by David Carnoy
“No,” Jim said. “Gwen wanted one.”
“G. D.,” Watkins said. “I wonder what her middle name is. If it were, say, Olivia, her initials would be G. O. D. You ever ask her what her middle name is, Mr. P.?”
No, Jim hadn’t. It had never occurred to him to ask her.
“Well, you want to know what I’d do if I liked her so much?”
“Ask her?”
“No. I’d nail her friend, that little butch chick that digs you.”
“How do you know she digs me?”
Watkins looked at him for the first time. “Because I see everything, Mr. P. I can take one look around a room—or in this case, this poor excuse for a backyard—and I know what’s going down. Just like Gretzky used to do on the ice. The world moves in slow motion for those guys. They know where everybody is. Got eyes in the back of their heads. It’s the same for me.”
“And just what sort of sport would you be playing?”
“The sport of sport fucking, sport,” said Watkins.
Jim laughed. He always promised himself he wouldn’t laugh, but there he was laughing again at something Watkins had said.
He couldn’t help provoking him a little. “Got anybody in your sights?”
Watkins took a sip of beer then ran his hand through his dirty-blond hair, which was short on the sides but longer in front. A few strands always seemed to be hanging down, dangling in his eyes. It was a stylish model’s cut, but it required a lot of finger combing. Jim wouldn’t have been able to stand it.
“I ain’t playing yet,” Watkins said. “This is just warm-ups. The skate-around. But I sense your need for guidance.”
“I’m hopeless.”
“I’m inclined to agree. But we are all not without a certain potential. Vitamin supplement?”
He extended a hand. Cupped in his palm was a small white-and-blue-marbled pill, most likely an amphetamine, because that’s what Watkins mostly ran in, though Jim had heard he could get anything—from X to crystal meth to Special K.
“Thanks, but I took my Flintstones this morning.”
“Yabba dabba doo,” Watkins said, and popped the pill in his mouth.
Jim knew that other C. J. Watkinses existed in the world. But he never thought he could exist—and even thrive—at a prestigious institution of higher learning such as Stanford. At a big state school, maybe. But here, it seemed absurd.
He wasn’t quite sure why people tolerated Watkins, but Jim suspected it was because he had a certain undeniable charm and that his observations had a certain logic to them. That he was also good-looking and had a perfectly sculpted body didn’t seem to hurt either.
He reminded Jim of the disarmingly lecherous character Matthew McConaughey played in the movie Dazed and Confused. The movie had been a favorite among Jim and his high school friends. For almost a full year they’d recited lines from it whenever they were together. At parties, the movie’s dialogue was a kind of an internal code for the group. When one of them had had some success with one of the younger girls—a freshman or sophomore—he’d come back and say, “That’s what I like about high school girls. I get older and they stay the same age.” That was McConaughey’s signature line in the movie.
Looking back on those days, Jim cringes. Their whole Dazed and Confused phase seemed lame, but even today he still admires the McConaughey character. The thing that had left the biggest impression on him was how comfortable that guy seemed to feel with himself. He hadn’t gone to college. He had some menial job working for the city. And there he was, forever hitting on high school girls, and totally at ease with it.
Jim suspected that was C. J. Watkins’s secret, too. Watkins had that same charm, that same ease, and that same twinkle in his blue eyes when he spoke, so when he said something inappropriate, it didn’t come out sounding as bad as if someone else had said it.
“Could I alert you to one small impediment?” Jim said.
“I’m listening.”
“I don’t like Kathy Jorgenson.”
“Weight problem?”
“No.”
“Because if that’s an issue I’ll understand,” said Watkins. “For a lot of guys it’s an issue.”
“She’s not fat. She’s just all full of herself for no reason.”
“Sounds like a weight problem to me.”
Jim laughed. Watkins was right. It was a weight problem. But he didn’t know whether Watkins had meant it like that all along or not.
“Exteriors,” Watkins went on before Jim could say anything. “Facades. Pay no attention. Inside there’s a scared little girl who’s incredibly insecure. Your job is to tap into that and expose it to the harsh glare of the male ego.”
Beer in one hand, Watkins held his hands out in front of his face and cringed, pretending to cower to the heavens. He let out a little high-pitched scream, then laughed. Jim thought he was insane.
“And what’s the point of that?”
“Right now you’re a little boy. A harmless little boy. You’re all nice and polite and sensitive, and when Miss Gwen Daytona 500 over there asked you to get her a cocktail, you looked like a twitch you zipped over here so fast.” Watkins made his eye twitch several times.
“She didn’t ask me. I asked her.”
“Whatever you say. But you’re a little boy to the 500. Why? Because of your inability to deliver pain.”
Jim laughed. It sounded like something a football coach would say. Son, you got to hit the man with authority. Let ’em know you’re there. The only difference was you didn’t get to wear pads in the game Watkins was talking about.
“She’s got a boyfriend,” Jim said, looking for an exit ramp.
“He’s a dick.”
“He’s our president.”
“He’s your president. No one presides over me.”
Jim didn’t say anything. He didn’t know quite what to say. He’d never heard anybody rip Weiss that way, even though he’d done it himself on many occasions under his breath. Weiss was a decent enough guy, but he could be a borderline anus when it came time to participate in one of his “projects.”
