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Allegations
of Sexual Abuse |
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Louise Nicholas enters
courtroom 12 with her eyes fixed on the floor. The slender 38-year-old is
diminutive against a landscape of eight bat-winged lawyers, several
black-robed court attendants and Justice Tony Randerson at his raised desk. She doesn't look in the
direction of the three men on her left, all dressed in dark suits, who are
accused of raping her 20 years ago. Assistant Police
Commissioner Clint Rickards and former officers Bradley Shipton and Robert
Schollum, arrayed behind their lawyers, stay facing forward. She does not
look at them; not even one snatched glance. "Will you take the
Bible?" asks the court attendant. "I will," Mrs Nicholas
replies, the microphone capturing a level voice. She fixes her gaze on
Crown solicitor Brent Stanaway, who engages in a leisurely
question-and-answer session which paints an ordinary life. Composed, but with a
near-frown on her face, Mrs Nicholas answers queries about where she was
born, where she went to school, the jobs she had after she left at 16, where
she flatted, how she met the accused. Her speech is level and
to the point, her accent rural New Zealand. Photos of the places
she has lived and worked in flash up on the courtroom's computer screens; her
expression lightens into a fleeting, smile of recognition when she sees the
caravan in a Rotorua caravan park which was once the temporary family home. There is even a hint of
humour in her voice as she describes how one of her jobs has been a
"lackey" on her father-in-law's farm. Occasionally she hesitates to
search her memory. But the muscles in her cheeks
tighten as the questions lead her to the Rotorua flat where, she alleges, the
accused started visiting, uninvited and unannounced, using their physical
presence and status to press an 18-year-old of some 47kg into sex against her
will. Her voice falters and
wobbles. She keeps her eyes on Mr Stanaway's face. Suddenly she is back in
a Rotorua police house. Her composure cracks and her eyes are squeezed shut,
head bowed, tears flowing. The words are rushing from her mouth as she
recounts her version of events. How, as she thinks it is over, Shipton
advances on her with a wooden police baton in one hand, a jar of Vaseline in
the other, a "dirty smirk" on his face. She protests, backs
away, spits and swears like a cornered cat: there is no way he is using
"that thing" on her. But he does, twice, she alleges. And then, she
says, she just wants to die. Justice Randerson calls
for a few minutes' adjournment so Mrs Nicholas can collect herself. And then, says Mrs
Nicholas, Schollum drops her home with two words: "Sorry, Lou". Rickards is staring at
his paperwork. Schollum is busily writing notes. Shipton is shaking his head. |
