The Woods (13 page)

I was thinking about that, about Boots, about the way Cara and her cousin would argue over who would be Dora and who would be Boots, when it struck me like the proverbial thunderbolt.

"Daddy?"

"One second, kitten."

I ran upstairs, my footsteps shaking the house. Where the hell were those bills from the frat house? I started tearing apart the room. It took me a few minutes to find them-I had been ready to throw them all away after my meeting this morning.

Bang, there they were.

I rifled through them. I found the online charges, the monthly ones, and then I grabbed the phone and called Muse's number. She answered on the first ring.

"What's up?"

"When you were in college," I asked, "how often did you pull all-nighters?" "Twice a week minimum." "How did you keep yourself awake?" "M amp;Ms. Lots of them. The oranges are amphetamines, I swear." "Buy as many as you need. You can even expense them." "I like the tone of your voice, Cope." "I have an idea, but I don't know if we have the time." "Don't worry about the time. What's the idea concerning?" "It concerns," I said, "our old buddies Cal and Jim."

I got Cologne Lawyer Foley's home number and woke him up.

"Don't sign those papers until the afternoon," I said.

"Why?"

"Because if you do, I will make sure my office comes down on you and your clients as hard as they can. I will let it be known that we don't cut deals with Horace Foley, that we always make sure the client serves the maximum time."

"You can't do that."

I said nothing.

"I have an obligation to my client."

"Tell her I asked for the extra time. Tell her it's in her best interest."

"And what do I say to the other side?"

"I don't know, Foley, find something wrong with the paperwork maybe, whatever. Just stall until the afternoon."

"And how is that in my client’s best interest?"

"If I get lucky and hurt them, you can renegotiate. More moola in your pockets." He paused. Then: "Hey, Cope?" "What?" "She's a strange kid. Chamique, I mean." "How so?" "Most of them would have taken the money right away. I've had to push her because, frankly, taking the money early is her best move. We both know that. But she wouldn't hear of it until they sandbagged her with that Jim/James thing yesterday. See, before that, despite what she said in court, she was more interested in them going to jail than the financial payoff. She really wanted justice."

"And that surprises you?"

"You're new on this job. Me, I've been doing this for twenty-seven years. You grow cynical. So yeah, she surprised the hell out of me." "Is there a point to your telling me all this?" "Yeah, there is. Me, you know what I'm all about. Getting my one- third of the settlement. But Chamique is different. This is life-changing money for her. So whatever you're up to, Mr. Prosecutor, don't screw it up for her."

Lucy drank alone.

It was night. Lucy lived on campus in faculty housing. The place was beyond depressing. Most professors worked hard and long and saved money in the hopes that they could move the hell out of faculty housing. Lucy had lived here for a year now. Before her, an English-lit professor named Amanda Simon had spent three decades of spinster-hood in this very unit. Lung cancer cut her down at the age of fifty-eight. Her remnants remained in the smoky smell left behind. Despite ripping up the wall-to-wall carpeting and repainting the entire place, the cigarette stench remained. It was a little like living in an ashtray.

Lucy was a vodka girl. She looked out the window. In the distance, she heard music. This was a college campus. There was always music playing. She checked her watch. Midnight.

She flipped on her own tinny-speaker iPod stereo and set it on a playlist she called "Mellow." Each song was not only slow but a total heart ripper. So she would drink her vodka and sit in her depressing apartment and smell the smoke from a dead woman and listen to aching songs of loss and want and devastation. Pitiful, but sometimes it was enough to feel. It didn't matter if it hurt or not. Just to feel.

Right now, Joseph Arthur was singing "Honey and the Moon." He sang to his true love that if she weren't real, he would make her up. Wow, what a thing. Lucy tried to imagine a man, a worthy man, saying that to her. It made her shake her head in wonder.

She closed her eyes and tried to put the pieces together. Nothing fit. The past was rising up again. Lucy had spent her entire adult life running away from those damn woods at her fathers camp. She had fled across the country, all the way to California, and she had fled all the way back again. She had changed her name and hair color. But the past al ways followed. Sometimes it would let her gain a comfortable lead- lulled her into thinking that she had put enough distance between that night and the present day-but the dead always closed the gap.

In the end that awful night always found her.

But this time… how? Those journal entries… how could they exist? Sylvia Potter had barely been born when the Summer Slasher struck Camp PLUS (Peace Love Understanding Summer). What could she know about it? Of course, like Lonnie, she might have gone online, done some research, figured out that Lucy had a past. Or maybe some one, someone older and wiser, had told her something.

