Never Enough

by Joe McGinniss

  Then, she said, Rob had walked down the hall to the bedroom. She saw him in the doorway, holding a baseball bat in one hand, tapping the barrel against his other palm.

  “What’s that for?” she said.

  “Protection. In case you get violent.”

  She went into the dining room and picked up the lead statuette. Then she walked down the hallway to confront him.

  “What do you mean you’ve filed and you’re taking the kids? And you’ve told people I’m sick?”

  She started waving her finger at him, knowing how much he hated that. He slapped it away once, twice, but the third time he grabbed her hand. “He wouldn’t let go, so I spat in his face. He hit me across the mouth. Then he pulled me into the room, threw me onto the bed, and started to have sex with me. I started to struggle with him. He wouldn’t let go. I started kicking him and he wouldn’t let up. We ended up on the floor.

  “I started to crawl away, but he grabbed my ankles and pulled me and wouldn’t let go. I knew what he was trying to do. He said, ‘I’m not finished with you yet.’ He kicked me in the stomach and he wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop! I just wanted him to stop!”

  She trembled and sobbed. “I was on the floor and I reached for the statue and I swung it back. I didn’t even look. I felt that I hit something, and he let go. I turned around and I looked at him. He was sitting by the closet and I saw that he was bleeding. I tried to help him up and he wouldn’t let me. He pulled himself up on the bed and just sat there and I just…I just kept looking at him. He touched his head with his hand and saw that it was bleeding.”

  Her shaking grew more pronounced. “He picked up the bat and started swinging. He said, ‘You want to kill me. Bitch! You want to kill me!’

  “Then he said, ‘I’m going to kill you. I am going to kill you, you bitch.’ He repeated several times, ‘I’m going to fucking kill you!’ He grabbed the bat and came at me. He hit me on the leg, on my knee, and I was swinging back with the statue.

  “I ended up on the floor next to the bed and he moved on top with the bat…in his hand…He came down on me as I was holding the statue in front of my face…”

  She stopped. For a full minute she sat, silent and trembling, with every eye in the courtroom trained on her face.

  “Can you tell us anything more about this fight?” King asked.

  She sat shaking for another half minute. Then she said, “I just wanted him to stop swinging the bat.” Her stooped shoulders were heaving as she sobbed.

  “What was your last recollection of what happened between your husband and yourself in the bedroom that day?”

  Trembling and shaking her head, she sobbed, “Just being on the floor next to the bed.”

  “You know your husband had five injuries on his head, any of which could have been fatal. Can you tell us anything about how they got there?”

  Nancy sat shaking and did not answer. Then she broke down completely and the judge called another recess.

  King resumed his questioning ten minutes later. “The master bedroom was cleaned up. What recollections do you have of doing that?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “CCTV photos show you in the car park starting from the early morning of Monday, November 3, 2003. Photos also show you carrying a rug on your shoulder.”

  “I don’t remember Monday. I just remember being in my car. I got in my car and I drove down the hill. I don’t know where I went.”

  “Can you explain why your fingerprints were found on the sticky side of the packing tape of boxes containing bloodied items?”

  “No. I can’t remember.”

  “Do you recall a visit to Dr. Dytham’s office in Wan Chai on the morning of November 4, 2003?”

  “I have no recollection.”

  “Do you remember going to the Aberdeen police station to report your husband’s assault and handing officers there a copy of Dr. Dytham’s report on your injuries?”

  “I don’t…I don’t know that.”

  King handed her a CCTV picture of Ira and her in the tower 17 elevator on November 6. “Do you know why your father came to Hong Kong?”

  “I remember speaking to him on the phone. It’s not very clear the conversation I had with him. He said he was coming out to be with me.”

  “Do you remember when he arrived?”

  “No.”

  “Can you tell us anything that you and your father did on November 5?”

  “I have no recollection.”

  “Mrs. Kissel,” King said, “do you remember doing anything with your husband’s body?”

  “No.”

  “Are you able to tell us when you had the first realization that your husband was dead?”

  “I started to remember things, just images, bits and pieces of things that didn’t really make sense to me, maybe six months or so later in Siu Lam. They just kind of came back in little pieces; those fragments of memory came back. The first month I was there, I don’t really remember much. I don’t have a clear memory of the beginning.”

  “On November 3—at that time—did you know your husband was dead?”

  “No. I don’t remember.” She began to shake harder, she put her head in her hands, and she sobbed.

  After three days, King finished his direct examination. The moment court recessed for lunch, dozens of people who had been waiting in the hallway all morning surged inside, scrambling for the just-vacated seats. The only way to keep a seat was not to leave during the lunch break. Even that tactic could not assure that you wouldn’t lose your seat by going to the bathroom. People pushed past the guards at the door and squeezed into standing-room space behind the gallery and along the side walls. In addition to the sixty seated spectators, thirty standees crowded inside. In the absence of floor space, they stood on one another’s toes. Another knot of sensation-starved expats filled the doorway, hoping they’d be able to hear and straining for an unobstructed view. Behind them, in the hallway, all semblance of order had disappeared. The normally straitlaced Court of First Instance was in danger of being overrun.

