Personal knowledge? Isn’t everything personal knowledge? My memory was being flicked on and off like a light. She’s wrong, shut up, hurry up, stop talking, so stricken, keep going, narrative, objection. I couldn’t get oriented. The interruptions felt like being hit.
DA: Other than being confused about where you were, what were you confused about?
I lost it, throwing open my arms, pleading, I didn’t know where my sister was. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know what they were talking about. I didn’t know anything. There was no explanation. And they tell me, and I thought, “You have the wrong person.” I thought they must be confused. I thought, “I just want to find my sister and go home.” I let go, emptying my lungs into the grape-sized microphone. Guttural sounds crawled out of my throat, long and loud. I didn’t collect myself, didn’t take my little sip of water, didn’t daintily dab at the tips of my eyes, didn’t say I’m okay, just decided, you will wait for as long as it takes. This is it, everybody. Here it is, you did it.
Not a single person in the room knew what to do with this unhinged wailing. But I had finally come out of the end of an answer without interruption. I felt manic, it was intoxicating, everyone forced to swallow my siren sounds. Calm, collected, centered, strong, bullshit, I abandoned all of it, had no intention of stopping, had lost the little voice that told me to reel it in, could only think release, release, release.
I heard my DA say, Your Honor, can we take a break please?
I know what that meant, the bathroom, my favorite place, escape! I stood up, a fragile shell, following Myers down the aisle, cries sputtering out of my chest. A wave of humiliation passed over me as I brushed by my row of loved ones, wishing they’d never seen this. I tucked my face in the cave of my hands as she led me out the dark wooden doors.
At last, my tranquil refuge. I was calmed by the salmon-colored tiles, the old toilets. I was grateful for Myers, who stood by the door, my guardian. Part of me wanted to pull out a small white flag and toss it through the courtroom doors. I felt spineless, depleted. My face looked like it had been rubbed in poison ivy and Vaseline, shining, smeared, patchily red. The metal sink creaked as I turned on the faucet, holding the brown paper towel under the cold water. I rubbed it beneath my bloated eyes, smelled the earthy pulp. I rinsed my mouth, draining my head of mucus, spitting, blowing my nose. Looking in the mirror, a small laugh tumbled out of me.
I realized this was it, rock bottom, I was touching the bottom. It could not get any worse. I was standing in a ratty bathroom with single-ply toilet paper in the middle of my rape trial. My dignity had diminished, my composure gone to shit. Everything I feared would happen happened, was happening. Now there was nothing to do but slowly crawl back out. When Myers opened the door, the compass in my body led me back to my seat.
DA: So, Chanel, just before our short break, I was talking to you about waking up in the hospital. Do you remember?
Each time, I could see myself sleeping on the gurney. Present me did not want to wake her up and tell her what happened. I could see myself lifting up my loosely bandaged hands, blinking and looking around. I wished to approach her and say, good morning, go back to sleep. I’d quietly roll the gurney back into the ambulance, we’d speed in reverse. I’d be asleep again in the bumpy vehicle, delivered by paramedics back onto the ground. Brock’s hand would slide out of me, my underwear shimmying back up my legs, my bra tucking over my breast, my hair smoothing out, the pine needles swimming back into the ground. I’d walk backward into the party, standing alone, my sister returning to find me. Outside the Swedes would bike past to wherever they were going. The world would continue, another Saturday evening.
But as much as I wanted this scenario, there was always the unsolved problem: Brock. I was out of his hands, but if he didn’t get what he wanted at that party, then he would at the next. We are taught assault is likely to occur, but if you dressed modestly, you’d lower the chances of it being you. But this would never eradicate the issue, only redirecting the assailant to another unsuspecting victim, off-loading the violence. I never wanted to see him again, but I’d rather have him watch me wipe mucus onto my sleeve than roam free. One small victory.
I got all the way to the part where my underwear was missing and another organ seemed to burst in me like a water balloon. I surprised myself with how much water my face produced. I described being given a blanket, falling asleep. I worried that the fact that I had slipped so quickly to sleep that night undermined the shock I had felt.
