Sly Fox

by Jeanine Pirro

  Judge Williams pondered for a moment and then said, “I’m not going to declare a mistrial. Let’s keep going.” I breathed a sigh of relief. At least Judge Williams had gotten this ruling right.

  Back at the podium, a clearly disappointed Kent gave Carmen a stern look and said, “You just testified that you didn’t tell anyone about this alleged abuse—except for Detective O’Brien. Are you aware that you can be charged with perjury if you lie on the witness stand?”

  An instant look of fear swept across Carmen’s face. “I didn’t lie. I didn’t tell anyone.”

  “Isn’t it true that you told your deceased mother’s best friend, Yolanda Torres?”

  Carmen looked surprised and so did I. This was news to me and, I assumed, O’Brien.

  “I forgot,” Carmen said softly. “The first time it happened. The first time he raped me. I went to see Yolanda because I thought I could confide in her. I thought she would help me, but she didn’t do nothing.”

  “She didn’t believe you?”

  “No, she was drunk and said it wasn’t her problem.” Looking up at Judge Williams, Carmen said, “I didn’t mean to lie. I forgot. Honest.”

  “Okay,” Kent said loudly, “let’s get to the bottom of what really happened here. Are you now telling this court—and remember you can be charged with perjury for lying—that you had a conversation with Yolanda Torres about your father?”

  “I went to see her. I asked for her help.”

  “So you were lying a minute ago?”

  I said, “I object, asked and answered.”

  “Sustained. Move on, Mr. Kent.”

  But the damage was done. A badly ashamed Carmen was staring at the floor, embarrassed.

  Kent said, “Did you and Yolanda Torres discuss extorting money from him?”

  “I never said I wanted money. I wanted her to tell him to stop hurting me.”

  “Did you and Yolanda Torres ever discuss how you could get money from him by accusing him of rape?”

  “No, no, no,” Carmen said, beginning to panic. “You’re twisting my words. I never said I wanted any money. I wanted him to leave me alone.”

  “You’re not answering my question. Did either of you have a conversation about making your father pay you?”

  Carmen was quiet for a moment. I knew her well enough to know that she was trying to choose her words carefully, but I suspected some jurors saw her hesitancy as a sign that she was being coy.

  “I told her,” she said, “that he was beating me with his belt and having sex with me. I asked her to make him stop. I never asked for any money.”

  “Did Yolanda Torres say to you, ‘I’ll make him pay?’ or something like that?”

  “I don’t remember. I just remember she was drunk.”

  “You don’t remember or you don’t want to remember?”

  “I object,” I said. “He’s badgering the witness.”

  Kent said, “I’ll withdraw the question. Isn’t it true that Yolanda Torres demanded sixty thousand dollars in cash from your father? Otherwise, she said the two of you would go to the police and accuse him of raping and beating you.”

  Carmen looked stunned. “No. I never asked her to say that. She was drunk. She said she would talk to him. I don’t know what she said. I don’t know anything about any money.”

  “So now you are changing your testimony once again. Now you’re telling us that Yolanda Torres said she would talk to him and did agree to help you, is that correct?”

  “Yes, I mean, no. She told me later that she’d talked to him. But she never told me about asking him for money.”

  “Ms. Gonzales,” Kent said, sounding frustrated, “isn’t it true that you and Torres dreamed up this entire plot because you wanted money to buy nice things—a car, clothes, jewelry?”

  “I never did any of that.”

  “Just like you didn’t tell anyone—except Detective O’Brien—about these alleged attacks,” Kent said in a disgusted voice.

  Before Carmen could reply, he said, “Isn’t it true that we’re here today because you and Yolanda Torres wanted sixty thousand dollars, and when he wouldn’t pay you, you told Detective O’Brien that your father was whipping and raping you—just like the two of you had threatened?”

  I started to object, but before I could, Carmen looked directly at Kent and said with chilling certainty, “We’re here because my father raped me. He beat me with his belt. I don’t know anything about money.”

