The Witness: A Novel

by Naomi Kryske

  “He slammed the door like he was angry! I was huddled next to the wall, and he grabbed my arm and dragged me to the middle of the room. My knees were so weak I could hardly stand, and he hit me in the stomach with his fist, and I fell down, and all the time he was making a terrible noise in his throat, and I couldn’t get up!”

  The interview itself could be a trauma for many victims. “It’s okay to cry, Jenny,” Bridges said.

  Again both men waited, Sinclair with less ease. He did not want her to fail this time, and he needed the evidence from her mind as well as from her body. “Tell us why you couldn’t get up.”

  “Because my legs wouldn’t support me. He beat me while I lay there on the rug. He kicked me, and he hit me, and he had a large ring that cut me open! He—he—slashed me!”

  He had—Sinclair had seen the pictures. Her DNA would be on Scott’s shoes and ring.

  “I couldn’t react quickly enough to get away,” she wailed. “He kept on and on, until I was bleeding all over! I was afraid I’d bleed to death! I wanted to hold myself together—it was my life pouring out on that rug! I screamed and screamed, and then I wanted it to be over with, I didn’t care how! I hurt everywhere, and I still hurt everywhere, and I wish God had let me die in that room like the others!”

  She was on the edge of hysteria, but her statement was critical. Her descriptions were the only guide they would have as to what the other women had experienced. “We’ll take a short break,” Sinclair said, motioning for Bridges to stop the tape. He had to find the right blend of pressure and empathy. Too little empathy and she’d clam up. Too much, and she’d spiral out of control. “You’re right, Jenny. You should have died in that room, but God didn’t let you. You know what your purpose is in this, and you’re strong enough to do it, because you don’t have to do it by yourself.” He spoke slowly, hoping his pace would affect hers. “I know something else also: It’s only real once. Did you hear that? It may seem real, but it isn’t. It’s—only—real—once.”

  Bridges watched Jenny look up at Sinclair, her face streaked with tears.

  “Let’s finish this, shall we?” Sinclair suggested.

  Bridges punched the record button. “Interview resumed,” he said, taking Sinclair’s seat near the machine.

  “I thought he just meant to beat me to death,” she whispered. “When he started to undo his belt, I thought he was going to beat me with it. I was naked when he came in the room—if he wanted sex, why didn’t he do it then?”

  Bridges could see her chest rising and falling, and he knew she was crying again. “Jenny, please tell us about it,” he said.

  She took a breath. “He unzipped and dropped his pants, then his underwear. And I couldn’t even move! But he could. He did.” She shook her head. “You don’t respect me now, do you? I didn’t defend myself. I won’t be a good witness.”

  “That’s shame talking,” Bridges said gently. “You’re afraid we’ll think less of you because you were attacked, but that’s not going to happen. Jenny, fear can paralyse people. The shock—the suddenness of an attack—factors like these keep many people from defending themselves effectively. In your case it’s likely the drug you were given reduced your ability to resist. You did the best you could. I know it’s difficult for you to speak about this, but the more you do, the more I respect you.” He paused. “When you can—what did he do next?”

  “I saw his—it—he was ready for sex. He knelt down and ripped off my necklace. I didn’t look after that. He pried my legs apart and tried to push inside. It hurt so much! He held my legs—he was enraged—he couldn’t push all the way in at first…”

  Dear God, no. Bridges struggled to set his horror aside as interviewers had to do: If victims saw or heard any trace of distress, they would assume judgement and refuse to speak.

  “Because I’d never—I’d never—he dug his fingers into my thighs for leverage, and then he was all the way in. He rammed me again and again! Oh, God—he was tearing me in half, and I couldn’t even move…”

  Bridges could barely hear her. He adjusted the volume on the tape recorder.

  “I thought it was all over…he stopped pushing...”

  Sinclair prompted her. “But it wasn’t over, was it? Tell me what he did next.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “I need to hear it from you,” Sinclair said quietly. “Tell me, Jenny.”

