What We Saw (10 page)

THIS VIDEO DOESN'T
show you everything.

For instance, you can't see the whole drill team, so even if you know that Stacey Stallard is a member, you won't notice that she's missing from the formation. You can't see that every student is standing as Coach Sanders takes the mic from Wyatt, but even though the audio is terrible, you can hear the chorus of boos when he says the words
vicious rumors.

Sloane was shooting this over Mr. Johnston's shoulder so you can't see the frown on his face when the chant begins.

Tough as BUCC! Tough as BUCC! Tough as BUCC!

You can't see that the blurry figures on the opposite side of the gym are Principal Hargrove and Ms. Speck. You can't
make out Ms. Speck's charcoal tailored suit or her black high heels with the red soles. You also can't see her mouth drop open slightly when Coach asks,
What happens to losers when they run up against the Buccaneers?

But you can see the anger cloud Coach Sanders's face when he spots Sloane Keating in the corner. You can see him shouldering through the drill team and a crush of chanting students as he makes a beeline for her. You can see Mr. Johnston's groovy glasses as he glances over his shoulder, then back at Coach—a look of comprehension, then apprehension, spreading across his face.

You can see Coach Sanders jabbing his finger and shouting above the din at Sloane Keating. But more importantly, you can hear what he's shouting at her.

Get the hell out of here.

You filthy liar.

I've got your number.

You better watch your back.

Mom gasps and sinks down on the arm of the couch. She has just walked through the door from work as Dad turns up the volume.

“Shocking footage from a Channel Thirteen reporter who was threatened this afternoon by Coral Sands High School basketball coach, Raymond Sanders. I'm Jeremy Gordon in Des Moines bringing you breaking developments in this case. As always, Channel Thirteen is on the scene
,
and we go now, live, to our very own Sloane Keating, who shot this incendiary
footage—on your cell phone, Sloane, as I understand?

The screen splits, and Sloane's face fills half. Her blond hair is pulled back at the base of her neck tonight. She wears a dark wool trench over a black sweater that shows no cleavage. The effect is conservative, both somber and studious, stylish with a subtle hint of glamour.
I am not a model. I am a serious journalist.
She smiles grimly into the camera, then uses those words again:

Coral Sands Rape Case.

“As I reported this morning, last night, local authorities released all four of the young men taken into custody on Tuesday. Two are minors whose names have been withheld, but they are both eleventh-graders here at Coral Sands High. Seniors John Doone and Deacon Mills were also released on bail after pleading not guilty.”

“And do we know if these young men have been cooperating with the investegation?” asks Jeremy.

“It's been extremely difficult to get any further information,” says Sloane. “This town is a team—just like their coach says—and as you can see from this video, they don't take kindly to outsiders asking questions.”

“That's not fair,” Mom says. “Makes us sound like a bunch of stupid hicks.”

Onscreen, Jeremy Gordon presses forward. “Sloane, have there been any statements from the alleged victim in this case?”

“Not a word,” says Sloane. “As you know it's the policy of our organization and the media at large not to report the name
or identifying details of the victim in situations such as these. But I have to say, Jeremy, with this video as evidence of the prevailing sentiment here in Coral Sands, it can't be easy for her. I imagine the young woman must be feeling intimidated, and quite alone.”

Sloane says these words with a quiet determination that telegraphs a simple message:
I will get to the bottom of this
. As she says them, the screen cuts away from the two-shot and back to the grainy cell-phone video, Sloane's long pan of what appears to be the whole school, yelling in defiant solidarity with Coach Sanders. The basketball team and entire student body chanting a slogan only one consonant away from an expletive:

Tough as BUCC! Tough as BUCC! Tough as BUCC!

“Truly a chilling scene.” Jeremy Gordon's voice brings us back to the two-shot, and Sloane promises she's staying right here until she has more answers. Jeremy tells us where we can follow along with the case on Sloane's
Thirteen's on the Scene!
blog. Then they play out to a commercial with a shot of the chanting student body. This time we seem even more rabid looking than we did before. It's the same footage, but now Sloane Keating and Jeremy Gordon have decided that this is
a chilling scene.

