Tell her you’d prefer to go tomorrow, he said. I looked at him like he was crazy. I can’t, I said. There’s a schedule. You don’t know how this works. I have no control. Why aren’t you helping me get ready. I need to study, I don’t have enough time. I was exasperated until I heard his voice, loud and firm, No one can make you do anything. They can’t do this without you. If they have to wait, they’ll wait. You’re in charge. Tell her you can’t go until tomorrow.
I sat with bare legs, wild hair. It hadn’t even occurred to me to assert myself, to do anything other than blindly obey. I had been conditioned to accept every schedule change, every question asked, no matter how upsetting or personal or sudden. I had forgotten it was possible to have limits. I drafted a message: Hi Alaleh. Hey Alaleh! Would it be okay if. I would feel more comfortable if. Hello hope all is well. I would like for my mom and my grandma to. Apologies. I will not be able to come today. Good morning. If it’s all right I would like go tomorrow as planned.
She said that would be fine; if it went too quickly she would try to stall. It was so simple, all I had to do was ask. Better? he said. Better. We had an hour until Lucas was scheduled to testify, so we drove to the Driftwood Deli on El Camino. I sat in the sun in my jeans and wrinkled jacket, crappy shoes, awash in relief. I had gotten my day back. I dropped him off at the courthouse, waiting until I saw him walk through the front doors before pulling away. He would text me when he was done.
I walked into Gap. Anything I can help you with, an employee said. A lot, I wanted to say. Three hours passed and I hadn’t heard from Lucas. I purchased gray straight-leg pants, cheap black flats. Finally I got the text to pick him up. How’d it go, I asked. He said they hadn’t even reached his cross-examination, they’d resume tomorrow. At the start of the day it was predicted there’d be extra time, when in reality, they’d run out of it. The testimonies before him had run longer than planned and he had been waiting in the victim closet for three hours. I felt awful nobody had been there with him. It’s hard to keep your adrenaline up, he said. It was the first time I’d heard him admit to anything being hard. Tiffany came in late that night, sleep deprived after her final exams.
With everyone home, I was ready to submerge, to go back and meet the three selves. Memory is often perceived as the victim’s weakness, but I believe memory is a victim’s greatest strength. Trauma provides a special way of moving through time; years fall away in an instant, we can summon terrorizing feelings as if they are happening in the present. I spread my transcripts across the floor. My carpet was the equivalent of a rope tied around my waist as I lowered myself into the past. I was brushing the carpet gently with one hand. In all of these memories, there was no carpet. I could see long, wet clumps of hair enclosing my face as my head hung. I am at the rape clinic. The water filling my ears, smearing my vision, sealing my nose and running over my mouth. Outside, there is a highway, a steady stream of cars, one pulled over on the side of the road. It is my sister, heaving cries so hard she cannot see. She is trying to come get me. Carpet. I am in a plastic chair in the rape clinic, hair dripping wet. Tiffany is sitting next to me, frayed, upset. How do I make her feel better. Carpet. I am telling the police woman, please don’t call my home. I do not ever want to see this man again. Carpet. I see the yellow curls of his head as he looks into his lap, I am crying, looking out into empty seats. Carpet.
I wiped my nose. Tears were drawing lines down my neck, slipping under my collar, down my chest. For five hours, my chest folded over my legs on the floor as I flipped through pages and typed. I laid out the framework, every minute of January 17, every sip, location, remark, observation, infiltrating my mind. Chaos was slowly giving way to order. On the front page I wrote encouragements: Shut it down with truth. I plugged up all the tiny holes in my memory. I ignored the gaping hole. This was not the time for self-pity, for dwelling, for second-guessing. Study it hard. Know the timeline. Go back to the carpet.
FRIDAY
Lucas woke up at sunrise to be grilled by the defense, while I was scheduled to testify at 1:30 P.M. I was supposed to drive him, but he kissed my forehead and told me to go back to sleep, so I rolled over into the warmth his body had left. Hours later I felt the sun soaking my bed, heard him come through the door, watched through squinted eyes as he peeled off his polished shoes. He crawled back into bed fully dressed and held me. I didn’t ask him how it went. If it was bad, I didn’t want to know yet.
