In Search of April Raintree

by Beatrice Mosionier

  “You don’t mind me going out with him, do you, Cheryl?” I asked after much hesitation.

  “Of course not. I think he’s a heck of a lot better than Bob. I’m glad. You need a strong man to take care of you. You know what I mean? I’m the kind of woman who might feel smothered by a man after awhile. But you, well, it’s not that I think you’re weak or anything; just that I see you with a husband and kids, and still doing what you have to.”

  I liked Cheryl telling me that. That wasn’t quite the way things were between Roger and me, but if I hadn’t been deranged by those rapists, that’s probably how things would have been.

  In the middle of September, a police officer came to my place to serve me with a subpoena to appear in court in the trial of The Queen v. Donnelly on October 10, 1972.

  On October 3rd, I had to return to that basement office in the Legislative Building to see Mr. Scott, the Crown attorney. He explained that Oliver Donnelly was going on trial only for the charges of unlawful confinement and rape. If a verdict of “Not Guilty” were reached, then he would proceed with the other charges of indecent assault, gross indecency, and assault causing bodily harm. If the verdict was “Guilty,” then the lesser charges would be stayed. When I left, I was well aware that the trial was less than a week away.

  I told Cheryl about the trial, and she said she was going to attend. I told her I’d rather she didn’t, but she was insistent.

  “Look, April, you’ve changed a lot, and I want to know why. You’ve never told me exactly what happened. You smile, you laugh, but I can see in your eyes there’s no joy. I want to help you in any way I can.”

  “Cheryl, you blamed yourself in the first place, and it’s not your fault. What happened to me was fate. But I know you: you’re going to start blaming yourself, when you had absolutely nothing to do with it. Some terrible things did happen to me, and I don’t want you to know about them. So please stay away, okay?”

  “I won’t make any promises,” Cheryl said. “If I can take time off work, I still might come.”

  On Tuesday morning, I was at Mr. Scott’s office by 9:00 am, in case I had to go over any last-minute details. I was secluded in a witness room while the jury selection took place. Then the professionals, like the doctors, had their turns to testify first so they could get back to their jobs. Lunchtime came and went, and it was two-thirty before I was called.

  I could feel everybody’s eyes on me as I walked to the witness stand. My insides were twisted into a knot. Nervously, I listened to the clerk ask me if I would swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth, so help me God. I said, “I do.”

  I was already trembling, and I hadn’t said but those two words. While the Crown attorney shuffled through some papers on his table, I looked around, not moving my head. On my left were the jurors. On my right and higher up was the Honourable Mr. Justice Saul. There in front of me, enclosed in the prison dock, was Oliver Donnelly, staring up at me. I quickly averted my eyes. Mr. Scott was quite different in his role before the jurors.

  He was very sympathetic and seemed thoroughly offended by what he knew had happened to me. Again, I had to tell of the night of the rape. I answered in as much detail as I thought he wanted. I faltered at times, turned red, looked at the floor. It was a horrible experience saying in front of all those people what had actually happened to me. I had to fight to control my trembling and shaky voice. I had to pretend it wasn’t as bad as all that. I was asked to describe the man who had raped me. I did so.

  “Is that person whom you are describing present in the courtroom today?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Could you point that person out?”

  “He’s over there,” I said, pointing at Donnelly, as I had previously been instructed to do.

  Mr. Scott said, “Let the record show that the accused, Oliver Donnelly, has been identified by April Raintree, the complainant.”

  When Mr. Scott finished his examination of me, it was Mr. Schneider’s turn. He was the defendant’s lawyer. I expected him to be aggressive, as he had been at the preliminary hearing, but he wasn’t.

  After going over my identification of Oliver Donnelly, he asked, “All right, you were in the car. What did you do while you were still in the city limits?”

  “I sat in the corner of the back seat.”

  “Did you fight or plead with them to let you go?”

  “No, I was ...”

  “So, you didn’t do anything at all?”

  “No.”