Because of their pronouncement, this video now shows you more than you thought you saw when you watched it the first time. Two people with perfect skin and straight, white teeth have just explained that there's more here than a simple pep rally. Their eyes seem to be staring through the screen directly
at me. Accusing me. Blaming me. Lumping me in with all of the other kids in that gym. According to them, we aren't individual students. We aren't people with our own thoughts and opinions. We're a mob and we are circling the wagons to protect our own.

Dad clicks pause just before the broadcast cuts to a commercial and wordlessly walks to the kitchen to get another beer. Mom shakes her head and follows him. I hear her pulling food out of the fridge and putting a pan on the stove. I stare at the frozen screen, and just when I realize what I'm looking at, Will sees it, too.

“No
way
!” he crows. “I'm on TV!”

Mom and Dad both come back to the living room. Coach's face is a blur in the foreground, but there in the center of the screen is Will, his arm raised next to Ben's, chanting along, black tube socks pulled up to his knees over his jeans. Will races out of the room. “I have to text Tyler! Don't delete this, Dad.”

I wait for Dad to say something, but he only grunts and hits play, filling the living room with another few seconds of the chant. Mom sighs and goes back to the kitchen. I keep waiting for someone to say something
.
When no one does, I know what I have to do after dinner, because this video doesn't give you the whole story. It doesn't even try to.

There's more to what's happening in this footage than two news anchors can discuss in a ninety-second live report. It doesn't show you that some of the students standing in those bleachers would like to know what really happened Saturday
night. It can't explain that some of us used to call Stacey Stallard a friend. It can't assure you that not everyone has decided who's guilty or picked a side or even understands where the battle lines are drawn. It can't show you that a girl was missing from the drill team on the court, or that I want to know what she has to say.

And in that sense, this video doesn't show you anything at all.

AFTER DINNER, I
tell Mom I need some new lipstick for the Spring Fling tomorrow night, which is true. I also need a bracelet. I know that Buccs Buy Local! and all that, but at eight thirty on a weeknight, there's not much open in this town, and I won't have time after school tomorrow. Besides, the Walmart Supercenter has decent makeup, and sometimes their jewelry isn't bad. You just have to know where to look. Plus, I'm on a budget.

Mom asks if I want her to come with me, but I tell her no. I have one more stop to make after I shop.

The turnoff for the Coral Creek Mobile Village is just a quarter mile past the Walmart. I've only been here a few times.

Back in seventh grade I rode along when Mom would drop off Stacey after LeeAnne got home from her double shift. A lot has changed in the years since. The trees used to hide the trailers from the service road, but when the Supercenter went in, they bulldozed everything right up to the creek and built a wall to block noise and light. Now, instead of oaks and maples, the back row of mobile homes is bordered by cinder blocks, and the creek is on the Walmart side.

The darkness is punctuated by random porch lights. Cats scamper beneath parked cars, eyes glowing like sentinels. Several times I hit the brake as two boys and a girl on bicycles weave on and off the main drive through hard-packed dirt yards. The girl is six years old at most and wears a camouflage tank top. The boys might be a couple years older, but one of them is wearing flip-flops, and the idea of having bare feet makes me shiver a little right now. The three of them look like they're racing to the beach even though it's been overcast and in the fifties again the past few days. I wonder where their parents are. I never saw the backside of eight thirty p.m. until I was in junior high. Don't these kids have a bedtime?

I slow down as I approach the row where Stacey's place sits one in from the corner, against the wall that now skirts the whole trailer park.

Park
.

That word generally makes me think of wide-open spaces, filled with green: grass, trees, life in general. It is clear that in this park the term refers to a vehicle that has come to a stop.
There are scores of them here, trailers anchored beneath the alien glow of the Supercenter parking lot. The light spills over the high wall and casts a weird lavender haze into the sky over Coral Creek.

I pull Dad's truck over on the side of the main drag, turning off the engine and the lights. Stacey's trailer looks exactly as I remember it, only it may be painted a different color. The whole place is tidy—standing in stark contrast to the neighbors on both sides. At the trailer to the left, a broken screen door flaps in the breeze, banging against the paneling every few seconds. At the place on the right, there are several giant stacks of tires, overgrown with weeds that obscure the steps leading up to the door.

