When Hannah Robinson graduated from her law degree with first class honours, she looked forward to a glittering career. But a short time after her graduation photos were taken, her life as she knew it lay in ruins. Here, she tells her story:
Since 2019, I have worked as a lawyer in the community legal sector. I have provided legal advice to hundreds of victims of family, domestic and sexual violence. I have heard harrowing stories and heartbreaking disclosures. I have seen first-hand how our criminal justice system fails survivors time and time again.
I thought I knew what it was like for a complainant to be retraumatised at every turn.
I was wrong.
It is impossible to understand just how bad our system is until you have lived it yourself. And now I have.
Over the last two years, I have navigated a system I thought I was familiar with from an entirely new perspective, that of the complainant. And it was torture.
In June 2018, I was 24 years old and working at a top-tier commercial law firm. I was about to move to Melbourne for a secondment. I hosted farewell drinks. That night, I claim I was indecently assaulted by someone I once considered a friend, a colleague and peer in the legal profession, someone who should have known better.
Three years later, in June 2021, I reported what happened to NSW Police. By then I’d left commercial law. I’d tried to escape my trauma by moving to country NSW. It didn’t work. But through my new role I came to understand a lot more about sexual offences, consent, and coercion. I did a lot of research. I came to recognise the incident for what it was.
I didn’t report to get an outcome; you can’t when convictions are as rare as they are. I reported because I felt I couldn’t do my job as a lawyer entrusted with upholding the administration of justice if I hadn’t followed my own advice.
I was telling clients the system isn’t perfect, that a conviction is far from guaranteed, but that reporting to police was still important, that it would help, even though I hadn’t done it myself. I felt like a fraud.
When I made the decision to report, I thought I knew what I was in for. But I was wrong. It took me three years to build up the courage to go to police, to let go of the guilt and self-blame long enough to say, “this happened”.
I walked into the police station in suburban Sydney prepared to make a statement. I was ready. But the police weren’t.
I was told it wasn’t their jurisdiction, that they would refer it to the station where the incident occurred (in the Sydney CBD), and that someone would be in touch at some indefinite point in the future. They sent me away.
It is impossible to describe what that felt like. I walked into the police station adrenaline racing, feeling determined and empowered, hopeful even. I walked out confused and let down. Why didn’t they want to know? Did they not believe me? I waited by the phone for a week, no contact. It was left to me to follow-up.
When it came to the trial last year, I was cross-examined for hours by Senior Counsel. I was questioned about being flirtatious, as if that somehow justified what had happened. I was asked about my drinking habits. I was asked about being sexually aroused. I was shown messages from a former male work colleague, who was later called as a character witness for the defence, that called me “f**king crazy”.
I had my integrity questioned. It was put to me that my complaints of sexual harassment prior to the incident weren’t true because I didn’t complain at the time.
After almost four years of building myself up to go through this process, it took mere hours for me to be knocked back down.
I was made to feel like what happened was my fault – I had been drinking after all, I hadn’t left with my friends, and our knees may have inadvertently touched at the bar – had I led him on? That’s what his Barrister seemed to be saying. Maybe it was all on me.
Then there was the timing and delays. My trial was originally set for two days, a Friday and a Monday. I still don’t understand why. I was under oath over the weekend. This meant I could not talk to anyone about the proceedings.
Those 60 hours were the worst of my life. I was reliving every moment, anticipating what would come next, and I couldn’t talk about it – to family, friends, a psychologist – I had no-one. I just had to wait it out.
But come Monday, they ran out of time. The trial was adjourned, unresolved, for six months. I waited. I managed the anxiety. I did the best I could. But once again, time was not on my side. It was adjourned again. And again. And again.
I complained to police. I tried to express my distress at the delays, to explain to them the unrelenting rollercoaster of anxiety I had been on for 18 months. But they put it back on me. They said this was “normal” and that it had been my choice to attend the proceedings. I may not work in criminal law, but I know it is not “normal” for a four-day hearing to take seven months. But police dismissed my anxiety and my trauma in telling me otherwise. I was made to feel like my distress was of my own making.