But still. How would she know? For that matter, how would anyone know? Only one person knew that Lucy had lied about what happened that night.

And, of course, Paul wouldn't say anything.

She stared through the clear liquid in her glass. Paul. Paul Cope-land. She could still see him with those gangly arms and legs, that lean torso, that long hair, that knock-a-girl-back smile. Interestingly enough, they had met through their fathers. Paul’s old man, an ob-gyn in his old country, had escaped repression in the Soviet Union only to find plenty of it here in the good ol' USA. Ira, Lucy’s bleeding-heart father, could never resist a tale of woe like that. So Ira hired Vladimir Copeland to be camp doctor. Gave his family a chance to escape Newark in the summer.

Lucy could still see it-their car, a broken-down Oldsmobile Ciera, kicking up the dirt road, coming to a stop, the four doors opening seemingly at the same time, the family of four stepping out as one. At that moment, when Lucy first saw Paul and their eyes met, it was boom, crack, thunderbolt. And she could see that he felt the same. There are those rare moments in life-when you feel that jolt and it feels great and it hurts like hell, but you're feeling, really feeling, and suddenly colors seem brighter and sounds have more clarity and foods taste better and you never, not even for a minute, stop thinking about him and you know, just know, that he is feeling exactly the same way about you.

"Like that," Lucy said out loud and took another swig other vodka and tonic. Like with these pathetic songs she played over and over. A feeling. A rush of emotion. A high or a low, didn't matter. But it wasn't the same anymore. What had Elton John sung, via those Bernie Taupin lyrics, about vodka and tonic? Something about taking a couple of vodka and tonics to set you on your feet again.

That hadn't worked for Lucy. But hey, why give up now?

The little voice in her head said, Stop drinking.

The much bigger voice told the little voice to shut up or get its ass kicked. Lucy made a fist and put it in the air. "Go, Big Voice!" She laughed, and that sound, the sound of her own laugh alone in this still room, frightened her. Rob Thomas came on her "Mellow" list, asking if he could just hold her while she falls apart, if he could just hold her while they both fall down. She nodded. Yes, he could. Rob reminded her that she was cold and scared and broken, and damn her, she wanted to listen to this song with Paul.

Paul.

He would want to know about these journals.

It had been twenty years since she'd seen him, but six years ago, Lucy had looked him up on the Internet. She had not wanted to. She knew that Paul was a door best left closed. But she had gotten drunk- big surprise-and while some people "drunk dialed," Lucy had "drunk Googled."

What she'd found was both sobering and unsurprising. Paul was married. He worked as an attorney. He had a young daughter. Lucy had even managed to find a picture of his gorgeous wife from a well-to-do family at some charity function. Jane-that was his wife's name-was tall and lean and wore pearls. She looked good in pearls. She had that whole meant-for-pearls thing going on.

Another swig.

Things might have changed in six years, but back then Paul was living in Ridgewood, New Jersey, a scant twenty miles from where Lucy now was. She looked across the room at her computer.

Paul should be told, shouldn't he?

And it would be no problem to do another quick Google search. Just get a phone number for him-home or, better, office. She could contact him. Warn him, really. Totally on the up-and-up. No agenda, no hidden meanings, nothing like that.

She put down the vodka and tonic. Rain fell outside the window. Her computer was already on. Her screen saver was, yep, the Windows default one. No family vacation picture. No slideshow of the kids or even that spinster staple: photograph of a pet. Just that Windows logo bopping around, like the monitor was sticking its tongue out at her.

Beyond pathetic.

She brought up her home page and was about to type when she heard the knock on the door. She stopped, waited. Another knock. Lucy checked the small clock in the bottom right-hand corner other computer.

Twelve-seventeen a.m.

Awfully late for a visitor.

"Who is it?"

No reply.

"Who-"

"Its Sylvia Potter."

There were tears in that voice. Lucy stood and stumbled to the kitchen. She dumped the rest of her drink into the sink and put the bottle back in its cabinet. Vodka didn't smell, at least not much, so she was okay on that count. She took a quick look in the mirror. The image in it looked like hell, but there wasn't much she could do about that now.

"Coming."

She opened the door and Sylvia tumbled in as if she'd been leaning against it. The girl was soaked. The air-conditioning was set on high. Lucy almost made some comment about her catching her death, but it sounded like something a mother would say. She closed the door.

Sylvia said, "I'm sorry it's so late."

"Don't worry about it. I was up."

She stopped in the center of the room. "I'm sorry about before."

"That's okay."