  “He rolled me over,” she sobbed. “He was so rough! Punching my shoulder and the side of my hip to make me turn—it hurt even more, lying on my chest—I couldn’t scream any more, I could hardly breathe—No! No! No...”

  There was a low point in each victim’s statement, but Sinclair did not soften his approach. “What did he do, Jenny?” he asked. “Can you tell me anything? A fragment?”

  Bridges could hear her laboured breathing. “Sir...”

  Sinclair glanced at him. “Right.” He took a step away from the bed and sat down. “Jenny, did the other two men come back?”

  It was a minute before she responded. “I don’t know. The monster kicked me in the head. That’s the last thing I remember. When I woke up, I was in the hospital, and you were there. That’s all.”

  Sinclair nodded for Bridges to give the closing remarks and stop the recording.

  The room was quiet. Bridges stood and slowly stretched his stiff legs. “You did brilliantly, Jenny,” he said. “Memory is power. You’ve just done a very powerful thing. Your statement will help us nail this guy. I’m proud of you.” He turned to Sinclair. “Sir, I’ll wait outside for you.”

  “Well done, Jenny,” Sinclair added. “Thank you.”

  She felt like the clown after the parade, the freak picking his way through the empty candy wrappers and spent balloons. His antics and painted-on sad face had made others happy, but the clown could wash his despair away and she couldn’t, no matter how hard she scrubbed. She watched Sinclair go.

  Bridges was still in the corridor, leaning against the wall, his arms at his sides, his head bowed, no longer concealing his stricken face. Often in his job he was confronted with the injustices of life, and an injustice this was, for an eager young visitor to his country to be given such a sadistic welcome. “Did you know, sir? That she was a virgin?”

  Sinclair nodded. “The doctor told us, early on.”

  “She had the stuffing beat out of her. Then he tore her up, inside and out. Some world we live in.” He sighed. “When do you want to conduct the next interview?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon. We’ll review the transcript of today’s interview in the morning. Go home to your family.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’d like to hug my wife and hear my children laugh. I particularly need to hear my daughter laugh.” He straightened. “But first I’ll handle the cool-down with Jenny.”

  Sinclair knew he was referring to returning to the part of the interview which covered lighter topics. Proper interview procedure recommended against leaving any victim with traumatic images fresh in her mind. He headed for the lift.

  CHAPTER 13

  When Sinclair and Bridges returned to the hospital, the two PCs on duty reported that Jenny had had a rough morning. “She cries when the physiotherapist makes her stand up. I suppose it’s necessary, but it’s hard to hear. Then the nurse takes her pulse and wonders why it’s high. Hospitals can be unforgiving places, sir.”

  “They can indeed.”

  Jenny tried to smile when she saw Bridges.

  “Did you enjoy the chocolate?” he asked.

  “Barry brought me a Penguin bar last night,” she explained to Sinclair. “I’d never seen one, but the nurse wouldn’t let me eat it. She said the chocolate would be too hard to digest.”

  Damn. We work so hard to give control back to a victim, and in hospital they take it away. “I’ll bring you another,” Bridges promised.

  “I’d like to thank you for your statement yesterday,” Sinclair said. “Having heard it, I’m even more resolved to proceed against your attacker,
but I need your help, your testimony, to tie it all together.”

  Bridges wasn’t surprised by Sinclair’s agenda. It was a big case, and he knew the DCI had been instructed to move quickly to secure her commitment to testify.

  “But I’m going home,” she said.

  “We can be in contact with you,” Sinclair said.

  “Jenny,” Bridges added, “my job is to look after your needs. That means I’ll keep you informed about what’s going on with the case and when the trial has been scheduled.”

  “I don’t want to come back here. And I don’t want to see the monster again, ever.”

  “You’ll only have to see him in court,” Sinclair encouraged, “in very controlled circumstances. You won’t be a victim then or even a survivor. You’ll be a witness, and that’s a rather significant shift in the balance of power.” She was showing no sign of agreement. He leant forward. “Jenny, I am very, very angry at the man who hurt you. I intend to get him. Your cooperation will help me, but I believe it will also help you—help you to have a purpose.”

