by Barbara Hall
After the phone call Leo had left for her, she had had high hopes for sleeping with him. It seemed logical. It seemed like the right time. And it was a big deal to her, the first man she slept with after her marriage broke up. In the days when it was dissolving, she had imagined another scenario, finding some polite, soft-spoken man who was grateful to have her. Someone who would say, “My God, you have been so neglected. Let me show you what it is like to be appreciated.”
Clearly, Leo was not going to be that man.
She continued to stare out the window, and suddenly she felt a touch on her shoulder. She turned and saw Simone standing there.
Her face looked beautiful, devoid of makeup, pale white and splotchy, daring and sophisticated. Her painted lips stood out, like a splash of color in the cold room with white walls.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes, of course I am,” Nora said.
“What was that in there?”
“What was it? It was the truth. That man, Marcus Solomon. He tried to rob me.”
“When?”
“The first night I got here.”
“Well, Nora, you can’t just announce that in court. You’re supposed to go to the police.”
“They’re going to just let him go!”
“That’s how it works. They might let Quentin Johnson go, too.”
“I couldn’t stand it.”
“Neither could I, but we have to prepare ourselves. Look, I need you to keep it together. I need you to be in there for me.”
Nora stared at her for a long moment. Then she said, “Poppy told me that you lied to me in college.”
“Lied to you? About what?”
Nora shrugged. “You thought I was some hick, desperate to latch on to your identity. Is that true?”
“Of course not. Poppy is always trying to stir something up.”
“Why did you invite her?”
“I don’t know. We had been talking for a while, and I thought it would be nice for all of us to get together. I thought I would feel safer.”
“Do you feel safer?”
Simone shrugged. “I’m sitting in there, just a few feet away from the man who raped me and tried to kill me. So, yeah, next to that, I feel safe.”
“Simone, I’m so sorry. I do want to be a good friend.”
“You keep saying that,” Simone said. “So just go ahead and do it.”
Nora looked at her, feeling young and vulnerable and stupid. As if Simone’s innate sense of sophistication weren’t enough, the fact that she had been raped, had come close to death, made her even more . . . what? Remote? Elusive? Interesting? Nora knew it was ridiculous to respect her friend for such a thing, much less to envy it. Yet next to Simone, Nora’s problems seemed tawdry and trivial. Was there ever going to be a time when her own life would stack up next to her friends’? A crazy mother, a dead brother, a cheating husband—this was all soap-opera material. But when tragedy struck her friends, it was more the stuff of movies or novels.
“Tell me how I can be a good friend,” Nora said, feeling disgusted with herself for admitting her inadequacy. Why should Simone lay down such rules? Why was she, Nora, always struggling to keep up?
Simone shrugged. “I don’t know. Just be there. And don’t ask so many fucking questions.”
“What questions?”
“Why did I invite Poppy. What’s going to happen at the trial. What was I doing wandering around alone in New Orleans.”
“I never asked that last thing. It doesn’t matter to me.”
Simone ran her fingers along Nora’s arm, as a lover might do. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. Human touch. It was a thing that she missed. Not that Cliff touched her anymore, toward the end. And not that her mother ever had. She honestly did not have a solid memory of her mother touching her with affection.
Despite Simone’s admonishment, Nora wanted to know things. She wanted to know why Simone had never married, why she wasn’t in love, if she planned to have children, if she liked her life, if she envied Nora’s in any way. Not that there was much to envy, but she did have children, and she’d never been raped. Nora felt cold when she realized that this sentence might have hit the highlights of her life.
Out of a sense of panic, Nora found herself saying, “Were you scared? I mean, when he was doing it. Did you think you were going to die?”
“Of course,” Simone said, and nothing more.
The jury selection was painful to sit through. Margaret Marquez-Pratt interrogated them on several issues. First she asked if they were familiar with the French Quarter. Then she asked if they would go there alone. Then she asked if they had ever known anyone who had been raped. Half the people in the jury box raised their hands. “Yes, my sister.” “Yes, my mother.” “Yes, my best friend, my cousin and my half-brother.” Those people were immediately eliminated. Then Margaret asked how they expected a rape victim to perform on the stand. Everyone said they expected to see a rape victim cry.
“What if it’s been a year since it happened? What if the victim has had counseling and she’s better now?” Margaret asked.
“Even so,” one guy said, “rape is such a terrible crime. How could she get over it? How could she talk about it without crying?”
Nora looked at Simone. Poppy had reached over and taken her hand. It was going to be a long day.
Then the lawyers asked the jurors about their children, their jobs, and the three friends sat there, watching one promising juror after another being released. It took most of the day, but finally a jury was chosen. They were four black men, three black women, two Hispanic women, one white woman and two white men.
“Go ahead and call your relatives,” the judge said. “Tell them you’re going to be on a jury tonight and maybe tomorrow. We’ll break for an hour.”
Simone stood and stretched. She said, “Let’s go to the Justice Café for a sandwich.”