  Peter Chapman, bewigged, cleared his throat and began his cross-examination.

  “Mrs. Kissel, there’s just one little matter you might be able to help us with. Do you accept that you killed Robert Kissel?”

  “Yes.” She was sitting up straight, seemingly composed.

  “And do you accept that you used the metal ornament that’s been introduced into evidence to inflict the fatal injuries?”

  “Yes.”

  Chapman nodded. With that out of the way, he could proceed. His manner toward Nancy stopped well short of being disdainful, but Alexander King’s solicitousness was notably lacking.

  “Mrs. Kissel,” Chapman said, “I’ve noticed that throughout the trial you’ve been taking notes as witnesses have testified and that you’ve made it a practice to pass these notes to your attorneys. May I ask, with your knowledge of the prosecution case, can you help us, please? Which portions of the evidence do you dispute?”

  “I’ve heard a lot of people talk about what they participated in, what they saw, and what they said,” she replied. “I’m not sure it’s about disputing, but trying to understand what’s been said. So many people are saying things of which I don’t have any recollection. I’m not sure it’s about being right or wrong.”

  “Oh, come now, Mrs. Kissel, of all the witnesses who have testified so far, surely someone has said something with which you disagree.”

  “My maid said I was hot tempered. I disagree with that.”

  “Anything else?”

  “My husband’s sister said he was a loyal, protective husband. That’s not true.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I didn’t believe Connie when she said she’d never heard Rob and I fighting.”

  “And anything else?”

  She’d had enough. “There have been weeks of evidence,” she said. “I’m not going to try to pinpoint anything else.”

  “Mrs. Kissel,
other than your two visits to Dr. Fung to obtain sleeping pills, have you ever seen a psychiatrist?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve never been diagnosed with or treated for any form of mental illness?”

  “No.”

  “And prior to killing your husband, had you ever experienced any memory loss?”

  “No.”

  “Where did your husband get his cocaine?”

  “Excuse me, I don’t—”

  “The cocaine that your husband was constantly abusing, along with alcohol while he was in Hong Kong, where was he getting it from?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You never asked?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever take any with him on business trips?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I would have thought that might have been a concern. Did you ever remind him that countries in this part of the world take a pretty dim view of hard drugs?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he’s not much good to you busted in Malaysia on drug charges, is he?”

  Nancy agreed that he would not have been.

  “I believe you’ve testified that the frequency with which your husband demanded anal sex increased significantly after your arrival in Hong Kong. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. Especially towards 2002.”

  “How often each month did you have forced anal sex with Robert Kissel?”

  “I never counted.”

  “Give us a number, Mrs. Kissel.”

  “It wasn’t about how many times. It was a progression of how we were together. Starting in different positions. The ability to move into those positions. Progression of sexual activity. There were times when he got very frustrated by my changing, moving into ways he didn’t want. It was a period in which things developed into something different. There was force involved. He used force because that’s the way he chose to have that kind of sex. He knew I didn’t like it.”

  “And cocaine was involved?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And alcohol?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes both, sometimes neither.”

  “Did Robert Kissel ever wear a condom?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever use any lubricant or gel?”

  “No.”

  “Yet he never had a problem effecting anal entry throughout this period?”

  “Yes, it would hurt. Sometimes I’d bleed.”

  “From the anus?”

  “Yes.”

  “How often would this occur?”

  “A couple of times a year, for a day or two each time.”

  “When your husband was away on business trips, you couldn’t know whether he was sleeping with other women in other countries and having anal sex with them, could you?”

  “No.”

  “I believe one of your closest friends contracted HIV and died of AIDS—Alison Gertz, the maid of honor at your wedding.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did her fate ever cross your mind while you were passing blood as a result of forceful sodomy? After all, Mrs. Kissel, you say your husband had a cocaine habit and an appetite for sodomy and he traveled frequently. Don’t you think that would have made him high risk?”

  “I never thought he was high risk.”

  “In relation to these activities, the cocaine-and alcohol-fueled violent anal sex that hurt so much and made you bleed, did you ever tell anyone about it?”

  “No. It was something that was happening gradually. It was my responsibility to deal with it. It’s not something you talk about with the girls.”

  “Well, during the more violent episodes that involved your hair being pulled, your ribs being broken, and pain from penetration that was making you bleed, did you ever scream out?”

  “Did I scream out? I may have.”

  “Did anyone ever hear you? Over five years?”

  “I don’t know. A lot of the time I was facing down. A lot of the time I just cried.”

  “So neither of your two live-in domestic helpers ever heard you scream? Never, during the entire five years?”

  “They were off duty after seven p.m. They’d be back in their room at the other end of the apartment.”

  “Did you ever consider going to your friends to say, ‘I can’t take it anymore?’”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because people only hear what they want to hear.”

  “Have you ever been examined in relation to the results of forceful anal sex over this five-year period?”

  “No, it’s humiliating.”

