Chapter Twenty-One
HARPER
That night, Harper rereads the transcript of her interview with Sam. But, like she’d thought, there’s not much about Gracie. They both had crushes on Scully and did the same activities. They got into a fight at the big dance and stopped talking.
Then Gracie left Edwards. Sam made it sound like the academic rigor had just been too much for her.
None of it’s enough to warrant the word inseparable.
As she’s reading, an email comes from Mark.
The trial’s hot. I need that second piece from you. How’s it coming?
Harper bites her lip and closes the email without responding. He’s right. Even NBC did a short segment on Sam’s #JusticeatEdwards campaign, flashing the photo of Sam in her black blouse and blue skirt and marked-up sign.
The picture’s been shared almost 400,000 times on Facebook. Each of Sam’s Instagram posts gets hundreds of comments.
But something’s missing. And bad reporting on a story this fragile—the fallout could be a lot worse than finding her ass on the curb.
She tries to find out anything she can about Gracie, but it’s like she doesn’t exist. No social media under her name. The best she gets is a Facebook photo of a middle school debate team with a tall, slender, dark-haired girl standing on the edge. She’s tagged GRACIE CALEZA, but her name is grayed out—and her profile’s deleted.
Harper picks up her phone and dials a number scribbled on a piece of paper. Her last resort.
“It’s Waldo,” a bored voice answers.
“Waldo, it’s Harper Brooks. From The—”
“The Inspector, I know. I remember. Wasn’t that long ago you jumped me at the Juice Bar.”
Jumped is a strong word.
“I have a follow-up question I’m hoping you can answer.”
“I get to be in another article?” Waldo asks. “Cool. My quotes in that last one got Mike and Scully real pissed. Maybe this will give old Mike cardiac arrest. One can only hope.”
“Do you know Gracie Caleza?” Harper asks.
“Who?”
“Skinny, tall, long black hair with bangs. She was friends with Sam. Transferred out over winter break.”
“Why are you asking me?” Waldo laughs. “Shouldn’t you ask your girl?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Skinny, black hair, bummed around with the loser.” He goes quiet for a moment. “Kind of a weird goth?”
“That’s her.”
“Caleza. Sounds familiar. I think they were friends of ours, long time ago. Long Island people. But,” Waldo adds before Harper can speak, “I’ve never talked to her at Edwards.”
“Do you maintain any connection with her?” Harper asks. “Are you Snapchat friends?”
“As if I screw around with that stuff,” he says, laughing at her.
Waldo has no more information, so she hangs up.
Gracie was out of the picture in Sam’s life midway through last semester. Sam had even said, I knew nothing about her life after we stopped talking. But according to TENNIS girl, they had been best friends.
What is she missing?
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SAM
We get a brief respite from court for the weekend. On Sunday morning, I sit alone in the cafeteria—as usual—and still in the same clothes as always, dreading my testimony tomorrow.
Ding! New email. I take out my phone with a sigh.
I usually don’t read hate mail during the day, but the subject line intrigues me.
TO: Sam Barker ([email protected])
FROM: Olivia Lauren Crosswell ([email protected])
SUBJECT: You’re not alone
I wish I had half the guts you do.
Scully was a Second Year when I was a Firstie. And he liked me. He took me on a date to the Roast. It was a huge compliment.
You know what that’s like.
Afterwards we snuck into Cath to make out. He started feeling me up, and I decided I wanted to call it good. I mean, my parents would have freaked just knowing I was kissing boys. And I didn’t want people to think I was a prude.
But he wouldn’t stop. And he did the same thing to me that he did to you.
I had an abortion my first year in high school. And I had to ask my parents to help me get it.
I almost dropped out. I only stayed because my parents made me. It was the trade-off for the abortion. They didn’t even ask who did it. They wanted to pretend like it never happened.
I’m sorry everyone is treating you like this. Whatever you need, let me know.
I can write a statement.
I can write a letter.
I can share your post a million times.
I want to see Scully smashed into tiny pieces just as much as I’m sure you do.
With all the love in the world,
—O. L. C.
I have to pause my reading to breathe three times before I can finish. By the end, my hands shake so much I have to shove them under my legs to make them stop.
There were more. There are more.
Zzzzzt.
I’m having trouble breathing as I forward it to Harper. My eyes are blurry.
“What should I do with this?” I ask.
I’ve never met Olivia Lauren. Facebook says she’s a Third Year, swimming team MVP, and the student in charge of Edwards’s small, student-run Women’s Center.
I want to go find her right away, hug her, tell her we can beat this together. But what if word got back to Scully? His lawyers can’t know we’ve connected, or they’ll anticipate Olivia’s testimony. Better to catch them off guard.
Harper emails me back.
Get her to testify. Tell Anastasia right away. This is exactly what you need.
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The night before my testimony, I take down the drawing of Gracie I’d pinned on my wall—the one with her real smile—and slide it inside a folder that’ll go home with me.
Even though Gracie’s last email was hostile, I still find myself writing back.
I’m going up on the stand to testify tomorrow.
Gracie, I’m terrified. Please come.
