source : the age
Alan Belford Jones stares straight ahead as the man he might once have loved appears supersized on giant screens on either side of the courtroom. The former broadcaster is bright as a parrot in his sky-blue jacket, and his beady eyes are mutinous.
For nearly two days he endured this man’s characterisation of their relationship as exploitative and predatory, including sordid allegations that he had made unwanted advances to the witness, “J”, when the young athlete was in his late teens.
J has claimed that these advances rose to the level of unwelcome sloppy kisses planted on his lips, undesired groping and parallel masturbation under duress. Jones denies all of it.
Now J is under cross-examination and it is Jones’ opportunity to flip the script.
None of the content can be reported. Half an hour after the day’s evidence begins, Judge Glenn Walsh makes a non-publication order that he will revisit at the end of the cross-examination.
Not known for his retiring opinions, Jones sits in the pincer grip of the two screens. His eyes flicker and widen and smoulder as his former protege’s testimony rolls into evidence. He is irritated, he is angry, he is resolute. J was a promising athlete when he first crossed paths with Jones in his mid-teens, and the court has heard that Jones later paid him hundreds of dollars a week to focus on his training and gave him a car and a mobile phone.
He reported Jones to police decades later in 2024, after reading media reports that Jones had been charged with indecent assault.
The virtual line between J and Jones’ barrister, Gabrielle Bashir, SC, slackens and pulls taut as she advances towards each of the inconsistencies she seeks to prove in his evidence. J is tense, eager and blinks often under the bright lights of the room where he is annexed. In the back corner of his room a court officer scrolls on a laptop.
Bashir and J run through numbers and dates and events. She questions him about incidents and what he has said about incidents. As each line of questioning leads to a crescendo, the tapping of keyboards becomes more frenzied. Jones pulls his notebook and phone towards his chest, fusses with the bottom of his jacket, frowns and runs a finger across his brow. He settles his hands on top of his walking stick.
The Crown interjects. The screens are made mute. J disappears from view.
The lawyers argue over the questions. They argue over the follow-up questions. They argue over which answer refers to which question. They argue over whether the questions are unfair and they argue over whether the objections to the questions are unfair. The judge demurs. “In any event …”
It is no more arguing than usual.
The trial is taking place in a small courtroom usually reserved for procedural matters where, in ordinary times, dozens of lawyers pile in and out to have their matters dealt with quickly, and more spill into the corridor.
This trial is closed to all but accredited media organisations, and during the breaks the hall is only filled with journalists grumbling that they cannot report on the content of the day’s proceedings due to the non-publication order.
As the evidence rolls into the afternoon, Jones settles back in his chair. He screws shut his eyes, grazes his hand over his pate and pauses to inspect his finger before returning it to his lap.
Perhaps he feels the day went well. After court he meets his legal team in the foyer, makes a remark and then rolls back on his heels in laughter.
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