DA: And I’m going to show you a couple photos at this point and ask you if you recognize them. I’m showing you People’s 15, 16, and 17. . . . Chanel, I’d like you to take a look at People’s 15. Tell me if you recognize that photo.
I was unaware there had been photos of me unconscious at the hospital. Now being pushed across my podium was my head, my brown scalp threaded with long auburn pine needles in a room I’d never seen. My stomach seized. It’s me, that’s me. I felt cutting pains in my stomach, put these away.
DA: What’s—what’s People’s 15 depict?
Me: My hair.
DA: And when you went to the bathroom and realized there [were] pine needles in the hair—in your hair, does People’s 15 depict what you were describing to us?
I was transfixed, my lower jaw shaking so hard my teeth felt like they’d tumble out. What other pictures did they have?
DA: I’m going to show you People’s 16, and you can tell me if you recognize People’s 16.
Me: Yes.
DA: And what are you—what is it?
Me: My head and my hair.
DA: Do you have any memory of being in that position in the hospital?
Me: No. I didn’t know there were photographs.
DA: Have you ever seen these photos before?
Me: No.
DA: Just so the jury can see that picture, Chanel, I’m going to publish the exhibits again.
Before I could say anything, she turned, walking toward the projector, the large screen against the left wall. I stared straight ahead at my family, tried to lock eyes to warn them, Don’t look at it, just look at me, look at me, but I watched their gaze follow her, heads turning in unison as if magnetized by her heel clicks. This is People’s 15. Is that you, Chanel? I turned to my left, and there was my head, a brown planet filling the room, strapped to some sort of backboard.
I watched my mom cover her mouth with her hands. I wanted to whisper “Mom” into the microphone, but everyone would hear. I looked around, everyone’s gaze fixed on the photo. My eyes became hot, my head pulsed thinking can somebody cover her eyes please. I wanted to say, That’s not me, me is right here, sitting in front of you. I clenched my hands, flexed my feet, trapped in my stand with no power to stop what was happening.
DA: Is that you, Chanel?
Yes, I said.
When my DA returned to the stand, my anger had drained, my tears dried up. I sat detached in some strange, sad resignation. The defense could’ve screamed at me and I would’ve sat mutely. Brock could’ve thrown his water in my face and I wouldn’t have moved. I thought I could protect my family, tried to hide the damage. But I had failed. This is all I am to everyone here and nothing more. It did not matter what questions followed. I did not care about the outcome, about impressing a jury. I didn’t believe in the rose, could not summon Maya Angelou. All I could think was home, I was ready to go home.
She asked me to describe the SART exam. Invasive, I said. My voice was flat as I talked through the spread legs, metal needles, red Q-tips propped in a row. The gruesomeness no longer scared me. I had nothing left to hide.
She showed me the picture I had seen at the hearing, of my underwear at the scene. Do you have any recollection of being in this area where your cell phone and underwear is: this shrubbery and pine needles?
Me: No.
DA: Did you ever willingly go with anyone to a
n area like that?
Me: No.
Defense: She has no memory. She can’t testify about—
DA: Your Honor—
Defense:—personal knowledge. Objection.
Judge: Overruled.
DA: Thank you.
Me: I would never want to go somewhere where my—
Judge: The—there’s no question pending. So next question.
I finished the answer in my head: where my sister couldn’t find me. It didn’t matter, what I said or couldn’t say.
DA: Now, that night, when you went out to Stanford, did you have any intention of meeting anybody?
I felt a flicker, a kick, a branch emerging in the stream to grab on to.
Me: No.
DA: Did you have any intention of hooking up with anybody?
