Moran shifted a bit in his seat. He settled, then replied: “Look, Mrs. Palomba, if you tell me what really happened, it will stay here right in this room confidentially”—he pointed down with an index finger on the table—“and I will keep this tape in a drawer . . .”
Donna’s jaw dropped. She could not believe what she was hearing.
“If not,” Moran said after a long pause, “I’ll have to arrest you.”
“At this point,” Donna said later, “I became . . . weak, dizzy, nervous, disoriented.”
And this was only the beginning. What Moran was about to say next would shatter Donna.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Your Lies Won’t Leave Me Alone
The accusation that Lieutenant Douglas Moran made against Donna—that she had yet to tell the real story of her alleged rape—combined with his threat of arrest completely blindsided her. What had she done wrong? What did they know that she didn’t? Moran was calling Donna a liar. That was clear enough. He had made up his mind about her. What worried Donna more than anything was that if Moran was accusing her of being a liar, it meant her case was not being investigated. Her attacker was free to go about his business. The police were not searching for him. Crucial time was being lost.
Donna sat, stunned, thoughts racing through her mind. If she had been lying about that night, how could Moran account for the semen and pet hair and saliva, not to mention her scratched cornea? What was her motive for telling such an incredible untruth as a home invasion and rape? Had she scratched her own eye? Had she left her kids alone in the house and run to a neighbor’s to begin constructing an elaborate fabrication?
Moran was about to address Donna’s questions as the interrogation continued.
I felt like my heart was beating outside of my chest. I just could not believe this police officer was sitting across from me, turning the tables, and not willing to listen to one bit of information I was giving him about Jeff Martinez. Moran had totally disregarded my sister’s account of what Jeff had done to her. As Moran continued, I became nauseous, the room started to spin . . . There’s no way this can be happening. Blame the victim? I could not get over how this was becoming my reality, and had no idea how much worse it would get. I kept thinking about what Moran was sitting there saying: What photographs? What interviews? What is this guy talking about? I am being blamed for falsely reporting a rape, and I have no idea where it’s coming from.
“You will not only be arrested,” Moran said as Donna continued to cry, “but you will go to jail and your children will be taken away from you and dragged through the courts.”
“What?” Donna felt like fainting, but was able to regain a small bit of her composure. “Look, Lieutenant, there is something very wrong in the information you have . . .” Donna pleaded with Moran to believe her. There must be some mistake, she kept saying.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Moran continued, not letting up. “I have one hundred percent positive proof or I could not sit here and do this to you. I have spent many hours, as well as other officers . . . there are countless interviews—and I have rock solid evidence. Me, my team, and my captain are all in agreement on this.”
On what? Donna wondered.
At some point the tape ran out, and Moran told Donna to hold on so he could flip the tape over and begin recording again. She watched him do this.
Donna felt so weak at this point, her body so incredibly numb and gummy, as if at any moment she would fall over, or collapse and melt off the chair.
Had someone planted something? Was someone setting me up? Why would someone frame me?
“You’re going to be arrested, Mrs. Palomba,” Moran said.
With that threat looming, Donna asked, “What should I do?”
“Tell me the truth!” Moran said, his voice growing loud and more intimidating. “Tell me what happened.”
“I told you exactly what happened. This is what I recall happening.”
“Fine,” Moran snapped. “Then there is nothing left to talk about. You are going to be arrested, and you are going to jail.”
Waterbury, the “Brass City,” was my home. Waking every morning, I didn’t have to go far to look out and see the immense white cross standing tall over the city from its place perched high atop a cliff just off the busy interstate. Holy Land, USA. Years ago it was a tourist trap and, although closed, is still a focal point today. People would flock to the cross located amidst two scaled-down replica cities of Jerusalem and Bethlehem. It was that fifty-foot-tall cross that I took with me every morning. There it stood, obvious and marvelous, towering over my shoulder as a comforting and divine shadow. At any time of the day, I could look up and get lost in this enormous symbol of suffering. It reminded me of who we were and why we were here; and became a reflection, honestly, of our lives, what we believed, how grateful for life I was, and how personal the Catholic sacraments I took so much pride in living were to my way of life. At one time fifty thousand people a year came from all over the world to stand at the cross and visit these “holy” cities; but we had it right here, overseeing our lives like a halo, staring down into our close-knit, seemingly trouble-free world. It prompted us to consider that the only expectation of a Christian was to follow the moral compass you absorbed growing up as a child of God; it would guide you through life. And if I allowed that to happen, I was certain, happily-ever-after would be the postscript to my life with John and the kids.
How could it not be?
And now, as I sat in front of this police officer, my world was coming apart. He was accusing me of being the polar opposite of the person I had worked so hard to become.
Where was Moran getting his false information? Was he protecting somebody? A cop, perhaps? Had they found out that one of their “brothers” committed the rape, and the cover-up was beginning right there in that room?
