It’s just before 9am on a spring morning in downtown Newcastle, when a sheriff unlocks the revolving door to the courthouse complex. A woman with short, chestnut hair is first to enter. Passing through the security scanner, she gives the officers a friendly hello before heading to her office. After reviewing her schedule for the day, the woman – whom I’ll call Jennifer – takes the lift to the upper levels of the courthouse, the largest of its kind in regional NSW, to begin her rounds.
Jennifer introduces herself to a young woman sitting outside one of the courtrooms, and quietly asks if she is a victim or a witness. The young woman confirms she is a prosecution witness, here to give evidence in a sexual assault trial. Her best friend is the alleged victim, and she’s clearly anxious.
Jennifer tells her she’s a court support officer who helps prosecution witnesses and victims. As she begins explaining court formalities, the young woman suddenly becomes agitated. She’s spotted the defendant. When he takes a seat nearby, Jennifer clocks the young woman’s rising distress. “Would you like to move away?” she asks.
Immediately, the young woman is on her feet. Jennifer leads her to the furthest corner of the waiting area, asking if she’s OK. “I feel like I’m going to be sick,” the young woman says. She’s afraid of having to testify in front of the defendant, and worried about her friend, who will give evidence first via video link. “We’ve never been to court,” the young woman says. “We don’t do bad things.”
Jennifer assures her a social worker will be with her friend. She shows her a diagram of the courtroom, pointing out the witness box and where the judge, the lawyers and the defendant will sit. She shows her where to bow to the judge – “just a little bow, no curtsy” – and explains she’ll be asked to swear an oath or an affirmation to tell the truth.
Listening intently, the young woman doesn’t notice that you can catch glimpses of the city’s sparkling harbour through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Nor does she pay any attention to the cooking show playing on the television mounted to a nearby wall.
“I’m worried I’ll cry,” she says. “I just don’t want him to see me get upset.” “You don’t worry if you cry,” Jennifer tells her. “You’re not a robot.”
A detective and police prosecutor arrive to speak with the young woman, so Jennifer tells her she’ll be back before it’s her turn in the witness box. “You’ll get through it,” she promises. “You will.”
She’s a 72-year-old retired speech therapist and grandmother who has never been paid a cent for her work.
From homicide and domestic violence, to manslaughter and armed robbery, Jennifer has sat through dozens of trials and hours of harrowing testimony. She’s heard graphic descriptions of sexual assault, and borne witness to the grief that plagues families whose loved ones have fallen victim to senseless crimes. She knows the secret location of the safe room, where victims can wait to avoid coming face-to-face with their alleged perpetrators. She’s had hours of training in court procedures and attends several professional development courses every year. But she’s never been paid a cent for her work.
She’s a 72-year-old retired speech therapist and grandmother who spends a couple of days a week supporting strangers as they relive what is often the most traumatic event of their lives.
Jennifer works for Victims and Witnesses of Crime Court Support (VWCCS), an independent organisation staffed almost entirely by volunteers. First established in Sydney 20 years ago, the VWCCS now has more than 120 volunteers who work at the Downing Centre courts in Sydney’s CBD, and at Parramatta, Waverley and Newcastle courts. A similar organisation, Court Network, operates in Victoria, where about 250 volunteers support 78,000 court users (including the accused) annually across all court jurisdictions.
The VWCCS agreed to allow Good Weekend to follow Jennifer, as long as we didn’t reveal her real name. “We’re not counsellors, not lawyers,” Jennifer says. “We’re decent people who like to help.”
Walking through the Newcastle courthouse in her burnt-orange jumper, trousers and black flats, Jennifer presents as a softer antidote to the imposing black silhouettes of the barristers’ gowns that sweep past. “Morning Harry, busy day?” she cheerily asks a tall, lanky guy in a grey suit. He’s a police prosecutor, she whispers. Jennifer’s on a first-name basis with many of the prosecutors and court staff. She’s been working here longer than many of them, she says.
Eight years ago, after she’d retired from her job as a speech therapist and her three children had all left home, she read a newspaper article that said volunteers were needed to start the court support program in Newcastle.
“I thought it … could make a difference in people’s lives,” she says. “I wondered if I could do that.”
It’s not uncommon for witnesses to vomit while testifying. ‘They’re so traumatised … You have to know when to grab the bin.’
Back then, Jennifer had never been inside a courtroom. But she would soon see for herself just how confronting the court process could be, particularly for those involved in sexual assault and domestic violence trials. These make up the majority of the cases Jennifer attends to, and sometimes her role extends to sitting beside complainants in the witness box while they give evidence.
Jennifer says it’s not uncommon for witnesses to vomit while testifying. “They’re so traumatised, you’ve got to relive what happened to you,” she says. “You have to know when to grab the bin.”
During sentencing hearings, volunteers are also allowed to read victim impact statements on behalf of victims. Jennifer recalls sitting with a 15-year-old sexual assault victim as she began reading her statement. When the girl faltered after the first sentence, Jennifer asked whether she’d like her to read on her behalf. Reading the girl’s written words, Jennifer detailed the devastating impact of the assault, pausing towards the end to ask whether the victim wanted to read her final lines.
“We just waited until she could do it,” Jennifer recalls. “She said she would not be defined by that crime, she was going forward to make a life for herself. It was such a positive statement for her to make in the courtroom. It was important she be given every chance to do it, and she did.”
While the Office of the Director of Public Prosecutions operates its own Witness Assistance Service, staffed by social workers, psychologists and counsellors, it may refer some adult witnesses to the volunteer service if they don’t have the capacity to support all victims and witnesses of crime.
‘That compassion and kindness can have an enormous impact on someone’s experience of the justice system.’