  Kent sighed, suggesting that he didn’t believe her and moved on.

  “When did you become sexually active?”

  “I object, Your Honor,” I said. “This witness was raped by her father. Whether or not she was or is now sexually active has no bearing whatsoever on these charges.”

  I knew that when someone young is sexually abused, especially by a parent, a common reaction can be inappropriate sexual behavior. But Carmen’s sex life, if any, was not relevant to the issue before the jury. The New York Rape Shield law guaranteed that.

  “Overruled,” Judge Williams said. “Answer the question, young lady.”

  Carmen glared at her father at the defense table. She understood where this was going and that he was the source. He responded with a smug smile.

  “My father raped me,” Carmen said. “That was my first sexual experience.”

  I thought, Good for you.

  Kent said, “And when was your second sexual experience? And the others that followed?”

  I objected, but Carmen answered over me, “That would have been when he raped me the second time and the third and fourth and fifth.”

  Kent had underestimated Carmen as a witness. Her answers were alarming.

  Trying to regain control, Kent said, “Didn’t your father catch you when you were thirteen with a boy in the house fondling your breasts?”

  Rising, I said, “Your Honor, really. How is this relevant?”

  Judge Williams said, “I’m inclined to agree. If you have a point, you need to make it.”

  “I do have a point,” Kent said. “Ms. Gonzales, isn’t it true that you recently had sexual intercourse with four different teenage boys on the same night in a car parked less than a block away from your house and that your father caught you?” Holding up his notepad, Kent added: “If you’d like, I can read you their names.”

  I immediately objected. “What does this have to do with her being raped by her father?”

  Surprisingly, Judge Williams agreed. “You don’t have to answer that question. The jury will disregard the last question.”

  But from the looks on their faces, I knew Kent had gotten his point across. He was victimizing Carmen again. I looked at her sitting in the witness chair. She had started to tear up.

  “Isn’t it true,” Kent asked, “that your father took you to the abortion clinic after one of your many boyfriends got you pregnant?”

  Standing, I said, “Your Honor, if Mr. Kent wishes to give testimony, then perhaps he should be sworn in.”

  Carmen’s voice broke in. “It was his baby. My father’s. He raped me.”

  Kent cut her off. “Yes, yes, we’ve heard all that. But no one really can be sure of that.”

  “He’s not letting her finish her answers,” I argued.

  “I’ll move on, Your Honor.”

  Changing subjects, Kent asked, “Ms. Gonzales, have you ever cut yourself on purpose?”

  “What?”

  “Have you ever cut yourself with a knife or intentionally beaten yourself?”

  “No.”

  With that, Kent said, “I’m done with this witness—for now.”

  During my cross-examination, I tried to repair the damage that Kent had caused. Through my questions, I clarified that Carmen had never asked Yolanda for money or to extort money from Carlos. I also got her to testify that she had not engaged with sex with anyone but her father until after her abortion.

  Just the same, I knew Kent had planted seeds of doubt in jurors’ minds.

&nb
sp; I had to find a way to counter that—or we would lose.

  34

  After Carmen stepped down, Judge Williams adjourned court for the day. I walked with her outside the courtroom and, with help from O’Brien, shielded her from a mob of reporters. While they were not going to print her name, that didn’t mean they didn’t want to pepper her with questions. When we were safely across the street and in my office at the Domestic Violence Unit, O’Brien left us to run an errand and I gave Carmen a big hug.

  “You did a wonderful job, Carmen.”

  “He made me sound like a whore.”

  She began crying. The emotion poured out of her and I held her for several minutes as if she were my daughter.

  “You’re a beautiful young woman. I don’t know how you survived what your father did to you. I can’t imagine having my mother die in childbirth and having a stepmother who killed herself.”

  Carmen looked up at me through her tears and said, “My stepmother—Benita—she didn’t kill herself. My father murdered her.”

