Perfect Victim (29 page)

For Ashleigh-Rose Barber, accompanied in court by her counsellor, the day’s court proceedings had been stressful. She was still upset by an earlier encounter which had taken place in the ladies’ toilets earlier in the morning when she had unexpectedly bumped into Gail Reid. Ashleigh-Rose, who closely resembles her older sister, had opened the door as she left the ladies’ toilet block, walking straight into Gail, who appeared equally uneasy in her presence.

The brief confrontation had been followed by an embarrassed silence. What do you say to a little girl whose sister is dead because your daughter murdered her? What do you say to the mother of the girl who strangled the big sister you loved? Ashleigh-Rose, a little girl taught to respect older people, was flustered. ‘Oh … hi,’ she stammered anxiously. Later she declared angrily: ‘I didn’t
want
to have to speak to her. Ever. I
hate
Caroline.’

Mr Rapke, QC, had already canvassed the possible motive behind one of the most bizarre murders in Victorian legal history. He had detailed the murder plan, the infatuation Robertson developed with her victim, the highly confidential ‘study’. The disappearance, the ‘drowsy powder’, the disfigurement and death. He’d covered the sobbing in the early hours, the body in the wardrobe, the telephone messages. Lists and more lists.

Justice Frank Vincent, presiding, noted that it was ‘an act of incredible destruction in which there were two people to be destroyed, the victim, and herself.’ And he added that this ‘curious’ scheme had developed out of an ‘abnormal almost obsessional interest’ in her victim. The photographs Robertson had taken of Rachel Barber as far back as 1997, and her telephone calls during the summer of 1998–99, indicated that Rachel already held ‘some level of fascination’ for her.

But in Robertson’s defence, Colin Lovitt stated that his instructions, ‘for what they are worth’, were that Robertson was ‘genuinely unable’ to recall the events surrounding Rachel Barber’s death. She could offer no explanation at all for the murder, and was herself so traumatised by the crime that she was still suffering amnesia about what actually happened at Trinian Street. ‘Whether my client has deliberately or unconsciously suppressed what has occurred, or is just refusing to tell us what occurred, it is impossible to say,’ he said. He added that it was unlikely anyone would ever know why this fixation should have led to murder – because Robertson had not let anyone in on it. ‘She just took her [Rachel’s] life away. We can’t explain that and so far –
she
won’t.’

What Robertson’s writings did illustrate, said Lovitt, was that even as a thirteen-year-old girl – a full six years before the murder – she had compiled endless lists about transforming herself. In 1993, in large childish handwriting, the already dissatisfied Robertson wrote of a personal and physical reinvention. It was given a title page: ‘How to Change in Nine Weeks’. Then Robertson acknowledges that undergoing some magical reinvention in such a short period of time was unlikely – but it was a starting point. She reaffirms her goal of transforming herself and says her action plan will provide the foundation for her new life. However illogical this unrealistic goal might seem, to the desperately unhappy young girl it appears to be the answer to all her problems. She tells herself that while the value of a nose job as a remedy to such extreme unhappiness might seem questionable, she is in no doubt that it is a ‘minor foundation’ that will bring happiness and give her the strength to ‘keep going and succeed’.

As well as this letter from 1993, there was also a plan headed ‘Wilsons Prom’ which appears to have been compiled while Caroline was on holiday. It details ideas on how she might achieve the proposed transformation. Then in another list she writes her priorities for change, beginning with a nose job, weight loss of around fifteen to twenty kilograms, ‘almost flawless skin’ and her goal of getting a main part in the school’s Year 7, 8 and 9 productions. She also lists jazz and drama as her main interests. Being organised seemed very important to her. She was methodical and apparently needed to feel in control.

Throughout the hearing Robertson could be heard sobbing intermittently, her body shaking uncontrollably at times. At one stage in the process her distress attracted the attention of Justice Vincent, who told the defence: ‘Your client has had enough,’ and called for a brief adjournment to allow her to regain her composure.

