies in many common law jurisdictions in both civil and criminal law. The premise is that if Person A were to have a skull as thin as an eggshell, and Person B struck them on the head, intending only to punch them, but in fact killed them, B is responsible for the damage they cause A. In criminal law the maxim was first stated by Lord Justice Lawton: a defendant must ‘take their victims as they find them’. ONE AFTERNOON WHEN I WAS about ten, my dad drove me to get a pie for lunch as a treat. As his big red ute pulled into the carpark in front of the bakery, we saw a man and woman yelling at each other. ‘Stay in the car,’ my dad said, roughly pulling up the handbrake and getting out. The rusty door whined and banged shut behind him. I sat still and looked forward through the dusty front windscreen as though I was watching television with muffled sound. The yelling got louder and the woman raised her arms, gesturing, and the man raised his arms and shoved her, hard. My father reached them in a few measured strides, and it was as if I saw him transform. He became tall and strong, transcending his daggy, three- quarter cargo pants and floppy leather sandals. I saw the woman had also transformed, but in the opposite way: she looked tiny and terrified. I think she was clutching her face. With one hand Dad reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge, and with the other, keeping his palm open and down, he gestured for the man to step back. The situation de-escalated quickly. The three of them stood there, my father with his legs planted wide and firm, the other two shifting their weight, while he took down something in his notebook and they left. Later I would learn that the woman didn’t want to make a complaint and refused further police assistance. Dad waited until they were well on their way to the train station across the road before he looked back at me in the ute, beckoning for me to come out. I fought the urge to run to him, brimming with questions, my curiosity about this adult occurrence making me feel naughty. We went into the bakery. ‘Tell the lady which kind of pie you would like,’ he said in front of the hot box, his hand on my shoulder. I know plenty of people hate cops. I’m young and blessed to be friends with lots of creative people, left-wing political activists, and older friends who remember Queensland under Premier Joh Bjelke-Petersen when unions saved both livelihoods and lives. I’ve met bad cops who misuse their power, and I know there are lazy cops who make life difficult—and of course I wonder who guards the guards—but I can’t think of cops without thinking of my dad. For most of my life, I’d been blinded by anecdotal evidence full of love and sacrifice. The cop I know best was admired for his calm, non- violent approach. The cop I know best launched me, squealing, from his shoulders into sparkling pools on birthdays. He helped me grow a veggie garden and watered it every morning when I lost interest. He raised me on an addictively binary vision of right and wrong. His uniform was crisp. He got up early in the morning without an alarm clock. People in the neighbourhood called on him, asking for advice. When he moved from patrol work to prosecution he had to take a pay cut of about 20 per cent because he was no longer in danger on a daily basis, but I remember sometimes he would notice cars following us home from school and we’d have to double around dead-end streets until they knew he’d seen them and tore off. Stranger danger was real. After he’d spent a few years in prosecution, some rich barristers offered him a job at about double his wage. Mum and Dad fought about it because the money would have made things a lot more comfortable at home, but neither of them wanted him to work for defence. I’ll never forget my brother and me agreeing that our dad would never go ‘dark side’. He was our hero. Dad often came home with stories about the best and worst in human beings. We talked about why people did bad things. Life was understood as a series of choices, actions and consequences. Later, friends and people at work asked me all the time if I went into law to follow in my father’s footsteps, but it was never that literal. If anything he tried to direct me away from the pursuit. ‘Never look for justice,’ he’d say when he’d finished unloading on Mum after days at domestic violence callover in Holland Park Magistrates Court. Sometimes I was allowed to listen to these discussions, and sometimes I’d be shooed from the room, forced to eavesdrop. ‘What is rape?’ I remember asking him once, as he took off his boots. I was in my primary school uniform, young enough to be asking the definitions of words as I heard them for the first time. ‘Cameron,’ my mum said, frowning at him as she exhaled loudly and left the room.