Annika Smethurst: AFP prosecution and even jail are still a threat
The High Court’s unified position that police unlawfully entered my home brought some relief. To borrow a phrase from Scott Morrison the week the raid took place: It never troubles me that our laws are being upheld. But, sadly, my case is far from over, writes News Corp journalist Annika Smethurst.
Opinion
Don't miss out on the headlines from Opinion. Followed categories will be added to My News.
- AFP’s warrant ruled invalid … but the fight is not over
- ‘Four days into self-isolation and I’m already going mad’
On Wednesday I finally got my car serviced. I also found out that the High Court of Australia had quashed the warrant the police used to raid my apartment in June.
Having never been before any court, let alone the highest court in the land, I was unsure how I would hear the verdict.
MORE NEWS
‘I thought this is me done – I’m f**king dead’
Meghan risks looking like a Stephen King horror story
I also didn’t know what to do with myself as I waited to hear the result.
It had been five months since I sat before the seven judges at the High Court in Canberra where my legal team argued that the warrant the police used to enter my home was not up to scratch.
As it turns out, the High Court agreed.
When the news of my “win” filtered through to me, I was walking my dog.
This juxtaposition — of the enormity and the mundane — is something I have had to learn to live with.
It was 10 months ago that seven police officers arrived at my Canberra apartment to conduct a very public search prompted by an article I had written a year earlier since that day — June 4 — I have woken up every morning knowing there is a chance I could be arrested and even go to jail.
I still don’t know if this will happen as the threat is still there. Somehow the stress and uncertainty I have lived with for almost a year hasn’t stopped the world from turning.
While high profile advocates like Bono and Amal Clooney joined my cause, at home in Canberra, I went to work. The garden still needed to be watered and the dog still needed to be fed.
I have celebrated the weddings, birthdays and new babies of my friends but, for me, it’s as if my life has been on hold. I’m envious of everyone who forgets my fight because, for me, there hasn’t been a single day since June when I haven’t wondered how I would adapt to life in jail.
Would my family visit? How often?
The unified position of the High Court that the warrant the police used to enter my property was unlawful has brought some relief.
To borrow a phrase from Scott Morrison the week my house was raided: It never troubles me that our laws are being upheld.
As relieved as I am, sadly my case is far from over.
In quashing the warrant, the High Court found it failed to meet the most basic legal requirements, therefore the search was illegal.
The warrant not only lacked clarity, it misstated the offence being investigated and what kind of information was being sought. As it turns out, the police shouldn’t have stepped past the front door let alone conducted an invasive search of my phone, computer, mobile phone, drawers and books.
Yet for reasons I will never fully understand, the police have been allowed to hold on to material seized that day and may even use it as evidence in any potential prosecution of me or a whistleblower, even though it was obtained illegally.
It’s been two years since I wrote the story that triggered the raid. It revealed the government was considering allowing our own military spies to spy on Australians, not just foreigners as had always been the case.
Despite countless opportunities to do so, the AFP and the government have refused to rule out charging me.
This saga has taken an enormous toll on my life and those around me. As prime minister, Malcolm Turnbull would refer to parents, children or partners as conscripts, and that’s exactly what my family have become.
This saga has also rattled my unwavering determination to be a journalist. But, when I have toyed with the idea of stepping away from the only job I have known — and for the most part loved — my inner bolshie surfaces and I remind myself that stepping away would be admitting defeat.