“The edge, Mr. P.,” Watkins said out of the side of his mouth, turning his gaze once again upon the barbecue crowd. “Wouldn’t you like to know what it’s like to be sharp to the touch—a finely tuned instrument capable of giving yet taking?”
“Is that healthy?”
“The little butch chick.”
“What should I do?”
“Go deliver your drink. I’ll observe. Then report back to me in twenty.”
“That’s it?”
“For now.”
“Then what happens?”
“We hone, Mr. P. And then we hone some more.”
Jim says to Carolyn Dupuy: At around ten, at the height of the party, he told Kathy Jorgenson he needed some air, and asked her if she wanted to go outside for a few minutes.
He was going to call Gwen on her bluff. In a delusional moment, he thought he’d show her—show her just what she was missing. And in the back of his mind, after the whole Becky Goffman experience, he thought If I’m not going to do it, someone else will.
“Hey, I could use some fresh oxygen,” he said. He was pretty cool about it. Real nonchalant. “I’m gonna step outside. Why don’t you step with me?”
She said, sure, that’d be good. She needed some air herself.
He led her to the bench that flanked the frat’s small basketball court, which was at the far end of the backyard, in the shadows. He got his arm around her all right, but when he went to kiss her, she didn’t return it, and flashed him this what-are-you-doing look. And then she said, “What are you doing?” And he said, “What does it look like I’m doing?” And she said, “I’m not going to kiss you in public, Jim.”
He looked around. There were some people mingling around the back entrance, but he didn’t think they could really see them from where they were standing. And he was pretty happy they couldn’t.
“What’s the big deal?
” he said a little sloppily. He wasn’t slurring his words, but he didn’t exactly have complete control over them either. “No one can see us. And even if they could, they couldn’t tell who we are.”
“It’s just a rule I have,” she said.
“Well, let’s go somewhere more private.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not on the agenda.”
“Sorry, I didn’t realize there was an agenda.”
She smiled. “Don’t be sorry.” Her tone was almost mocking. “You’re drunk, anyway.”
That set him off. “Not drunk enough not to know you’re lame. Not drunk enough not to realize I didn’t really want to do this.”
He went back into the party. He saw Gwen and Kathy talking a few minutes later. And then Gwen gave him a really dirty look. It was real wrath. He’d never seen it before and it upset him. Not long after that he helped Kristen get up to the bathroom.
“If you want to know the truth, Ms. Dupuy,” he says, “as much as I feel bad for what happened to Kristen that night, what really bothered me the next day was how badly I blew it with Gwen. First I’m a dick to her friend, then she finds me with a half-passed-out high-school chick in the bathroom. She hasn’t really talked to me since that night. And I don’t blame her.”
He pauses. Then, when Ms. Dupuy doesn’t say anything, he says, “Anyway, that’s how I ended up out back with Kathy Jorgenson.”
26/ WHO’S THE PI?
May 7, 2007—1:30 p.m.
ABOUT A WEEK AFTER THE CROWLEY MEETING, THE DA’S OFFICE sends over a packet containing two hours of voice recordings on microcassette and the transcript of the interviews Carolyn Dupuy conducted that afternoon at the university. Affixed to the top sheet is a yellow Post-It from the ADA that reads: “FYI, Hank. Let me know what you think.”
A lot of what’s there he’s already heard, but, expectedly, each of the witnesses has embellished a little—or in the case of Jim, embarked on a long, detailed digression. No shocker, part of Dupuy’s strategy is to raise ambiguities and strengthen assertions that Kristen was impaired at the party and plenty of opportunity was available for others to take advantage of her condition. The object is not to shift the blame but to shift the accountability. Her client may be on trial, but a lot of other people have some explaining to do, including Carrie. To cast doubt, she’s going to prosecute each of them.
After a first read and listen (he skims the printed transcript and only consults the tape when it becomes necessary to further scrutinize select passages) he can’t decide whether Jim’s latest testimonial should bother him. He hadn’t heard the back story about the freshman in his dorm, but he knew about Kathy Jorgenson and the rendezvous “out back.” Re-reading the interview, he suspects Jim simply told the story to portray himself in a more favorable light. Though his voice dips into impatience at times, he mostly speaks in a confessional tone that, according to Billings’s flash judgment, suggests the kid really “opened up” to the “babe.”
As much as he’d like to dismiss the comment as an obnoxious jab, Madden knows Billings is probably right: Carolyn Dupuy has a hormonal advantage with frat boys like Jim. He can reconcile himself with that explanation for Jim’s loquaciousness, but more vexing is the interview with Gwen Dayton, the college girl who ended up driving Kristen and Carrie from the party to Cogan’s house.
She’d been forthright and descriptive with him. As an objective third party, he thought after interviewing her that she’d make a persuasive witness. And while he still thinks she will, he’s perturbed that she seemed more animated under Dupuy’s questioning and provided a couple of important extra details. He feels a pang or two of jealousy before arriving at the heartening conclusion that Dayton’s revelations might actually end up hurting Cogan.
