Harlan Coben 3 Novel Collection Page 47
The judge looked at Flair. “Mr. Hickory?”
“We believe that Ms. Johnson is a habitual drug user. We believe that she was high that night and the jury should understand that when assessing the integrity of her testimony.”
“Ms. Johnson has already stated that she had not taken any drugs that night or imbibed”—I put the sarcastic emphasis this time—“any alcohol.”
“And I,” Flair said, “have the right to cast doubt on her recollections. The punch was indeed spiked. I will produce Mr. Flynn, who will testify that the defendant knew that when she drank it. I also want to establish that this is a woman who did not hesitate to do drugs, even when she was mothering a young child—”
“Your Honor!” I shouted.
“Okay, enough.” The judge cracked the gavel. “Can we move along, Mr. Hickory?”
“We can, Your Honor.”
I sat back down. My objection had been stupid. It looked as if I was trying to get in the way and worse, I had given Flair the chance to offer more narrative. My strategy had been to stay silent. I had lost my discipline, and it had cost us.
“Ms. Johnson, you are accusing these boys of raping you, is that correct?”
I was on my feet. “Objection. She’s not a lawyer or familiar with legal definitions. She told you what they did to her. It is the court’s job to find the correct terminology.”
Flair looked amused again. “I’m not asking her for a legal definition. I’m curious about her own vernacular.”
“Why? Are you going to give her a vocabulary test?”
“Your Honor,” Flair said, “may I please question this witness?”
“Why don’t you explain what you’re after, Mr. Hickory?”
“Fine, I’ll rephrase. Miss Johnson, when you are talking to your friends, do you tell them that you were raped?”
She hesitated. “Yeah.”
“Uh-huh. And tell me, Ms. Johnson, do you know anyone else who has claimed to be raped?”
Me again. “Objection. Relevance?”
“I’ll allow it.”
Flair was standing near Chamique. “You can answer,” he said, like he was helping her out.
“Yeah.”
“Who?”
“Coupla the girls I work with.”
“How many?”
She looked up as if trying to remember. “I can think of two.”
“Would these be strippers or prostitutes?”
“Both.”
“One of each or—”
“No, they both do both.”
“I see. Did these crimes occur while they were working or while they were on their leisure time?”
I was up again. “Your Honor, I mean, enough. What’s the relevance?”
“My distinguished colleague is right,” Flair said, gesturing with a full arm swing in my direction. “When he’s right, he’s right. I withdraw the question.”
He smiled at me. I sat down slowly, hating every moment of it.
“Ms. Johnson, do you know any rapists?”
Me again. “You mean, besides your clients?”
Flair just gave me a look and then turned to the jury as if to say, My, wasn’t that the lowest cheap shot ever? And truth: It was.
For her part, Chamique said, “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“No matter, my dear,” Flair said, as if her answer would bore him. “I’ll get back to that later.”
I hate when Flair says that.
“During this purported attack, did my clients, Mr. Jenrette and Mr. Marantz, did they wear masks?”
“No.”
“Did they wear disguises of any sort?”
“No.”
“Did they try to hide their faces?”
“No.”
Flair Hickory shook his head as if this was the most puzzling thing he had ever heard.
“And according to your testimony, you were grabbed against your will and dragged into the room. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“The room where Mr. Jenrette and Mr. Marantz resided?”
“Yes.”
“They didn’t attack you outside, in the dark, or some place that couldn’t be traced back to them. Isn’t that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Odd, don’t you think?”
I was about to object again, but I let it go.
“So it is your testimony that two men raped you, that they didn’t wear masks or do anything to disguise themselves, that they in fact showed you their faces, that they did this in their room with at least one witness watching you being forced to enter. Is that correct?”
I begged Chamique not to sound wishy-washy. She didn’t. “That sounds right, yeah.”
“And yet, for some reason”—again Flair looked like the most perplexed man imaginable—“they used aliases?”
No reply. Good.
Flair Hickory continued to shake his head as though someone had demanded he make two plus two equal five. “Your attackers used the names Cal and Jim instead of their own. That’s your testimony, is it not, Miss Johnson?”
“It is.”
“Does that make any sense to you?”
“Objection,” I said. “Nothing about this brutal crime makes sense to her.”
“Oh, I understand that,” Flair Hickory said. “I was just hoping, being that she was there, that Ms. Johnson might have a theory on why they would let their faces be seen and attack her in their own room—and yet use aliases.” He smiled sweetly. “Do you have one, Miss Johnson?”
“One what?”
“A theory on why two boys named Edward and Barry would call themselves Jim and Cal?”
“No.”
Flair Hickory walked back to his desk. “Before I asked you if you knew any rapists. Do you remember that?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Do you?”
“I don’t think so.”
Flair nodded and picked up a sheet of paper. “How about a man currently being incarcerated in Rahway on charges of sexual battery named—and please pay attention, Ms. Johnson—Jim Broodway?”
Chamique’s eyes grew wide. “You mean James?”
“I mean, Jim—or James, if you want the formal name—Broodway who used to reside at 1189 Central Avenue in the city of Newark, New Jersey. Do you know him?”