I ran my arms through my oatmeal sweater, becoming Emily, hair clipped back on both sides. I hesitated with my mascara wand in hand, painted my lashes lightly. Pretty, but not too pretty. Makeup would turn my tears into dark blots, eyes dripping with ink. But going blank faced would make me look fatigued.
Lucas drove. I was mute, sitting on my hands, studying the printed guidelines in my lap. My appetite was nonexistent but I knew better than to leave my stomach empty. There was nowhere to park at the bagel shop, so he pulled over while I went inside. I located the glass display of beige circles. I forgot all the names of the bagels. She asked me what I wanted, I just pointed. I took a white paper bag, unsure if it was mine. I stared at all the strangers around me, separated inside their warm reality of conversation and coffee. I pushed out the door, shuffled back into my car of silence, my notes. The bagel was hard to swallow, dry and thick.
We pulled up to the courthouse. I folded down the small mirror to check for seeds in my teeth. Are you sure there are none? Lucas nodded. He and Tiffany would be waiting for me on the outside. A kiss on the cheek. I stepped out of the car and he was gone.
I wanted this scene to open with me striding down the halls, shoulders back and head lifted, but when I walked through the plastic security frame, I felt a bristling on my skin, something was wrong. I’d seen those guards before. I stared down the hallway. Empty. But I sensed the cluster of bodies above. I ducked into the first-floor bathroom, squatted in the corner of the handicapped stall, my papers rolled into a scroll, whispering to myself to hold it together. My DA texted me, Are you here? My hands were shaking, On my way.
I closed my eyes. I could see the inside of the courtroom, the judge like a floating bald head above a black trapezoid, the mediator of this game. Teams would be divided into two sides, obeying an unspoken rule never to cross over. I was mentally prepared, but my body braced for pain.
No amount of preparation could protect me from the erasure of self, the unbecoming. Even after I’d leave, I knew my mind would stay there a long time, depleted for weeks.
I let myself out of the bathroom, urgently pressed the elevator button. Alaleh slipped out of the courtroom to let me into the victim closet. She had to return to wrap up a couple of testimonies; the SART nurse was testifying before me. My heart lit up; the nurse, a protector in this game. I wondered which nurse it was; I remembered three of them huddled around the peaks of my naked knees. I liked to imagine them as a three-headed dragon in a white coat, snapping mouths and metal tools, fighting off anything that came after me.
My new advocate, Myers, stepped out of the elevator. She had perfect posture, neat hair, a level demeanor. I liked her immediately. Soon my mom arrived with Grandma Ann and Athena, Hi, Chanoodle. Anne was already inside. All of us were scooting our chairs around to fit. I could hear my grandma asking Myers where she was from, how long she’d been working at the YWCA, how she got into this field. I tuned out, flipping through my notes beginning to end. As soon as I finished, I went through them again. Every ten minutes I’d excuse myself to go to the bathroom, to pee one last time, to smooth my hair down, fix my clips, check and double-check that my pants were zipped. One hour went by.
I reminded myself it was simple; the jury would respond to authenticity, what is real. My advocate handed me a small ball covered in acorn patterns, my new toy to squeeze on the stand. Athena told me to envision a rose before me: all of the defense’s bad energy would be absorbed into the rose instead of me, allowing me to sit and observe his words at a saf
e distance. My therapist had said, Visualize women around you, behind you, touching your shoulder, walking with you. I could even summon Maya Angelou if I wanted. Grandma Ann took out a bag of dark chocolate. She was also wearing a pin I’d given her of a tiny red wagon. When Tiffany and I were little, she’d pull us around the cul-de-sac in a red metal wagon. I recalled something else my therapist had told me: Remember who you are, what you like about yourself.
Any minute now, I thought, stay ready. Two hours passed, all of us crammed in the room, touching knees in our small circle of seating. I must have peed twelve times. Finally a knock. The room was cleared, everyone guided out by my advocate to get settled in their seats. I had a few minutes alone. This felt right. When I took the stand, I knew I would be on my own. If I needed help, I would have to turn inward. Everything I need to get through this, I already have. Everything I need to know I already know. Everything I need to be, I already am.
