by Naomi Kryske
“All rise!” cut through the buzz of excitement in the crowded courtroom. Judge Wilfred Thomas entered and seated himself, waiting for the rustle to subside. “Call your next witness, Mr. Benjamin.”
“The Crown calls Miss Jennifer Catherine Jeffries.”
There was a slight pause, and Jenny entered through the usher’s door, her protection officers behind her. To her left and just a few feet away was the dock with Scott inside. She cast her eyes around the room, looking for the witness-box, and realized she’d have to walk past him to get there. Why was everyone so calm? Didn’t they know what he was capable of? She stopped, wanting a moment to quell the rising tide of panic. Almost immediately Sergeant Casey moved beside her, placing himself between her and the monster and using his hand to apply firm pressure to the small of her back. Her legs began to work again, and he escorted her to the witness-box as if that had been his prescribed role all along. He positioned himself on the wall to her right.
She was alone in the witness-box. Halladay had said that the monster would be seated in the dock, and he was, but she felt as if the balance of power had shifted and he were standing, not she. No one had told her how small she would feel and how vulnerable. There was a cramp in the pit of her stomach, and she leaned forward slightly and put a hand on the side of the box. She heard Sergeant Casey take a deep breath and let it out slowly, and she followed his example.
She had a good view of the entire courtroom. Moving her eyes to the left, she saw the judge, the jury, all staring at her, and Hunt by the door they’d just used. Her eyes ran across the public gallery above the dock and down again, finding Brian by the door at the back of the room, a clock on the blue-gray wall next to him. A group of individuals, some bespectacled, with pens poised, peered at her—the press. She spotted Colin, Sergeant Andrews, several other men in suits, and in front of them, the legal counsel. She felt unsteady on her feet and took another deep breath. Why did she have to stand? In the States, where they called it the witness stand, participants were seated during their testimony.
The clerk, looking bored already, approached her with the Bible, and she remembered suddenly a line of Carl Sandburg’s: “like I was one more witness it was work for him to give the oath to.” Her mouth dry, she swore that the evidence she was about to give was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
One of the bewigged creatures stood, and she observed that none of the wigs were long enough to cover the sides of the head, nor were they really white, more the color of sheep’s wool. Some of them would be wolves in sheep’s clothing.
After bowing to the judge and the jury, the barrister, Peter Benjamin, introduced himself to her. He had deep lines on his thin face, as if he’d lost weight but not worries. He sounded friendly, almost conversational, as he confirmed her vital statistics and inquired about her life in Texas, and she realized that he was trying to put her at ease.
More questions about her background followed, covering her brothers’ activities growing up as well as her own, and their parents’ guidance and involvement in their lives. He was painting a picture of her, and he used a fine brush to portray a close-knit family that found time to take regular holidays and engage in other types of shared recreation. He rarely referred to notes, and no one interrupted him. He complimented her on her university performance and confirmed the date of her graduation. The morning had come to a close when he finally inquired about her purpose in coming to England.
After answering a series of questions about her activities between September 9 and 13, Jenny heard the judge’s voice.
“Mr. Benjamin, we are nearing the lunch interval,” he said. “I’d like to adjourn.”
“As your honour wishes.”
“We’ll reassemble at half one.”
She didn’t hear a gavel, just the usher’s voice intoning, “Will you all please be upstanding.”
When she turned to step out of the witness-box, Sergeant Casey was there to shield her, but the defendant had already left the dock when they passed it. They returned to Judge Lloyd’s chambers, where Sergeant Andrews was waiting with tea and sandwiches from the courthouse cafeteria.
“The hot courses weren’t ready yet, and the Coke machine is on the blink,” he reported.
She didn’t take more than two bites of the sandwich. It tasted like last week’s, and she felt more tired than hungry, so she slipped her shoes off and rested on the sofa with her feet elevated.
Hunt tossed his sandwich in the dustbin. “Come on, Davies. We can do better than this.”
Andrews must have thought so, too, because he hadn’t brought a sandwich for himself.
It was quiet. She was alone with Sergeant Casey, and it seemed seconds later when he shook her shoulder gently. “It’s gone one, love. Lads will be back soon.”
She sat up and rubbed her face. When she returned from the bathroom, she discovered that her shoes didn’t want to testify any more than she did. They wanted the afternoon off.
Shortly after Davies and Hunt returned, the call from the usher came.
CHAPTER 2
When they entered the courtroom, all eyes were on Jenny. Once again Sergeant Casey pushed her past the defendant. He helped her step up into the witness-box, where she was reminded of her oath.
“Mr. Benjamin, you may begin,” the judge said.
The prosecutor stood. “Miss Jeffries, what is your status in this country?”
She was tempted to reply that she was there to shop for more comfortable shoes, but she didn’t want to appear flippant. “I am a visitor.”
“You are here—and in this court—of your own free will?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has anyone pressurised you to testify in this case?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you been in contact with the press or any members of the media?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you been offered any sort of compensation by anyone for your story?”
“No, sir.”
“Miss Jeffries, I’d like to focus on the events of September 14, 1998. Let’s take it in stages, shall we?”
