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Anne Hunt. Image: Supplied.
Anne Hunt. Image: Supplied.

BooksMarch 27, 2019

The #MeToo book that the High Court tried to pulp

Anne Hunt. Image: Supplied.
Anne Hunt. Image: Supplied.

Foxton author Anne Hunt backgrounds the legal challenges she faced when she published her book about a woman who accused her therapist of rape.

Content warning: suicidal ideation and rape

My 2003 book Broken Silence was published too long ago to capture a readership mesmerised by the complexities of the #MeToo movement. It documented the fascinating account of a woman who claimed she had been raped by her therapist. He was found not guilty of criminal charges, but the lawyer representing this woman took a civil claim for punitive damages to the Privy Council before a confidential outcome was reached.

The first half of the book was based on medical files, including 687 disorganised pages written as therapy. The second half was founded on legal files: the nine criminal charges, the complaint to the professional disciplinary body, and finally the civil claim for punitive damages that was legally-aided to the Privy Council. The civil case was known as W v W.

Segments of the book were dark, very dark indeed. I was dealing with a woman diagnosed with a borderline personality disorder, a self-mutilator who attempted suicide so many times that I lost count.

The most graphic possibility was one she described in her therapy notes. He wants me to go to the grave, she had written. “Pour a circle of petrol around my feet, then douse my clothes … set fire to the ring… only when my clothes are fully alight can I jump into the pool…  the flowers will float around me and I can die in peace, in the knowledge that I am clean and paid my dues to those I have left behind.”

In the foreword to my book, I posed the question: Was she raped during therapy?

It was genuinely a rhetorical question. In my foreword, I wrote: “Sexual violation is an offence which does not necessarily leave a trace of evidence, and too often guilt or innocence is based upon the credibility of the two parties involved – the defendant and the alleged victim.”

It was a conundrum that bothered me. I guess the reason I persevered with writing this book is my concern that the adversarial nature of criminal charges is far too traumatic and not an appropriate format for charges of this nature. That was the approach I planned to take with the media publicity inevitable to promote a book.

But then Broken Silence swiftly turned into a legal nightmare. It became the first – and only – book ever to be banned and ordered to be pulped by the High Court.

And at that point my focus changed. The ex parte order suppressing the existence of the proceedings is a legal term which translated into English means it was a secret trial to ban a book. I could not let even my husband know that I was facing legal proceedings in the Wellington High Court. If I lost, the other party was claiming more than my home was worth. My books were recalled from bookshops and libraries, to be placed in storage while I spent four years in the High Court defending these charges, and then appealing the decision to the Court of Appeal.

Broken Silence nearly broke my heart.

I first received the summons to appear in the Wellington High Court during November 2003. By May 2006, the court had fined me $1000, and directed me to pay $15,000 in damages to the health professional together with all his legal expenses. The judge also ordered the registrar to seize and destroy all unsold copies of my book.  The print run was 1000 copies, and only 300 or so had been sold by the time the book was recalled. The remaining 650 copies had been placed in storage by order of the Court to await this verdict.

It was frightening.

Fortunately, Nicky Hager came to my rescue and recommended that I get in touch with his lawyer, Steven Price. For my High Court case, nobody had been prepared to take this case on, and therefore I defended myself, learning the procedures as best I could.

At some stage I put to Steven this question: How many books had been banned in this country following a secret trial?

But how can anybody know, if the trial is, after all, secret?

It was the first time Steven had argued a case in court, and he was magnificent, courageous as well. As back-up in the press gallery was none other than the acclaimed journalist, Phil Kitchin.

The day the Court of Appeal upheld my appeal and set aside all of the High Court orders was a huge triumph. The decision written up by Justice Grant Hammond was hailed as an important affirmation of free speech and open justice. Hopefully it helps journalists and authors tackling miscarriages of justice gain access to court transcripts and documents, so crucial for research. The grounds for contempt was a minute which the Court of Appeal described as “cryptic”. Hopefully my judgment encourages judges to provide more clarity about information that can and cannot be published.

For four years, I had battled judges and lawyers in the courtroom, not to save my books but for the right to shed the enforced shroud of secrecy.

Due to the blanket suppression orders issued ‘ex parte’, I had entered the closed chambers each time alone, with not a single person present to support me. Nobody was permitted to know my name, nor why I was there. My husband of 35 years would wait near a war memorial some distance away; a registered nurse ready to treat me for shock when I eventually emerged, emotionally and intellectually shattered. It would take days to recuperate.

