I was nervous about not having enough people in the courtroom. Brock’s parents and older brother and sister would be flying in, his rows of the courtroom stocked while my side remained sparse. His grandmother will be there, Alaleh had said. She delivered this like bad news. I was unaware the jury was going to be keeping some unspoken tally. Both Swedes would be testifying, along with Detective Mike Kim, Deputy Jeff Taylor, Deputy Braden Shaw, SART nurse Kristine Setterlund, Julia, Colleen, Tiffany, and Lucas. Any witnesses I had were not allowed to sit in the courtroom. Only Detective Kim would be allowed in my audience. My mom and Grandma Ann would come to watch my and Tiffany’s testimonies. My dad would drive over when he could between work. Anne would come and sit through all eight hours every day, for as long as it took. She was the single constant in all the fluctuation; calm, sharp, a mother, a fighter.
When looking into my empty seats I’d have to remind myself there were plenty of people who cared for me. I wanted to explain that Chanel’s social life was healthy and well populated, but it was lonely being Emily Doe, my world much smaller, a shrunken circle of confidants. I wondered how it happened that I was now spending more time with my rapist than my friends.
It was warm outside, white blossoms fell, reminding me of the white dots of paper that’d fall when you emptied your hole puncher. I wore my black down jacket, a sleeping bag that went down to my ankles, less for warmth, and more for insulation from everything else. One evening a few old friends from high school were getting tapas. I joined them wearing my floor-length snow parka, they poked fun, I didn’t mind. I was careful to gently shift the conversation away from myself. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s how much you can get away with by saying work. It’s almost concerning. Why are you home? Work. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you. Work. We should get lunch next week. Can’t, I said, work. You look tired. Work, I said. Totally, they said, I feel you. What I wanted to say was trial. When they said, How are you, I wanted to say, Terrified. When one said, You look tiny! I wanted to say, That’s not always a good thing. They walked away thinking we had caught up, while I held the quiet knowledge they knew nothing.
I grew worried I’d bump carts with someone I knew at the grocery store or cross paths on a jog. Very quickly my world was reduced to my room; the floral bedding I bought when I was sixteen, a ceiling fan that could only be turned on with a remote I’d lost long ago, my brown carpet, my desk coated in half-peeled stickers. I needed to clear my head.
One night, I slipped out of my house in old sneakers and a worn hoodie. I jogged down Alma, my feet carrying me miles down to the railroad tracks where the guard sat. I tucked myself out of the glowing circumference of a streetlamp, resting on the sidewalk, skin prickling with heat, my breathing heavy, elbows resting on my knees, out of his view. I panted and stared and watched and waited.
The guard stood up. The dots of light shielded by metal visors began blinking red. Two tall, thin vertical planks slowly lowered into horizontal position, blocking off oncoming cars. I heard a distant clanging, a clumsy chaotic bell, like a huge cow barreling down the tracks. The screaming of the horn shattered the air, the stabs of white light, the silver nose shooting into the intersection. An elongated silver body, belted with yellow windows, blurring and streaming into one strip of passengers’ heads, tilted this way and that, reading or eyes closed, blinking by, head head head head head, then gone. Stillness. A residual, clumsy banging of pots and pans. The planks gave a tremble and a lurch, rising to point up toward the sky, to announce the performance was over. The guard made a note on a clipboard, took his seat in the plastic chair, and all at once the red lights shut off, the intersection dark and quiet again.
I sat, the hair on my head blown to the other side. Death had breathed on me, had rattled me back into being. In high school, death had become a classmate, a constant presence, returning to collect us from our short lives. I’d begun to see a black hole, a dark oval the size of a puddle, above each kid. Beneath that black hole, the color and texture and everydayness of life glowed. What I prayed was not that the black hole would disappear, but that all of us would have a chance to grow up beneath it first, to experience all the things people talked about in my dad’s practice, marriage, divorce, heartbreak, mortgages, because all of that too was life.