I’ll sleep at home tonight, and the stylist will meet me there in the morning. Clean me up, put me in a demure dress, make me look younger than I am, and parade me out to the witness stand.
Dad and I don’t talk much on the drive home because there isn’t much left to say. But he does let me put on whatever music I want.
That’s how I know he’s afraid.
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I stare at myself in the mirror as the makeup artist props me on a stool and heats up the flatiron. The slight smell of burning hair as she works on me reminds me of that afternoon makeover Gracie gave me before the Inaugural Mixer.
After my hair’s tamed, she covers my imperfections with light foundation. No makeup around the eyes except some mascara and eyebrow definition.
I look wholesome, like the girl Tasia described. The most innocent kind of victim I can be.
I remember Scully’s new haircut, the glasses he doesn’t need to wear. We are just actors being dressed up, given lines to say, and paraded out on stage.
Gracie was right. It’s all theater.
When we get in the car, my stomach’s sour. A wadded-up copy of a local newspaper sits in the back seat of the station wagon. The headline’s about the trial. I don’t look at it.
We find Harper in the long pew seats of the courtroom and slide in next to her. Then Tasia calls my name. I’m lightheaded as I stand up.
Every pair of eyes in the courtroom follows me to the bench, where I place my hand on a Bible and repeat some words I don’t remember.
The judge’s eyes are flint as I climb onto the witness stand.
“Thank you for being here, Samantha,” Tasia says, offering me an encouraging smile. “I know this was tough for you.”
I nod. I can’t speak or butterflies will fl
y out of my mouth.
“Can you tell me about that?” asks Tasia. “Why coming forward has been so difficult?”
“I was scared,” I say. My gaze darts to Scully. To his dad, sitting with his arms crossed over his chest. To the three lawyers flanking them like a battalion of bodyguards.
“Why are you scared?”
“I was scared for my family, what they would think,” I say. “I was scared about how I would be treated at school when I broke the honor code by coming forward.”
“What’s school been like since then, Samantha?”
“Everyone at school loves Scully,” I say. I tell her about the kids with painted faces at the polo game, howling every time Scully scored. I tell her about the hate mail, and Tasia produces some printed copies.
“How’d the police get involved?”
“My parents found out, and I didn’t have a choice.”
“Your parents told the police?”
“I was all messed up over break, so they went fishing around. Then they found my blog, and it was all over.”
This is the story we’re sticking with—Mom, Dad, Harper, and I.
Tasia produces printed copies of the blog for the judge, who barely looks at it.
“Can you tell us what happened between you and Scully?” Anastasia asks. “What you wrote on your blog that your parents found?”
I rehash the same story—this time, with my parents in the room. I hate that they have to hear all this. Everyone in the courtroom is staring at me. My voice echoes. It’s crackly, and sounds pathetic.
I feel my tear ducts filling as I talk. The judge’s face is impassive—sometimes he doesn’t even look at me as I describe how Scully tore into me. I don’t know how I manage to get the words out, but each one rips itself from my lips until they are all gone.
Scully’s shaking his head, glaring daggers at me, when one of his lawyers taps his shoulder and whispers in his ear.
I have never hated someone like I hate him. I want to get off this witness stand, walk over, and slam his face into that table.
“Thank you,” Anastasia says, her eyes soft. “That’s all, Your Honor.”
We take a recess so I can recover before the defense interrogates me. I feel hollow as we sit outside, not talking.
Then it’s Turnquist’s turn.
He gets up, flattens the lapels of his black suit, and runs a hand over his bald head as he approaches me at the stand.
He grills me about every detail. Dates, times, what happened when and where and with whom. He asks if I’ve had boyfriends. How many times I’ve kissed. I know he’s leading me somewhere, but where?
“When Mr. Chapman said he’d tutor you in his room alone, did you feel excited about that?”
“Yes,” I say, “but I really thought we’d just—”
“So you went to his room specifically knowing, intending, to be alone together.” Turnquist gets an ugly smirk on his face as he says, “And you and Mr. Chapman had kissed before.”
“Just because I was okay with kissing doesn’t at all mean I wanted more,” I say, my voice cracking. “As soon as he started touching me, I was incredibly uncomfortable. I wasn’t ready.”
“But you would have been ready later? If this alleged rape really did happen, as you say it did, how is a teenage boy supposed to know these fine-point differences?”
“Kissing and sex are totally different!” I find my voice climbing, and the judge shoots me a look. “I tried to push him off me and make him stop—”
“I read the account in your blog.” Turnquist’s demeanor and voice are as placid as a glacial lake. “Did you ever actually say ‘No’?”
My head is pounding. “I think that me begging him not to do it, pushing him away, counts as a ‘no’—” I begin.
“Did you ever,” Turnquist says slowly, crossing his arms behind his back and staring me straight in the eye, “actually. Say. No?”
My mouth is dry as ash. I didn’t think I had to. I thought not saying yes would be enough.
“No,” I whisper. “But I—”
Turnquist doesn’t let me finish.
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
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I wish I could die.