  “Now, would you say the defendant was intoxicated?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t you state that you smelled liquor on his breath?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You did what, Miss Raintree?”

  “I did smell liquor on his breath.”

  “You stated that you were going to your sister’s place to pick up her effects. Is that correct, Miss Raintree?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know how your sister earned her living at that time?”

  I answered no, at the same moment Mr. Scott raised his voice, objecting that the question wasn’t relevant to the case. The judge intervened to say he didn’t have to make a ruling because I had already answered.

  After I had completed my testimony, the Crown attorney called Stephen Gurnan to the stand. He was sworn in, but the judge called a recess until the following day.

  That night, I wondered why the defence counsel had asked me what my sister did for a living. Cheryl seemed distracted, but I didn’t think it was important enough to ask her. She said she was going to go out for a while. I took the opportunity to take my ritual bath. Maybe tonight, I would be able to get rid of that awful stench, forever. But instead, everything was more intensified. The smell became stronger, as if the perfumed oil had somehow turned into their bodily scents. I again had the visions of their lunatic faces laughing, sneering. I hadn’t been able to say that in court. Frantically, I scrubbed and lathered, and scrubbed some more. Finally, I broke down and started crying. I dried myself off, roughly. Then I put my nightgown on and, methodically, began to brush my hair.

  Suddenly, I could stand it no longer. I threw the brush down and it hit the bathtub with a resounding clang. Then I snatched the bar of soap and the bath brush and threw them on the floor. With my arm, I swept all the perfume jars and other containers off the vanity. All I felt was a frenzied frustration. My sobbing had grown louder and louder, and I finally screamed.

  “You bastards! You lousy, dirty bastards. I wish you were all dead! Do you hear me? I wish you goddamned bastards were dead!”

  I slumped to the floor and pounded the ceramic tiling as hard as I could. I wanted to transfer the pain from inside me to my fists. I cried until I had no more tears.

  I stayed there for a while, not thinking of anything. Gradually, some of my humour returned, and I chided myself for making such a mess, because it was me who had to clean it up in the end. But first I’d have a coffee. I went to the kitchen, made myself a cup, and sat down at the table. I savored the taste of the coffee, pushing the negative thoughts out of my mind.

  The second day of the trial started with the Crown attorney having Stephen Gurnan tell everything that had occurred on that night, and they went over the identification of the rapist. There was no doubt that the Crown attorney had the identification area well covered. As far as I was concerned, the defendant didn’t have a leg to stand on, in the way of defence.

  The defence counsel then got up to question Gurnan. As expected, he asked him what he had originally been charged with. He noted to the jury that Gurnan had gotten the charge reduced to forcible confinement. Mr. Schneider’s tone when he questioned Stephen Gurnan showed his open contempt. The defence counsel brought out the fact that Stephen Gurnan had told Donnelly that the intended victim was a known prostitute.

  “How did you know that this certain girl you were supposed to scare was a prostitute?”

  “Objection! That’s
hearsay evidence. Mr. Gurnan could not know that for a fact, since he didn’t know the complainant.”

  “It is hearsay evidence, my lord, but we believe this evidence is important: not to prove that the girl was a prostitute, but that the witness believed her to be a prostitute.”

  Mr. Justice Saul said to Mr. Scott, “He does appear to have a point. Overruled.”

  The defence lawyer repeated his question, to which Stephen Gurnan answered, “My sister told me.”

  “And what is your sister’s name?”

  “Sylvia. Sylvia Gurnan.”

  I was indignant that I could be mistaken as a prostitute. If Mr. Schneider intended to prove that I was, or had ever been, a prostitute, he’d better forget it. I could prove beyond a doubt that I was a decent citizen.

  It was after the lunch recess when Cheryl showed up. “I lied at work and told them I was sick. I would have come a lot earlier, but I was stuck at something I had to finish. Anyways, how’s it going? And how do you feel?”

  “Well, I’d like to say I’m happy you see you, but you shouldn’t have bothered coming.”