In my head I always go back. Many times I have tried to envision the moment he had me on the ground, and every time I imagine my eyes bursting open, blaring. My body coming to life below him, twisting, pushing him off me. Crawling on top, rising above, swinging my arms back and slamming them into his chest, my knee digging into his crotch like a battering ram, eliciting a cry, a whine, his harsh exhaling. I imagine leaning over his face, using my thumb and index fingers to peel his eyes open, dirt sprinkling into the wet pink slivers below his blue pupils, saying look at me and tell me I enjoy this. You think I am soft, you thought this was easy. I’d shove my palm into the center of his face, blood leaking from his nose, wetting my wrists. I would get up, land a final stomp between his legs, and walk away.
DA: Did you have any intention of kissing the defendant?
I looked up at Brock, his eyes already on me. I stared back. The thing about victims is that they wake up. Maybe you thought I’d never be able to go through with this. Maybe you thought, She has no memory, but I will never let you forget.
DA: Did you have any interest in him at all?
I wanted to climb onto my stand with a large red paintbrush, to paint NO across the back wall of the courtroom in long red strokes, each letter twenty feet tall. I wanted a banner to unfurl from the ceiling releasing crimson balloons. I want everyone’s shirts lifted, Ns and Os painted across hairy stomachs, NONONONONO, doing the wave. I wanted to say, Ask me again. Ask me a million times and that will always be my answer. No is the beginning and end of this story. I may not know how many yards away from the house I peed, or what I’d eaten earlier on that January day. But I will always know this answer. I was finally answering the question he’d never bothered to ask.
Me: No.
DA: I have nothing further.
Judge: All right. We are going to take our recess.
I felt my surge of adrenaline wash away, tired to my bones. It was time for the cross-examination, but I didn’t want to speak. I needed fresh air, to sit beneath a tree, get out of this building. My DA informed me that it was already four o’clock, we’d run out of time. A miracle. I was free to go, we would resume on Monday. I collected the wad of tissues on my stand, flew out the door, returned the acorn ball to my advocate, gave her a hug, Have a good weekend, see you Monday.
I stood alone in the parking lot with a young deputy, still shaken. Where was Lucas, Tiffany. It was overcast, everything gray, no shadows. I made no effort to engage in small talk, feeling rattled and light, too tired to make a show of politeness. My phone dinged. We’re waiting for you by the courtroom, at the pizza place. I said good-bye to the deputy and walked away. He insisted on escorting me, walking briskly to keep in step. He asked how I was doing. I told him I was nervous about Monday, the defense attorney. He said, Don’t worry about him, he’s an asshole. His honesty surprised me. I’d grown accustomed to everyone’s formalities. When he saw me laugh, he smiled too. You can take him, he said. You’ll be okay.
I turned into the doorway, saw Lucas and Tiffany in crewneck sweaters, a hot pizza between them, beaming, You’re alive! I rested my head on the table, my cheek pressed against the cool wood. Their arms enfolded me, relief. My sister was rubbing my back, tucking the hairs away from my face. I was starved, began feeding one warm slice after the other into my mouth. I closed my eyes, tasted melted cheese, crunchy pieces of olive and onion. Cold sips of coke, crunchy blocks of crust. Lucas surprised me with a bag of gummy worms, made one worm dance and peck me on my cheek. I was safe, growing sleepy. They had carved out a warm place to collapse into, without having to ask or explain anything. I felt fear dissolving, the world a gentle place again.
When night fell, my mom insisted we use the sparklers left over from Chinese New Year. I said I was too tired, didn’t feel like it. But she insisted we use them that night, like they were bananas on the brink of rotting. The sky was black. The sparklers were ignited, flurries of crackling light. My dad had a sparkler in each hand, standing on the diving board, waving his arms, wildly conducting. Lucas was chasing my mom, who ran in slippers around the pool, shooting nonsensical spells at the plants, the small yellow flowers, the oval towers of cactus. I was running through the house to get Tiffany, telling her to come out because our parents had gone nuts. My mom gave me the last sparkler. I was watching the sizzling light crack and sputter down the stick. In its final glow my mom said, To the new year, new beginnings, to all of us healthy, all of us happy, all of us together, may the future be bright! A small prayer, a new year ceremony in March, five sparks of light in the moonless night.