Tasia comes back with redirect questioning to try and undo the damage Turnquist has done, but it’s futile.
“You didn’t agree to have sex, did you?” she asks me gently.
I blink tears back hard. “No. I pushed him off. I did everything I could to get away.”
The judge listens with his lips set in a flat, heavy line.
I crawl off the witness stand and scurry back to the seats where Mom, Dad, and Harper are sitting. I fly into my mother’s arms.
I have never felt so small, ashamed, helpless.
“You did great up there,” Mom says, smoothing my hair. “You did so good.”
“I did terrible,” I moan into her shirt. The tears finally rush full and fast down my face, into my mouth, tasting like the ocean. “I did absolutely terrible.”
I let that asshole Turnquist walk all over me.
Thank god we’re done for the day. All I want to do is go to sleep and never wake up again. Once we’re finally free of that suffocating courthouse, I think I might collapse into a puddle on the cement outside.
“I can’t believe I let him get me like that,” I say to Harper, covering my face.
“He skewed your testimony and put words into your mouth,” she says. “Don’t worry, it’s all going in the story. The world will see how Turnquist bullied you and the judge let him do it.”
Good. Maybe it’ll be okay if my pain can create something, if that grilling becomes the clay for a beautiful story that Harper will make.
While Harper and Mom talk about my testimony, and the calls Mom’s been getting at the house at all hours, I start drafting an email to Gracie on my phone.
I testified today.
Scully’s lawyer is a real piece of work. But I survived, Gracie. One step closer.
Don’t worry, if you’re worrying. I’m going to win this.
I send it, knowing I won’t hear back. But I hope she at least reads it.
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HARPER
Reporting has brought Harper into many ugly, uncomfortable situations. But never has she felt like she did watching Turnquist interrogate Sam like a bear tearing into salmon.
Still, Sam’s testimony was underscored by something—a gut feeling that Harper wished she could banish.
Gracie, that dangling thread, wouldn’t leave her alone. So as soon as Harper’s home, she writes an email.
TO: Gracie Grace ([email protected])
FROM: Harper B. ([email protected])
SUBJECT: A quick quote from you
Hello Gracie,
Thank you for replying to my last email. I understand your hesitance. Reporting rape can be messy and painful for everyone involved.
Sam testified today, and the Chapmans’ lawyer attacked her relentlessly.
I’m writing an article about this. The world needs to know how girls who come forward are treated. But I can’t publish the story without speaking to you first. You were Sam’s roommate. You must have noticed something.
Let’s talk, please.
Harper presses SEND, then spends the rest of the night typing up a draft of her next story while she waits for an email back.
Nothing comes.
Chapter Twenty-Two
SAM
I climb into my own bed at home that night and stay awake for hours, replaying everything I could have said differently.
Next morning, I’m drained and heavy the whole drive back to the courthouse. I have to remember that I’m the one who chose to be here today.
Tasia addresses the judge, saying, “I want to call Olivia Lauren Crosswell to the stand as a character witness.”
Olivia!
A tall, slender girl stands up in the back of the courtroom. She has pale
skin and white-blonde hair, like someone has sucked all the color out of her. She nods to me as she walks up the aisle to the witness stand.
I wish I could see Scully’s face right now while Olivia gives her oath, but I can only see the back of his head.
“How do you know Scully Chapman?” Tasia asks.
“We both go to Edwards Academy. I’m a Third Year.”
“Another witness told the court that he’s never been aggressive toward women. What are your experiences interacting with him?”
Olivia takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.
“That’s false,” Olivia says.
“Can you tell us how you know this?”
“Because he raped me.”
The gallery murmurs. Anastasia asks her to describe her experience.
“I’m on swim team, and we share the pool with the polo team. Scully and I became friends three years ago. After some flirting, he asked me on a date. We walked around campus for hours, just talking, until we ended up at Cath. I thought it was weird that he had a key, but he’s buddy-buddy with the provost. He locked the door so nobody would, in his words, ‘bother us.’ ”
“What happened in Cath?”
“We made out for a while. I kept thinking how mad my parents would be if they knew I was even kissing a boy. But then he started putting his hand under my shirt, and I told him I wasn’t ready.”
“What did he do?”
“He didn’t care. He pushed me down behind the podium. I told him no over and over again, but he just covered my mouth. I ripped his shirt trying to push him off me.”
“You definitely said ‘No’?” Tasia asks.
“Multiple times.”
“What happened after that?”
“He left me there. A few weeks later I missed my period. I went home for the weekend, took a pregnancy test, and found out I was pregnant.”
I press thumbs into my eye sockets so I don’t cry.
“Did you tell anyone?” Tasia asks.
Olivia shakes her head. “No. The honor code is pretty clear: We will stand by each other. We will be our own wall, our own defense. I had four years left, and I didn’t want to ruin it. And my parents would freak if they found out I’d had sex with someone. But eventually I had to tell them.”
“What did they do?”
“They were pissed. Said something like, This is where kissing boys will get you. They didn’t want to go to the police. I think they thought people would accuse them of bad parenting. But they helped me get an abortion.”
Honor Code Page 21