  “That’s gratitude. How’s the case going?”

  “I think it’s almost over, but I’m not sure. I think, too, that the defence counsel is trying to prove I behaved like a prostitute or something. They’ll try anything.”

  Cheryl and I entered the courtroom together and sat near the front. A little later in the afternoon, Sylvia Gurnan was called to the stand. She testified that she had asked her brother, Stephen, to scare a certain prostitute. I presumed her testimony was to corroborate what Stephen Gurnan had said, thus making him a credible witness in the eyes of the jurors. “You specifically told your brother, Stephen Gurnan, that this certain girl was a prostitute?” Mr. Schneider asked.

  “Yes. We all knew she was a prostitute. It wasn’t a secret,” Sylvia replied.

  “Did you know this girl’s name?”

  “Yes. Her name is Cheryl Raintree.”

  Shock waves went through me. I looked sideways at Cheryl. She didn’t move at all. It was as if she had been expecting it. I sat there shivering. My own sister, champion of Native causes, a whore?

  “Cheryl, say this isn’t so,” I said to her in a hoarse whisper, begging her to deny it. But she didn’t. She just sat there looking at the floor.

  What happened after that I’m not really sure. My mind was in a whirl. I know the jurors left the room, but it didn’t have anything to do with this recent exposé. A police officer testified as to how Oliver Donnelly’s statement had been obtained. Then I remembered that Mr. Scott had told me about this voir dire. When the judge was satisfied that the statement had been given voluntarily, he ruled that the evidence could be submitted, and the jury was called back. Then Oliver Donnelly’s statement was read to the court.

  He said he had been first approached by Jason Steeps to help Stephen Gurnan put a scare into some hooker. “Jason and I had been drinking heavily, most of the afternoon prior to that evening. We sat in Stephen Gurnan’s car, which was parked where the hooker was supposed to be living. When the girl came, Stephen Gurnan told us she was the one, so we grabbed her and got her into the car. We drove around for a while, and the girl never said anything, so I figured it would be all right to have sex with her. I believed she was a prostitute. When she did object, I thought it was because I hadn’t paid her. I had never paid before, and I wasn’t going to start then. The liquor made me lose control, and I hit her a few times. If I hadn’t been drunk, I wouldn’t have hit her. I believed at the time when I had sex with her, it was with her consent.”

  There were no further witnesses, so court was adjourned until the next day for the summations by the lawyers. Because it seemed Cheryl wasn’t going to budge from her chair, even though the courtroom was almost empty, I said, “We’d better go now.” My voice sounded cold, even harsh.

  Cheryl stood up then and looked right at me. I saw her face in that split second before I looked away from her. I just couldn’t look her straight in the face, not at that moment. I didn’t even know how I felt towards her. She followed me to the bus stop. All the way home, we were silent. I then understood that she really had been to blame. I blamed her, but at the same time, I didn’t blame her—or was it that I didn’t want to hold her responsible? I waited for her explanations, her excuses, but she didn’t make any. When we had eaten supper, she went out.

  I again checked the newspaper, and was relieved to find they hadn’t printed my name. I was simply referred to as the complainant. What a way to get into the papers, as a victim. A victim of my own sister’s folly. A victim of Sylvia’s revenge. A victim of being Native. No matter how hard I tried, I would always be forced into the silly, petty things that concerned Native life. All because Cheryl insisted in going out of her way to screw up her own life—and thus, screwing up mine.

  For some reason, I didn’t feel the urgent need for the ritual bath that night. I turned on the television to get my mind off Cheryl. It didn’t help much. I kept thinking of the look she had given me that afternoon, the look I had so coldly turned away from, as if I had judged her guilty. Still, she was my sister, my flesh and blood, and when she returned, I would tell her everything was okay. It really wouldn’t be okay, but I decided I would try my best to forgive and forget.