“Yeah.” Her voice was soft. “I used to know him.”
“Did you know that he is now in prison?”
She shrugged. “I know a lot of guys who are now in prison.”
“I’m certain you do”—for the first time, there was bite in Flair’s voice—“but that wasn’t my question. I asked you if you knew that Jim Broodway was in prison.”
“He’s not Jim. He’s James—”
“I will ask one more time, Miss Johnson, and then I will ask the court to demand an answer—”
I was up. “Objection. He’s badgering the witness.”
“Overruled. Answer the question.”
“I heard something about it,” Chamique said, and her tone was meek.
Flair did the dramatic sigh. “Yes or no, Miss Johnson, did you know that Jim Broodway is currently serving time in a state penitentiary?”
“Yes.”
“There. Was that so hard?”
Me again. “Your Honor…”
“No need for the dramatics, Mr. Hickory. Get on with it.”
Flair Hickory walked back to his chair. “Have you ever had sex with Jim Broodway?”
“His name is James!” Chamique said again.
“Let’s call him ‘Mr. Broodway’ for the sake of this discussion, shall we? Have you ever had sex with Mr. Broodway?”
I couldn’t just let this go. “Objection. Her sex life is irrelevant to this case. The law is clear here.”
Judge Pierce looked at Flair. “Mr. Hickory?”
“I am not trying to besmirch Miss Johnson’s reputation or imply that she was a woman of loose morals,” Flair said. “Opposing counsel already explained very clea
rly that Miss Johnson has worked as a prostitute and has engaged in a variety of sexual activities with a wide variety of men.”
When will I learn to keep my mouth shut?
“The point I am trying to raise is a different one and will not at all embarrass the defendant. She has admitted having sex with men. The fact that Mr. Broodway might be one of them is hardly stapling a scarlet letter to her chest.”
“It’s prejudicial,” I countered.
Flair looked at me as if I’d just dropped out of the backside of a horse. “I just explained to you why it is very much not. But the truth is, Chamique Johnson has accused two youths of a very serious crime. She has testified that a man named Jim raped her. What I am asking, plain and simple, is this: Did she ever have sex with Mr. Jim Broodway—or James, if she prefers—who is currently serving time in a state penitentiary for sexual battery?”
I saw now where this was going. And it wasn’t good.
“I’ll allow it,” the judge said.
I sat back down.
“Miss Johnson, have you ever had sexual relations with Mr. Broodway?”
A tear rolled down her cheek. “Yeah.”
“More than once?”
“Yeah.”
It looked like Flair was going to try to be more specific, but he knew better than to pile on. He changed directions a little. “Were you ever drunk or high while having sex with Mr. Broodway?”
“Might have been.”
“Yes or no?”
His voice was soft but firm. There was a hint of outrage now too.
“Yes.”
She was crying harder now.
I stood. “Quick recess, Your Honor.”
Flair dropped the hammer before the judge could reply. “Was there ever another man involved in your sexual encounters with Jim Broodway?”
The courtroom exploded.
“Your Honor!” I shouted.
“Order!” The judge used the gavel. “Order!”
The room quieted quickly. Judge Pierce looked down at me. “I know how hard this is to listen to, but I’m going to allow this question.” He turned to Chamique. “Please answer.”
The court stenographer read the question again. Chamique sat there and let the tears spill down her face. When the stenographer finished, Chamique said, “No.”
“Mr. Broodway will testify that—”
“He let some friend of his watch!” Chamique cried out. “That’s all. I never let him touch me! You hear me? Not ever!”
The room was silent. I tried to keep my head up, tried not to close my eyes.
“So,” Flair Hickory said, “you had sex with a man named Jim—”
“James! His name is James!”
“—and another man was in the room and yet you don’t know how you came up with the names Jim and Cal?”
“I don’t know no Cal. And his name is James.”
Flair Hickory moved closer to her. His face showed concern now, as if he were reaching out to her. “Are you sure you didn’t imagine this, Miss Johnson?”
His voice sounded like one of those TV help doctors.
She wiped her face. “Yeah, Mr. Hickory. I’m sure. Damned sure.”
But Flair did not back down.
“I don’t necessarily say you’re lying,” he went on, and I bit back my objection, “but isn’t there a chance that maybe you had too much punch—not your fault, of course, you thought it was nonalcoholic—and then you engaged in a consensual act and just flashed back to some other time period? Wouldn’t that explain your insisting that the two men who raped you were named Jim and Cal?”
I was up on my feet to say that was two questions, but Flair again knew what he was doing.
“Withdrawn,” Flair Hickory said, as if this whole thing was just the saddest thing for all parties involved. “I have no further questions.”
CHAPTER 13
WHILE LUCY WAITED FOR SYLVIA POTTER, SHE TRIED TO Google the name from Ira’s visitor’s log: Manolo Santiago. There were lots of hits, but nothing that helped. He wasn’t a reporter—or no hits showed that to be the case anyhow. So who was he? And why would he visit her father?
She could ask Ira, of course. If he remembered.