When you are at your lowest – dealing with trauma, and stress, and, frustration, and anger, and doubt – a little reassurance and kindness go a very long way. What I got from police instead was blame and invalidation. My experience was dismissed. I was made to feel like there was no reason why I should be feeling the way I was. I can’t explain what that felt like. It almost derailed me completely. I had no control. Just like that night.
These are a select few of the retraumatisations I faced. But it could have been so much worse. When I went to police, I was believed. My motives weren’t questioned. I had prepared my own statement. This meant that I wasn’t questioned relentlessly as so many complainants are. There was enough evidence to support an investigation, without me having to convince police it was worth their time. Although there was a delay, it was a much shorter delay than most complainants experience – within five weeks of my initial report, the defendant was arrested. Compared to many, that was very fast.
Throughout the whole process I have had the support of family, friends, a qualified psychologist, regular GP, and very supportive employers. After being cross-examined, I took almost two months leave from work to look after myself. For many that’s simply not possible. I currently pay about $500 a month for psychological support and medication. It is a privilege to be able to access that support. Far too many people who have had similar experiences do not have the same privilege.
I am someone who knows the criminal justice process. I am a lawyer, and had spoken to other lawyers. I was as prepared as any complainant could possibly be. I thought I knew what to expect. I was wrong. The retraumatisation I experienced was immense. But I am also lucky. I’ve been able to manage … just.
On 22 February 2023, a “not guilty” verdict was handed down – 622 days after I initially reported to police and 279 days since the first day of the trial.
The defendant accepted that I said “no”. He acknowledged that I was intoxicated, that I was tired, that I said I wanted to go to sleep and that I was crying (although didn’t agree that I was crying because of what he was doing). But his account was that while I explicitly “said no to kissing, no to touching [his] penis, [and] no to [him] putting his hands in [my] underwear”, he still believed I wanted him to touch my breasts and rub my genitals.
The way our criminal justice system works is that a defendant in criminal proceedings does not have to prove anything. In my case, the defendant’s version of events, that he believed I was consenting, did not have to be accepted for a “not guilty” verdict to be returned. Instead, it was on the prosecution to prove its case “beyond reasonable doubt”, including that the defendant subjectively knew I was not consenting. But it is almost impossible to prove what is in a person’s mind. Ultimately, the Magistrate found that the possibility of the defendant’s version of events could not be eliminated. Despite his Honour finding my account credible and compelling, there was nevertheless “reasonable doubt”.
As a lawyer, I know that sexual offending is incredibly difficult to respond to. There is an extremely delicate balance between protecting victims and the presumption of innocence of the accused. I know that cross-examination is key to the administration of justice, as too is the need to prove guilt to a very high threshold, and the right of a defendant not to give evidence. These rights and protections should not be abrogated. But we must carefully consider what the trade-off is, and, if an appropriate balance can’t be met, whether our criminal justice system is the appropriate forum to deal with these sorts of cases.
From my experiences, professional and personal, we haven’t got the balance right, in fact far from it. I am white, straight, well-educated, and articulate – far more privileged than many complainants going through the system. I am a lawyer who has worked in the sexual violence space. I knew what evidence was required and ultimately only reported because I had messages that seemingly corroborated my account.
But even with all that, my case was one of the 97 per cent (approximate) of reported sexual offences that do not result in a conviction. My experience was no different to that of hundreds of other women and girls who are worn down and brutalised by the criminal justice system each year. I was lucky enough to have survived it, but far too many don’t, or never recover.
The system is in dire need of change. We can and we must do better.
Hannah Robinson is a lawyer and policy advocate. She has worked in the NSW Community Legal Sector and is currently completing a Master of Public Policy through the Crawford School (ANU). The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not reflect those of any organisation she has worked for or may work for in the future.
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