“Do you know that your neighbors are calling here,” Moran said, “and they’re scared to death?”
Again, Donna had no idea what he was talking about. “What are you saying?” she pleaded. “What do you mean?”
“A nine-month pregnant woman cannot sleep at night, Mrs. Palomba. How do you feel about that?” Moran was yelling, becoming even more aggressive.
“What in the world are you talking about? I’m the victim . . . I cannot sleep at night.” Donna was even more confused now. The guy—a police lieutenant—was beating up on a woman who had been sexually assaulted. She couldn’t get over how surreal this entire interview had turned out to be—and she had volunteered to come down.
“She cannot sleep, and it’s your fault,” Moran raged.
“I’m sorry . . . I feel awful about that, but it’s not my fault.”
Moran sat in silence, staring at her.
“What possible motive would I have to concoct this?” Donna said, breaking the silence.
“You tell me.”
“Please stop this. Please, Lieutenant. I have told you everything. I beg you to stop. Think about this . . . if I was your wife or daughter, how would you feel if they were being treated in this same manner. What would you tell them to do?”
“I would tell them to tell the truth. Look, I have twenty-seven cases on my desk, and one way or the other, this one is getting closed.”
“If I had an alternative story to tell, why wouldn’t I tell you—especially if you say that I am in danger of losing my husband, my reputation, my children. I would certainly tell you.”
“You would think so,” Moran shot back.
“Please, Lieutenant. Please. This doesn’t make any sense.” Moran had actually told Donna on the telephone earlier that two suspects had been 95 percent ruled out. “I came here today to give you more information . . .”
“Look, this is your last chance—or there will be an arrest. But I won’t arrest you here. It will be at your home
or at your work. Then I’ll take you back here where you’ll be fingerprinted and photographed.”
Donna trembled. She had no idea how to get out of the situation. She was talking, but Moran refused to hear her. All Moran did was stick to his interpretation of the events, whatever that was. Donna had no idea what evidence he had against her. She just wanted to talk to someone else, someone willing to listen and understand.
“Can you give me till tomorrow?” Donna asked.
“Absolutely not!”
“Please believe me . . . I have nothing to hide. I’ll take a lie detector test, whatever you want.”
“I feel sorry for you, Mrs. Palomba. You’re new at this. I think what happened was that you painted yourself into a corner and things got out of control and they snowballed and you made a mistake.”
There had been a moment during the interrogation when Donna asked Moran about the DNA and any potential lab results. He had mentioned on the phone, she pointed out to him, that the DNA would become important down the road when they had any potential suspects.
“I intentionally gave you misinformation,” Moran said. “It’s one of my tactics.”
I had never been more humiliated, betrayed, or sickened in my life. If I wasn’t so strong, and if I didn’t have the total support of my family through this period, I would have had a nervous breakdown. To take a victim who had been through the kind of trauma I experienced and to use the kinds of tormenting “tactics” that Moran used to intimidate me once he made up his mind about who I was, is something so unbelievable that I still have a hard time comprehending it.
There was a moment when Moran had Donna so perplexed and shaken up that she questioned her own memory. Maybe he was right. Had she been so traumatized that she had no idea what had happened?
“Do you think I could have been hallucinating?” she asked the lieutenant.
“Oh, I don’t think insanity will work.”
“What are you talking about?” Donna’s tears flowed more intensely as she curled into herself, her emotions taking over. She slumped in her chair. “What could you be thinking, doing something like this to me?”
To her shock and disgust, Moran said, “I’m thinking about what I am going to have for lunch.”
I sat there like an idiot. If I knew then what I know now, I would have gotten up right after he read me my Miranda rights and asked for an attorney. Walked right out of that room. I was just so determined on trying to set the record straight. I wanted him to believe me. I couldn’t understand why he did not. Or what he was basing his argument on. He never told me then why he had come to this conclusion. I had no idea that he had been given erroneous information—gossip, basically—about me and was pivoting his entire case on this information.
Donna had been in the room with Moran for about an hour and fifteen minutes. A round of silence ensued as Donna sobbed quietly, staring down at her lap.
“I’ll tell you what,” Moran said. “I’ll let you go, but only under the condition that you come back this afternoon and tell me what really happened inside your house that night.” He paused before addressing Donna in a sharp, angry tone: “Or I am going to find you and arrest you.”
Donna got up. Moran opened the door.
“Do you need to use the ladies’ room?”
“No,” Donna said. She wanted to leave.
“This is the part of the job I hate,” Moran said.
Donna just looked at him.
Inside the elevator on the way downstairs, Donna trembled with anxiety and exhaustion. Moran did not say anything.
Maria was stunned as Donna approached. She stared at Donna and knew something was wrong. Donna looked rattled.