Two hours passed. Then three and four. She called Sylvia’s room. No answer. She tried e-mailing the BlackBerry again. No response.
This wasn’t good.
How the hell would Sylvia Potter know about her past?
Lucy checked the student directory. Sylvia Potter lived in Stone House down in the social quad. She decided to walk over and see what she could find.
There was an obvious magic to a college campus. There is no entity more protected, more shielded, and while it was easy to complain about that, it was also how it should be. Some things grow better in a vacuum. It was a place to feel safe when you’re young—but when you’re older, like she and Lonnie, it started becoming a place to hide.
Stone House used to be Psi U’s fraternity house. Ten years ago, the college did away with fraternities, calling them “anti-intellectual.” Lucy didn’t disagree that fraternities had plenty of negative qualities and connotations, but the idea of outlawing them seemed heavy-handed and a tad too fascist for her taste. There was a case going on at a nearby college involving a fraternity and a rape. But if it isn’t a fraternity, then it would be a lacrosse team or a group of hard hats in a strip club or rowdy rockers at a nightclub. She wasn’t sure of the answer, but she knew that it wasn’t to rid yourself of every institution you didn’t like.
Punish the crime, she thought, not the freedom.
The outside of the house was still a gorgeous Georgian brick. The inside had been stripped of all personality. Gone were the tapestries and wood paneling and rich mahogany of its storied past, replaced with off-whites and beiges and all things neutral. Seemed a shame.
Students meandered about. Her entrance drew a few stares but not too many. Stereos—or more likely, those iPod speaker systems—blared. Doors were open. She saw posters of Che on the wall. Maybe she was more like her father than she realized. University campuses were also caught in the sixties. Styles and music might change, but that sentiment was always there.
She took the center stairwell, also scrubbed of its originality. Sylvia Potter lived in a single on the second floor. Lucy found her door. There was one of those erasable boards, the kind where you write notes with a marker, but there wasn’t a blemish on it. The board had been put on straight and perfectly centered. On the top, the name “Sylvia” was written in a script that almost looked like professional calligraphy. There was a pink flower next to her name. It seemed so out of place, this whole door, separate and apart and from another era.
Lucy knocked on the door. There was no reply. She tried the knob. It was locked. She thought about leaving a note on the door—that was what those erasable boards were there for—but she didn’t want to mar it up. Plus it seemed a little desperate. She had called already. She had e-mailed. Stopping by like this was going a step too far.
She started back down the stairs when the front door of Stone House opened. Sylvia Potter entered. She saw Lucy and stiffened. Lucy took the rest of the steps and stopped in front of Sylvia. She said nothing, trying to meet the girl’s eyes. Sylvia looked everywhere but directly at Lucy.
“Oh hi, Professor Gold.”
Lucy kept silent.
“Class ran late, I’m so sorry. And then I had this other project due tomorrow. And I figured it was late and you’d be gone and it could just wait till tomorrow.”
She was babbling. Lucy let her.
“Do you want me to stop by tomorrow?” Sylvia asked.
“Do you have time now?”
Sylvia looked at her watch without really looking at it. “I’m really so crazy with this project. Can it wait until tomorrow?”
“Who is the project for?”
“What?”
“What professor assigned you the project, Sylvia? If I take up too much of your time, I can write them a note.”
Silence.
“We can go to your room,” Lucy said. “Talk there.”
Sylvia finally met her eye. “Professor Gold?”
Lucy waited.
“I don’t think I want to talk to you.”
“It’s about your journal.”
“My…?” She shook her head. “But I sent it in anonymously. How would you know which is mine?”
“Sylvia—”
“You said! You promised! They were anonymous. You said that.”
“I know what I said.”
“How did you…?” She straightened up. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
Lucy made her voice firm. “You have to.”
But Sylvia wasn’t backing down. “No, I don’t. You can’t make me. And…my God, how could you do that? Tell us it’s anonymous and confidential and then…”
“This is really important.”
“No, it’s not. I don’t have to talk to you. And if you say anything about it, I will tell the dean what you did. You’ll get fired.”
Other students were staring now. Lucy was losing control of the situation. “Please, Sylvia, I need to know—”
“Nothing!”
“Sylvia—”
“I don’t have to tell you a thing! Leave me alone!”
Sylvia Potter turned, opened the door, and ran away.
CHAPTER 14
AFTER FLAIR HICKORY FINISHED WITH CHAMIQUE, I MET with Loren Muse in my office.
“Wow,” Loren said. “That sucked.”
“Get on that name thing,” I said.
“What name thing?”
“Find out if anyone called Broodway ‘Jim,’ or if, as Chamique insists, he went by James.”
Muse frowned.
“What?”
“You think that’s going to help?”
“It can’t hurt.”
“You still believe her?”
“Come on, Muse. This is a smoke screen.”
“It’s a good one.”
“Your friend Cingle learn anything?”
“Not yet.”
The judge called the court day over, thank God. Flair had handed me my head. I know that it is supposed to be about justice and that it’s not a competition or anything like that, but let’s get real.