by Unknown
‘Yes. You see—’
But Nathan had put up a hand. ‘Spare me the details. I had not appreciated you had a law degree.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Then how will your presence be of assistance?’
‘I need to show my support. His grandmother was like a mother to me.’
‘I see. So he is like a brother then?’
‘Sort of,’ he said uncertainly.
‘You seem to have a lot of brothers. When did you last see this one?’
He started to explain, but Nathan waved it aside. ‘Tell this brother of yours you can give him a week. A week, at a busy time of the year. Anything more than that and you can ask your “brother” to give you a job. Because you won’t have this one.’
So he felt a clock was ticking when he returned to Chicago on Thursday night, catching a flight after work, a day into the trial. Merrill thought it odd that he had returned at all, and he could tell she hoped he would not be staying for long. She was cross, too, about Vanetta’s absence from work, lamenting the inadequacy of the local laundry service that was substituting. His father had voiced no opinion about his son’s return, but he let Robert use his car on Friday morning, since otherwise Robert didn’t have the faintest idea how to get to the court, at 26th and California.
When he arrived he had to park several streets away, and by the time he found the courtroom on an upper floor, the day’s proceedings had begun. As he took a seat in the back row, he was struck by how small the room was, tiny compared to the spacious sets of television drama. He saw Vanetta in the front row, sitting behind a black man at a table. That must be Duval, thought Robert, who could only see the back of his head.
In the witness box, a junior doctor from the hospital’s emergency room was describing what he’d found when called, bizarrely, to help someone hurt in the hospital itself. He gave evidence stolidly, consulting notes he had made the morning when Peggy Mohan had been found. Three times he said the victim had been so badly hurt he thought at first she was dead.
At the recess Robert followed the defence lawyer, Charlie Gehringer, out into the corridor, where he found him smoking a cigarette. Gehringer was young, not much past thirty, a dapper tense-looking man, with the physique of a rake and sharp eyes. Robert introduced himself.
‘Ah,’ he said and shook hands. ‘I was going to call you tonight. Vanetta Simms told me you were in town.’
‘How’s it going?’
Gehringer dropped his cigarette end and stubbed it out with his foot. ‘You want the truth?’
‘Of course.’
‘Okay, but don’t say anything to Mrs Simms. It’s not looking good. They found blood on Duval’s blazer that matches the victim’s blood type. Unless I can shake her ID of Duval, we’re in trouble.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘There might be. If all else fails, I’ll have to go on about Duval’s unimpeachable character, and hope that will create some doubt about Mohan’s testimony. Frankly, if she’s any good as a witness, we’re on a hiding to nothing, but I don’t see what else we can do. I’ve got a testimonial from the fire department in St Louis – Duval was a real hero down there. But I’d like to call you too if that’s okay.’
He felt taken off guard. Although he had come back to show his support for Vanetta, it had never occurred to Robert that he could be of any practical help to Duval.
‘I haven’t seen Duval in over ten years. I only knew him when I was little.’
Gehringer shrugged. ‘According to Mrs Simms, you two were close. And let me be candid – you’ve got attributes I can use right now. You’re white, for one thing, and I hear you went to Yale. I don’t get many character witnesses with those kinds of credentials.’
Gehringer watched him carefully. ‘Think about it,’ said the lawyer. ‘You’d be a friendly witness, and it might help a lot. But listen, court’s about to start again – why don’t you come with me and say hi to Duval?’
There was a policeman standing guard at the defence table, who moved aside as Gehringer approached, and then Robert saw Duval. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt and tie – he looked like one of the earnest young men from the Black Muslims, who stood on street corners selling their newspaper to black passers-by, and ignored the whites.
‘Hey, Duval,’ said Gehringer cheerfully, ‘I brought somebody to see you.’
Duval looked at Robert, trying to figure out who this strange white man was. Then a smile slowly spread across his face, and he stood up. He was tall now – an inch or two over six feet, with sideburns and the shoulders of a grown man. But he still wore glasses, and his front teeth remained slightly protruding.