"No, it's just…" Sylvia looked around. She wrapped her arms around her body. "Do you want a towel or something?" "No." "Can I get you something to drink?" "I'm okay." Lucy gestured for Sylvia to have a seat. Sylvia collapsed on the Ikea couch. Lucy hated Ikea and their graphics-only instruction manuals, seemingly designed by NASA engineers. Lucy sat next to her and waited.

"How did you find out I wrote that journal?" Sylvia asked.

"Its not important."

"I sent it anonymously."

"I know."

"And you said they would be confidential."

"I know. I'm sorry about that."

Sylvia wiped her nose and looked off. Her hair was still dripping.

"I even lied to you," Sylvia said.

"How’s that?"

"About what I wrote. When I visited your office the other day. Do you remember?" "Yes." "Do you remember what I said my paper was about?" Lucy thought for a second. "Your first time." Sylvia smiled but there was nothing behind it. "I guess, in a sick way, that was true." Lucy thought about that too. Then she said, "I'm not sure I follow, Sylvia."

Sylvia did not say anything for a long time. Lucy remembered that Lonnie said he would help get her to talk. But he was supposed to wait until the morning.

"Did Lonnie visit you tonight?"

"Lonnie Berger? From class?"

"Yes."

"No. Why would Lonnie visit me?"

"It's not important. So you just came here on your own?"

Sylvia swallowed and looked unsure of herself. "Was I wrong to?"

"No, not at all. I'm glad you're here."

"I'm really scared," Sylvia said.

Lucy nodded, tried to appear reassuring, encouraging. Forcing this issue would only backfire. So she waited. She waited for a full two minutes before breaking.

"There's no reason to be scared," Lucy said.

"What do you think I should do?"

"Tell me everything, okay?"

"I have. I mean, the majority of it."

Lucy wondered how to play this. "Who is P?"

Sylvia frowned. "What?"

"In your journal. You talk about a boy named P. Who is P?"

"What are you talking about?"

Lucy stopped. Tried again.

"Tell me exactly why you’re here, Sylvia."

But now Sylvia was being cagey. "Why did you come to my room today?"

"Because I wanted to talk about your journal."

"Then why are you asking me about a guy named P? I didn't call anyone P. I said straight out that it was…" The words stuck in her throat. She closed her eyes and whispered, "… my father."

The dam broke. The tears came down like the rain, in sheets.

Lucy closed her eyes. The incest story. The one that had struck her and Lonnie with such horror. Damn. Lonnie had gotten it wrong. Sylvia hadn't written the journal about that night in the woods.

"Your father molested you when you were twelve," Lucy said.

Sylvia’s face was in her hands. Her sobs sounded as if they were being ripped out of her chest. Her entire body quaked as she nodded her head. Lucy looked at this poor girl, so anxious to please, and pictured the father. She reached out her hand and put it on Sylvia’s. Then she moved closer and put her arms around the girl. Sylvia leaned into her chest and cried. Lucy shushed her and rocked her and held her.

I hadn't slept. Neither had Muse. I managed a quick electric shave. I smelled so bad I debated asking Horace Foley if I could borrow his cologne.

"Get me that paperwork," I told Muse.

"As soon as I can."

When the judge called us to order, I called a-gasp-surprise witness. "The People call Gerald Flynn." Flynn had been the "nice" boy who'd invited Chamique Johnson to the party. He looked the part, too, what with his too-smooth skin, nicely parted blond locks, wide blue eyes that seemed to gaze at everything with naiveté. Because there was a chance I would end my side of the case at any time, the defense had made sure Flynn was waiting. He was, after all, supposed to be their key witness.

Flynn had steadfastly backed his fraternity brothers. But it was one thing to lie to the police and even in depositions. It was another to do it during "the show." I looked back at Muse. She sat in the last row and tried to keep a straight face. The results were mixed. Muse would not be my first choice as a poker buddy.

I asked him to say his name for the record.

"Gerald Flynn."

"But you go by Jerry, isn't that correct?"

Yes. "Fine, let's start from the beginning, shall we? When did you first meet the defendant, Ms. Chamique Johnson?"

Chamique had come today. She was sitting near the center in the second to last row with Horace Foley. Interesting spot to sit. Like she didn't want to commit. I had heard some screaming in the corridors earlier in the morning. The Jenrette and Marantz families were not pleased with the last-minute snafu in their Chamique retraction. They had tried to nail it down, but it hadn't worked out. So we were starting late. Still they were ready. Their court faces, concerned, serious, engaged, were back in place.

