Lucky (27 page)

"Yes."

"Are they here today? Is there anyone from the Rape Crisis Center here today?"

"No, they are not."

"They are neither in the courtroom or in the building?"

"No."

Paquette hadn't liked the point Mastine had made earlier, that Paquette, by not allowing Tricia in the room, could himself have had a hand in undermining the lineup as evidence.

"Now, there was a lineup procedure held, wasn't there?"

"Yes, there was."

"I believe that that was on November fourth?"

"Yes, it was."

"Do you remember an Investigator Lorenz being there?"

"Yes, I do."

"Had you recognized him from seeing him before?"

"Yes, I had."

"Where had you recognized him from?"

"He is the man who took my affidavit on May eighth."

"Did he ever tell you that he didn't believe the statement that you made on May eighth?"

I did not stop. Neither Gail nor Mastine had told me that Lorenz initially doubted me.

"No, he did not."

"Do you remember him advising you in any way when you first came into the lineup room?"

"He told me that my duty was to look at the five men and mark the box as to which one was the man in question."

"Do you recall who else was in the lineup room?"

I went through my head, reimagining the room and the bodies in it. "Mrs. Uebelhoer, the court stenographer, or the room stenographer—I don't know what you call them—and the other man was sitting there, and he did something, and me."

"Do you recall—"

"Yes, you."

His tone had switched suddenly. He was fatherly, shepherding. I didn't trust him.

"Do you remember an Investigator Lorenz advising you to take your time and look the people over and feel free to move around?"

"Yes. I do remember that."

"Do you recall me asking the investigator to explain to you how to—"

"Excuse me?"

"Do you recall me asking the investigator to explain to you how you should use the form?" His smile was almost benevolent.

"I don't recall you specifically," I said.

"You remember he did tell you that?"

"Somebody told me how to use it."

"In fact," he said, his smile gone now, "you did stand up and move around the room?"

"Yes."

"Didn't you even have the suspects make some sort of a motion; I think you had each of them turn to their left? Do you remember that?"

"Yes, I did."

"The investigator had each do that—'Number one, turn to your left'—and you remember that?"

He was dragging this out; it was his job to.

"Yes."

"At the end of that procedure, what did you do? What was the next thing that happened?"

"I counted down to four and five, and I chose five because he was looking at me."

"You chose number five?"

"Yes. I put the X in the box for five." I would say it a thousand times; I had done it.

"You signed that?"

"Yes, I did."

"Did you express in words, in that room, at that time, to anyone, any concern in your mind over it not being number five?"

"I didn't say a word in the room."

"You knew that by marking number five that what you were indicating was that he would be a suspect or might well be a suspect in a rape trial?"

"Yes." It seemed the wrongs I'd done were endless.

"So it wasn't until after you left the room that you discovered that number five wasn't the person that you should have picked?"

"No. I went to my rape crisis counselor and I said number four and five looked like identical twins. That is what I did."

"You didn't express that to anyone beforehand?"

"I did it in the room, and before that I hadn't seen them and I couldn't."

He didn't wish to linger long enough to clarify. I had meant the conference room this time, not the lineup room.

"You picked number five?"

"Yes, I did."

"I believe that your testimony is, then, that you were raped on May eighth?"

"Yes."

"That you didn't see your assailant again until Marshall Street?"

"October fifth, yes."

"Then you saw him on Marshall Street?"

"Yes."

"There was a police officer right there, wasn't there?"

"Yes."

"Did you approach that officer?"

"No. I did not approach the officer."

"Did you go to the nearest phone and call the police?"

"I went to the Hall of Languages, where I had a class, and called my mother."

"So you called your mother.. .." He was snide. It brought me all the way back to the preliminary hearing, the way his colleague, Meggesto, had savored the words "Calvin Klein jeans." My mother, my Calvin Klein jeans. It was what they had on me.

"Yes."

"Then you talked to your professor?"

"I called my mother and then I called some friends, to try to get in contact with someone who could walk me back to my dormitory. I was very scared, and I knew I had to go to school. I couldn't get hold of anybody. I went upstairs to my teacher and told him why I wasn't attending class. I told him, and I walked to the library to find one of my friends to walk me the rest of the way home and go with me to the police and then I went back to my dorm and I had called the friend of mine who is an artist, so he could help me draw a picture, which he did not do. Then I called the police and they arrived with the Syracuse University security officers."

"Did you ever call security to give you a ride home?"

I began to cry. Was everything my fault?

"Excuse me," I said, apologizing for my tears. "They only do that after five or during night hours." I looked for Gail. I saw her staring intently at me.
It's almost over,
her look said.
Hang on.

"How much time went by from the time that you saw him on Marshall Street?"

"Forty-five to fifty minutes."

"Forty-five to fifty minutes?"

"Yes."

"Now, you have not identified Mr. Madison from that moment until today; is that right?"

"Identified him, you know, in your presence?"

"Identified him here in the legal proceedings as the person that raped you."

"Not in legal proceedings, but I did today."

"Today you did. How many black people do you see in the room?"

Jumping the gun, knowing his insinuation.
How many other black people, besides the
defendant, do you see in the room?
I answered, "None."

He laughed and smiled up at the judge, then swept his hand in the direction of Madison, who looked bored. "You see none?" Paquette said, emphasizing the last word. She really is quite
incredible,
he seemed to be saying.

"I see one black person other than—the rest of the people in the room."

He smiled in triumph. So did Madison. I wasn't feeling powerful anymore. I was guilty for the race of my rapist, guilty for the lack of representation of them in the legal profession in the City of Syracuse, guilty that he was the only black man in the room.

"Do you remember testifying about this lineup in a grand jury proceeding?"

