The Woods
“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?”