  “What? The police report said she died from an overdose of cocaine.”

  “Benita never used drugs. He forced her to take it. She didn’t kill herself. I was there. The night she died, my stepmom had fixed meatloaf for dinner and he threw his plate on the floor and yelled, ‘This fucking shit again?’ He grabbed her by the hair and we kids—we all ran into our rooms and hid. You could hear him whipping her with his belt and him say, ‘I’m going to keep hitting you, you fucking bitch, until you start bleeding.’”

  She sniffled and wiped her eyes. “My father came to my bedroom later that night. He woke me up and told me Benita was sick. I went with him into their bedroom and she was lying on the bed, not moving. He’d hurt her bad. He told me she needed a glass of milk from the kitchen, so I got her one and then he sent me back to bed. A few hours later, he woke me up again and said, ‘Something’s wrong with your stepmom.’ He took me into the room and she was lying there. She was dead. He told me to get my brother and I did. He had us clean up the room. He told us to tell the police that we were a happy family and that’s what we did when the police came. He told them she’d killed herself. But I never believed it. He did something to her.”

  I started to ask her why she’d never told anyone but stopped myself. Who would have believed her?

  My office phone rang. It was O’Brien calling. “I just talked to Yolanda Torres. She denies ever trying to extort money from Carlos. Claims Kent made up the whole story about the sixty thousand dollars.”

  “What sort of witness would she make if I call her?”

  “Awful. She said she’s been sober for a month, but I smelled booze on her breath and she’s in no shape to take on Kent.”

  “Then there’s no way I can show the jury that Kent’s theory was bullshit?”

  “None that I can think of,” O’Brien said.

  35

  I rested my case the next morning. It was now Kent’s turn to mount a defense. His first witness was Dr. Simon Rothman, a clinical psychiatrist who specialized in treating adolescents. After establishing Dr. Rothman’s credentials, Kent asked him to describe a practice called “cutting.”

  “It’s a form of self-injury we often see in young girls. Injuring yourself on purpose by making scratches or cuts on your body with a sharp object—enough to break the skin and make it bleed.”

  “Why would someone cut themselves?”

  “It’s not only cutting; sometimes young girls burn themselves, too. It’s hard to understand why people cut themselves on purpose but we believe it’s a way some people try to cope with the pain of strong emotions, intense pressure, or upsetting relationship problems. They may be dealing with feelings that seem too difficult to bear or a bad situation they think they can’t change.”

  “So someone who cuts herself could be seeking temporary relief or a thrill or even seeking attention?”

  “Not a thrill and certainly not for attention. Most cutters hide their wounds from everyone. People don’t usually intend to hurt themselves permanently when they cut. And they don’t usually mean to keep cutting once they start. But both can happen.”

  “Does cutting mean a person is trying to commit suicide?” Kent asked.

  “No. Cutting is usually a person’s attempt at feeling better, not ending it all. It’s usually because of emotional problems and pain that lie behind their desire to self-harm, not the cutting itself, and it can become a habit-forming, compulsive behavior, meaning that the more a person does it, the more he or she feels the need to do it. The brain starts to connect the false sense of relief from bad feelings to the act of cutting and it actually craves this relief the next time tension builds.”

  “Is it possible a young woman might begin cutting herself if she suffered a traumatic loss—such as rejection by her own mother and then the suicide of her stepmother?” Kent asked.

  “Those could be two very plausible reasons that might cause a young girl to begin harming herself.”

  “Doctor Rothman, you talked about cutting. Where do most girls cut themselves?”

  “On their wrists, arms, legs, and bellies.”

  Satisfied, Kent said he had no more questions.

  Standing, I said, “Your Honor, I move to have the doctor’s testimony stricken from the record on the grounds that it is not relevant to this case. Carmen Gonzales denied ever cutting herself. Her cuts are on her back. The defense has not produced any evidence that shows Carmen is a cutter or that cutters somehow injure their backs.”