  Barry had teased her gently the evening before about her sweet tooth. Neither he nor Mr. Sinclair was smiling now. Why did police always work in pairs? Where was her backup?

  “That’s true,” Bridges said. “In my experience victims who follow through, who participate in the system, make a better recovery.”

  “It’s the right thing to do, Jenny.” Sinclair held his breath.

  “That’s what my daddy would say,” she said slowly. “But I haven’t always wanted to do the right thing.”

  “Jenny, I don’t want another woman to be hurt the way you have been,” Sinclair responded. “You can make a difference.”

  “I’m not sure I can do it at all,” she said. “I’m all beat up.”

  “You’ll have time to heal. Jenny, a commitment from you—some follow-on sessions—then you’ll have seen the last of us for a while. Will you testify to your offender’s actions in a court of law?”

  She shrugged her shoulder, like a butterfly fluttering a wing. It struck Sinclair how exposed she was—with her left limbs elevated, she couldn’t even turn on her side for privacy. In court she would have to stand in the witness-box with her experience laid bare to the scrutiny of others. The tension level in the room rose.

  “I can’t think about that today,” she said finally.

  Sinclair sighed and handed the tape recorder to Bridges, who introduced the interview. She appeared to relax slightly as he questioned her about her clothing on the day of the attack, her handbag, and its contents. “Was the pavement busy?”

  “Pavement? You want to know how many cars there were?”

  Bridges realised he’d have to clarify the word. “The area where pedestrians walk.”

  “The sidewalk—sorry,” she said with a smile. “No, not very—it was early.”

  “At the bus shelter,” Sinclair said, “you mentioned someone coming up behind you. Man or woman?”

  “It was a man’s hand. A man’s arm.”

  “Jenny, you identified the man who attacked you. Was it his arm?”

  “I—I don’t know. I just remember seeing the sleeve of a dark jacket.”

  “Can you remember anything at all between the bus shelter and the time you woke in the little room?”

  “It’s a complete blank.”

  “How long were you alone in the dark?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Bridges took up the questioning again. “What time was it when the two men came in?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Weren’t you wearing a watch?”

  “I had my watch on when I left the hotel,” she said slowly. “I didn’t have it later.”

  “What did it look like?”

  “Gold, with an oval face and a black leather band.”

  “Was there a clock in the room or a window? Were you hungry?” Bridges stopped. “Sorry—one at a time is hard enough, isn’t it? Can you give us any clue about the time?”

  “No windows. No clock. I was empty. Sick. Terribly thirsty. And cold.”

  Sinclair asked the next question. “What did the room look like?”

  It was an elaborate game. First one man carried the ball and then the other. They could pass it back and forth, but she couldn’t. “Small and plain. There were moisture stains on the walls, dirty white cinderblock walls. Concrete floor.”

  “Were there furnishings of any sort?”

  “Just the chest of drawers with a mirror over it. There was no place to hide.”

  “How long were you there with the light on before your attacker came in?”

  “I have no idea,” she said, shrugging.

  “Can you describe the jewellery you saw?”

  “I remember a charm bracelet; a watch, silver, I think; and—a necklace, a gold chain. Maybe some smaller things, I’m not sure.”

  “What did your necklace look like, Jenny?” Sinclair continued.

  “It was gold, with an amethyst cross on it. My parents gave it to me when I was confirmed in the church.”

  “You mentioned a rug,” Bridges reminded her. “Can you describe it?”

  “Mostly red, when he was through with me.” She was upset by the memory. “Sorry—that isn’t what you want to know.” She paused. “It was round and braided, with lots of colors. It wasn’t very soft. Think, rug burns. The braids made it lumpy.”

  “You said the first blow was a fist to the stomach which knocked you down. Did you fall all the way down?”

  “No, I fell to my knees. He hit me on the shoulder next, and I landed on my side.”

  “Left or right side?”

  “Left.”

  “Then what?”

  “He kicked me—all over. My arms and legs, my stomach, my chest, my back. I was hurt pretty badly pretty quickly.”