‘Hey, Bobby. What you doin’ here? I thought you was in New York.’
‘I came to see how you were doing.’
‘You seen Vanetta?’
‘Not yet.’ He’d tried to call Vanetta the night before, but her sister Trudy had said she was at church. ‘I will though.’
People were coming back into the courtroom and he knew he should take his seat. Duval said, ‘It’s been a long time, man. We had fun together, didn’t we?’
‘We sure did, Duval.’ He noticed that Gehringer was looking nervously at his watch. ‘Listen, I’ll come say hi again, okay?’
‘You do that.’ As Robert turned away, Duval added, ‘Look after the Secret Garden until I get out.’
The trial resumed, and another, more senior doctor described the victim’s injuries. The testimony was undramatic and clinical, full of technical medical jargon. He might have been describing the condition of a house plant.
Then Peggy Mohan was called. The gallery stirred a little as a young woman with lank, auburn hair walked down the middle aisle of the courtroom. She had a slight limp that slowed her down, and increased the anticipation in the room. As she took her seat and was sworn in, the spectators seemed to take a long, collective breath. Speaking in a quiet, neutral voice, Peggy Mohan answered the preliminary questions – her name, occupation, address.
Then the DA asked her to tell the jury what had happened on the night of March 13 in the year before. The courtroom was completely quiet.
‘My shift ended at ten o’clock. Normally I’d walk out with the other nurses, but that night I stayed a few minutes late, to write up a medication change one of the doctors on call prescribed. By the time I left, everyone else on my shift had gone.
‘My car was parked in the garage on Maryland Avenue. The quickest way there was through the west wing they’d been renovating – if I went that way I’d come out right across the street from the garage. Otherwise I’d have to walk all the way around the block. It made me nervous to do that alone.’
She gave a small, sad smile at the irony of the choice she’d made. ‘I went through into the renovated wing. I was about halfway down the corridor when suddenly the lights went out. Then I heard someone behind me. I turned around and asked who was there, and a voice said, “Security.” It was a man’s voice. He said the temporary exit had been closed. They’d opened another one downstairs, he said. He’d show me the way.’ She brought both her hands together, fingers tilted upwards in a steeple, and looked at them. ‘I didn’t like it – I couldn’t see him very well and it seemed weird that the light had gone out just when he showed up. So I said no, I thought I’d go back the way I came and leave by the side entrance. But he insisted. I could see him better now. He was wearing a pink shirt, but the security people’s blazer, so I thought he must be okay. So I . . . agreed.
‘When we got to the stairwell he wanted me to go first, and I changed my mind again – I just didn’t like the way he was acting, especially when he said I shouldn’t worry. He said, “Trust me.” I tried to go back up, but he grabbed my arm. I yanked it and pushed him to try and get away. That’s when he cut me for the first time. He slashed me across the neck.’ She stopped and gave out a little choking noise, as if she’d swallowed some gum. Tilting her head down until it rested on her chest, she said in a half
-whisper, ‘After that I did everything he told me to.’
She explained how he had taken her downstairs, dripping blood, then stopped in what was going to be the new reception area for paediatric neurology. She was precise about the name. Some of the furniture was already in place, and he had pushed her against the reception module, making her lie on its desk surface while he ripped at her blouse until it was off. Then he reached behind her back and cut both straps of her bra.
‘He told me to relax. Then he took his hand and reached under my skirt. He grabbed my tights at the waist and started pulling them down . . .’
It took him some time to get them off. He used one hand to hold the knife against her throat as she lay sprawled on the desktop, while his other hand struggled with the tights, clawing at them, until finally only a bunch of ragged sock-like material remained, balled in a bunch around her ankles. Then he spread her legs apart roughly, and she heard that hand undo his belt and drop his trousers, while the other still pressed the knife against her throat.
The DA said, ‘I know this is hard for you, but can you tell us what happened next?’