  The late show came on, and Cheryl still hadn’t come home. I fell asleep and woke up about three-thirty. The movie was over, and there was still no sign that Cheryl had returned. I went up to her room to make sure. Afterward, I went to bed, disappointed and worried.

  The next morning I went to the trial alone. The Crown attorney made his summation to the jury. He went over all the testimony of the witnesses, emphasizing that the element of corroboration and legal principle had been met by both my testimony and that of Stephen Gurnan. Then he pointed me out and said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, look at the poor victim, the victim of this deplorable crime. How she has suffered, not only from the physical and mental anguish, but also the emotional pain of the whole onslaught. Whether she was a prostitute or not, and I stress to you that she is not and never has been, is not the question at hand. The fact is, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that she suffered at the hands of Oliver Donnelly. She will never forget the torment of that winter night. Remember how she gave her account of what happened that night of January 11, 1972? Trembling, but honest. Not once did she change any of her testimony. Not once did she waver between truth and fiction. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, there is one thing we can do on behalf of the girl, April Raintree: that is, to find this man—the defendant, Oliver Donnelly—guilty of rape, to give her justice.”

  I had to squirm under everyone’s scrutiny. I objected to being pointed out like that, and being called that “poor victim.” It sounded overly dramatic. It sounded like he wanted them to say the defendant was guilty on the grounds that I was such a pitiful creature. I wanted him found guilty because of what he had done. I was glad when he concluded his summation. I took the opportunity to look behind me to see if Cheryl had come. All I saw were strange faces, staring at me.

  Next, Mr. Schneider, the defence counsel, went to work on the jury to try and convince them that his client was innocent. He emphasized that Donnelly had been drinking heavily, that Donnelly honestly believed that the girl was a prostitute, but more importantly, had consented by her own silence to have sexual intercourse. The accused further believed that the objections by the complainant were made only because she had not received compensation for her services. I sat there, thinking of only one thing: that man, the accused, that bastard Donnelly, had raped me. He had done more than rape me. He deserved to be found guilty and nothing else. By the end of the defence counsel’s speech, I began to worry that there was a possibility that the jurors would find him innocent. The judge called a lunch recess.

  I walked down the corridor, then the stairs, wondering why Cheryl hadn’t come, and feeling lonely for her company. I also wondered if Donnelly was going to get off, scot-fr
ee. But then how could he get off when Gurnan had already pleaded guilty to one charge? Wouldn’t that be ironic?

  I was on my way out the front doors when I heard Roger’s voice. “April, what are you doing here?”

  I looked at him, dismayed. I thought of lying, but I couldn’t think of any good lies. “I’m attending a trial.”

  “Oh? What trial? You didn’t tell me about it.”

  “It’s The Queen v. Donnelly. It’s a rape trial. I’m a witness. Or is complainant the proper word?” I said, looking straight at him.

  Roger looked at me for a minute, a long minute. “You should have told me about it. I’m sorry. It must be rough on you. How is it going?”

  “It’s almost over, I think. I don’t know how it’s going to end. What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, I had a few things to do, and I was going to do some searches at Land Titles for Alex. But it can wait. How about I take you for lunch right now? Is Cheryl here?” he asked, looking around.

  “No. She didn’t come today. She was with me Tuesday and yesterday,” I answered, not mentioning her involvement.

  We had lunch, and afterwards, he said that he’d come back to the courtroom later in the afternoon when he had finished his work. Back at the law courts building, I talked with Mr. Scott in the hall, and he took time to explain what was going to be happening next. He also assured me that things looked good.

  I felt slightly better when I took my seat back in the courtroom. The Honourable Mr. Justice Saul gave his charge to the jury, summarizing once again the evidence given, explaining the law pertaining to the charges. It strained my patience to have to listen to him. I began thinking of what I should tell Roger. No doubt, if he hadn’t read last evening’s paper, he would read about the trial now. So far I had been able to talk with him on just about anything. He had listened, and given me good advice on occasion, and all in all, he had been comforting. It was almost three thirty when the jury filed out of the courtroom to consider its verdict.