The Woods
“Mr. Copeland.”
I held my palm up to the judge, signaling he was right and I would cease. I am a firm believer in getting out all the bad news during direct, albeit in my own way. You take the wind out of their cross.
“Were you interested in Mr. Flynn as a potential boyfriend?”
Mort Pubin again: “Objection! Relevance?”
“Mr. Copeland?”
“Of course it’s relevant. They are going to say that Miss Johnson is making up these charges to shake down their clients financially. I’m trying to establish her frame of mind on that night.”
“I’ll allow it,” Judge Pierce said.
I repeated the question.
Chamique squirmed a little and it made her look her age. “Jerry was out of my league.”
“But?”
“But, I mean, yeah, I don’t know. I never met anyone like him. He held a door for me. He was so nice. I’m not used to that.”
“And he’s rich. I mean, compared with you.”
“Yeah.”
“Did that mean something to you?”
“Sure.”
I loved the honesty.
Chamique’s eyes darted toward the jury box. The defiant expression was back. “I got dreams too.”
I let that echo a few moments before following up. “And what was your dream that night, Chamique?”
Mort was about to object again but Flair Hickory put his hand on Mort’s forearm.
Chamique shrugged. “It’s stupid.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“I thought maybe…it was stupid…I thought maybe he’d like me, you know?”
“I do,” I said. “How did you get to the party?”
“Took a bus from Irvington and then I walked.”
“And when you arrived at the frat house, Mr. Flynn was there?”
“Yes.”
“Was he still sweet?”
“At first, yeah.” Now a tear escaped. “He was real sweet. It was—”
She stopped.
“It was what, Chamique?”
“In the beginning”—another tear ran down her cheek—“it was the best night of my life.”
I let the words hang and echo. A third tear escaped.
“Are you okay?” I asked
Chamique wiped the tear. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
Her voice was hard again. “Ask your question, Mr. Copeland,” she said.
She was wonderful. The jury all had their heads up, listening to—and believing, I thought—every word.
“Was there a time when Mr. Flynn’s behavior toward you changed?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“I saw him whispering with that one over there.” She pointed toward Edward Jenrette.
“Mr. Jenrette?”
“Yeah. Him.”
Jenrette tried not to shrink from Chamique’s gaze. He was half successful.
“You saw Mr. Jenrette whisper something to Mr. Flynn?”
“Yeah.”
“And then what happened?”
“Jerry asked me if I wanted to take a walk.”
“By Jerry, you mean Jerry Flynn?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, tell us what happened.”
“We walked outside. They had a keg. He asked me if I wanted a beer. I said no. He was acting all jumpy and stuff.”
Mort Pubin was up. “Objection.”
I spread my arm and looked exasperated. “Your Honor.”
“I’ll allow it,” the judge said.
“Go on,” I said.
“Jerry got a beer from the keg and he kept looking at it.”
“Looking at his beer?’
“Yeah, a little, I guess. He wouldn’t look at me no more. Something was different. I asked him if he was okay. He said, sure, everything was great. And then”—her voice didn’t catch, but it came awfully close—“he said I had a hot bod and that he liked watching me take off my clothes.”
“Did that surprise you?”
“Yeah. I mean, he never talked like that before. His voice was all rough now.” She swallowed. “Like the others.”
“Go on.”
“He said, ‘You wanna go upstairs and see my room?’”
“What did you say?”
“I said okay.”
“Did you want to go to his room?”
Chamique closed her eyes. Another tear leaked out. She shook her head.
“You need to answer out loud.”
“No,” she said.
“Why did you go?”
“I wanted him to like me.”
“And you thought he would like you if you went upstairs with him?”
Chamique’s voice was soft. “I knew he wouldn’t if I said no.”
I turned away and moved back to my table. I pretended to look at notes. I just wanted to give the jury time to digest. Chamique had her back straight. She kept her chin high. She tried to show nothing, but you could feel the hurt emanating from her.
“What happened when you got upstairs?”
“I walked past a door.” She turned her eyes back to Jenrette. “And then he grabbed me.”
Again I made her point out Edward Jenrette and identify him by name.
“Was anyone else in the room?”
“Yeah. Him.”
She pointed to Barry Marantz. I noticed the two families behind the defendants. The parents had those death-mask faces, where the skin looks as if it were being pulled from behind, the cheekbones appear too prominent, the eyes sunken and shattered. They were the sentinels, lined up to shelter their offspring. They were devastated. I felt bad for them. But too bad. Edward Jenrette and Barry Marantz had people to protect them.
Chamique Johnson had no one.
Yet part of me understood what really happened here. You start drinking, you get out of control, you forget about the consequences. Maybe they would never do this again. Maybe they had indeed learned their lesson. But again too bad.
There were some people who were bad to the bone, who would always be cruel and nasty and hurt others. There were others, maybe most that came through my office, who just messed up. It is not my job to differentiate. I leave that to the judge during sentencing.
“Okay,” I said, “what happened next?”
“He closed the door.”
“Which one?”
She pointed to Marantz.
“Chamique, to make this easier, could you call him Mr. Marantz and the other one Mr. Jenrette?”
She nodded.
“So Mr. Marantz closed the door. And then what happened?”