* * *
• • •
Lucas flew back to school. I spent the weekend distracting myself with banal tasks, but there was something I could not shake. The thing is I feel embarrassed on an airplane when I wake up and realize I’ve been sleeping with my mouth open. I was slow to realize how many men had seen me naked that night. I counted: Peter (1), who chased Brock (2), Carl (3), who squatted beside me. Guys from the fraternity (4, 5, 6, 7), who called the police. One guy (8) had been seen standing and shining a light over my body, before fleeing the scene. Deputy Taylor (9) was dispatched, a guy (10) led him to me. Next came Deputy Sheriff Braden Shaw (11), partner Eric Adams (12). Followed by paramedic Shaohsuan Steven Fanchiang (13), his partner Adam King (14), pinching my fingernails until I briefly opened my eyes, responding to the pain before slipping back out. The whole time I was lying there, left nipple out, ass bare, stomach skin folded, while polished shoes stepped on mulch around me. The deputies were crouching, taking notes, entire buttock visible, left breast was exposed, clothes all messed up in a various array, bra area completely a mess. I was photographed on the ground. These photographs, included the ones at the hospital, would be put up on the projector for everyone in the courtroom to see. Here I lose count.
I dreaded Monday’s cross-examination. I remembered a night in college when my drunk guy friend dragged a cinder block all the way home. When asked why, he said, Because I needed a doorstop! We laughed because it made no sense, but in his world it seemed like the perfect idea at the time. Imagine presenting this in court. Well don’t you find a cinder block a little unreasonable? Why wouldn’t you choose something lighter? Or get an actual doorstop, small and rubber? Approximately where was the cinder block located when you found it? Did you steal it? How drunk did you feel when you found it? Do you sleep with your door open or closed? What’s your motive for propping it open?
The first time I watched Grease I was nine, I loved Sandy, in her peach-colored skirt and silky ponytail. The entire movie was going smoothly until the final scene. Suddenly this woman in black leather pants and purple-lidded eyes emerged and I was in a panic thinking, Where did Sandy go? Is she okay? She must have transferred schools. Does she know John Travolta is cheating on her with this huge-haired tobacco-smoking woman? Why is no one else worried? I was watching the group of friends running through the carnival, while Sandy was nowhere to be found, and I was devastated. This is why, for so many years of my young life, I hated Grease.
It took me years to realize I was seeing two sides of the same pers
on. At the time it seemed inconceivable. They looked and acted nothing alike; how were we expected to recognize one in the other? How do laced-up white sneakers become black heels snuffing out cigarette butts? Now the defense would be creating a new persona; the version he would show the jury would be someone I’d never seen.
MONDAY, WEEK TWO
Everyone was back in place, as if we’d never left. Before the cross-examination began, my DA had me stand in my new blue blouse with a red marker in my hand at the front of the courtroom, a large white pad of paper behind me. I had the urge to draw, wanted the jury to yell out objects and animals I could bring to life before them, to give them a glimpse of my real self before turning back into Emily.
On the paper was a timeline that looked like a vertical spine, marked up in green and blue notes from those who’d testified before me. My DA instructed me to write in the times I had tried to call Julia and Tiffany. I hesitated, reluctant to turn my back to everyone as I wrote. So I backed up, shoulder to shoulder with the white pad, awkwardly curling my wrist to mark the paper with the times I’d remembered from my call log. My red numbers came out crooked, squeezed in between other time stamps. She had no further questions. I took my seat.
The defense attorney stood up without raising his eyes from his notepad. He was a compact, rigid man. There was no greeting, no good morning, no smile. Chanel, with regard to the testimony you’ve just given this morning as to those screenshots and—and what you saw on your phone the next day, not only do you not remember any conversation, you don’t remember making any of those calls, correct?
I flinched, my red marker lines wiped away in one stroke. He was staring at his notepad like it was my résumé and this was a job interview, wondering why I thought I was qualified enough to show up.
Do you have any idea what time it was when your last memory at the Kappa Alpha house occurred when you were standing on the patio with your sister?
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