They walked down to the café. The thin man seemed pleased to see them again, and he insisted on giving them grilled-cheese sandwiches on the house. Nora excused herself and went to the public phone. She called Leo and got an answering machine. Then she called her room and got a message. It was from Leo:
“Hi, Nora, Leo here. Sorry I was so dismissive earlier. But when my daughter’s around it’s hard to get my attention. You’re a parent, you understand this. Anyway, you said you might be around tonight. My shift ends at eleven, and I’ll try to call you. It would be nice to get together for another drink. So I’m going to try to call you later, but if I miss you, why don’t you just try showing up at Harry’s? After midnight, I guess. If you’re not there, I’ll understand. We’ll talk later.”
Nora felt relieved. She wasn’t sure why she needed his attention. Maybe it was just an important distraction, something to keep the scarier thoughts at bay.
When she came back to the table, Poppy and Simone were staring at her, expecting something.
“How are your kids?” Poppy asked.
“Oh, they’re fine,” Nora said, feeling embarrassment that she had not thought to call them.
Nora sat down and said, “What was it like, seeing him again?”
Simone looked at her. “You mean Quentin?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean.”
Simone smiled faintly, as if she had just remembered a rude joke.
“He’s smaller now,” she said. “Partly because he seemed like such a monster in my mind. But I’m sure he’s lost weight. I’m sure that was part of the plan. He starved himself in prison so that when he went to court he’d look too frail to hurt anyone.”
“That’s terrible,” Nora said.
“Well, you can’t blame him for fighting back.”
“Does it scare you to look at him?” Poppy asked.
“Not now. Not really. What scares me,” Simone said, twisting a strand of hair around her finger, “is how innocuous he seems. That maybe I was never in any real danger. I could have punched him in the eyes or in the throat. I co
uld have screamed. I could have done a number of things. But I just froze, and I took my punishment as if I deserved it. As if it were a long time coming.”
“Well,” Nora said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat, “I’m sure that you didn’t have your wits about you.”
Simone stared straight at her and said, “I let it happen. You know why? Because I thought, well, it will be over soon, and I might live. Do you know how ashamed I feel, knowing that I didn’t fight back at all? How willing I was to give up this part of myself in exchange for my life? And my life was never in danger. I just gave it up. I paid full price, even though I could have bargained. What the hell is that about?”
“You’re not seeing things clearly,” Nora offered, but Poppy said nothing. She kept her chin tucked, staring at her lap.
Simone said, “Men are willing to defend their honor. To the death. They put on uniforms and go off and fight and have their limbs blown off. For what? Some nationalistic ideal? But women, at the first sign of harm, are willing to surrender everything. And that is a terrible thing to know.”
Poppy looked up defiantly. “Women are willing to die for some things.”
“What? God?” Simone laughed.
“Their children,” Nora said.
“But not themselves.”
“We need to get back,” Poppy said, standing.
“I wasn’t willing to do any of it, girls,” Simone continued. “I wouldn’t fight or die. I just turned over the government secrets.”
“Yes, let’s go,” Nora agreed, rising.
Simone was crying hard now, still rambling. “What do I see when I look at him? I see the devil, that’s what. The devil is a small man in a white shirt. He’s a punk. Did you realize that? And I made a deal with him.”
“Stop talking!” Poppy shouted, her voice echoing off the walls. “You know nothing about the devil. Nothing.”
The tone of her voice stopped Simone cold in her tracks. And for once in her life, she had no reply.
9
Nora and Poppy left Simone sitting in the hallway as court was called to session. Nora had volunteered to stay with her, but Simone had said no. She wanted both of them to be present for the whole trial so that they could tell her about it later.
“Besides, I’d rather just be alone until I’m called. I have to psych myself into crying,” she had said.
Nora glanced over her shoulder as they walked away. Simone, normally imposing, looked so small and alone in the big hallway, smoking a cigarette, a book open on her lap. Poppy took Nora by the arm and said, “Don’t worry about her. God is with her. She’s all right.”
“Oh, Poppy, how can you say that? Was God with her when she was raped? Couldn’t He have helped her out then?”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Poppy said.
“I suppose it’s all in His plan, is that right?”
“Yes,” Poppy said, “in fact, it is.”
“Well, I have to tell you, I could have come up with a better plan than that.”
Poppy just laughed and said, “We’ll have to agree to disagree on this.”
They sat together in the first row of the gallery. Behind them was the defendant’s family—his mother, another older woman and a young white girl who must have been his girlfriend. Nora could not escape the feeling that she was about to watch a sports event. Her heart hammered, and she was actually excited at the prospect of seeing it all unfold.
Margaret made her opening argument. It was similar to the process Nora had seen repeatedly on television. She paced in front of the jury box and gave a synopsis of Simone’s story. A woman had come to New Orleans on business, had briefly talked to a local man in a club. They had shared a drink. They had danced together. Then Simone Gray had told the man she was going back to her hotel. He volunteered to walk with her, and Simone had accepted, knowing that the streets of New Orleans were not safe. But she trusted this man. He had disarmed her. He had given her no reason to be afraid.
Poppy leaned over to Nora and said, “Did you know that?”
“What?”
“They danced together and had a drink. And she let him walk her back? I never heard any of this.”