  “He used his hands as well, is that correct?” asked Bridges.

  “Yes, his fists mostly, but his ring—that sharp ring—that was awful.”

  “Left or right hand?” Bridges continued.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering. “Fists—both hands. When he used the back of his hand, it was his right hand. His ring was on his right hand.”

  “Did he hit you with anything other than his hands and feet?”

  “Like the proverbial blunt object, you mean?” she asked. “No. It was all very personal. At least, it seemed that way.”

  “He didn’t have a weapon of any sort?” Sinclair asked.

  “He was the weapon,” she replied.

  “How long did the beating last?”

  “Too long.”

  “You were lying on your side.”

  “Yes. He bent over and pushed me onto my back. That’s why I remember seeing him undo his belt. My left arm hurt too badly, but I put my right arm up to push him away. That’s when he struck me across the face with the back of his hand. It was humiliating. Why did he want to destroy my appearance when he was going to kill me? And it hurt so badly.”

  “Because of the ring he wore,” Bridges clarified.

  “Yes. Isn’t that stupid? I was bleeding in so many places, more life-threatening ones, and I was trying to protect my face.”

  She was tiring, but Sinclair had other questions for her, things he wanted very badly to know before they arrested Scott. “What did he do with your necklace—the one you mentioned with the cross on it?”

  She thought for a moment. “He held it in his hand, I think. I don’t remember seeing him put it down anywhere.”

  “So when he gripped your thighs, he had it in his hand?” Bridges asked.

  “Yes,” she confirmed.

  That explained her unusual bruises. Many rape victims had bruises on the inside of their thighs. Jenny had cross-shaped bruises as well. “Jenny, do you have any idea how long the rape lasted?”

  “That’s sick!” she cried. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “To establish a timeline,” explained Bridges.

  “Oh
. No. It hurt so much that it seemed like it took forever, but I really have no idea how long it was.”

  “Did he use a condom?”

  Her eyes widened. “I didn’t see—oh my God—unprotected sex—I need to know!”

  Bridges looked at Sinclair. You field this one, boss.

  “The forensic data should tell us. Let’s move on,” Sinclair said.

  “Did he lie down on top of you?” asked Bridges.

  “No, thank God; I think I would have suffocated.”

  Broken ribs, collapsed lung: It was possible. “Did he caress you in any way?” Sinclair asked.

  “All his touches hurt,” she said. “He wanted blood, not affection.”

  “Did he want oral sex?”

  She recoiled and did not reply.

  “For the benefit of the tape, Miss Jeffries answered with a negative gesture,” Bridges said after a minute.

  “Jenny,” Sinclair asked quietly, “did he complete the sexual act?”

  “He stopped, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Did he ejaculate inside you?”

  “I don’t know! I’d never had sex before. I don’t know how to tell!”

  Sinclair sighed. He didn’t know exactly how to word the next question. He didn’t know if she would understand the criminal term. He decided against it. “Jenny, I have to ask you very specifically. What was the final act of abuse committed against you?”

  She shuddered. “I can’t talk about it,” she whispered. “I can’t. It’s too horrible.”

  Finally Bridges spoke. “Let the record show that Miss Jeffries was unable to answer fully,” he said quietly.

  “Jenny, I have one more question.” She was crying, and Sinclair waited for her to collect herself slightly. “Did you give your consent?”

  That was the end of her even partial composure. “Are you kidding?” she cried. “Consent to this?”

  “I need an unequivocal answer,” he said heavily. “Yes or no.”

  “No!” she screamed. “The answer is no!”

  “Interview with Miss Jeffries terminated,” said Bridges in a subdued voice, adding the other pertinent information before stopping the tape. He stood. “Jenny, our purpose isn’t to dispute anything. We weren’t there, that’s all, and we need the clearest picture of what happened in that room.” She still looked upset. “I wish I had half your courage,” he said. “You’re quite a girl, and getting stronger all the time. If that bastard had any idea what he’s up against, he’d chuck in the towel now.”