The day my father was paraded through the streets of Wellington as a WWII veteran to commemorate VJ Day, I had been so distressed by my experience in the Wellington High Court a few hours beforehand that Paul, my husband urged me to capitulate. He told me he could not live without me. The next day, he apologised. Four months later, he was dead. A fatal heart attack.

After reading my manuscript for Broken Silence, “Annette” (the pseudonym I used for the woman at the centre of the allegations) declared that she would obtain a replacement writer more amenable to her demands.

Sensing this might be her reaction, I had previously obtained an agreement from her that I had permission to publish material that David Collins, my lawyer and hers, deemed appropriate.

I had already delivered the manuscript to David and collected it from him a fortnight or so later.  His handwriting appeared on a total of 42 pages, and every single one of these annotations was incorporated into the final product.

In this #MeToo era, Broken Silence would probably have sold out within days.

Readers would be debating the very same issues that I confronted and documented.

Yes, I had managed to pinpoint the very day the most serious incident occurred, the alleged rape.

“Wayne”, the pseudonym used for the health professional, had impressive credentials and excellent character witnesses. Even though he’s now deceased, more than that I cannot say without identifying him.

Yes, I felt sorry for him, because he had saved Annette’s life, repeatedly. He had been at her beck and call because he had never lost a patient to suicide, a source of great pride for him.

And, yes, I discovered what happened, because I found a note following publication that confirmed my suspicions.

If anything, this note exposes the difficulties when one gender exercises power over the other.

Most of us have been brought up to believe that if we tell the truth, then everything will be all right, Annette wrote in the concluding comments in my book.

“But our justice system isn’t necessarily about that”, she adds. “Instead we lie and if we lie well enough, then we raise doubts …”

When Steven Price sent me the judgement from the Court of Appeal, I wept. Not with relief. Grief. Profound grief that Paul was not there to share that euphoria inevitable when a battle is finally won.

The remainder of my print run was shipped home to me. On that day back in 2007, bereaved and struggling to find the will to live, I glared at that pallet of books, and ordered a skip bin. I dumped the lot at the local landfill.

I’m sure Paul would have approved.

And I have never regretted that decision.

Keep going!
Wellington writer Sharon Lam either hard at work on her second novel, or on Reddit. (Photo: Supplied)
Wellington writer Sharon Lam either hard at work on her second novel, or on Reddit. (Photo: Supplied)

BooksMarch 26, 2019

Lonely Asian woman seeks lonely Asian women

Wellington writer Sharon Lam either hard at work on her second novel, or on Reddit. (Photo: Supplied)
Wellington writer Sharon Lam either hard at work on her second novel, or on Reddit. (Photo: Supplied)

Everyone heads to the internet to dispel loneliness and boredom. Sharon Lam headed there in search of lonely Asian women, and found them everywhere she looked.

Recently I’ve found myself feeling a little less lonely, despite moving to a city where I have one friend, as compared to Wellington, where I had like three. Yes, a change of scene and a full time job have a remarkable way of tricking you that you do have a place in this world, at least 9-6 on weekdays. But now I’m back in Wellington, and my three friends are at their full time jobs and I am back in the all-too familiar scenery of Te Aro. Everything is the same as it was, though the Warehouse on Tory Street now has automated checkouts.

A girl can only spend so long beeping their own Living & Co products, however, and soon I found myself going where everyone goes to dispel loneliness and boredom – the internet. Online, lonely Asian women are everywhere. No problems with representation here. There are demure ones, busty ones, CGI busty ones – all the types. Almost always, they’re accompanied by some quippy invitation. They’re in your area. They’re sexy. They’re looking for someone just like you.

My favourite Lonely Asian Woman I’ve ever come across was introduced as a “Tender Asian Flower Who Just Needs A Good Florist to Take Care of Her”. When I read that I spat out my Indomie. While clearly moved, I – of course – could not be her florist: for was I not also a tender Asian flower? Or at least one of the less ugly weeds? Maybe we could be in the same bouquet together, but her carer I could not be. And so, I tried to reach out to the other lonely Asian women of the internet. If they were lonely, and I was lonely, why not?