It was a temporary delay, they figured. Just a few more hours.

"When she came to the fraternity house on October twelfth," he replied. "You remember the date?" "Yes." I made a face like, My, my isn’t that interesting, even though it wasn't.

Sure, he would know the date. This was a part of his life now too.

"Why was Ms. Johnson at your fraternity house?"

"She was hired as an exotic dancer."

"Did you hire her?"

"No. Well, I mean, the whole fraternity did. But I wasn't the one who made the booking or anything."

"I see. So she came to your fraternity house and performed an exotic dance?"

"Yes."

"And you watched this dance?"

"I did."

"What did you think of it?"

Mort Pubin was up. "Objection!"

The judge was already scowling in my direction. "Mr. Copeland?"

"According to Ms. Johnson, Mr. Flynn here invited her to the party where the rape took place. I am trying to understand why he would do that."

"So ask him that," Pubin said.

"Your Honor, may I please do this in my own way?"

Judge Pierce said, "Try to rephrase."

I turned back to Flynn. "Did you think Ms. Johnson was a good exotic dancer?" I asked.

"I guess."

"Yes or no?"

"Not great. But yeah, I thought she was pretty good."

"Did you think she was attractive?"

"Yeah, I mean, I guess so."

"Yes or no?"

"Objection!" Pubin again. "He doesn't have to answer a question like that yes or no. Maybe he thought she was mildly attractive. It isn't always yes or no."

"I agree, Mort," I said, surprising him. "Let me rephrase, Mr.

Flynn-how would you describe her attractiveness?"

"Like on a one-to-ten scale?"

"That would be splendid, Mr. Flynn. On a one-to-ten scale."

He thought about it. "Seven, maybe an eight."

"Fine, thank you. And at some point in the evening, did you talk to Ms. Johnson?"

"Yes."

"What did you talk about?"

"I don't know."

"Try to remember."

"I asked her where she lived. She said Irvington. I asked her if she went to school or if she had a boyfriend. That kinda thing. She told me about having a kid. She asked me what I was studying. I said I wanted to go to medical school."

"Anything else?"

"It was like that."

"I see. How long would you say you talked with her?"

"I don't know."

"Let me see if I can help you then. Was it more than five minutes?"

"Yes."

"More than an hour?"

"No, I don't think so."

"More than a half an hour?"

"I'm not sure."

"More than ten minutes?"

"I think so."

Judge Pierce interrupted, telling me that we got the point and that I should move it along.

"How did Ms. Johnson depart that particular event, if you know?"

"A car came and picked her up."

"Oh, was she the only exotic dancer there that evening?"

"No."

"How many others were there?"

"There were three altogether."

"Thank you. Did the other two leave with Ms. Johnson?"

"Yes."

"Did you talk with either of them?"

"Not really. Maybe a hello."

"Would it be fair to say that Chamique Johnson was the only one of the three exotic dancers you had a conversation with?"

Pubin looked as though he wanted to object but then he decided to let it go.

"Yes," Flynn said. "That would be fair."

Enough prelims. "Chamique Johnson testified that she made extra money by performing a sexual act on several of the young men at the party. Do you know if that's true?"

"I don't know."

"Really? So you didn't engage her services?"

"I did not."

"And you never heard a word mentioned by any of your fraternity brothers about Ms. Johnson performing acts of a sexual nature on them?"

Flynn was trapped. He was either going to lie or admit an illegal activity was going on. He did the dumbest thing of all-he took the middle road. "I may have heard some whispers."

Nice and wishy-washy, making him look like a total liar.

I put on my best incredulous tone. "May have heard some whispers?" "Yes." "So you're not sure if you heard some whispers," I said, as if this was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard in my life, "but you may have. You simply cannot remember if you heard whispers or not. Is that your testimony?"

Flair stood this time. "Your Honor?"

The judge looked at him.

"Is this a rape case or is Mr. Copeland now working vice?" He spread his hands. "Is his rape case so weak now, so far-fetched, that he is now fishing to indict these boys on soliciting a prostitute?"

I said, "That's not what I'm after."

Flair smiled at me. "Then please ask this witness questions that concern this alleged assault. Don't ask him to recite every misbehavior he's ever seen a friend commit."

The judge said, "Let's move on, Mr. Copeland."

Friggin' Flair.

"Did you ask Ms. Johnson for her phone number?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I thought I might call her."

"You liked her?"

"I was attracted to her, yes."

"Because she was a seven, maybe an eight?" I waved before Pubin could move. "Withdrawn. Did there come a time when you called Ms.