I slip out of the truck, close the door, and lean against it for a moment. A little white picket fence rings Stacey's front yard. As I click open the gate, a Doberman in the trailer next door appears at the window, snarling and barking, jaws snapping, claws against glass. I jump what feels like a foot in the air, then remind myself to breathe.

Relax.

You're just stopping by to say hi to Stacey.

To check on her.

To see how she is.

I tell myself this as if it weren't crazy, as if I did this every day. As if I have ever done this even once since seventh grade.

There's a covered porch that stretches along the front of Stacey's place, and a flag on a pole is bracketed to one of the
upright supports that holds up the roof. It's not an American flag, but one of those seasonal flags. It's got spring flowers and a bunny on it. Hopeful. It won't be Easter for another month or so, but it did feel like spring last weekend. There are lights shining through the curtains in the front windows, and I can hear someone talking. As I reach the door I make out the sounds of a competition reality show.

A plaque next to the lit doorbell button reads
LORD, BLESS THIS MESS!
and I smile. Whether it's the Lord or Stacey's mom, it's working. This is the nicest place in the neighborhood.

Pressing the glowing orange button yields a classic
ding-dong.
I hear new voices over the sound of a pop star telling a contestant that she's “got what it takes!” then everything goes quiet.

The door swings open a few inches, and LeeAnne Stallard peers out through the glass and screen of the closed storm door. Her hair is wet, and her tired eyes become bare flint the moment she sees me.

“Yes?”

“Hi!” I say it too brightly, like I'm selling something. “It's Kate. Kate Weston?”

LeeAnne nods her head, slowly. “I know who you are, Kate.”

I blink at her, trapped in the high beams of her derision. She waits, daring me to speak again. I swallow hard.

“Is . . . Stacey . . . home?”

A short, sarcastic laugh escapes her lips. “Where else would she be?”

The children on bikes I saw earlier go clattering by behind me, shrieking and laughing. The Doberman next door sounds the alarm.

LeeAnne doesn't move. She doesn't open the screen door.

“Just wanted to come by and . . . check on her,” I say.

“Oh, did you?” It's almost a sneer. I search for more words, LeeAnne's steely eyes making my insides twist and squirm. Is she enjoying this?

“Do you think I could see her?”

“Stacey isn't really taking visitors right now,” she says.

I nod, too quickly, too agreeably.
Oh! Oh yes. Yes, of course. How silly of me.
“Well, if she ever needs to . . .” My voice is shaking now, and I can't finish the sentence.

“Needs to what?” LeeAnne is determined to make this painful.

“If she ever needs to . . . talk or anything, I just wanted her to know that I'm . . . around.”

LeeAnne shakes her head as her gaze sweeps up toward the ceiling of her trailer.
Dear god, deliver us from these idiots.
Then she swings the door closed with a thump. I hear the click of a deadbolt, the scratch of a chain.

Standing on the porch, afraid to move, I wish I could beam myself back to my bedroom. It feels as if moving even an inch on this redwood deck would open up a deep cavern beneath the Coral Creek Mobile Village and swallow us whole, pressing us into fossils, the wreckage of this moment left petrified for a future generation of Iowans to puzzle over. Then, I hear Stacey's
voice muffled through the wafer-thin walls of the trailer.

“Why did you even open the door?”

“I got rid of her.”

“She's one of them, Mom.” Stacey sounds frantic, a thunderhead just before cloudburst. My feet move on their own, trying to outrun a storm. I race down the stairs as Stacey starts to sob. “She's one of them.”

There are tears in my own eyes now, as I struggle to open the latch on the front gate. A light flashes on across the hard-packed gravel drive, and I can see the lever more clearly for a moment. I swing the gate open and closed before I hear a familiar voice.

“Are you a friend of the victim? Do you have time for a few questions?”

Sloane Keating strides toward me, the brightness I'd assumed was a neighbor's motion sensor hovers behind her, a floodlight mounted to a camera, the glare hiding the face of the man operating it as both of them quickly close the distance between us.

My first instinct is to freeze. On TV or across a crowded gymnasium, Sloane Keating seems small, mostly hair and shoulder pads—somehow inconsequential.

In person, she is different altogether.