"Yes, I do."

"Was it on November fourth, the same day as the lineup?"

"Yes, it was."

"Do you remember—looking at page sixteen of the grand jury minutes, line ten—'You picked him out of the lineup? Are you absolutely sure this is the one?'

" 'Number five; I am not absolutely sure. It was between four and five. But I picked five because he was looking at me.'

"So the juror says, 'What you are saying is you are not absolutely sure he was the one?'

" 'Right.'

" 'Number five is the one.'

" 'Right.'

"So you still weren't sure on November fourth?"

I didn't know what Paquette was doing. I felt lost. "That number five was the one? I was not sure five was the one, right."

"You surely weren't sure that number four was the one because you didn't pick him."

"He was not looking at me. I was very scared."

"He wasn't looking at you?" His syllables dripped with pitiless sarcasm.

"Yes."

"Did you notice anything unusual on May eighth, when you were accosted by this person, that you haven't told us about, about his features or scars or marks or anything, facial features, his teeth, fingernails, or his hands or anything?"

"Nothing unusual, no."

I wanted it to be over now.

"You said that you looked at your watch when you went in the park?"

What time was it?

"Twelve o'clock."

"You looked at your watch when you got to your dorm?"

"I didn't look at my watch. I—was very aware of what time it was because I was surrounded by police, and I may have also looked at my watch, and I knew that it was two-fifteen when I got back to the dorm."

"When you got back to the dorm? Were the police called when you got back to your dorm?"

"Yes."

"When you got back to the dorm, at two-fifteen, and there had been no police called yet?"

"Right."

"They came sometime after that?"

"Yes. Immediately after I got back to my dorm."

He had finally worn me down. It made awful sense that no matter how hard I tried, he would be left standing at the end.

"Now, you said, you testified that he kissed you; is that right?"

"Yes."

"Once or twice or a lot of times?"

I could see Paquette. Madison sat behind him, interested. I felt the two of them were coming in after me.

"Once or twice when we were standing and then, after he had laid me down on the ground, a few times. He kissed me." The tears were just rolling down my cheeks now and my lips trembling. I didn't bother to wipe them. I had sweat through the Kleenex that I held.

Paquette knew he had broken me. That was enough. He didn't want this.

"May I have a moment, Your Honor?"

"Yes," Gorman said.

Paquette went to the defense table and conferred with Madison, then checked his yellow legal pad and files.

He looked up. "Nothing further," he said.

The relief in my body was immediate. But then Mastine stood.

"A couple of questions, if it please the court."

I was tired but knew now that Mastine would handle me gently if he could. His tone was firm but I trusted him.

Mastine was concerned with working Paquette's former territory, going back to strengthen weak lines. He made a quick five points. First he established how late it was and how tired I was when I gave my statement on the night of the rape. He had me detail all the things I had been through and on no sleep. Then he moved on to my statement on October 5, the one Paquette had gleefully put forth to me—the
feeling
versus
sure.

Mastine was able to establish that, as I had said, it was an affidavit in which I retold the encounter with Madison chronologically. I first saw him from the back and had
a feeling.

I then saw him face-on and was
sure.

Then he asked me if anyone was with me. He wanted to point out that because my father was present, I had elected to decline the presence of a rape crisis representative.

"My father is waiting outside," I said. This fact didn't seem real to me. Far away, in the hall outside, he was reading. Latin. I hadn't thought of him since entering the courtroom. I couldn't.

Mastine asked me how long I had been under Madison in the tunnel and how far away from his face I was.

"One centimeter," I said.

Then he asked me a question I felt uncomfortable with, one I had known he might ask if Paquette's approach warranted it.

"Could you give the judge an idea of how many young black men you would see on a daily average in your travels, or class or dormitory or at all?"

Paquette objected. I knew why. It went straight to his case.

"Overruled," said Gorman.

I said, "A lot," and Mastine had me quantify. "More than fifty or less?" I said that it was more. The whole thing made me uncomfortable, separating the students I knew by their race, pooling them into columns, and tabulating their number. But this wouldn't be the first time, or the last, that I wished my rapist had been white.

Mastine had no further questions.

Paquette got up only to have me repeat one thing. He wanted me to repeat the distance of Madison's face from mine during the rape itself. I did: one centimeter. Later he would try and use my certainty against me. Quoting this distance in his final statement as to why I couldn't be trusted as a credible witness.

"No redirect," Mastine said.

"You are excused," Judge Gorman said, and I stood.

My legs were shaky underneath me and I had sweat through my skirt and stockings and slip. The male bailiff who had led me in came toward the center of the room and waited for me.

He took me out.

Down the hall, Murphy spotted me and helped my father gather his books. The bailiff looked at me.

"I've been in this business for thirty years," he said. "You are the best rape witness I've ever seen on the stand."

I would hold on to that moment for years.

The bailiff walked back toward court.

Murphy hustled me off. "We want to get away from the door," he said. "They'll be breaking for lunch."

"Are you okay?" my dad asked.

"I'm fine," I said. I did not recognize him as my father. He was just a person standing there, like all the rest. I was shaking and needed to sit down. The three of us, Murphy, my father, and I, returned to their bench.

They spoke to me. I don't remember what they said. It was over.

Gail breezed out of the courtroom and over to us. She looked at my father. "Your daughter's an excellent witness, Bud," she said.

"Thank you," my father said.

"Was I okay, Gail?" I asked. "I was worried. He was really mean."

"That's his job," she said. "But you held up under him. I was watching the judge."

"What did he look like?" I asked.

"The judge? He looked exhausted," she said, smiling. "Billy is really tired. I wanted to get up there so bad. We have a break until two and then it's the doctor. Another pregnant lady!"