Colin Lovitt said there was no doubt that while his client was unable to ‘explain what had been going on in her head’ at the time she killed Rachel Barber, there was ‘some clear obsessional background’ to the crime. Her written work revealed volumes about the disparity between her life and the life she perceived to be perfect – Rachel Barber’s. He said that while Rachel was a happy girl, Robertson was depressed and experiencing ‘some difficulties’ within her family, especially after her parents’ marriage breakdown in her mid-teens.

In closing, Colin Lovitt said this notion of becoming Jem Southall, or Rachel Barber, seemed ‘an awfully obscure and irrational belief’ on Robertson’s part. ‘How can you
become
someone else?’ he asked. ‘She [Robertson] is still going to have all the things she perceived about herself, about her body and face and so forth.’ It just didn’t make sense.

A revealing glimpse into Robertson’s mind emerged during the expert testimony of forensic psychiatrist Dr Justin Barry-Walsh, who had written a seven-page assessment of the defendant in Deer Park. He said he had found nothing in the writings to support the view that Robertson had actually been
obsessed
with her victim. But she certainly had some ‘abnormal interest’ in the girl, who in her eyes symbolised perfection. He said that during his conversation with Robertson she had described Rachel as ‘
a white picket fence
’ to illustrate her belief that Rachel was perfect and had, in her eyes, a perfect life. ‘She acknowledges that Rachel was a bright, attractive girl whose life had everything,’ he said. Robertson had used the same metaphor to describe Rachel to her treating psychologist.

Though Dr Barry-Walsh said he had found no evidence to support the Crown’s case that Robertson was obsessed with her victim, he admitted that he had not been shown the documents she had compiled on Rachel Barber and her family – or the murder plan. He agreed that he could not say for sure that an obsession had
not
existed.

‘What is inescapable though,’ said Dr Barry-Walsh, ‘is that she planned this offence and deliberately chose the victim. The victim seemed to represent all those qualities and ideals that she wished to attain for herself and could not. Thus, in the act of killing, she destroys an object in which she has invested qualities that she can never attain and towards which she may have felt profound animosity and anger because of her own self-loathing … It is possible that she thought she could somehow magically reinvent herself in the image of the victim.’

But Justice Vincent said the proposed disfigurement of Rachel Barber suggested the crime was more likely to be about destroying her chosen victim. While no evidence had been aired to prove that disfigurement had taken place, due to the advanced decomposition of the victim’s body, if any mutilation had been inflicted by the defendant, then it would have other connotations. ‘That’s not simply an attempt to reinvent herself through that other person. That’s got a real element of hatred about it,’ said the judge.

Dr Barry-Walsh said that, since the killing, Robertson had been ‘completely mystified and appalled’ by her actions and was still unable to offer any motive. And she was now regretful of her inability to fully recall the events at Trinian Street. He added that although Robertson’s crime showed ‘a considerable degree of planning and foresight’, he believed the trauma of executing such a terrible deed had caused the partial amnesia surrounding the circumstances themselves.

This lack of recall was likely to be genuine, in his opinion, and research showed that amnesia, or partial amnesia as in her case, was common among those committing serious crimes.

He said there were many reasons why people suffered, or claimed to suffer, from amnesia in these circumstances. It often persisted long after sentences were imposed, so could not always be regarded simply as an excuse employed to avoid punishment. In false cases of amnesia there were often variations in the defendant’s account of events. But Robertson had consistent gaps in her recall, which supported his belief that she probably was partially amnesic about the murder and continued to be haunted by it.

The Buddhist monk Greg Sneddon, now Robertson’s support in prison, had attended court to speak on her behalf. He too believed the amnesia was genuine, agreeing that she found her lack of memory upsetting and frustrating. It was Mr Sneddon’s work with Robertson that had brought about the sudden change of heart and subsequent change of plea. He said her final admission of guilt and her acknowledgment that she had lied to her lawyers followed discussions in prison on accepting moral responsibility for taking the life of another. At the time when he first encountered Robertson, during her initial period of incarceration, he said he was aware that she was depressed and at a high risk of suicide. Though they often spoke briefly, she had little to say to him.

Then, while Sneddon was holding classes for other women offenders of serious crimes about accepting responsibility for their crimes, another inmate suggested that Robertson should speak with him. Initially, he said, she repeated the same story she had given her lawyers about the accomplices and how she had acted on the instructions of others.