  “Of course Carmen Gonzales has denied she is a cutter,” Kent responded. “What would you expect her to say?”

  Judge Williams considered our argument—for about a half second—before announcing that he was leaving the testimony in. As before, it was clear to me that the judge had just issued another incorrect ruling. He was better at ignoring the law than he was at interpreting it.

  Kent next called Amanda Jones. She was a painfully thin woman in her early twenties, dressed modestly in a long-sleeved blouse and knee-length skirt, who was a patient of Dr. Rothman’s. He quickly led her through a series of questions that established she had started cutting herself at age thirteen after her mother had died. She’d initially claimed the family cat had scratched her when people noticed marks on her arms.

  Once again, I sat there wondering how this woman’s testimony was relevant. I kept waiting for Judge Williams to reach the same conclusion. But he sat there seemingly engrossed in what the witness was saying.

  Kent said, “Ms. Jones, did you do most of your cutting on your arms?”

  “Yes, and thighs.”

  “Please show the jurors your arms.”

  Now I was just plain angry. Judge Williams had kept me from introducing photographs of Carmen’s back that clearly proved she had been beaten. But he was about to let this witness, who never should have been allowed to testify, whose case was not before this jury, reveal her cut arms for jurors. I started to object but suddenly stopped myself in midsentence.

  Judge Williams noticed and said, “Ms. Fox, do you have something to say?” He told the witness to wait—since Amanda had started unbuttoning her shirtsleeves. Looking at me, he said, “Were you about to raise an objection?”

  I wasn’t certain if he was taunting me or if he had finally come to his senses and recognized that he was allowing testimony into this case that was so irrelevant that it violated fundamental criminal procedure.

  Much to his surprise, I said, “No, Your Honor. I’m not going to object.”

  Looking confused, Judge Williams said, “Okay, then let’s proceed.”

  Amanda Jones rolled up both of her sleeves and held up her forearms for the jurors to see. The skin from her wrists to her elbows was a railroad track of healed slices.

  “And you did this to yourself, correct?” Kent asked.

  “Yes. I realize it seems odd but it made me feel better when I cut myself.”

  I did not bother cross-examining her but it wasn’t bec
ause I was ignoring what had just happened.

  In fact, Neal Kent had just walked into my trap.

  36

  After a short break, court reconvened and the question on everyone’s mind was: Would Kent put his client on the stand? The jurors would expect Gonzales to defend himself. But Kent also knew putting his client on the stand was risky. I was itching to grill him about the beatings, the rapes, dressing his daughter in her stepmother’s clothing, taking his underage daughter into nightclubs, introducing her as his girlfriend.

  Kent had turned the spotlight off Gonzales and shone it on Carmen. It was a classic defense strategy—put the victim on trial. He’d questioned her credibility. He’d suggested to jurors that Yolanda Torres had tried to blackmail his client. Kent had planted the seed that Carmen was promiscuous, hoping it would bear fruit in the jury deliberation room. Finally, he’d suggested that Carmen had beaten herself with her father’s belt because she was secretly a cutter.

  “The defense rests,” Kent announced. Putting Gonzales on the stand was apparently not worth the risk.

  Judge Williams asked Gonzales if he knew he had a constitutional right to testify. “Yes, Your Honor,” Gonzales declared. It was the first time the jurors had heard him speak. In a very articulate and clear voice he stated, “I will not testify,” and he added in an arrogant tone, “I’m innocent.”

  After dispensing with a few procedural matters, Judge Williams asked if I intended to call any rebuttal witnesses.

  “The state wishes to recall Carmen Gonzales.”

  All eyes turned to the back of the gallery when she entered for a second round. She was reminded that she was under oath and sat down. I’d prepared her during the short court break for what was about to happen. I’d also had her change her outfit. She was now wearing a blouse and skirt.