MS. DAYTON: I told Kristen she had two choices. She could say that what she wrote in her diary was a fictional fantasy and deny that anything ever happened. Or she could say that what she wrote really happened.
MS. DUPUY: And how did she respond?
DAYTON: Well, she didn’t seem comfortable with either choice. She just wanted everybody to leave her alone. But ultimately she was more unwilling to say it didn’t happen.
DUPUY: Why did she come to you in the first place?
DAYTON: Well, after that night—you know, after we took her over to Dr. Cogan’s house—I talked to her a few times to check how she was doing and whether everything was all right. And then she called me up one day—I guess it was about a month after the party—and told me what happened and that she needed someone to talk to.
DUPUY: And in those times right after that night, did she mention anything to you about having sex with Dr. Cogan?
DAYTON: Not specifically. But she mentioned an older guy she’d hooked up with. She’d been trying to talk to him and he was blowing her off.
DUPUY: In what context was she telling you this?
DAYTON: Well, she was kind of asking for my advice. She did it in a hypothetical way. You know, what would you do if such and such happened?
DUPUY: And what did you say you’d do?
DAYTON: Well, I don’t really believe in forcing the issue. If someone doesn’t want to talk to you, there isn’t much you can do about it. I told her to be patient. She’s a pretty girl. She’s going to have lots of guys in her life. If this guy was worried he was going to lose his job by being in contact with her, that was a legitimate concern and she had to respect that.
DUPUY: But it would have been pretty crappy if he slept with her knowing that he was going to blow her off?
DAYTON: “Well, not so much crappy. But pretty stupid.
DUPUY: So, when you were there, in Dr. Cogan’s house, did he do anything that might be perceived in any way as being inappropriate toward Kristen?
DAYTON: No. I mean, he did a real basic examination. Just some stuff with her eyes, mainly he was asking her a lot of questions. He was most worried that she’d done some other drugs. You know, whether someone had slipped her a roofie or LSD or something.
DUPUY: But you said you smelled alcohol on his breath?
DAYTON: Yeah, there was no doubt he’d been drinking. I think he even said at one point that he’d had a few cocktails himself that night.
DUPUY: But he seemed in control as far as you could tell?
DAYTON: Yeah. He was actually very calm. You know, Carrie was basically hysterical. She was all, “Oh my God, I’m in so much trouble! I can’t believe this is happening.” And at one point, he just told her to go sit in the living room and watch TV.
DUPUY: And where were you?
DAYTON: We were in the backyard, walking Kristen back and forth on the lawn. We’d do a few laps, then we’d get her to drink some water.
DUPUY: But you didn’t see Dr. Cogan give her any pills or inject her with anything?
DAYTON: No. When she finally seemed semi-coherent, he gave her a glass of Alka-Seltzer. And a spoonful of honey. He actually did the same for himself. He said that was his hangover medicine.
DUPUY: What time was this?
DAYTON: I’m not sure. Around one, I think.
DUPUY: How long had you been there?
DAYTON: About an hour, I guess.
DUPUY: And then what happened?
DAYTON: Well, I went back to campus.
DUPUY: But you didn’t take Kristen or Carrie with you?
DAYTON: No, Kristen was asleep. And Carrie was going to stay on the couch. She said her mother was waiting up and she asked Dr. Cogan whether her brother could come pick them up in the morning. They would leave early, she promised.
DUPUY: Where was Kristen at this point?
DAYTON: She was already in the guest room. She went to the bathroom and when she came out she just curled up on the bed and fell asleep.
DUPUY: Can you remember what she was wearing?
DAYTON: What do you mean?
DUPUY: Did she go to sleep in the same clothes she came in wearing?
&n
bsp; DAYTON: No, I think she had on some hospital pants. He gave them to her. As pajamas.
DUPUY: But she seemed OK before that?
DAYTON: Yeah, she was OK—relatively speaking.
DUPUY: And Dr. Cogan agreed right away to let her stay there?
DAYTON: He didn’t put up a huge fight. I think he was tired, too. And Carrie was getting on his nerves. You know, her voice can be irritating.
DUPUY: And then you left?
DAYTON: Yeah.
DUPUY: And how long was it before you spoke to her again?
DAYTON: Two days later, I guess. Or three. I think it was a Tuesday.
What followed was a brief rehashing of when and how many times Dayton spoke with Kristen. It was hard for Gwen to determine exactly on which day each conversation took place, and they tried to narrow it down with “memory markers”—other events that took place on or near the same days. Then Carolyn’s tone shifted a bit. Her voice turned louder, more pronounced on the tape. She said:
MS. DUPUY: I realize you’re not an attorney, Gwen. So please don’t take this the wrong way. I’m not judging what you did. I’m just trying to understand where this girl was coming from.
MS. DAYTON: No, I understand.
DUPUY: Well, what I want to know is, as you’re giving Kristen some of this advice—I guess some of it from that friend of yours at the law school? As you’re giving her this advice, did anybody say, “Hey, by going down this path, you’re opening a very harsh can of worms. This doctor is going to hire an attorney and that attorney is going to come after you with everything she’s got, psychologists, medical experts, private investigators, anybody she can find who can help discredit your story?”