She nodded silently, and even from the rear of the courtroom Robert could see the tears in her eyes. ‘I felt him . . . go inside me. It hurt. I was terrified he was going to cut me again, so I didn’t say anything.’
She took a deep breath before continuing. ‘When he . . . finished, he put his face right down over mine. Then I did ask, “Why are you doing this?”’
She seemed to choke again, and kept her head bowed down.
‘And what did the defendant say?’
Her reply came out in a whisper, her voice so faint that even the judge could not hear her. He looked with bafflement at the DA, who said, ‘I’m sorry, Miss Mohan, but can you say that again?’
The courtroom was absolutely silent. Peggy Mohan didn’t raise her head, but the words, spoken in a low murmur, were surprisingly clear. ‘He said, “Do you like my pink shirt?”’
They broke for a recess. When the trial resumed Peggy Mohan seemed more composed.
She had thought after the first rape that maybe he would let her go, but instead he used some cord to tie her hands together behind her back. She’d whimpered when he twisted it tight around her wrists, and he had suddenly lost his temper, and hit her in the face with his fist. She’d felt a bone crack in her cheek, and cried out despite herself. This time he stabbed her, thrusting the knife into her chest between her breasts. It hurt so much she had to use all of her willpower not to cry out again. She was terrified that if he stabbed her again he might hit an artery or vital organ. She’d worked in the emergency room at Billings, and seen enough knife wounds to know that it was a matter of chance whether you survived a stabbing. The more often you were stabbed, the more likely you would die.
Now he forced her off the desk and made her crawl, naked now, to a corner of the room. Here he had made her kneel on the new carpet, facing the corner. She could smell the fresh paint on the walls – she remembered that.
She’d been on all fours, and suddenly he thrust into her again, this time from behind. Then he had withdrawn, and she thought maybe he was finished, but no – she felt his hand probing her anus, and suddenly he entered her there. In her efforts not to shout at the ripping, horrible pain, she clenched her teeth so hard that she bit halfway through her lower lip.
Throughout this he had the knife near her face; she could see it juddering as he jerked in and out of her. With his other hand, he gripped her around the belly, pinching her hard with his fingers as he moved. He didn’t talk at all this time, but as he climaxed she flinched, and he cut her again, drawing the blade against her throat as if he were sharpening the knife against a whetstone.
It was now that Peggy Mohan faltered again. ‘For the first time I thought I was going to die. I was bleeding so heavily.’
‘Did you manage to say anything?’ The DA’s voice was extra gentle.
She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t – my throat was full of blood.’
A woman in the gallery gasped loudly, and the judge looked crossly at the rows of spectators.
‘Did he say anything to you?’
Peggy Mohan took a deep breath. ‘Yes. He made me lie down, on my stomach. I had my head turned to one side, and he put his face down next to me. He was this close.’ She held a hand about three inches away from her eyes. ‘He said . . .’ and she shut her eyes as her composure began to break. She managed to get the words out, but her voice sounded half-strangled, like a screechy violin. ‘He said he’d let me go after he did it one more time.’
When the DA finished, Gehringer asked to begin his cross-examination on Monday morning – it was by now four o’clock. Robert saw his reasoning: Gehringer wanted the weekend break to distance Peggy Mohan’s testimony from his client, sitting less than twenty feet from the jury. If even Robert felt shaken by her testimony, God knows what twelve strangers who’d never known Duval would think.
But the judge denied the request. So Gehringer got up from the table, looking war-weary before the battle had even begun. When he spoke, his voice was subdued.
‘Miss Mohan, we all feel absolutely terrible about what happened to you. Nobody admires you more than I do for the bravery you’ve shown today. But you can understand that a man’s freedom is at stake, and we have to make sure justice is done, and that the right person is convicted for this horrific crime. There’s nothing that could compensate you for the injuries you’ve received, but I am sure you would not want another injustice to be done.’