There were times now when I felt like crawling into the hole. In bed some nights, I stared up at it hovering above me. Wouldn’t it be easier? I took inventory: I was twenty-three, assaulted, unemployed, my only accomplishment being a nameless body in the local paper. When I thought of my future, I saw nothing. I wanted to stop.
But as I sat on the street, staring into the portal where kids had disappeared inside a cacophony of glowing red lights and bells, I told myself what I wished I could’ve told them: You have to stay here. I told myself this was just one point in the long life I owed myself to live before I was swallowed up. I knew that soon I’d be humiliated and torn open, feared the denigration that awaited me. But I also knew I would always choose the cold cement of the sidewalk, the finicky pulse of my heart, the sweat in the folds of my stomach, the thinned-out fleece hoodie that’d been through the wash too many times. I would always get up, turn around, and jog home, because it was the only thing I knew how to do.
Alaleh and I were back inside the empty courtroom. I stepped into my assigned box like a trained animal. I scanned the rows of padded seats, like a sad, small movie theater. Soon they’d be filled by my rapist’s family. The court reporter who winked was not there. When I asked where she went, Alaleh responded that someone else was on duty, and I nodded to say of course, but swallowed the sadness that I’d lost one of my few supporters.
So much had changed in the last fifteen months, but in court, everything remained stagnant. Strange the way time did not move, but deepen. We had revisited that same night over and over again. Questions branched out into more questions, a root splitting.
This time I wondered what behavior was acceptable for a victim. What tone? She warned me not to get angry. I learned that if you’re angry, you’re defensive. If you’re flat, you’re apathetic. Too upbeat, you’re suspect. If you weep, you’re hysterical. Being too emotional made you unreliable. But being unemotional made you unaffected. How should I balance it all? Calm, I told myself. Collected. But during the hearing I’d lost control. What about when that happens? My DA reminded me that the jury understood what I was doing was hard. Just be yourself, she said. Which self, I wanted to reply.
She said the defense was going to confront me with theories, reminded me it was his job. If he tried to walk me in another direction, steer it back. I imagined myself a donkey, defense attorney dangling the carrot, don’t follow the carrot. If you don’t know an answer, just say you don’t know it. Be honest. The preview was brief and bland; she never brought up graphic details or warned me about what evidence she would show me. Looking back I wonder if she’d been careful not to cook the emotions out of me too early, keeping them raw for the jury to see.
The only statement Brock had ever given was on the night he’d been arrested. That night he’d admitted to fingering me and denied running. He would be testifying for the first time. I expected Alaleh to say, Don’t worry about him. His initial interview had been recorded, he could not unsay those things. But since then he’d learned I could not remember. So instead she said, He’s going to get to write the script. I stared at her a moment, wanting to say that’s not fair, what about the truth the whole truth, he can’t just come in and say whatever he wants.
In the beginning, I thought this would be easy. The first time I was told Brock had hired a prominent, high-paid attorney I thought, Oh, no. And then I thought, So? Even he could not change the truth. The way I saw it, my side was going to convince the jury that the big yellow thing in the sky is the sun. His side had to convince the jury that it’s an egg yolk. Even the most eminent attorney would not be able to change the fact that it is a massive blazing star, not a l
udicrous floating egg. But I had yet to understand the system. If you pay enough money, if you say the right things, if you take enough time to weaken and dilute the truth, the sun could slowly begin to look like an egg. Not only was this possible, it happens all the time.