Quentin’s mother shushed them, as if they were at a movie. Nora was glad she was saved from responding. Of course she didn’t know any of this. She knew what Simone had told her, and hers was a much different story. She wondered if Margaret had gotten confused. She decided not to judge, just to sit and listen.
“Then, when he got her on a secluded street, he attacked her. The evidence will show that he choked her, threatened to kill her and violently raped her. You will hear from the night clerk at the hotel, who took her statement. You will hear his frantic call to the police. You will hear the detective testify to what he discovered when he reported to the call. You will hear the doctor’s testimony. You will see photographs of Ms. Gray’s bruised neck and arms. You will see the blood on her dress, from where she was violated. You will hear from the officer who made the arrest the next day, and you will hear from the DNA expert, who can positively identify that the semen samples found on Ms. Gray are consistent with the defendant’s. What you will hear, ladies and gentlemen, is that this man is guilty. He earned Ms. Gray’s trust, and then he betrayed her. On a dark, abandoned street, where he led her, he raped and nearly killed her. He offered to walk her home, to protect her from the criminals in the city. Little did she know that the defendant was the criminal. He was the person she needed to fear. But she didn’t. And why? Because he charmed her. He deliberately made her trust him, so that he could violate that trust in the most heinous way. You will hear everything you need to hear to convince you that this man is a rapist, and he needs to pay the price for what he has done. I don’t have to say more than this. Because the evidence speaks for itself. The defendant’s actions speak volumes. And his actions need to be responded to. By you. It is up to you to make sure that a man like this is no longer free to walk the streets of this city, this place that you call home, that your children call home. Ladies and gentlemen, I trust that you will make the right decision. Thank you.”
She sat down. The defense attorney sat still for a moment, letting a dramatic silence fall over the courtroom. He let the silence go on a little long, Nora thought. Finally the judge said, “Mr. Farrell?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
He stood and walked in a jaunty gait toward the jury box.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am Bill Farrell, the attorney for Quentin Johnson. I appreciate that you are all taking valuable time out of your day to be here, so I will try to be brief. I am sure that you are aware that as the defense attorney, I don’t have to make any argument. I don’t have to say a thing. The burden is on the people to prove this case. Because my client is innocent. By law, he is innocent until the people prove otherwise. And they can’t. Not one of their witnesses were there when the alleged attack occurred. All they know is what Ms. Gray told them. There is no positive proof in a case like this. There is only circumstantial evidence; her word against his. And you’ll hear her story. It will be dramatic and upsetting. There might be tears. There might be rage. There might be some pretty convincing anguish going on. But what you won’t hear from the people is the truth. Because only my client and the victim know what happened that night. Did Quentin Johnson talk to Ms. Gray that night? Yes, he did. Did he dance with her? Several times. Did he buy her a drink? Yes, quite a few, in fact. Did he have sex with her? Yes, he most certainly did. But it was not against her will. It was not forced on her. It was not a rape. Ms. Gray followed Quentin Johnson into the men’s room. She locked the door behind her, and she seduced him. In the bathroom of this dance club, Quentin Johnson and Simone Gray had consensual sex. Maybe it got a little rough. Maybe she got scared later, felt guilty, felt ashamed and embarrassed about what she had done. And so she had to concoct this story of rape. But it wasn’t rape. It was consensual sex, and that is legal in any state, between two adults. You will hear testimony that Ms. Gray wa
s intoxicated that night. The doctor at the hospital smelled alcohol on her breath, at ten A.M. the next morning. In her inebriated state, she made up a story, and she told it convincingly. She convinced the night clerk, she convinced the cops and she will try to convince you. But look at my client. Does this look like a violent man?”
“Objection,” Margaret said casually.
“Sustained,” the judge agreed.
“He is not a violent man,” Mr. Farrell went on, without missing a beat. “He has no prior convictions. He had a good job in the Quarter. He has a family, a girlfriend, a child. He had no reason to put all of that at risk. Is he guilty of a minor indiscretion? Maybe. Perhaps. But he is not a rapist. He did not rape Simone Gray. And you must realize, when you listen to the evidence, that none of it proves anything. It’s her word against his. And her story will not convince you beyond a reasonable doubt. Even if you think he probably did it, could have done it, you have to vote not guilty. Because they have to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that what the victim says is the absolute truth.
“Now, a lot of what you’re going to hear will be confusing to you. They will give you a lot of medical jargon, a lot of legalese. Some of it even I won’t understand. But it means nothing. No one saw anything. No one knows what happened, really. You cannot convict this man unless you are convinced that this story makes sense, that all the facts hang together. They don’t. And you won’t. Thank you.”
“State can now call its first witness,” the judge said.
“The people call Jeffrey Bloom, Your Honor,” said the young man next to Margaret.
Jeffrey Bloom was a handsome blond man, clearly gay, dressed in a tweed jacket and bright blue tie. He looked nervous, and Nora wished for him to calm down. She found she was rooting for him, and was therefore hypercritical of his every move, even though she had no idea who he was.
“Mr. Bloom, will you tell the court where you were on the evening of May twenty-seventh, 1997.”