Know My Name

by Chanel Miller

  I stated a time.

  You don’t have any way to know what the time is. That’s your best estimate, right?

  I already felt I knew less than I originally thought.

  Now, you testified—at the beginning of your testimony Friday, you gave us your height and weight. Were those numbers that you gave us what your height and weight was on January 17th, 2015?

  My mind went blank. I didn’t know what I weighed on January 17.

  At one point in your testimony, you said—about the possible plan of going to the KA house—you said something about going with your sister, but you felt more like her mom than her sister. What do you—what do you mean by that?

  Had I been wrong to say that? He sounded irritated, as if he had a hundred people in line behind me waiting to talk to him. He asked if I’d been dropped off that night at the Tresidder Memorial Union parking lot. I’d never heard this name, had only thought of it as an area of asphalt.

  It was the parking lot by the Stanford bookstore, I said.

  Is that behind the bookstore or in front of the bookstore?

  But the answer was neither; it was the lot adjacent to the bookstore, which was in the center of campus. How to explain this. He asked me what the closest building was to where I was dropped off. But I didn’t know any names of the nearby buildings on campus.

  Defense: You also talked about, fairly shortly after you got to the Kappa Alpha house, pretending to welcome people and singing and embarrassing your sister. That’s what you decided to do at that time, right? That was an intentional thing.

  Me: Intentional to welcome people or to be silly?

  Defense: To be silly.

  Me: Yes.

  Was that bad? Was silly bad?

  Defense: Okay. And it would be the same thing when you drank the quantity of vodka in the red cup. You drank it all down at once, right? Like, chugged it.

  Me: Yes.

  Defense: Okay. And that was a decision you made, right?

  I cast my eyes down, aware this was a bad decision.

  Defense: And you did a lot of partying in college, right?

  He read this off his notes like an accusation, not a question.

  Me: I did a decent amount. I would not consider myself a party animal.

  Defense: Well, you did tell the police when you were interviewed that you did a lot of partying there too, right?

  Which police? Detective Kim? Did I say that?

  Me: Sure. I—

  Defense: Okay.

  Me: I’m a social person.

  Defense: And all—

  I was being trampled. My DA intervened.

  DA: Your Honor, I would ask they not talk over each other—

  Judge: Yes.

  DA:—and allow her to explain her answer completely.

  Judge: Let’s—let’s go one at a time. Next question.

  * * *

  • • •

  Defense: Okay. And you’ve had blackouts before, right?

  I wondered where he was taking me.

  Defense: And when you’ve had them before, it was usually at the end of the night, right?

  Me: Or fragmented parts of my night that I do not remember—

  Defense: And—

  Me:—not necessarily at the end.

  This was a game of speed, stepping stones disappearing beneath my feet. I could not move as quickly, but I was determined to keep up.

  Defense: Well, when you were interviewed by the police, you told Detective—or Officer DeVlugt that it’s usually at the end of the night when the blackout happens, right?

  The name DeVlugt didn’t bring a face to mind, was she the deputy with long hair? I watched his eyebrows lift, heard his loud exhales, angry when I took too long.

  Me: Right. Yes. But then I’ll remember other parts.

  Defense: Okay. During that same period of time, do you recall ever hearing your phone ring, as if somebody were attempting to contact you?

  Me: I think I had silenced it because I don’t like the clicking sound it makes when I take photos, and I was taking photos.

  Defense: Do you have a specific memory of silencing it that night?

  Me: I silence it often. It’s very easy to do if it’s a slide that can let you just slide.

  Defense: I understand, but that’s not the answer I need for my question.

  He set his legal pad down, his arms now bent at the hip. He cocked his head, wearing an expression of bewilderment. I did something wrong. Everything in me registered alarm, my body tensing as if watching a snake begin to coil. He was visibly upset. Were we still talking about the phone?

  Defense: The question is: That night, do you have any specific recollection of having done that, silence it?

