The abuse that began at the hands of her father when Jeni Haynes was only a baby is unimaginable to most. It was physically, psychologically and emotionally sadistic and never-ending. The fact she survived may be called a miracle by some – but the reality is, it is testament to the extraordinary strength of Jeni’s mind.
What saved her was the process of dissociation – a defence mechanism that saw Jeni create over 2500 separate personalities, who protected her as best they could from the trauma. This army of alters included four-year-old Symphony, teenage motorcycle-loving Muscles, forthright Judas and eight-year-old Ricky.
Jeni Haynes’s army of “alters” was an attempt to protect her from the horror of early childhood abuse.
In 2019, Jeni and her 2,500 alters stood up to their abuser in a Sydney courtroom.
Symphony: It’s our red-letter day: February 18, 2019.
My entire life – all 49 years of it – has been leading to this moment: to me walking down Elizabeth Street to Sydney’s Downing Centre Court. Four years of police interviews, 900,000 words in victim statements, endless therapy sessions, a lifetime of pain: it’s all been working up to this walk to the Downing Centre Court. My legs shake with each step. But I don’t stop. I keep going.
To the outside world this is a photo of Jeni Haynes, aged 5, but to Jeni it is a photo of Symphony, who is 4, one of her alters.
I know it’s going to be awful; I just know it. My father is going to plead not guilty and force me to testify, to tell all the sickening details of his abuse, to relive all the trauma he put me through, to spell out his acts for his entertainment. Make no mistake, it will be entertaining for him. Since I was a baby, he’s found pleasure in my suffering, my terror, my humiliation. I can see him licking his lips in delight at seeing me upset on the stand. I shudder at the thought. But I don’t stop. I keep going.
I’m prepared. It’s easy to testify when you are telling the truth. That doesn’t make it any less scary. But this thought does: Jeni has a plan. This plan steels me as I walk through the heavy glass doors of the Downing Centre Court for the first time. My mum follows behind me. We put our mobile phones, keys and handbags on a tray to be scanned. I walk through a metal detector and am patted down by a security guard with a gun strapped to his waist. They’re looking for weapons. If they’re worried about bombs going off, they should scan my tongue. What I’ve got to say in court is going to be explosive.
As we approach the courtroom, the shaking gets worse. My legs almost buckle underneath me. But I don’t stop. I keep going. My prosecutor, Sean Hughes, and his instructing solicitor, Ellen Dando, are waiting for us. “Are you ready for this?” they ask. I say yes. My trembling legs say, “Hell no.”
My mum asks Sean if Dad has indicated whether he will enter a plea today. No one knows. Maybe not even Dad. He’s had two years to think about it, since the charges were first laid, but Dad’s always been a rogue. Just when you think you’ve seen the worst of him, he trumps it with an act so abhorrent you could never have seen it coming. He’s blindsiding, whiplashing, utterly terrifying. But no matter what Dad does today, Jeni has a plan.
Jeny Haynes’ autobiography.Credit:Hachette Australia
Finally, after what seems an absolute age of waiting, the door to the courtroom opens and we’re called in. I’ve only been in an empty courtroom before today and to see this one full of bodies is very disconcerting. I feel their eyes on me. There she is, I imagine they’re thinking, the victim. They’re looking at Jeni, a 49-year-old woman wearing thick glasses with a purple rim and a butterfly top embellished with jewels. They can’t see me. I’m Symphony. I’m four. I like singing songs, cats and my hand puppet Sweep. I don’t like Dad. From the door of the courtroom, I can see the jury box ahead. It’s empty. In the centre of the room, the tables for the prosecution are to the left and the defence on the right. I stare at the dock where Dad will soon be the sole occupant. It’s a small wooden box-like affair with a door at the rear and a small window. I remember the small window in the outside toilet of my childhood home. I used to stare out of it when Dad attacked me, wishing to be anywhere else, wishing to disappear, wishing to die. I wonder if Dad will wish to die when he’s staring out of the dock window today?
Straight ahead is the witness box and beside that – high above us all – are the seats for the judge and her associate. Their area seems to be on an entirely different level to the rest of the room, but it’s only a step up. I walk forward to take a seat behind the prosecution. Sean turns to me and smiles, trying to reassure my shaking legs. It’s daunting for me to sit at the front of a crowded room knowing what’s about to happen. I hope it’s even more daunting for Dad. After all, I’m only the victim. He’s the accused. No matter, Jeni has a plan.