I set down my packet and stood in the silence with my eyes closed. For a moment, the fidgeting stopped, the nervousness simmering away. In the past year, snow had fallen and melted, my hair had been cut and grown, the world kept moving, and I could’ve continued to move on with it, yet I had returned. What did it mean, that I kept finding myself in this tiny room, abandoning an orderly life to keep fighting. Didn’t this count for something?
I left the packet on the desk, stepped out, the door locking behind me. I walked down the hallway, rubbing my damp hands on my pants. Alaleh and Myers stood outside the courtroom doors. Are you ready? I nodded. Tink tink tink. Breathe as you descend. She pulled the door open. I clasped my hands together, inhaled once more, and walked through.
The fullness of the room made me shrink. Walking into coffee shops is anxiety inducing. Walking into court, everyone stared at me. I didn’t look anyone in the face. What I sensed were shapes, the landscape of formless bodies filling the room along the sides and in the stands, a denser presence than I’d felt at the hearing. I kept my eyes on my feet and told myself to walk. Get to your box.
I could not tell you how many males or females, ethnicities, kinds of outfits were in the courtroom. Half the jury could’ve been wearing tiger face-paint and I wouldn’t have noticed. It was my second time seeing the judge and I still couldn’t tell you what he looked like, only knew the pale curve of his smooth head and his gown, a looming shadow in my periphery.
I heard, Do you solemnly swear . . . nothing but the truth, my hand floated up, I do. I tucked myself into my chair in the hollowed-out stand, fixed my eyes on Alaleh’s. I was told to spell my name into the microphone. I worried I would jumble the letters, began slowly.
DA: Can you just do me one favor and try to pull the microphone a little bit closer to you? You’ve got a soft voice.
It was true. It’s as if my throat was padded with insulation, my voice a notch above a whisper. Still I could hear each word drop into the silent room, swallowed by dozens of eyes and ears.
The first questions were always easy; born in Palo Alto, one sister, UCSB, majored in literature, height is five foot eight. I was doing okay. How much do you weigh? I’m sorry to ask you that question. It is the question no woman wants to be asked in front of a microphone. I worried that if I guessed a number too low they would think, no chance. My driver’s license said 140, but I weighed 163 in college. Probably 158, I said. Later I realized I was much lighter, my wrists slimmed, my body never hungry, my pants had dropped two sizes. Whatever weight I’d been, I shouldn’t have been ashamed to declare it; a rock weighs differently than a lion weighs differently than a pile of mangoes and none of it matters.
Okay. Now, I want to draw your attention to January—the weekend of January 17th and 18th of 2015. I took a deep breath, nodded, refocusing on what we’d come here to do. We started at Arastradero Preserve, then moved on to the taqueria, which taqueria, she asked. I had never looked up the name. Minus one, I thought. She asked me what I ordered, one taco. Plus one. Then we were off, the questioning brisk as skipping stones; which of my sister’s friends had come over to my house prior to the party, if I knew them, how many times I’d seen them, what time we started drinking.
I talked about never going to parties with Tiffany because I felt more like her mom than her sister. I talked about Lucas, who was Lucas, when’d you meet, where is and was he living, how do you maintain your relationship, do you visit him, how would you describe your relationship.
She asked if I’d ever been involved in Greek life, if I’d ever been a member of a sorority, no and no. Back to Stanford, where exactly was the party located, name your mode of transportation, exact time of arrival.
Me: There was a table by the door, and Julia, Tiffany, and I stood behind it, like a panel, and decided to be a welcoming committee. We were just singing songs and acting really goofy. I was embarrassing my sister but definitely not trying to impress anybody.
DA: How were you embarrassing your sister?
Me: Singing out loud and dancing funny.
DA: Okay. And could you tell if your sister was getting embarrassed?
Me: Yeah. She laughed in spite of herself.