Walking out of the courtroom I noticed a piece of paper taped beside the door reading: PEOPLE OF THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA V. BROCK ALLEN TURNER. I thought, What people? There are about three people in California who know I’m in here. Strange that he was the one supposedly up against a large state, but I was the one who felt outnumbered. Alaleh handed me the stack of transcripts in a manila folder, now thick as a phone book. Every word I’d said in the last fifteen months had been recorded and typed up. I would be sitting on the stand with three other selves; the hospital, police station, and preliminary hearing selves. All four tellings had to align. She said I didn’t have to memorize them word for word. Know them, she said. I understood that memorize is different than know; to know them meant to feel it in my bones. It was not a stack of papers, it was the night itself. I held its weight in both hands. You’d think this is when I’d start preparing; a montage would show me fervently flipping through pages, running through questions, sitting head-to-head with my DA. Instead you could see me rolling my red cart through Target, where I go to calm down, where the world is organized in aisles. Is it time for a new flavor of deodorant? I was squatting in the shampoo aisle, accidentally squirting shampoo onto the tip of my nose to get a whiff. Should I buy a new pan? Do I need a hat? I bought my parents a Swiffer, bought myself a magnolia-scented candle, cookie dough. I would eat half the package of uncooked dough before falling asleep. The trial would start on Monday, March 14, 2016.
MONDAY
All my life I had heard adults sigh about this jury duty business. Twelve people taken away from their own lives. Twelve people who would rather be anywhere else than in the courtroom. Twelve people who I needed more than anyone in the world. The vote would have to be unanimous. When I was told this I wondered if I had heard incorrectly; did you mean to say anonymous? The alternative seemed impossible. I would need all twelve of their votes to win. In the news articles I read, I had never found twelve positive comments in a row.
If a prospective juror had been sexually assaulted, she or he was immediately eliminated. I would later learn that when this question was asked, several women got up to leave. There would be no survivors in the jury.
My DA would later tell me women aren’t preferred on juries of rape cases because they’re likely to resist empathizing with the victim, insisting there must be something wrong with her because that would never happen to me. I thought of mothers who had commented, My daughters would never . . . which made me sad because comments like that did not make her daughter any safer, just ensured that if the daughter was raped, she’d likely have one less person to go to.
My friend Athena had just returned home to Palo Alto. We have been friends since sixth grade—she is Vietnamese American. After college she’d gone to work on a lettuce farm in Hawaii. I picked her up from the airport and she told me how it felt to sleep in a tent, to hitchhike to the ocean, to see clarity of the stars on the Big Island. We went over to my house. When the conversation floated off her island back to my little room, she asked me what I had been up to.
There was always a moment, right before telling someone, that felt like I was peering over the edge of a cliff into water. I was taking a few final breaths, swinging my arms, telling myself I could do it. As I told her about the rapist who swam, about the victim that was me, I was free-falling, preparing for impact. After graduation, we’d gone out to a bar with live music. Drowned in noise she told me she had been assaulted. It happened early in college, she yelled loud enough for me to hear. I just haven’t told many people. I just thought you should know. I said, Are you kidding me. What an asshole. At the time anger was the only thing I knew how to do, more than empathy, more than comfort, more than contemplation. Now I was sorry I hadn’t known how to take better care of her. She leaned forward to wrap her arms around me, just like Claire had done, like she could see in an instant how my whole year had been. We stayed hugging on the floor. Falling and falling and suddenly caught. I said I needed her to come with me, and she said, Tell me when.
TUESDAY
Jury selection continued. No word from Alaleh. I’d still refused to touch the transcripts until I was insulated by the presence of Tiffany and Lucas. I got a haircut, just a trim. I took my car to Lozano’s Car Wash, where there was free popcorn and lemonade and the meditation of watching my car glide through the soapy, moppy-headed beasts. I looked for jobs on Craigslist, wrote three sentences of a cover letter. I biked to get a burrito, drank from an expired coke can, sat wearing my helmet on a bench at the park. I took a photo of the burrito and posted it online. I received thirty-two likes. It was a joke with myself, playing tricks on the world. People believed I was enjoying my afternoon, when in reality I was about to face my rapist. How creepy it was that we could conceal these stories. How easy it was to pretend. The slivers we show, the mountains we hide.
