Jessica was simultaneously compelled to continue reading and repelled by what she was reading. The compulsion came from a sense of guilt. She was employed in the one department in the company with a heavy concentration of women, even a female boss, the one department with the explicit mandate to look after the wellbeing of staff. She had gone into the office day after day, week after week, half suspecting that this kind of thing was going on but never knowing the specifics and never making it her business to ask. As she had explained to Maserov, the whole culture there was one of don’t ask, don’t tell.
She felt too small, too powerless, to ask the people who also felt too small and too powerless to tell. She was a young woman, Indian too, in a white males’ world, almost as likely as any of the female support staff to be a victim. Almost. It was the almost that got stuck in her throat. She had got herself an education which she had used to gain a marginally less vulnerable position. When she interviewed and was offered the job she hadn’t known that what she would be doing was serving the interests of the people who allowed her to be slightly safer than the less-educated women at the front line. That, and ensuring there was sufficient alfalfa on the sandwich trays that were served at lunch during in-house seminars.
As she lay on her bed in her apartment reading the affidavits, she felt that the company’s regular salary payments into her bank account were in fact dependent on her not voicing her concern with its treatment of women and she started to wonder in what sense she was complicit with its underlying culture. It was a culture she put on a brave face to negotiate every day, right after she applied her make-up in the safe space of her own bathroom. But after reading this, how was she ever going to look at herself in the mirror again? She had been terrified of being in the position in which these women had found themselves but had managed with guile and deft manoeuvring, sometimes deft physical manoeuvring, to avoid the worst that could happen. These women had not been so lucky.
Jessica knew that there were men who, after they loosened their ties at the end of the day, turned their attention to the women who, having groomed themselves first thing that morning after choosing their clothes carefully the night before, had fought their way to the Torrent Industries tower through impatient morning crowds clutching coats and bags, fingers tight around the dignity they brought from home for pay that would have left the pack cold. It was an attention these women, these stress balls for the men they worked for, could each feel in the air. In a touch, a look, a remark above the chatter of keyboards they would hear the subliminal sounds only feral dogs make. And soon, here and there, the teeth would emerge from behind a rapidly vanishing dissembled smile. The bite was coming, any moment now.
And if ever the taste turned sour, they would say she asked to be bitten, that she wanted it, she wanted the imbalance of power, the humiliation, the uncertainty as to her future prospects and earning capacity, the instant evaporation of self-esteem, the torn clothing, the smeared make-up, the sleepless nights, the counselling, the whole thing. You could just tell what she wanted, your honour. It was consensual. Jessica knew all of this, had seen it herself.
Having read what had happened to Pauline Hart, Jessica read what happened to Lilly Zhang, twenty-two, and then Monika Galea, twenty-five. There was another reason Jessica felt compelled to read on. She wanted to see what could happen to her.
Jessica remembered talking to Monika Galea at end-of-financial-year drinks. Though she’d seen her many times in passing, until that night they’d never really said much more than ‘hi’ and ‘good morning’ to each other. But even then there was something bright, something engaging and sympathetic in Monika’s eyes that made Jessica feel that they might get on, that she might be someone nice to have lunch with if the prospect of eating with someone from HR didn’t put Monika in a difficult position socially with the other secretaries in her department.
That early evening at drinks Jessica had made a point of approaching her and they had talked about food, cafes in the area, restaurants, and the best places to buy fresh produce for cooking at home. Monika had dark shoulder-length, wavy, almost curly hair and a ready smile. Jessica remembered she was warm and easy to talk to. But when one of the executives from Mining, her department, called Monika over to a group of other Mining people, Jessica had taken the opportunity to slip out of the boardroom and go home.
Now, on reading the affidavit, she remembered Monika privately raising her eyebrows to her when called over as if to say, ‘Sorry, I have to go.’ That had been the last contact she had ever had with Monika. And while it made perfect sense, Jessica was shocked to deduce from Monika’s affidavit that this was the very night she was assaulted by Jim Duffy, one of the executives from Mining.
From Monika’s affidavit Jessica learned Duffy had made suggestive comments before that night, many times, about her body, about her chest, and had even brushed up against her several times, pretending each time it had been an accident. So should she have seen this coming? That’s what Jessica could imagine being put to her in court should Monika ever find herself giving evidence of Jim Duffy’s assault on her that night. It would be put in a hostile tone as though it was Monika who had done something wrong and now she was trying to ruin the career and even the marriage of a good, hard-working man.
Jessica read on. Fuelled, emboldened, by alcohol, he had followed her out of the boardroom as she was leaving to go home. Walking two flights down via the fireproof stairwell, back to her desk in order to pick up her things before going home, where she lived with her parents, younger brother and sister, she hadn’t even realised he was behind her in the stairwell. It certainly hadn’t ever occurred to her that it would be unsafe for her to take the stairs in her own place of work. But it was unsafe.
Jessica read that Jim Duffy had come up behind her in the stairwell and pushed her against the concrete wall of the otherwise empty stairwell. The back of her head banged against the wall. She was in shock. He tried to kiss her, to invade her mouth with his, but failed and then started tearing at her blouse. She screamed but there was no one there to hear her. It seemed like ten minutes as she struggled to break his grip with her heart beating like a bell inside a fire alarm but was probably no more than two minutes before she managed to break away and run out of the stairwell at the next floor. Her shirt was torn and she had a scratch along one side of her chest from Duffy’s fingernails.
Monika Galea no longer worked at Torrent Industries. Jim Duffy was still there, a highly regarded member of the Mining team.
By the time Jessica had finished reading the last of the affidavits, she had tears in her eyes. Was anything ever going to change?
She texted Maserov to say she had just finished reading the last of the affidavits, Carla’s, knowing he had read them all. It had sickened her, she told him. She asked how negotiations with Carla and Betga had gone. It was eleven o’clock. She waited for a response and when nothing came back she suddenly worried that she had made a mistake by texting him so late.
Maserov was awake, alone in his bed, when the text came in. How should he tell Jessica what had happened at Carla’s house? To his and Betga’s surprise, Carla had said she wasn’t interested in talking about settlement.
‘This isn’t about money!’ Carla had said. ‘This was a fucking crime. Ron said it’s criminal assault, maybe even attempted rape. I want Mercer punished. I want him to go to jail. Then we can talk about money.’ Maserov and Betga had looked at each other.
‘It’s complicated. Do you mind if I tell you tomorrow?’ Maserov texted Jessica from his darkened bedroom.
‘No, not at all. Sorry if I woke you.’
‘No, you didn’t at all.’
The leafy streets of Elwood and St Kilda were hushed as Maserov and Jessica lay in their beds, alone in their respective apartments, reading and re-reading their last messages to each other.
‘Sleep well.’
‘You too, sleep well.’
‘Good night.’
‘Good night.’
‘See you tomorrow.’
‘See you in the morning.’