Johnson?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell us when, and as best as you can, please tell us what was said in that conversation?"

"Ten days later I called and asked her if she wanted to come to a party at the fraternity." "Did you want her to dance exotically again?" "No," Flynn said. I saw him swallow and his eyes were a little wet now. "I asked her as a guest."

I let that sit. I looked at Jerry Flynn. I let the jury look at him. There was something in his face. Had he liked Chamique Johnson? I let the moment linger. Because I was confused. I had thought that Jerry Flynn was part of it-that he had called Chamique and set her up. I tried to work it through in my head.

The judge said, "Mr. Copeland."

"Did Ms. Johnson accept your invitation?"

"Yes."

"When you say you invited her as your"-I made quote marks with my fingers-" 'guest,' do you really mean 'date'?"

"Yes."

I followed him through meeting her and getting her punch.

"Did you tell her it was spiked with alcohol?" I asked.

"Yes."

It was a lie. And it looked like a lie, but I wanted to emphasize the ridiculousness of that claim.

"Tell me how that conversation went," I said.

"I don't understand the question."

"Did you ask Ms. Johnson if she wanted something to drink?"

"Yes."

"And did she say yes?”

"Yes."

"And then what did you say?"

"I asked her if she wanted some punch."

"And what did she say?"

"She said yes."

"And then what?"

He shifted in his chair. "I said it was spiked."

I arched the eyebrow. "Just like that?"

"Objection!" Pubin rose. "Just like what? He said it was spiked.

Asked and answered."

He was right. Leave them with the obvious lie. I waved to the judge that I would let it go. I started walking him through the night. Flynn stuck to the story he'd already told, about how Chamique got drunk, how she started flirting with Edward Jenrette.

"How did you react when that happened?"

He shrugged. "Edward is a senior, I'm a freshman. It happens."

"So you think Chamique was impressed because Mr. Jenrette was older?"

Again Pubin decided to not object.

"I don't know," Flynn said. "Maybe."

"Oh, by the way, have you ever been in Mr. Marantz's and Mr. Jenrette's room?"

"Sure."

"How many times?"

"I don't know. A lot."

"Really? But you're just a freshman."

"They're still my friends."

I made my skeptical face. "Have you been in there more than once?"

"Yes."

"More than ten times?"

Yes. I made my face even more skeptical. "Okay then, tell me: What sort of stereo or music system do they have in the room?" Flynn answered it immediately. "They have a Bose speakers iPod system."

I knew that already. We had searched the room. We had pictures.

"How about the television in their room? How big is it?"

He smiled as if he’d seen my trap. "They don't have one."

"No television at all?"

"None."

"Okay then, back to the night in question…"

Flynn continued to weave his tale. He started partying with his friends. He saw Chamique start up the stairs holding hands with Jenrette. He didn't know what happened after that, of course. Then later that night, he met up with Chamique again and walked her to the bus stop.

"Did she seem upset?" I asked. Flynn said no, just the opposite. Chamique was "smiling" and "happy" and light as air. His Pollyanna description was overkill.

"So when Chamique Johnson talked about going out to the keg with you and then walking upstairs and being grabbed in the corridor," I said, "that was all a lie?"

Flynn was smart enough not to bite. "I'm telling you what I saw."

"Do you know anyone named Cal or Jim?"

He thought about it. "I know a couple of guys named Jim. I don't think I know any Cals."

"Are you aware that Ms. Johnson claimed the men who raped her were named"-I didn't want Flair objecting with his semantics game but I did roll my eyes a little when I said the word named-"Cal and Jim?"

He was wondering how to handle that one. He went with the truth.

"I heard that."

"Was there anyone named Cal or Jim at the party?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"I see. And would you know any reason why Mr. Jenrette and Mr. Marantz would call themselves that?"

No. "Ever heard those two names together? I mean, before the alleged rape:

"Not that I can recall." "So you cant shine a light on why Ms. Johnson would testify that her attackers were named Cal and Jim?" Pubin shouted his objection. "How could he possibly know why this deranged, intoxicated woman would lie?" I kept my eyes on the witness. "Nothing comes to mind, Mr. Flynn?"

"Nothing," he said firmly.

I looked back at Loren Muse. Her head was down, fiddling with her Blackberry. She glanced up, met my eye, nodded once. "Your Honor," I said, "I have more questions for this witness but this might make a good place to break for lunch."

Judge Pierce agreed.

I tried not to sprint over to Loren Muse.

"We got it," she said with a grin. "The fax is in your office."