  It was a long weekend at Parkview. Reuters reported that Hong Kong’s expat community was “shocked and riveted” by proceedings in the Court of First Instance. That was an understatement. Titillation spread like SARS throughout the towers. More than a few Parkview wives were rallying to Nancy’s defense: some because they believed her story of Rob’s abuse, others because they felt their sense of privilege threatened. Surely, vast wealth and expat status should insulate one from the petty concerns of a foreign country’s legal system.

  On Monday morning, the normal contingent of court officers was reinforced by special crowd-control marshals. As early arrivals hurried down the hallway to claim seats, the marshals lined them up single file. They imposed new rules. Only one person at a time would be admitted. When the last seat was taken, the next ten people in line would be admitted as standees. Then the doors would close. No one else would be allowed into the courtroom until someone came out. For those inside, there was to be no saving of seats for any reason. If you went out to the bathroom, you’d go to the back of the line. If you left your pocketbook on your seat in order to save it when you went to lunch, it would be confiscated and you could reclaim it at the court property office downstairs.

  Nancy appeared, still clad in black. Behind her wire-rimmed glasses, her eyes darted to every corner of the room. At least half a dozen members of her growing cadre of supporters had managed to find seats near her mother. Nancy smiled quickly at them. She avoided eye contact with Bill Kissel. All rose as Mr. Justice Lunn took his place. The jury entered, expressionless.

  Implacably, relentlessly, Peter Chapman resumed. He pointed out that Nancy’s application for bail in November 2004 had been accompanied by numerous affidavits—including one from her psychiatrist at Siu Lam, Dr. Yuen—to the effect that she suffered from no mental illness.

  “Mrs. Kissel, the affidavit filed by counsel representing you at the bail hearing said, ‘She is acting, behaving and sounding perfectly normal. She is visited monthly by a psychiatrist and there has been no suggestion by him that she is in need of any help.’ My question to you is this: a person with dissociative amnesia doesn’t need help?”

  “I can’t comment on psychiatric terminology.”

  “Well, in his first report—from November 19, 2003, your first day at Siu Lam—Dr. Henry Yuen, chief of service at Siu Lam’s Department of Forensic Science, describes you as ‘mentally stable, good reality testing, not morbidly depressed.’ He says you were conscious and alert, that you spoke relevantly and coherently, and that you denied you had any thoughts of suicide. Was that true? Did you tell Dr. Yuen about the cocaine, the sodomy, the suicide attempt?”

  “No, he was mostly interested in my medication and my day-today life in Siu Lam. He would ask me specifically if I’d had any suicidal thoughts while I was in prison.”

  “But you’d only been there for a day.”

  “I don’t know if I said that or not after being there for one day.”

  “I suggest to you, Mrs. Kissel, that you have absolutely no psychiatric problems. Do you agree?”

  “Yes. There’s nothing psychiatrically wrong with me. I’m not suffering from a mental illness. Depression—yes. Feeling sad, feeling remorseful—yes. Suffering from something tragic—yes.”

  “But according to Dr. Yuen’s report, you never suffered from, quote, ‘amnesia or memory loss.’”

  Sudden
ly, Nancy erupted. “They have no idea! They have no idea of what you’ve been through in your life! You can’t just go in there and say, ‘Hey this is what happened to me!’”

  She began choking and coughing. But she wasn’t finished.

  “You have no idea, you have no idea! You have no idea of the grieving process I went through! Yuen was there as a prison doctor, without having any understanding of what it’s like to be there.”

  She collapsed in tears again. The judge declared a recess.

  Chapman asked Nancy why—if she’d been regularly battered for at least four years, and especially as the beatings had worsened in 2002—no one had noticed so much as a bruise.

  “I wore a lot of makeup, wore sunglasses, long sleeves. I put on a good face so people wouldn’t know.”

  “Mrs. Kissel, you were a prominent figure in the Hong Kong International School community. Indeed, you’ve been referred to as an ‘ambassador’ for the school. Given all the people with whom you had such frequent contact, didn’t it ever occur to you to tell anyone about these terrible injuries being inflicted on you as a result of this sexual abuse and escalating violence?”

  “I couldn’t. I had to talk about how great my life was. I never, ever let anyone know what was really going on. I never once complained to anybody. I didn’t even think about approaching anyone, because—”

  “Because it wasn’t happening, Mrs. Kissel,” Chapman interrupted.

  “No, because it was something I was very ashamed of. Because it was something I chose to accept for a number of years. It’s something I am still ashamed of. That’s why I could never tell anyone.”

  “The alternative, Mrs. Kissel, is that there was nothing to tell.” Chapman paused, waiting for Nancy’s response. There was none. She only trembled and looked away.

  “To briefly refer back to something we touched on last week, Mrs. Kissel, you said you never had yourself tested for AIDS while you were married, is that correct?”

  “Yes, this fascination—gay anal sex, prostitution—it’s something I was not aware of in our marriage. I’m only putting it together now. It puts things in perspective: why he did what he did with me. It’s quite shocking to find out he was somebody I didn’t really know.”