The Woods
“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.
CHAPTER 18
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 naïveté. 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?”