  Me: I’m telling you, I always silence it, especially when I’m taking photos.

  He dropped his arms, shaking his head, began hastily flipping through pages.

  Defense: All right. Do you remember testifying in the preliminary examination in this case in October? You were asked this question—Counsel, this is page 50, lines 10 to 21. You were asked this question: “That night, while you were at the party and you had your cell phone in your possession, it was set so that if it rang, you would hear it. It was an audible ring, correct? Answer: I believe it was set so that it could ring. Sometimes I turn it off because, if I’m taking a lot of pictures, I don’t like the sound it makes every time it takes a picture. So I set it on silent. I believe it was auto. It was also loud.” That was what you said at that time, isn’t that correct?

  Defeated, by my own words. Humiliation. I didn’t study hard enough. I had failed to anticipate the way he could make me my own enemy. The way he could step back and say, I’m not accusing you, I’m just repeating what you previously said. Suddenly I was staring myself in the face and thinking how could I argue against me?

  My DA stood up for redirect examination.

  DA: You were just asked, Chanel, a question about the preliminary hearing and regarding your cell phone. Do you remember that?

  Me: Yes.

  DA: Counsel left out the last part of that sentence. Did you also say, “But it’s also possible I could have silenced it”?

  Me: Yes.

  She had caught him. He had deliberately stopped reading the passage early, had cut off my quote. She began coaxing me out of the corner I’d been backed into. She asked if my previous blackouts had been different than my one on January 15. I said that in previous blackouts, I’ve never been half naked outside. I wanted to curtsy. She gave me more opportunities to clarify:

  DA: When you moved back home, how would you describe your level of drinking?

  Defense: Objection. Relevance.

  Judge: Sustained.

  DA: Had your tolerance changed at all from college—from your college experience days?

  Me: Yes.

  Defense: Objection. Relevance.

  Judge: Overruled.

  DA: How had it changed?

  She was trying to give me the chance to state that at the time of my assault my tolerance level had significantly declined since my college days, while he knocked her questions away. I was attempting to tell the same story through two different filters; through the questions of my DA and the questions of the defense. Their questions created the narrative, building the framework that shaped what I said.

  When I’d been questioned by my DA, I felt gutted, forced to come face-to-face with my painful memories, reliving it for the jury to see. Being questioned by the defense was stifling. He didn’t want to open up the emotional territory that she did; he wanted to smother it, to erase my specific experience, abstract me into stereotypes of partying and blackouts, to ask technical questions that tied my shoelaces together, tripping me as he forced me to run.

  Something else was happening that I�
��d recognized in the hearing; the frequency of the word right. He’d planted answers in his questions rather than leave them open ended: Right? Isn’t that right? Correct? Right? To an observer, it would seem he was just verifying facts. But so much of it had not been right. It made me self-conscious, disagreeing with him repeatedly in front of the jury; wouldn’t they believe the suited man who seemed to have everything in order rather than the woman with fragmented memory? Who was I to keep saying, wait a minute, actually. The entire time I felt he was pulling my hand in one direction and I was digging my heels into the ground attempting to resist.

  When asked how many times I’ve blacked out, I’d said four to five. I detected a sudden shift in the room, heads tilting down to make note of this remarkable fact, a pause while pens scribbled around me. Goddamnit, I thought. I knew immediately that by evening I’d be reading this fact in the news. I wondered whether, when my DA told me to be honest, she didn’t mean this honest. Whether I should have said two to three. They never would have known. But it wouldn’t have felt right, because it didn’t matter how many times I’d blacked out before. This blackout remained different. I was not here to lie about who I was or to apologize for my past. Still, I berated myself, my character flaw burying my whole team deeper.

  The final question the defense asked me, stern faced and level toned: And your dinner consisted of broccoli and rice. I stared at him, waiting for some punch line, but did not detect a glimmer of amusement.