The woman looked stonily at Gehringer. He asked, ‘Do you remember if before the night of the assault, you ever saw Duval Morgan?’
‘It’s possible. But I don’t remember him.’ She spoke tersely, and seemed unwilling to look at Gehringer.
‘Did you know any of the security people at Billings?’
‘Only to say hello to. Usually when I was coming to work or leaving. You pass by the reception desk.’
‘But you don’t recall if Duval Morgan was one of them.’
She shrugged. ‘No. Like I say, it’s possible I said hello.’
‘But would it be fair to say that at some point, during the course of your duties at Billings, you would have come across the defendant?’
‘I—’
‘Objection.’ The DA stood up. ‘This is pure conjecture, Your Honour. The witness is not here to answer hypothetical questions.’
‘Sustained.’
‘Okay.’ Gehringer moved away from the jury box now until he stood in front of Peggy Mohan. It was casually done, but it forced her to look at him. ‘Now, Miss Mohan, when the police came to see you in the hospital, was the first photograph they showed you that of the defendant, Duval Morgan?’
She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure.’
Gehringer nodded as if unsurprised, but he looked to Robert like he was thinking hard. ‘All right. Let me ask another question then. When you first saw the defendant’s photograph, did you identify him immediately as your assailant?’
‘Objection.’ The DA was on his feet. ‘We’ve already heard testimony from the police officer present that the witness identified Mr Morgan as soon as she saw his photograph.’
Gehringer lifted his hands in mock-disbelief. ‘Your Honour, I’d like to hear it from the witness herself. She was the one doing the identifying, not the officer.’
‘Objection overruled. Please answer the question, Miss Mohan.’
She looked confused. ‘I’m sorry, but can you ask it again?’
‘Of course,’ said Gehringer, a model of patience. ‘When you saw the photograph of the defendant, did you indicate right away that he was your assailant?’
There was a long pause. Then she said, ‘I must have.’
The courtroom was suddenly quiet again. Robert could see Vanetta leaning forward, in the row right behind Duval.
Gehringer had been slowly pacing, but now he stood stock still. ‘You must have?’
‘Yes. He’s the one wh
o did it.’
Gehringer ignored this. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Mohan, but I asked if, when you saw Duval Morgan’s photograph, you identified him right away. And you said you “must have”. Not yes or no. I don’t understand.’
And for the first time there seemed a glimmer of hope.
‘I don’t remember,’ admitted Peggy Mohan.
‘Try hard, please, Miss Mohan. I know it’s painful, but it’s important – or I wouldn’t be asking.’
She didn’t answer for several moments. The judge seemed about to prompt her, when suddenly she shook her head, and said, ‘I’m sorry but I don’t remember anything about my first days in the hospital. They told me later I couldn’t even talk – you see, he’d cut my throat so badly that my vocal cords didn’t work then.’
There was another gasp at the back of the courtroom. Gehringer started to speak, but Peggy Mohan talked right through him. ‘When they took me to the station later, I knew. I said right away who it was.’ She looked up past Gehringer towards the defence table. Suddenly she stabbed her finger at Duval. ‘It was him. He did this to me.’
Now the judge did intervene, ordering a recess until Monday morning. Robert waited for Vanetta outside the courtroom. She looked terribly tired and had her arm around her daughter Aurelia, who had only arrived that afternoon from St Louis for her son’s trial. Aurelia was weeping.
‘I’ll see you Monday,’ he said, and Vanetta just nodded.
He drove back to Hyde Park in a mild state of shock, trying to banish the images that flashed through his head like snapshots. Whoever had attacked Peggy Mohan had acted without the smallest mercy. It was the act of someone so filled with misdirected hate that they couldn’t see anything human in their victim.
He did not believe it could have been Duval. No one could change that much. Yet as he thought gloomily of Gehringer’s failed attempt to shake Peggy Mohan’s identification, he had the terrible feeling that his old friend was going to take the rap. For just when it seemed the door had opened a crack, Peggy Mohan had slammed it shut.