Maria expected Moran to sit down with her and hear her story. Donna knew he wouldn’t, not after what she had just gone through.
Sure enough, Moran declined to listen to Maria’s story of Jeff coming to her house.
“Let’s just go,” Donna said.
Moran watched as they walked out the door.
“Donna, I don’t understand, what happened?” Maria asked as they got into the car. Maria thought perhaps the WPD had discovered who the perpetrator was, and that Moran had given that terrible information to Donna. It could have been the only reason why Donna was so upset.
Donna was still shaking. “He told me that I was going to be arrested if I didn’t come back this afternoon and make up a story about what happened.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They have something.”
“What?”
As they drove away from the WPD, Donna thought she was going to have to go home and invent some fiction about that night in order to keep her kids.
The theory that a cop was responsible for raping Donna became something she began to seriously consider as she and Maria drove toward their parents’ home. Donna thought: Maybe I was framed . . . Moran knows who did it and he’s covering for him.
Her mother and father sat and listened to her account of being verbally assaulted and interrogated by Lieutenant Moran. They could not believe what she was saying. The word Donna used later to describe her parents’ reaction was “incredulous.”
Donna’s father was so disturbed by what his daughter had said that he left to go find John, who was at St. Mary’s Catholic School, dropping off their boy at his afternoon kindergarten class. St. Mary’s was across the street from the WPD.
Donna’s father, with John in tow, went from St. Mary’s directly to the WPD to see if they could get to the bottom of what was going on.
John demanded to see Lieutenant Moran.
Moran came down and escorted them upstairs to the third-floor hallway. It was afternoon. People were scurrying about everywhere, coming and going. The place was active and busy.
“What the heck,” John said. “You’re going to arrest Donna?”
“She’s a good daughter. A great person. An incredible wife.” Donna’s father pleaded with Moran. “What are you people trying to do to her?”
“Look,” Moran said calmly. “There is a threat of her arrest. John, her story is full of holes.”
One of the forensic officers involved in Donna’s case just happened to walk by while they were standing and talking. John called him over and said, “You hear what they’re doing to Donna?”
He looked at Moran. Then at John: “I’m sorry, John . . . he’s my superior.” The man walked away.
What was going on? Was this some sort of conspiracy? John was dumbfounded, but growing angrier by the minute. What smoking gun information did the WPD have, and why weren’t they telling Donna and John what evidence they were basing such scurrilous accusations on?
As Moran talked through some of the details he had discussed with Donna, John began to understand where the WPD was coming from. It started to make sense. Moran never came out and said it, but John now thought he knew what Moran had hung his entire theory on.
They left and drove back to Donna’s parents’ house.
Donna was still upset, and she didn’t know what to do. There was no way she could make up a story to satisfy Moran and his cronies at the WPD, just so they could close the case and she could keep her kids. Donna was no liar. While John and her father had been at the WPD, she’d made up her mind that she would not succumb to Moran’s intimidation.
“Donna,” John said comfortingly, “is there anything you need to tell me about what happened that night?”
As John had listened to Moran, he realized that the implication—suffice it to say there was DNA evidence left behind—was that Donna had had an affair while John was away and felt she was going to get caught, so she made up the entire scenario to cover up the infidelity. The evidence the WPD had was apparently the word of someone who had made the allegation against Donna. But John was not told who that was.
John hugged his wife. “I believe you. I just had to ask. This is what they think,” John said. “That you had an affair and you’re making all this up to cover it up.”
Donna was paralyzed by fear. The same people who were supposedly there to protect her from the monster who had entered her life were now against her too, chasing her down. She felt she had no one to turn to. Nobody to lean on, besides her immediate family and friends.
Outside of one tightly knit circle, Donna was alone.
“What do we do?” Donna asked her husband.
It had been two days since the interrogation, and I was still reeling. The rage I felt inside me would be hard to explain. Not only had I suffered the trauma of the rape, but then I had been pumped with antibiotics that made me vomit for hour upon hour till there was nothing left inside me. I had that severe scratch on my cornea, which was very painful and complicated things even more. Then I tried to pick myself up and move on, going back to work, beginning my routine of life. I had given a detailed statement to Detective Lou Cote, and he had never indicated to me that perhaps they did not believe me. I kept calling them inquiring about progress in the case and if lab results had come back and if there was a DNA hit on anyone. Now I realized all that was for naught. My emotional state was so fragile and maybe even broken. My therapist called it “homecoming trauma,” the same suffering Vietnam veterans faced upon coming back home from the war. The people who were supposed to be protecting me were now the same people coming after me.
Not long after the interrogation, Donna’s mother-in-law called retired police superintendent Fred Sullivan, a man the family knew quite well. Mrs. Palomba explained everything. Sullivan told John’s mother he would call the WPD and try to get some answers.
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