‘Upon questioning, the previous story fell apart,’ he stated. He had suggested that Robertson might like to speak again when she felt able to reveal something ‘closer to the truth’. But when she returned to speak openly about Rachel Barber’s murder, she suffered an epileptic fit and was sent to the prison medical centre. Later, she was ‘determined to continue’, telling him what she could remember about the killing, which was very little since there were significant gaps in her memory.

Mr Sneddon said she was ‘extremely sorry’ for the murder and he admitted being moved by ‘the depth of her remorse’ which left her living with the ‘terrible knowledge’ that she had killed another person. Her acceptance of killing Rachel, he said, culminated in the dramatic change of plea. She alone had killed Rachel and could not begin to explain why.

‘My feeling is that she didn’t have a complete understanding of what it means to kill somebody the way we take it for granted in our society that children are educated, you know, with the number one principle, respect all life. And I would question whether Caroline has had a comprehensive education on that subject,’ said Mr Sneddon. ‘It became clear to me that it was somewhat of a surprise to her, the implications of taking another’s life, not in prison terms, but just in terms that it’s not a normal thing, that it’s not what you do if you have a problem, or it’s not the way it is on American TV.’

The admission of guilt appeared to offer some relief to Robertson, he told the court. She now seemed happier and less depressed and had stopped self-mutilating. She was undertaking study and had finally begun to grieve for her friend Rachel. At this, Rosa Carella, her face undeniably angry, left the court comforting her son Emmanuel who had become visibly upset.

Mr Rapke was later to say in his closing remarks that if Robertson harboured feelings of regret for killing Rachel Barber, it did not apparently ‘impel’ her to acknowledge her guilt for about seventeen months after being charged with the crime.

29

T
ORTURED
S
OUL

Caroline Reed Robertson’s overwhelming desire to erase the overweight, unworthy girl she perceived herself to be was clearly festering away for many years before she finally made her fatal move on Rachel Barber. In an agonising letter to her father, presented in evidence to the Supreme Court, Robertson complains that she feels like a misfit in a world filled with perfect people. She repeatedly apologises for her inability to live up to anyone’s expectations, especially her own.

In despairing words, she sadly acknowledges that she’ll never be the skinny, pretty girl of her dreams. She harbours thoughts about her physically flawed appearance and remains convinced that everything will always be wrong with her – from her head to her toes. She feels that nothing will ever improve, claiming fatalistically that she will ‘never fit into the world because I am what I am’.

But the depressive tone which marks the start of this letter makes way to words of rage. In a litany of fury she seethes with resentment about having to behave nicely in front of other people: she hates having to use ‘acceptable language’ around her younger sisters and claims she feels furious when she doesn’t get her own way. Robertson hates life and everything about it. ‘I hate what I hate with a passion,’ she says, then quickly apologies for expressing such feelings.

This extraordinary letter was just one among a pile of frightening hate lists and letters penned by a profoundly disturbed Robertson and handed to her defence barrister by her father David Reid shortly after her arrest. It is painful material to read, and offers a significant insight into the extreme paranoia and rage of a girl who described herself as a ‘misfit’: a social outcast, a family outsider, a weird, ugly, fat girl, marginalised at school, bullied and turned into the butt of jokes by her friends. A girl who hated life passionately. And most of all, a girl who hated herself.

‘She hated a lot of things,’ said Colin Lovitt, handing over pages and pages of disturbing lists that Robertson had compulsively begun compiling as far back as 1993, when she was just thirteen years old and a Grade 8 student at Camberwell Girls Grammar, where she had been awarded a partial scholarship.

Hour after hour, sometimes in the middle of the night, a deeply unhappy Caroline Reid would scrawl wild, self-denigrating letters. She catalogued, again methodically, all the qualities in herself that she hated most. She would revile herself with intense venom before moving on to all the things she hated in those around her. No one escaped these hate letters: not her father or sisters or school friends who’d taunted her; and certainly not her mother Gail, whom she scorned and insulted with astonishing fury.