As I settle into my seat, the door at the rear of the dock opens and Dad walks through. Oh my gosh. He needs a haircut. That’s my first thought. I haven’t seen him in 10 years. He really needs a haircut. His grey hair is so long it’s slightly curling over his collar. He’s wearing an ill-fitting green tracksuit. I thought he would be wearing a suit to show the world he’s a “respectable” man. He looks haggard, but he walks into the dock with his head held high, carrying an air of arrogance with him.
“He’s going to plead not guilty,” I whisper to Mum, who’s sitting beside me. She looks at him, turns to me and nods her head in agreement. His arrogance swamps the room. Everyone else thinks he will plead guilty. We have a strong body of evidence against him. I am the body of evidence.
But the physical impact of my dad’s abuse pales in comparison to the mental. And that’s saying something. My mind is home to over 2500 different personalities I created as a coping mechanism to deal with the abuse. It’s because of these personalities that I can recall the events of my childhood with perfect clarity. It’s because of these personalities that I’m alive. And it’s because of these personalities that I know I can take on Dad today. We’ve fought him thousands of times before, we’ll fight him again today. And this time, Jeni has a plan. I stare at my father. I only have eyes for him. It’s like everyone else in the courtroom disappears and it’s just him and me. He refuses to meet my eye. He won’t – or can’t – look at me.
Richard Haynes with his two daughters and son.Credit:Nine
Dad looks like he’s shrunk. He used to be 10 foot tall, so big and dominating. Today, he’s a shell of a man. An empty void. A nonperson.
All I can hear in my head are the lyrics to the Donny Osmond song Big Man I listened to as a kid. The lyrics were about being a big man … and my father was no longer this in so many ways.
Jeni: Judge Huggett enters the courtroom. Everyone rises. She starts proceedings for the State v Richard Haynes, and explains that because it’s a rape case, the complainant will be afforded anonymity. Sean clears his throat. “I have instructions from the complainant on this,” he says.
The defence lawyer’s head whips around to look at the prosecution. This is highly unusual.
“The complainant wishes to waive her right to anonymity,” explains Sean. “She is here in the room.” The judge asks me to stand up. My legs are shaking so violently, I have to hold on to the chair in front of me for support. The judge addresses me directly. “Is what the prosecution said correct?“ she asks.
“Oh yes,” I reply.
“Do you understand the consequences of this decision?” she asks.
“Oh yes. I understand that there will be positive and negative consequences, and I also understand that once I waive my right to anonymity, I can’t take it back,” I reply.
“Would you like some time to think about it?” she asks.
“I’ve had 23 years to think about it, I think that’s more than enough. I know exactly what I’m doing,” I reply.
“Does the prosecution have any objections?” The judge looks at Sean.
“No,” he says.
“Does the defence have any objections?” the judge asks.
“No,” says my dad’s lawyer without even looking at him.
“Okay, the complainant seems of sound mind and is aware of the consequences of her actions. I approve her application to waive her right to anonymity,” she says.
Dad’s face drops and, for a second, the air of arrogance around him dissolves into something else. Fear? Maybe. Bewilderment? Absolutely.
Judas: In the courtroom, Jeni takes a seat. But in her mind, there are fireworks going off. We were all in on it, you see, this plan of hers. We took a vote and agreed. By waiving our right to anonymity, we also waived Dad’s. This was our plan all along. We wanted Dad’s name written in the newspaper for all to see, we wanted everyone to know what he did. If a victim chooses to remain anonymous, the defendant stays hidden in the shadows. In media reports about our case, I would be a nameless 49-year-old victim and Dad would be a faceless 74-year-old man. But he isn’t an anonymous 74-year-old man. He’s an evil, despicable, torturous monster, and now the whole world was going to know it.
For 23 long years I’ve bitten my tongue, afraid of the explosions that would come out if I dared to open my mouth. Even after I went to the police, they told me I had to stay silent until we went to court. I’ve paid the price for that silence. I bit my tongue until it bled. I swallowed my words and choked on them. No more. I want to tell the crowded courtroom exactly who my father is. I want to say it out loud for the world to hear. I want everyone to know his name. Richard Haynes. Because as long as abusers stay veiled as anonymous, nameless, faceless men, they will keep getting away with it.
Jeni has a plan and it’s working.
Brisbane woman Jeni Haynes made headlines in 2019 for being the first person in Australia to testify against her abuser from the perspectives of her Dissociative Identity Disorder alters. This is an edited extract from The Girl in the Green Dress (Hachette Australia, $32.99) by Jeni Haynes and Dr George Blair West, with Alley Pascoe.
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