The prosecutor phrased his questions so that her answers could be short and clear, but she was still nervous. She described what she was wearing, her loss of consciousness at the bus stop, and waking up naked and sick in the dark. She told about the two men she saw when the light was turned on, her search for her clothes, and her discovery of women’s jewelry instead. Mr. Benjamin had her identify the specific pieces of jewelry before enquiring about the defendant’s entry into the little room, which he referred to as the “cellar in the ambassadorial residence.”
Sinclair respected Benjamin but wished for Jenny’s sake that Graves’ request for a woman to present the prosecution’s case had not been denied.
“The man who attacked you in the cellar—do you see him in the courtroom today?”
She looked away from Mr. Benjamin. The monster was staring at her, and when their eyes met, she could feel his malevolence. Instinctively she backed away as far as she could, trying to flatten herself against the back wall of the witness-box.
“You must give an audible reply,” the judge told her. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
It didn’t help. Even guarded, the monster was still too close.
“Miss Jeffries!” Mr. Benjamin said sharply. “Look at me! Is the man who attacked you in the courtroom?”
“Yes, he’s sitting in the dock with the two policemen,” she managed to say.
“Miss Jeffries, please speak into the microphone,” said Judge Thomas.
She took a few steps forward and repeated her answer.
“Let the record show that the witness identified William Cecil Crighton Scott, seated in the dock,” said Mr. Benjamin. He frowned at her pale and tense face. “Miss Jeffries, are you all right?”
“Sir—I need to sit down, please.” She looked at the judge.
“Of course,” he answered. “A chair will be provided
.”
She noticed for the first time that Judge Thomas was clothed in more than a black robe and white neckpiece: He had a purple stole, purple cuffs, and a red sash. The light gray hair on the sides of his head matched his wig. They all waited while a chair was brought from the court down the corridor and the height of the microphone adjusted.
“Proceed, Mr. Benjamin.”
“Miss Jeffries, were you acquainted with the accused?”
“No, sir, I was not,” she said.
“Did you recognise him when you saw him in the cellar? Did you know his name?”
“No, sir.”
“Did he speak to you?”
“No, sir.”
“Did he approach you?”
“Yes, he grabbed my arm and pulled me to the center of the room.”
“What did he do then?”
She was feeling shaky, and her voice quivered. “He nearly beat me to death.”
“Nearly beat you to death,” Benjamin repeated, his enunciation unusually clear. “Could you be a bit more specific, please? What sorts of blows did the defendant use?”
“He hit me in the stomach and knocked me down. He kicked me all over, and he hit me with his fists.”
“The scar on your face—was that a result of the defendant’s actions?”
“Yes, sir, it was. He wore a sharp ring that made gashes in my skin.”
“A ring that cut like a knife?”
“Your Honour, my learned friend is leading the witness.” The voice came from someone across the aisle from Mr. Benjamin.
“Indeed he is.”
Mr. Benjamin bowed slightly in acquiescence. “Miss Jeffries, for the benefit of the jury, would you push your hair aside and turn your right cheek toward them?”
Both cheeks burning, she did as requested. She didn’t see the sympathetic faces of those who leant toward her—she closed her eyes, and Mr. Benjamin’s next question seemed a long time in coming.
“Thank you, Miss Jeffries. Can you tell us, please—did the defendant exhibit any unusual behaviour while this physical abuse was taking place?”
“Yes, he made a noise in his throat, like a growl. It made him sound like an animal. A monster.”
“Your Honour,” said the defence counsel, rising.
“The witness has a right to her opinion of the sound,” said Judge Thomas.
“The defendant’s attack was brutal, was it not?” asked Mr. Benjamin.
She swallowed. The questions were becoming harder for her to answer calmly. “I was bruised and bleeding. I had broken bones. I was in such terrible pain that I couldn’t move.”
“Bruised and bleeding,” Benjamin echoed. “Broken bones. Immobilised. What happened next, Miss Jeffries?”
“He tore off my necklace.” At Benjamin’s direction, she described it. “That’s when I knew he had done this to other women. As we say in Texas, it wasn’t his first rodeo.”
“Because of the jewellery you found?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your Honour, the witness is drawing a conclusion,” said defence counsel.
“Miss Jeffries,” said the judge, “you must confine yourself to what you know.”
“What did the defendant do next, Miss Jeffries?”
The courtroom was still as a tomb. She looked away from Mr. Benjamin and saw the jury looking back at her. There were both men and women, some who looked about her age and others who appeared significantly older. Most were dressed informally, with sweaters or sweatshirts instead of suits. Some had pencils in hand, and she noticed that the ledge in front of them held pitchers of water and glasses as well as red folders. She didn’t want to speak in front of them, and she began to cry.
“Miss Jeffries?” It was the prosecutor.
“He—he raped me.”
The word “rape” pierced Sinclair’s heart. It was the first time he’d heard her say it, in all the months since it had happened. Again he wished prosecuting counsel were female.
“Miss Jeffries,” Mr. Benjamin said in a sympathetic voice, “I regret the necessity of such personal questions. However, for the record, we need to know. Had you ever had sexual intercourse with anyone prior to this dastardly attack?”