  The end was abrupt. When I was excused, I sat for a moment, like I’d been spun in circles, instructed now to walk in a straight line. I hurried out of the courtroom, down the stairs, locking myself in the car, reclining my seat back until I lay flat.

  I was supposed to feel a wash of relief, but I felt unease. I couldn’t tell if I did well or ruined my credibility. In a setting where every word was deliberate, why did he end with the broccoli and rice? After I left I realized that my dad may have made quinoa, not rice—and quinoa may have lowered my alcohol tolerance. I typed out a text to my DA to clarify it was quinoa, not rice, could she please let them know, but hesitated, knowing she was already busy questioning whoever was next. I’d lost my chance. And what was the importance of the phone ringing? I will never forget the way he looked at me like I’d insulted his mother. Why so angry? Is it better if it rang or was on silent? Which one would win my case? Quinoa or rice? Bookstore in the front or back? Three blackouts or five? We had tiptoed around all of the heaviest moments and fixated on minute details, many of which I seemed to get wrong. The defense had months to come up with questions I only had seconds to respond to.

  I shut my eyes and remembered something else he said; That’s not the answer I need for my question. I felt naive as it dawned on me he was never interested in my responses. He already knew the answers he wanted; he just wanted me to say them. I had also heard an underlying pattern: That’s what you decided to do at that time, right? That was an intentional thing. And that was a decision you made. He littered my night with intentions and poor decisions, suggesting they had everything to do with the final act. If you decided to go to this party, intentionally got wasted, is it really that hard to believe you intended to get handsy, fool around? I tapped my forehead with the heel of my palm, a small tempo, telling myself, idiot, idiot, idiot.

  I was done with my testimony, but it was time to steel myself and be strong; in a few hours Tiffany would testify. As I put my hands to the steering wheel I saw them again; cuts like scarlet parentheses. It looked like red cough syrup had spilled beneath my skin. No matter how composed I had appeared, my stress had found an outlet, hands clenched beneath the stand, fingernails pinching each other like crabs fighting to the death, while I had felt none of it.

  At home there was a note on the counter from my dad: Girls, Will be thinking of you today. Remember, the truth will set you free. Mac & cheese, salmon, and chicken soup for the heart. Be strong! A glass casserole of macaroni and cheese had gone cold from sitting out. I dug into it with a metal spoon.

  Tiffany was in the bedroom getting ready, wearing a scarlet blouse, changing into a black one, back into the scarlet one, sweating through, then lifting her arms as I blow-dried the dark areas. I busied myself helping her; if I sat and thought too long I knew I wouldn’t let her go back to that place.

  Earlier in the day, before leaving the courtroom, I’d seen an Asian man in dress pants and a messenger bag standing in the hallway. I’d been told a DNA expert would be testifying and I wondered if that was him. I would later learn his name is Craig Lee, a forensic biologist, followed by Shaohsuan Steven Fanchiang, the paramedic, and Alice King, the criminal analyst, who all testified on my behalf in the time I was at home making sure Tiffany and I were fed and ready. While I was taking care of her, they were fighting for us both.

  She drove us back to the courtroom. I asked her how she was doing, but she was distracted by a caterpillar clinging to the windshield, its fine white hairs blowing in the wind. She said we needed to save it. I said we were going to be late, but next thing I know she was pulling off the road into a parking lot, cutting the engine. I was unbuckling my seat belt, sifting through the middle console to find a crumpled receipt. I stepped out and wedged the receipt bit by bit below its tiny feet, and lowered it into the grass. When I got back into the car, she asked me if I saw it crawling away to make sure it was still alive. I got back out, confirmed it was moving. Only then was I allowed back in the car.

  My sister had two friends, Elizabeth and Anusha, in the waiting room. I was grateful for the way they made this foreign world feel a little more familiar. The self that cried only hours ago had already transformed into a different person, upbeat and reassuring. When it was time, I sent my advocate with her.

  I was no longer needed; this was the part where I was supposed to go home. But I didn’t want to leave yet. I walked down the hallway that led to the courtroom. I wondered if someone would see me and accuse me of trying to listen. I peered through the sliver of window in the courtroom door.