She is taller than I realized, and confident. She powers across the gravel in high heels without the slightest wobble, her blond hair free and flowing behind. She seems to float toward me surrounded by harsh white light, a trailer park Galadriel, her
piercing eyes discerning the truth. There is something physical about the force of her presence, and I now understand a term I often see on those
Entertainment!
blogs with the pink logos.

This is star power
.

I'm terrified she'll pin me against Mrs. Stallard's white plastic pickets if I don't go now, but as I make a lateral move toward Dad's truck, Sloane grunts a throaty “three o'clock” to her cameraman. Both of them pivot, and somehow he's out in front of me now, Sloane coming in from behind, pelting me with questions:

Are you a friend of the victim's?

Did you attend the party on Saturday night?

I curse myself for wearing my bright blue Buccaneer zip-up. I pull the sweatshirt tightly around me, my fists jammed in the pockets, my arms wrapping around my stomach. A fleece straitjacket somehow fits the crazed feeling of panic knotted in my chest, but offers no protection from the rapid fire of Sloane's inquisition. The words
LADY BUCCS
emblazoned over the canary yellow soccer ball on my back burn like a brand. Sloane may be stabbing in the dark here, but I'm clearly a good guess.

Do you know who was there?

I stare at my feet as I walk, trying to avoid looking at the camera.

Did you see what happened?

I have to glance up to see if I am even headed in the right direction. I shield my face with my hand for a quick peek, but the camera is two feet away, practically up my nose, and anyone
watching in Coral Sands will recognize me. If Sloane can run iPhone video on the air, god only knows what she'll do with this. Now everyone will know I was here. How will I explain this?

As I get to the truck, I fumble through my pockets for the keys. The cameraman is shooting my profile as the key ring spills from my fingers and falls to the ground. Sloane's hand is on my arm now, a warm, firm current. I jerk away, grab the keys from the ground, and turn on her.

“Leave me alone!”

Even as I say the words, I realize it's too late. I've handed her a victory. I see it flash across the whites of her eyes:
contact.

“I just want to get the whole story from someone who was there.”

The sincerity in her voice startles me as I scramble to find the button on the key fob to click open the locks. I stare back at her for a split second, and Sloane holds a hand up to her cameraman. The light clicks off. He slides the evidence of my visit off his shoulder. Black holes float in front of my eyes, and I wish for a moment they would suck me into a different dimension.

“You were there, weren't you?”

My father's voice rings in my ears:
As far as this family is concerned, you don't even know where that Doone boy lives.

I give my head a single shake, but Sloane doesn't buy it. My thumb hovers over the button to pop the locks. She reaches out again, tentative, with the gentle stealth of an expert defusing a bomb. She senses that at any moment I might blow. Her glossy
manicure flashes across my sleeve, and once more her hand is on my arm.

There is no trace of the tough-as-nails reporter on Sloane's face now, no hint of the pleased-as-punch smile she gave Coach Sanders earlier today as she fled the gym. Here, in the shadows, Sloane appears oddly human. Without the harsh light from the cameras filling in every contour, her eyes look puffy underneath, and there are dark circles seeping through her concealer. Her lipstick has worn off. Her smile is sad. I can tell she's tired. For the first time ever, she looks like a real person. Even her voice is different, now. When she speaks to me, she's friendly, not official. “I'm only trying to find out what really happened that night.”

That's why I'm here, too. I was there when Deputy Jennings read Dooney the charges:
sexual assault
. I've heard Sloane say the word
rape
over and over this week
.

But what do those words mean? What really happened?

I came here to ask Stacey face-to-face. The only information I have is secondhand: Sloane's news reports and gossip at school. No hard evidence at all. Sure, there are formal charges, but right now, it's Stacey's word against Dooney's. Is Sloane as confused as I am? Or does she have more information than I do? If she does, do I really want to know what it is?

My thumb plunges down on the button. The locks on the truck slide and click like the bolt of a shotgun. In a flash, I slip out of Sloane's reach and into the cab, one fluid motion that causes her shoulders to slump in failure, and her voice to rise
over the roar of the engine as it growls to life.

“She was raped
.
At least three different basketball players assaulted her that night. She was unconscious. She spent all day Sunday at the hospital
.
”

I flip on the headlights and see Sloane make a move to race around the front of the truck. I spin the wheel to cut her off, then hit the gas and take Dad's advice:

Steer clear.