I first met Kirsten on the street. I’d met lots of other sex workers before but she was different. She struck me as being happier, more savvy, and less likely to be taken advantage of than some of the other women. When we met I’d been working as a support worker for 18 months focusing on safety, sexual health and providing support to sex workers.
Kirsten and I got on well and I’d built up trust with her. I remember one time she got out of a punter’s van, too quickly to properly adjust her clothing as she was happy to see me. As she ran down the road towards me, the baffled punter beeped his horn to gain her attention as she had forgotten to take the money. She always made me laugh.
Sex workers are more likely to be raped than the average woman, and I’d supported a fair few who had been raped, taking reports from them and offering emotional support. I know that sex workers are less likely to report these crimes to the police because of previous negative experiences, and because they feel they won’t be believed in court. Some even think that being raped is part of the job and deal with the trauma silently and alone.
Then it happened to Kirsten, and to be honest, it shocked me. She showed utter strength and decided to make a formal report to the police. She was scared, but she wanted justice for herself and the other women who had been attacked before her.
There were so many times she wanted to give the whole thing up, and on countless occasions I gently supported her to keep going, and reminded her of why she was going through a difficult court case. The defence was likely to use the fact she was a sex worker and using drugs to undermine her as a reliable witness. I’d seen this before, but I just reminded her to tell the truth and believe the jury would see that.
We had a few setbacks, notably when the first jury couldn’t decide on a verdict and it went to a retrial. Kirsten’s confidence was knocked. She was tired and emotional. She’d done the hardest thing of her life giving evidence in court and I’m amazed she found the strength to do it a second time. But she did.
The second trial was a risk, she had been through this once already and the possibility the jury would find the defendant not guilty bore down on Kirsten. When she broke down in court following some tough questioning, I wanted to hold her hand and reassure her, but I had to just sit the other side of the screen in court and just will her through it.
I remember the day we waited for the verdict. My heart was in my mouth all day and I swear it wasn’t beating properly, and then we heard the news. He’d been found guilty and was given an eight-year sentence. For Kirsten, this meant everything. It meant she could carry on, knowing she had fought for what was right, despite others feeling she couldn’t possibly be raped as she sold sex.
For me, it meant something different. I wanted Kirsten to get justice, but I also wanted to make a difference to all sex workers, who thought they wouldn’t think they won’t be believed, wouldn’t be taken seriously, or get justice. I felt the verdict meant that the stigma these women face had been reduced in a small way, in that court room.
Kirsten told me, “Now I’ve done this, I can move on with my life.” For me, although I can’t stop this happening again, I can go on to support other sex workers to be brave, stand up in court and say, “It’s happened to me. I can be believed and it’s not right.”
Some identifying details have been changed.
The day I made a difference is the Guardian Voluntary Sector Network’s series that showcases the work of people involved with charities. If you have a story you want to share email voluntarysectornetwork@theguardian.com with a short summary of your experience.
