Dark Chapter

by Winnie M. Li

  “It’ll be quite straightforward,” O’Leary says. “Of course we’ll see you again before you take the stand. But just answer the questions I ask you, and be as truthful and informative as you can be. It’s quite simple.”

  Simple?

  Never before has one word been so underestimated.

  So this is actually happening. She imagines herself stepping into that courtroom – the room that waits for her behind a closed door. Where everyone will be looking at her: the rape victim. Everyone. Including him.

  “As we discussed before,” O’Leary continues. “We will not be using special measures, so you’ll be in plain view of everyone in the courtroom, and I think that will reflect very positively on you.”

  She is taken aback, but she knows what they mean. The rape victim who sits in plain view, telling her story, is the rape victim who has nothing to hide. “You’ll be great,” Simmons is saying to her. “Just be yourself. Try not to be too nervous. We’ll be right there with you.”

  But you want me to cry.

  The prosecutors haven’t said this, of course, but that’s the implicit hope. That she will break down on the stand, in front of everyone. The stress will be too much, having to see the boy will be too much, and only then – with the tears and the sobbing – will the jury and the public really see how traumatized she is. The ultimate sympathy vote.

  And isn’t this what everyone wants to see in a courtroom? Isn’t that why the public has come, why the journalists are scribbling away? The lurid appeal of the rape case. The tearful rape victim, the remorseless rapist. The shocking details of what happened between their bodies.

  She sinks her thumbnail into the fleshy side of her index finger, willing it to hurt, wanting to feel something, some pain.

  “So do you have any questions for us, Vivian?”

  “Yes,” some part of her says, surprisingly able to locate her voice. She asks if Jen and Erika can sit through the first part of the trial since she herself can’t be there, and Detective Morrison says he will find seats for them.

  “Does that mean there are a lot of people in the public gallery? How full is the courtroom?”

  Simmons hesitates. “Given the high profile of the case…”

  “Are there many journalists inside?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” O’Leary says. “Journalists or not, just answer the questions as best you can, and try to pretend no one’s there.”

  She wants to laugh at how ridiculous that last comment is.

  *

  Judge – Judge Haslam they said his name was – is eyeing him something harsh, and them jury hanging on to every word he says, like they’re the ones it’s life or death for. Judge is going on about their duty, how they need to listen closely, take on board every detail, determine what they believe is the truth beyond a reasonable doubt. He musta practiced this speech loads. Sitting there year after year. This man is ancient, all wrinkly skin and white hair under that stupid wig. Case after case, telling jury after jury the same thing. Who wants that for a job? He’d die of boredom.

  Now the judge is finished and your man, the tall grey one that McLuhan warned about, he’s getting up.

  This one’s out to get you, that’s his job. So anything comes out of this man’s mouth is shite. Fancy-sounding, but still shite.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he says. “I’m here to tell you about something shocking and cruel that happened one afternoon last April, right in West Belfast. It’s perhaps an event you remember from the papers at the time, precisely because it was so shocking. But I am asking if you could try and ignore what you may have heard earlier, and only focus on what is being presented to you as evidence over the next few days.”

  Jaysus, we have to listen to this guy drone on for days?

  “What you are about to hear is all the more shocking because the prosecution argue the crime was caused by that young boy, sitting right there in the dock. The defendant, John Michael Sweeney.”

  Of course, all eyes cracking onto me now, like they never saw me before.

  But McLuhan told him it’d be like this. Everything going against him until he gets the chance to cross-examine the woman.

  He don’t want to admit it, but his heart’s starting to beat a load faster.

  “Now the injured party in this case is a young lady whom you will have the chance to meet later on today. She is American, her name is Vivian Tan, and she lives and works in London. At the time of the offence, she was twenty-nine. Her situation is sadly very ironic, because she had been invited to Belfast as a visitor, to participate in a prestigious event celebrating the tenth anniversary of the Good Friday agreement. She had been invited to celebrate peace in Northern Ireland, yet her own visit ended in violence. You see, years before, Vivian had been selected as a very elite group of promising young Americans called the George Mitchell Scholars, who were awarded fellowships to study in Ireland. The scholarship was designed to foster a better understanding between Ireland and the United States…”

  Well, this is news. Didn’t know this about the woman. Mighty impressive, but McLuhan never said nothing about this.

  Da and the lads are exchanging glances, looking over his way.

  But so what? She’s a fancy-arse. Posh people can want it raw, too. In the mud, bruises and all. He’s saying this to himself, but all the time, his heart is galloping away and he wants to just vanish. Anywhere but this clear little box for everyone to stare at.

  *

  “Is he good, the barrister?” she asks Jen and Erika, when they’re back in the room with her.

  “He’s getting the job done. Making it clear to the jury how difficult it is for you to come back here to testify.”

  Something about that stretches her even more taut. Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, and witness the brave little rape victim.

  “And him? Is he there?”

  But of course, she knows he is.

  “He’s very young,” Erika says. “It’s terrifying that a kid that age can do something like that. I mean, my own daughter is older than him.”

  “So is it difficult for people to believe that he’d commit a crime like this?”