Being a smart lonely Asian woman, I knew that I couldn’t just go clicking on all the beautiful poetic ladies in the ads and in my spam box. Because they’re FAKE!! The Russian ones too! Don’t be fooled!! Instead I go the proper route of googling ‘lonely Asian women NZ’. Three types of results are on the first page. The top result is a Herald piece on the fetishisation of Asian women that starts with, “I am not Asian”. Further down is my publisher’s page for my own book. Everything else on the page are links to dating websites. I click on a couple of these and sign up for the ones that are free using my trusty throwaway email, poocitymayor@gmail.com.

Lonely Asian women, looking for you.

The first site I try is one especially for Asian dating in NZ. I’m greeted by smiling stock photo faces, way more family-friendly than the tender Asian flower type. My username is lonelyasianwoman. I fill out the information honestly and accurately. It asks me about my body type. I say muscular. I add my weight, my height. I go “ehh” when I see that “35kg” is one of the weight options. It asks me what languages I speak and it’s the first time in New Zealand I’ve seen such distinguishing between Asian languages. There’s Hakka, Shanghainese, Dong Bei, Teochew, and more…Statistics NZ, take note!

I click and click to complete my profile and at last I’m free to search for the women I saw on the first page. I activate poocitymayor@gmail.com and return to the homepage with excitement. There are no photos. Where did all the lonely Asian women go? As it turned out, as I had been so honest and clicked ‘female’, there were no other females actually looking for females on this site. I couldn’t tell if the site was hetero only by design, or by demographic. I tried to change to ‘male’ but alas I could not. So I hastily remade a new account, much less thoughtfully this time, and returned to the homepage. This time the women were back.

My first reaction was one of sadness. They looked completely different to people on Tinder – they all looked very, very earnest. A lack of lustre. Most photos were selfies that were taken to not look like selfies, taken at outdoor tables of restaurants, flowers in their hair and in their drinks. Some of them could have easily been one of my mum’s friends. The photos held an oblivious lack of poise that is common in frail strangers. Like when a pimply teenager on crutches drops litter and they set their crutches down to pick it up before you can help them… or when a very, very old woman drops her mittens on a cobblestone path and achingly stoops down for them, also before you can help her, you know? There is an earnestness in that determined obliviousness.

As soon as I chose a likely ally, I was told that I had to pay to message them. I tried to send some messages ‘collect’, but then felt bad at the possibility that they would pay to message me back, when they were all so earnest. So onto the next site I went.

The next I tried was one for straight up mail order brides. Once again, poocitymayor@gmail.com was on the prowl for a connection, and went with a 18-80 year age range, sending ‘hellos’ to as many lovely ladies as the mayor of Poo City can. I waited, and waited, and no one had hello-ed me back. Were they at their jobs too? Once again, I felt sort of sad.

I tried another site while I waited, one that hadn’t come up in the results, but had been a sponsor for something I watched on Youtube once. The site was a more legitimate dating site for Asian people wanting to meet other Asian people, popular in the states. There I reached new levels of honesty, even uploading a real photo of myself (albeit the back of my head). My name was ‘Blaron’.The women on the homepage weren’t tragically earnest this time, they all seemed to confident and secure. Soon after, I started talking to a woman, who we shall call ‘Blelly’. Blelly was from LA and looked super friendly and cute, and soon we were having a deep-ass conversation.

“So tired, best part of my job is coming home to sleep”

“omg, no way, me too”

“love sleeping”

“sleeping’s the best”

“I know right”.

When Blelly finally signed off to go to sleep, our mutually favourite pastime, I realised I’d forgotten what I was doing in the first place. It was like I was back in high school, talking to a friend on MSN and they’d just been called off because they had used up their 3o minutes of computer time.

The next morning, I woke to 25 emails in my Poo City account from the bride website. I had so many messages! I felt like I was on The Bachelor, and I was The Bachelor. I was very excited to see what all these women wanted to say to me. I hadn’t even uploaded a photo, but I guess the vague default silhouette really got them going. I went onto the website to find that, to my disappointment, once again I had to pay real money to read their messages. I would never know what they had said to me. But I suppose it was for the best. I do not have the money nor the mindset to support a healthy marriage right now, let alone to someone who I don’t know. I didn’t want to waste any more of their time.

I logged back on to the Asian dating website, instead. Blelly had messaged me a good morning, and that yes, she did have a good sleep last night, thank you, and did I? I did.

Sharon Lam is the author of the new, hilarious novel Lonely Asian Woman (Lawrence & Gibson, $29), available at Unity Books.