  When I was ten, my sister eight, we were in China and had gone to an indoor pool, vast and empty with glass walls like a greenhouse, the water stretching so far it created its own horizon. The glass was fogged by the heat and tinged yellow. It was an empty weekday morning, only one older woman slicing back and forth along the surface. My dad gave me a copper key that unlocked a private changing room at the far end of the pool, then quickly fell asleep in a pool chair by the entrance.

  We unlocked our room, running barefoot along the benches, all of it ours. A door along the back wall led to a small shower room. The shower door closed behind us and we began pumping shampoo, gelling our hair into pointed peaks. My sister wanted to return to the pool, but couldn’t open the door. Sure she wasn’t doing it right, I went over and jiggled the knob myself until I realized we were stuck. She stood there in a metallic rainbow suit, goggles glued to her forehead, elbows resting on her little belly, hands holding her face, looking at me expectantly. I told her it was a little jammed so we just had to wait for dad to come. We sat in silence under the shower, I was putting shampoo back on my head, but it was not as fun anymore. Soon the water ran cold. I didn’t know how to say “help” in Chinese. On the count of three, just yell HELLO, okay? I said. Before I got to three, she was screaming like I’d never heard her scream before. What scared me more was the silence that followed, no padding of feet, no jostling of the door handle.

  Whenever my sister is crying, I am thinking. I crawled up on the sink ledge to peer out. There was nothing but highway. I imagined our naked limbs running down the road along a river of semi trucks. Then I noticed ventilation slats at the bottom of the wooden door. I pushed the meat of my palms against the first plank of wood until it snapped like a breaking bone. I cracked the second. I cracked the third, the splintered pieces lying defeated around my knees. Hands sore, I turned around to see if my sister could help, but she stood covering her eyes. I rested a moment, then wor
ked through all six planks until there was only a wooden frame with nails sticking out on each side like teeth. I bent each nail, curving them away from me. I sucked in my stomach, gingerly placed my arms and my head through the opening. The nail tips grazed the skin on my ribs. I freed myself, but the lock remained broken. I craned my neck to peer up at her through the square, and said, Stay here and count to one hundred and by the time you are done I’ll be back. I ran the length of the pool, shook my dad awake. As soon as he opened his eyes, I began sobbing, crying my sister’s name.

  My dad got a guy to come fix the doorknob, while my sister wailed alone on the other side. The guy said it got stuck sometimes. I was furious, can you see that my sister is trapped? As the door swung open and she ran to my dad, I looked at the little pile of broken wood and thought, I got us out. I will always find a way.

  I was standing in the tiled hallway in my black coat, staring through the thin vertical window of the courtroom door. I could see her sitting there, all the way up at the front of the room, her head pea size in front of the microphone, mouth moving. I wanted to reach my hand in from above, like a claw in a machine, and pluck her gently out of there, to take her by my side, for us to leave this all behind. My eyes burned as I watched her, stuck on the other side of the door.

  I met Athena at a bakery to pass the hours until Tiffany would be done, eating apricot hamantaschen in the rain. As it neared 5:00 P.M., we walked back to the courthouse, expecting her to emerge any second. A lone reporter stood outside. The press was not allowed to talk to me, but her gaze latched on and followed us. The way she was tilting her phone made me paranoid that she was taking pictures. It unnerved me, so we stepped inside through security just as the elevator doors parted and Brock appeared, hands in pockets, followed by his whole family and his attorney. I expected them to stop, retreat, an invisible boundary they were not allowed to cross. But they glanced at me and kept coming, and I did not have time to move, simply stood with my back turned as they passed me like I was nobody. When I looked at myself through their eyes, I shrunk one hundred sizes smaller, nothing more than a vacant-headed victim, the rotten stain on his life. Suddenly my advocate appeared. She said Tiffany was already waiting in the car.