  She gets the sense that her friends are sifting through their words carefully. “I wouldn’t say he’s making the most positive impression,” Jen explains. “But then again, I think everyone’s waiting to hear what you’ll say, and then what he’ll say.”

  She nods. Message understood. Well, when it comes to speaking in public, having a Harvard education and a career in media may give her the edge. She at least has an objective confidence about that.

  Wordlessly, Jen reaches an arm out and encircles her shoulders.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll do just fine.” Erika smiles and squeezes her hand.

  Everyone keeps saying that. She’s not so sure.

  “How about we take you out for lunch?” Erika suggests.

  But the nausea hasn’t subsided and she doesn’t want to go outside. Who knows who might be out there? Journalists, people from the public gallery, maybe even his relatives? People staring, nudging the person next to them, mouthing ‘That’s the rape victim.’

  No, she’d prefer to stay secluded in this little room, with the lavender candle burning and the window she can look out. Hidden from all the world, for now. Invisible.

  *

  Lunch. Some microwaved pasta shite that he eats off a cardboard tray, while sitting in another fucking cramped cell. Guards don’t smile at him. Shoot him a grim look, peel the plastic off the food and slide it over.

  And like any right eejit, he burns his tongue on the food. Now trying to blow air into his mouth as he chews the steaming pasta and them guards are looking at him, like he deserved it.

  After he’s done eating, nothing to do except sit and stare at these walls.

  “You stay strong, Johnny.” That’s what Da said, muttering through the slot in the glass panel of the dock, right after the judge had left the room.

&
nbsp; Rory and Donal nodded too, though didn’t say much.

  And Michael… Michael waited till the others were ahead, then leaned his head against the glass. “Don’t let what them bastards say get to you. You know what happened. You wait, and then you tell ’em.”

  This rings in his head now. The empty, tiny cell.

  You wait and then you tell ’em.

  *

  “Now ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’ve summarised the outline of the crime, but shortly you will hear from Ms Tan herself what actually transpired on the afternoon of the alleged attack. I must warn you, the details are harrowing and quite unpleasant. But when she speaks, you’ll understand how it came to be that a professional, well-educated young lady like her found herself to be subject to a rape this violent and unexpected.”

  O’Leary stops to swig some water. Look at them eejits, everyone hanging onto him like every word out of his mouth is the gospel truth. Even Da and Michael are hooked. Thank Christ me mam ain’t here. Fuck knows what she thinks of all this.

  He looks down, swallows, still nursing the burnt tongue. Wants to block out your man, but there’s no way to get away from the stream of words.

  “…So please do give your utmost attention to Ms Tan when she speaks. It is up to you to decide if she is telling the truth or not, but do consider the great and uncomfortable lengths she has gone to be able to be here today. And consider if a woman would really put herself through all that, come back to a city which clearly holds much pain and distress for her, if it weren’t a genuine criminal act against her.”

  Look at this, already labeling him a criminal on the very first day.

  “The Crown would like to call our first witness, Miss Vivian Tan.”

  *

  Detective Morrison walks her down the corridor, all modern gleaming surfaces with an expansive window showcasing a view of Belfast Harbor and the hills beyond, green and gray below lowering clouds.

  Click click click, her heels echo against the tiles and it feels like someone else, walking in her shoes, treading that path to Courtroom Eight.

  She’s vaguely aware of a few people loitering around in the hall, maybe there for other cases, but staring at her. She pretends not to see them.

  “You all right there?” Morrison asks, just before they’re about to enter the room.

  She pauses for a moment and looks at him. She’s tempted to say she can’t do this. She wishes she were somewhere safe and very distant.

  Instead, she takes a deep breath and nods. “Yeah. As good as I’ll ever be.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Detective Morrison says, his grey-blue eyes looking straight into hers, a light touch on her elbow. “I’ve seen loads of victims in my time. And if anyone can do this, you can.”

  And somehow, this unexpected kindness almost sets her off into tears. But she steels herself, clenches her right hand into a fist, pushes away that mounting nausea. She’s been waiting for this moment, ever since last April.

  “Ready?” the usher asks.

  “Yeah.” She nods, trying her best to be brisk and business-like.

  The usher pushes the door open and she follows him in. She’s aware of the room bristling with energy, faces turning towards her, but for now, she looks straight ahead, focuses on the witness stand.

  She does not look around. She does not look for him. Without having to see his face, she knows he is there in the room, staring at her.

  *

  Everyone in the room all turning to the door.

  It opens, old man clerk comes out, and then there she is. The woman. Don’t matter what name she goes by now, or what fancy job and learning she’s had. That’s her. The same long dark hair, the dark eyes. Slim tiny frame, but still that sorta no-nonsense feel to her, focused and fucking self-important.

  That’s her. Only everything else is different. She’s dressed all fancy and sleek, posh women’s shoes that clack away. You’d see her type on some TV show about American lawyers, but not wandering on her own in the Glen.

  The sight of her makes him want to look away. That’s her all right.