I heard the jury lighten, not so much laugh, just blow air out of their noses in amusement. I was smiling, I always smiled when I talked about my sister, even when boxed in by a witness stand. I felt myself loosening up, questions tedious but harmless, what brand of vodka, into what cup, was it a free pour.
DA: When you were dancing, how were you dancing?
Me: Ridiculous. The opposite of sensual. . . . Arms flailing, very wiggly.
I could already see it in the news, victim reported to be very wiggly. I talked about going outside to pee.
DA: Okay. And I know this is kind of graphic, but did you guys just squat behind a tree? . . . Did you guys shield each other from view of the people from the outside?
I tried to make it clear that even when I peed I’d done it discreetly. A woman who peed outside would be judged differently than a man who peed outside. She asked if it had been near a basketball court. I’d never been back to the scene. Maybe it would have served me to visit, but I could never get myself to go. I do not recall, I said. It was very dark. Back to the patio, seeing Caucasian guys who were shorter than me. The diluted beer I gave Tiffany, the guys shotgunning beers.
DA: Have you ever shotgunned a beer?
Me: I can’t.
DA: Why can’t you?
Me: Because it’s hard.
A small chuckle. They could hear my honesty. By now about two hundred questions had gone by, reporters scribbling away in the back row. I admitted to not knowing a few of them, but had missed nothing too egregious. She asked about my next memory. I woke up in the hospital, I said.
It happened before I knew it was happening. My eyes went blurry, my breathing suddenly choppy, I couldn’t speak, couldn’t see.
DA: Do you have any memory before that?
Me: (Witness did not respond audibly.)
Tears were coming out of my eyes, out of my nose, I was worried they would somehow leak out of my ears, my mouth. Everything warm and wet and slimy, my inhaling erratic. I was mortified, as if I was soiling myself, everyone watching me wipe my face, I just needed a moment. I heard his voice.
Defense: I’m sorry. Could we get a verbal answer?
I had already forgotten the question, something about memory, did I have memory.
Me: No.
Defense: Thank you.
DA: Do you need a moment?
Me: I’m okay.
DA: There are some tissues right there.
I wanted to stuff the tissues into my mouth and nostrils, clog up all the holes in my face. Wanted to drag my hands down my cheeks and smear off my features. Alaleh tried to keep things moving, I could detect the defense’s irritation. Get ahold of yourself.
DA: When you woke up in the hospital, can you tell us—do you have any idea what ti
me it was?
I was awakening inside that feeling again, my mind trapped in that white hallway. I stared out, trying to come back to the present, seeing suits around me, tasting snot, my tongue cleaning my upper lip, salty.
DA: How were you feeling when you woke up, your physical feelings?
I was sputtering breath and wetness, suddenly found it impossible to craft a single smooth sentence.
Me: And then the—I saw the dean of students and the deputy, and they asked me—
Defense: Objection. Hearsay.
I was struck silent.
DA: It’s not coming in for the truth, Your Honor. It’s coming in for her state of mind and her level of understanding where she was.
Judge: All right. I’ll allow the—the—question asked.
DA: When you say “they,” can you specify who asked you?
Me: Sure. The deputy and the dean of students were speaking to me and asked me who I was and asked me if I could give them a number for them to contact. They told me, “I have reason to believe” that I had been sexually assaulted.
Defense: Objection. Move to strike. Hearsay.
I was suddenly aware of the defense’s palm wrapped firmly across the top of my head, holding me underwater, saying, Don’t you come up. Perhaps he’d realized this was the most agonizing portion, wanted to silence me before the jury could hear it. I told myself kick, you must kick hard.
Me: I had to use the restroom. . . . And they said that I had to wait because they might need to collect a urine sample. And that’s when I—I—that sounded serious to me, because I still didn’t—I thought they were—
Defense: Objection. Hearsay. This is a narrative as well.
DA: So when you indicated that you wanted to use the restroom, were you allowed to use the restroom?
Me: Eventually, but first denied because they might have to collect my urine sample.
Defense: Objection. Move to strike. Personal knowledge.
Judge: All right. I’ll strike everything after “Eventually.”
Know My Name Page 17