Hannah Damkar, NSW Victims of Crime commissioner
The organisation also assists families of victims. “The government isn’t able to provide dedicated witness support in every matter, which is why organisations like Victims and Witnesses of Crime Court Support play such an important role,” Hannah Damkar, NSW Victims of Crime commissioner, said. “No one can take away the trauma of a crime or the stress that can come with court proceedings; however, supportive people can make the experience feel less overwhelming … What strikes me about these volunteers is their generosity – they choose to give their time to support complete strangers. That compassion and kindness can have an enormous impact on someone’s experience of the justice system.”
The criminal justice system is often fiercely criticised for how victims are treated. The NSW government recently introduced reforms intended to reduce the trauma experienced by sexual assault complainants when giving evidence, including allowing them to pre-record testimony. Jennifer believes there is now a greater awareness among judges and lawyers about how the court process can amplify a victim’s trauma, compared to when she began volunteering for the VWCCS.
She cites the introduction of specialist support services for domestic violence victims as a major improvement, and she’s seen how seemingly minor adjustments can make a difference, such as judges telling alleged perpetrators to remain in the courtroom while the alleged victim leaves first. “There’s recognition, but women still live in fear,” Jennifer says. What hasn’t changed, she adds, is the level of distress she sees, particularly among sexual assault victims. “No two cases are exactly the same, but the trauma is shared by the victims.”
Protecting volunteers from suffering vicarious trauma from what they hear in criminal trials is paramount, according to Maggie Weiley, the organisation’s vice-president. They have access to a counsellor anytime they feel they need support. The volunteers are mostly retired women “with a big heart”, and come from a range of professional backgrounds, says Weiley, a former advertising executive, who began volunteering in Sydney in 2007.
The volunteers undergo a rigorous selection process, which includes three interviews. People who have been victims or witnesses of crime are not accepted. “We think it’s best practice not to run the risk of retraumatising,” says Weiley.
Volunteers also attend training sessions with police prosecutors, detectives, legal academics, and victims of crime. They complete 40 hours of court observation, and write a paper about their experience, before embarking on a three-month probation period, under the supervision of experienced court support officers. They are not allowed to give legal advice to clients or discuss details of cases.
The organisation has helped more than 28,000 victims and witnesses since it was established in 2006 by Pieta Thornton, a former corporate executive.
‘It’s a very difficult day for people, possibly among the worst days of their lives ... They feel they’re on trial.’
Maggie Weiley, VWCCS vice-president
Weiley says Thornton’s vision was to develop a team of highly trained volunteers who could support victims and witnesses of crime. “When you think about the adversarial nature of the court, that you have to recall – with crystal-clear clarity – something that happened years ago … it’s a very difficult day for people, possibly among the worst days of their lives,” says Weiley. “It’s very unnerving for people. They feel they’re on trial.”
The organisation recently recruited a new batch of volunteers to help expand the service next year. Weiley says they look for non-judgmental people with strong communication skills. She says it’s a challenging but rewarding role. “You can assess on that day the impact that it’s had on someone’s life,” she says. “I think, with many of us, it’s underpinned by a real sense of social justice and a strong desire to have a meaningful life.”
Jennifer says many of the volunteers remain with the organisation for years. “I think most people stay because it’s purposeful and they end up better people,” she says. “We learn not to judge. We learn life can be cruel.”
Jennifer attended training sessions about stress and trauma, but hasn’t felt the need to see a counsellor. “Most of the volunteers here and in Sydney feel that they cope well because we’re doing something positive. We work at leaving it here,” she says. “We start when we walk in, we finish when we walk out.”
Just before lunchtime on the day of the sexual assault trial in Newcastle, Jennifer heads back upstairs to check on the witness waiting to give evidence, taking a handful of chocolates with her. “It’s a tension-breaker,” she says.
Shortly after the witness accepts Jennifer’s chocolate, a court officer calls the witness’s name. Having waited for several hours, it’s now her turn to tell the jury what she knows. As she walks into the courtroom, Jennifer is close behind, silently indicating to the witness where she should stop and bow to the judge before she enters the witness box.
The prosecutor begins by asking for her name and how long she has known the alleged victim. She calmly answers questions about what her friend told her happened on the night of the alleged assault. From the other side of the courtroom, the defendant silently watches on. His lawyer’s cross-examination is brief, and when there are no more questions, the judge dismisses the witness. She bows and follows Jennifer out of the courtroom, embracing her as soon as they’re through the heavy courtroom doors. Volunteers are not allowed to have any contact with clients after their day in court, so for Jennifer, this is goodbye.
‘She’s a very comforting presence. I’m just really glad she was here.’
Unnamed witness on a VWCCS volunteer
Later, the young woman tells me how anxious she’d felt coming to court that morning, and how Jennifer had helped to calm her nerves. “She was a familiar face that I could look for in the courtroom,” she says. “She’s a very comforting presence. I’m just really glad she was here.”
Neither the witness nor Jennifer are in court the next day when the jury returns a not guilty verdict.
It’s a day off for Jennifer, and she’s left behind the tension of the courtroom in exchange for the simple joy of watching her grandson on stage in his preschool concert. It’s a jarring contrast, but she’ll be back at the courthouse the following week, on the lookout for the next stranger who needs a compassionate ear, a quick guide to court etiquette or just the distraction of a sweet treat.
“We let the witnesses and victims know we’re there just to support them,” Jennifer says. “And that they’re not on their own.”
If you or anyone you know needs support, you can contact Victims and Witnesses of Crime Court Support. You can contact the National Sexual Assault, Domestic and Family Violence Counselling Service on 1800RESPECT (1800 737 732), Lifeline 131 114, or Beyond Blue 1300 224 636. You can reach Crime Stoppers on 1800 333 000.
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