  Lump of pasta in his stomach swells up into his throat, ready to make him sick. He sees Michael’s eyebrows jerk up. Like he’s surprised. At what? That she’s this posh? This grown-up? This kind of a beour?

  Everyone else is staring at her. All watching her get in the box, say her oath.

  Your Paki one in the jury looks from her and over to him, catching his eye by accident.

  Yeah yeah, he knows what they’re thinking. Them two. That pretty posh woman and that boy. Is that possible? The two of them? In the woods?

  And he can tell from their faces, there’s not a chance.

  *

  Her face is set, her mouth drawn. What kind of expression should she have? How do they expect a rape victim to look when she enters the courtroom? Terrified? Vengeful? Somewhere in between?

  There is a sea of people and faces and eyes, most of them strangers, all of them staring at her, but she is comforted to know that at least Erika and Jen are there in their midst. And Detective Morrison.

  She is aware of a sheen of glassy wall in the center of the room, and behind it, a figure. But she does not look. She knows who it is, and that is enough.

  She is a given a Bible to take the oath on, and asked to repeat after the clerk: “I swear that the evidence I shall give to this court shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

  She sits down. Her feet, trapped as they are in their heels, are relieved to find the floor to rest on. She had been careful not to tie the knot in her purple blouse too tightly, but it still chafes at her neck.

  O’Leary gets up and she looks into his face, searches for some familiarity beneath the ridiculous wig and the haughty demeanor.

  “Would you please state your name to the court?”

  “My name is Vivian Michelle Tan.”

  For months, she has imagined opening her mouth and no words coming out. Her voice gone entirely, just a rush of breath and a wheezing emptiness. Now she’s relieved to hear her voice, low and familiar. But it’s almost as if it’s not her own. It speaks of its own accord from some mechanical part of her mind.

  “And where do you reside, Ms Tan?”

  “I live in London, England.”

  O’Leary takes her through her age, her occupation at the time of the incident, and she answers easily enough.

  “And, of course, we’ve all noticed your accent. You’re not from London originally, are you?”

  “No, I’m originally from America. But I moved to London seven years ago. To work there.”

  “Very good.” O’Leary takes his time and looks around at the jury, nodding as if to say, see, perfectly respectable woman here.

  “And if you could be so kind as to tell the jury, why were you in Belfast on the 12th of April last year?”

  She pauses for a moment, draws in a breath.

  She looks at the judge, for the first time. When she meets his eye, there’s the briefest look of surprise from him – that she should be looking at him this directly. Then his gaze softens slightly.

  “I’d been invited to attend this event…”

  She describes the conference, not in great detail. The tenth anniversary of the peace process… She’d been invited as a George Mitchell Scholar…

  “And how did you become selected for this fellowship?”

  “There’s an application process,” she begins.

  Do I mention Harvard? Will that make me sound cocky? She decides to go ahead. It is the truth, after all.

  “You apply, and finalists get invited for an interview. I applied in my final year at Harvard, where I had done my undergrad.”

  “Is that Harvard University in the United States?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did you study when you were there?”

  “Celtic Folklore and Mythology. So, Irish and Scottish folklore mainly.”

  She expects giggles or some kind of reac
tion from that answer, the kind she’s had all her life. But thankfully hears nothing. Then again, she feels as if she’s caught in a hermetically sealed jar, a curious specimen for everyone to stare at, and any sound from outside is muffled.

  “And what did you study when you were a Mitchell Scholar in Ireland?”

  There’s a mumble of words from the judge. “Mr O’Leary, if we could move to the incident at hand?”

  “Yes, of course, Your Honour. I just wanted to establish the context for Ms Tan’s familiarity with Ireland and her reasons for being in Belfast at the time of the incident.”

  She remembers what O’Leary told her earlier. She has to try and look at the jury from time to time.

  She takes the opportunity to scan those twelve faces sitting opposite her, watching her attentively. She’s surprised to see a South Asian man. And more women than men. That’s a good thing, right?

  Slow down, speak loud and clear, make eye contact. Only, don’t appear too poised for a rape victim.

  “Ms Tan, I’m now going to start asking you some questions about the day of the incident. I know this will be difficult for you, but please, take all the time in the world, and answer as truthfully as you can and with as much detail as you can. Is that all right?”

  Of course, none of this is all right.

  But she nods. “Yes,” she says and looks at O’Leary.

  Let it begin.

  *

  What’s this shite about Harvard? Place he heard of, once or twice before. She went there? And the fancy event with all them politicians and the peace process? He don’t really understand what they’re saying, but what the fuck was a woman like that doing in a park on her own?

  That’s what he tells himself. She’s not always this smooth, polished woman. He’s seen her covered in mud and bruises on the ground, her tits out.

  It’s like you want to rip off that fancy blouse, so’s they can see what’s really underneath. Expose her. Do it all over again to her, in court. Make that fucking bitch pay.

  Now she’s talking about the park. Her low American voice talking about the walk up the Glen. The people she passed. And then him.

  “I immediately thought he just looked strange because of what he was wearing. It wasn’t like what you’d wear if you were going for a walk in the park, more like what you’d wear to go out at night.”