Over dinner my dad told me he was proud of me. I’m so proud of you, sweetie, truly proud. When he said this I never responded, it never absorbed. I was almost irritated, dismissive of his unfounded comment. Proud of what? The large gap between his pride and my current reality embarrassed me. Didn’t he see me in my pajamas, shuffling around the house? I got assaulted, there are no trophies for that. What dignity is there in being discarded half naked? I smiled, but said nothing.
WEDNESDAY
Final day of jury selection. Lucas would land in the evening. I arrived at the airport early, didn’t mind looping. He trotted to the car, suit bag slung over his shoulder. He made quick circling motions with his fist, gesturing to roll down the window. He came to the driver’s side to kiss me, and the traffic lady in the yellow-highlighted vest barked at us to keep moving. Give me this one moment, lady.
Usually I immediately relaxed into him, donning his large clothing, like a hermit crab tucked inside its new home. But I knew he would only be here for four days before he’d fly back to school. This time, I could not afford to make him my center.
Alaleh said she was relieved the first time she met Lucas. I wondered what that meant. I had a feeling my boyfriend would have to make Brock look like a downgrade rather than an upgrade. I imagined the back walls of the court parting, Lucas doing a light jog out in his suit, waving to a clapping audience. Here we have a twenty-six-year-old attractive, employed businessman! In his spare time he enjoys woodworking, scuba diving, and rugby. He’s taken her to Indonesia and they live in a high-rise in Pennsylvania. He plans to romance her by engaging in consensual intercourse.
The spotlight would turn sharply, the cone of light encapsulating Brock. He’s just turned twenty and dreams of becoming an Olympian! She’s never met him, but he swims faster than a fish and enjoys fireball whiskey. He plans to romance her in the great outdoors, on a bed of pine needles. Then there’d be me, in a floral dress, smiling wide. She’s wild, compassionate, silly, but not the kind of girl who gives it up so easily! Or does she? Let’s find out! The trombones would be blaring, lights polka-dotting. Now your host, the honorable judge!
Over the year, Lucas had witnessed me screaming, dissociating, leaving the apartment, crying under the covers, in the shower, whenever the case was brought up. And each time, when my breathing finally stabilized, he would excuse himself to go on a run. It never mattered if it was nighttime or raining, I would watch him disappear into the dark, running. I thought him thick-skinned and was so consumed by my own emotions that I’d never paused to question how this had been affecting him. I wondered if there was something raw inside him too, a rage that made him sprint. That night, as I watched him get ready to testify the next morning, I was made still by the seriousness with which he polished his shoes, ironed his clothing, all playfulness evaporating.
THURSDAY
When I
woke up, Lucas’s hair was already combed, face clean shaven. He would testify today and I would testify tomorrow. I planned to drive him to the courtroom, go to Gap to buy business pants. Tiffany would arrive in the evening, and with both of them home, I would finally open the folder and study it all in one straight go. I understood that I should have been studying them sooner. But you can’t do a little at a time, can’t dip in and out of it each day. I did not possess the ability to control the surging overwhelm and agitation it brought up. To read a small part was to drop dye into water; you could never stop the dye from spreading, a whole day ruined. So I preferred to do it all at once.
I pulled on some jeans. I was looking for a sock. A chime: a text from Alaleh. There may be some extra time left over, so be ready to come in. I sunk slowly to the floor, panic ticking like a stovetop burner, about to ignite into flame. I’m not ready. I don’t have pants. I can’t, how many hours do I have. I raked my fingers along my scalp, I have to wash my hair. I began throwing clothes out of my drawers. I sat, cheeks wet, madly blinking, kicking my feet back and forth to peel off my jeans. All of this was escalating in my mind, calculating how long I had to get ready. If I testified today, nobody would be there for me, my advocate was scheduled to come tomorrow. I’ll be alone again, I can’t.
Lucas came in and saw me in my underwear kicking, clothes lumped like washed-up sea life across the floor. What’s going on, he said. I have to get ready, I said. I’m going today and I don’t have any pants. This jacket is too wrinkled. I was seven years old again, small and helpless, remembering school mornings, inconsolable, I have nothing to wear.
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