She felt naked, her private life laid bare. “No,” she wept.
The prosecutor waited a minute or two before continuing, whether to give her a chance to collect herself or to milk the dramatic moment, she didn’t know. “A virgin at the time,” he said gravely. “Miss Jeffries, did the defendant abuse you in any other way?”
She was crying harder now. “He pushed me onto my stomach, but I can’t—oh, God—”
Sinclair leant forward, hoping the prosecutor could guide her through her distress.
“It was a despicable offence, was it not?”
“My statement—can’t you just—”
“Do you need a few minutes, Miss Jeffries?” asked the judge.
“No, sir,” she sobbed. “It won’t help. I’ll never be able to say the words, not ever.”
“Mr. Benjamin, would you care to rephrase the question?”
“Yes, Your Honour. Miss Jeffries, the accused has been charged in your case with two separate counts of rape, rape per vaginum and rape per anum. Do you understand these terms?”
Colin had told her that the separate counts of rape mattered. The more charges they could lay against the monster, the stronger their case, but she still felt humiliated by it.
“Miss Jeffries, we need a verbal answer,” instructed the judge.
“Yes,” she gasped into the microphone.
“Can you confirm for this court that both counts of rape took place?” Mr. Benjamin continued.
“They—they did.” Her soft words seemed jarring in the silent room.
Again Mr. Benjamin paused. “What did the defendant do next?”
“He kicked me on the head, and I lost consciousness.”
“Where were you when you regained consciousness?”
“In the intensive care unit at University College Hospital.”
“Intensive care—of course. How long were you in hospital, Miss Jeffries?”
“Almost two weeks, I think.”
“Were you completely recovered from your injuries when you left hospital?”
“Oh, no,” she answered. “I couldn’t walk. I had a cast on one arm. I was very weak. I was still in pain.”
“Still in pain,” he nodded. “Why, then, did you leave hospital?”
“Because I was attacked there,” she said. “Someone tried to kill me.”
“Where did you go when you left hospital?”
“I was taken into witness protection by the police.”
“Miss Jeffries, were you scheduled to appear in this court before today?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why was your testimony delayed?”
“I was shot on my way to court the first time. One of the policemen protecting me was nearly killed.”
“Yet you still had the courage to come here today,” said Mr. Benjamin. “Why was that, Miss Jeffries?”
“Because I have to keep him from doing this to anybody else. And I have to speak for those who can’t. What happened to me was monstrous, but what happened to them was worse.”
“Your Honour,” began defence counsel.
“Indeed,” said the judge. “Miss Jeffries, you are permitted to speak only of your experience.”
“Your Honour, the Crown has no further questions for Miss Jeffries at this time.”
“Thank you, Mr. Benjamin,” said Judge Thomas. “Court is recessed until half ten tomorrow morning.”
“Court will now stand,” said the usher, sounding just as bored as the clerk had in the morning.
CHAPTER 3
It was just past four p.m. when Jenny and the men returned to Judge Lloyd’s chambers. Brian and Hunt left almost immediately, having complimented her on a productive day of testimony. When Colin came by with dinner and Sergeant Casey departed, she realized that al
l their movements had been preplanned.
Colin brought vegetable soup and beef baguettes, and she celebrated a meal without potatoes. Well, almost—there were diced spuds among the other vegetables. The meal revived her only slightly. It had been difficult describing the monster’s crimes in front of such a large audience, but even more difficult doing it while he watched and listened. Every response she had given was an accusation. He had been angry at her before; she couldn’t comprehend the depth of rage he must feel now.
When Sergeant Casey returned, Colin left. She made a quick call home. “Please, no questions, Mother,” Casey heard her say. “All I’ve done today is answer questions for the prosecution. It was tiring—I had to stand most of the time. Talk to you tomorrow.”
She changed from her court clothes into sweatpants and a t-shirt. Was it her imagination, or were her scars more prominent? The monster’s shadow was still with her, growing larger as the night progressed. She didn’t think he’d paid much attention to her face before, but after watching her all day in court, she knew without a doubt that he could spot her in a crowd now. The public gallery had been full; had he arranged for criminal associates to attend and memorize her looks? Did he know where she was hiding? She knew there were armed men outside, but she wanted all the ones she knew and trusted to be there, layer upon layer of human insulation.
Her hands shook when she bathed herself in the judge’s bathroom, but she didn’t hurry, hoping that the cleansing and rinsing strokes of the washcloth would be soothing if she forced herself to do them slowly enough. They weren’t; every touch reminded her that she had been at the monster’s mercy and in many ways still was. He seemed omnipresent. Was he in custody in the cells below the court? Were they both confined in the same building?
When she finished, she left the light on and pulled the door almost closed. Sergeant Casey had stretched out on his sleeping bag, and she sat down next to him and leaned against the wall. “It’ll be worse tomorrow,” she said. “He’ll have an army of attorneys. And they’ll be harder on me than that solicitor was.”
He shifted her to the sofa. “You’re capable of bringing it off. And you’ll not be alone in there.”