Editorial
Linda Reynolds’ latest move

Imagine that a young woman is raped in your office. You are a minister and she is the most junior member of your staff. In the footage you see later, she is too drunk to put on her shoes. She walks barefoot through the parliament with her colleague, who you also employ.

At some point in the evening, a security guard comes to check on her. The man has left. She is naked and unconscious and the guard does nothing. There is a culture in the building of avoiding scandal.

You fire the man and tell your chief of staff to report the incident to the Federal Police. You have to be reminded that it would be unethical to do so without the woman’s consent. In front of your staff you call the woman a “lying cow” but say this is not a reference to her rape. You are forced to apologise and make a payment to the woman, who donates it to a support service for sexual assault survivors.

Eventually, the government approves a compensation payment to the victim. You report the payment to the National Anti-Corruption Commission. You take the attorney-general to court over it. You leak confidential details to the News Corp papers, where an ugly campaign against the woman is being waged.

At the rape trial, you share notes with the man’s defence lawyer. You suggest to him certain messages that would be “revealing”. You later make jokes about the woman’s appearance. You ask for transcripts before you give evidence but are told this is not appropriate. Your husband sits in the court while the woman gives evidence.

The trial is aborted after juror misconduct. A second trial is abandoned because of fears for the woman’s health. The toll on her is enormous. She moves overseas to get away from it. The man is accused of another rape, this time in Queensland. He awaits trial.

The man begins defamation proceedings. The woman is again forced to give evidence. She breaks down in court. The judge concludes that, on the balance of probabilities, she was raped in your office.

Imagine that the woman and her husband say something that you find hurtful. Imagine that you decide to commence another defamation action, this time against the woman who was raped in your office. Imagine you win. What she said was indeed hurtful and damaged your reputation.

Imagine you are awarded $315,000 in damages and an extra $26,000 in interest. Imagine you also force the woman to pay 80 per cent of your legal costs, a bill not yet tallied. Imagine you commence bankruptcy proceedings against the woman and her husband, who now have a small child. You file in the Federal Court. More than a million dollars is at stake. The sum would destroy a young family.

Imagine that you will be able to make a claim on the couple’s future earnings. Every time they go to work, it will be to pay you. These proceedings will hang over their lives perhaps forever. They will never be able to escape them.

In your mind, you are the victim. The couple ignored your first bankruptcy notice. “It is unfortunate that I have to take this step in this long-running saga,” you say. “As I have said, this is conduct which comes as no surprise to me, however, what should be plain now is that I am committed to seeing this through to the end.”

There was a time when politicians did not use defamation laws. Most believed they had platform enough to defend their reputations. They left the courts to businessmen and spivs. You and the government you served in played a big role in changing that. Imagine the consequences.

This article was first published in the print edition of The Saturday Paper on October 18, 2025 as "Reputation damage".

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