All that was left was the closing statements before jury deliberation began. My DA said she’d never had a victim sit in on the closing statements before. She advised me to sit out the first half of her presentation due to the graphic elements. There’d be a break halfway through where I’d be able to come in. She seemed appreciative that I was willing to come. The jury will see how much you care. More points toward the unspoken tally.
My family and friends assembled for the statements on Monday morning. My dad was in court with my mom, Grandma Ann, Anne, and Athena. Finally my bench was almost as full as Brock’s. I sat alone on a wooden bench in the hallway to wait. I knew people were seeing things they were keeping from me. But I kept my curiosity on a tight leash, figured they were protecting me for a reason. Reading the transcript of Alaleh’s closing now, I get a glimpse of what I missed. She had no idea these photos were taken. . . . Look at her dress and how he left her. . . . But those photos speak for her when she could not speak for herself.
My dad emerged out of the courtroom doors, shaking his head and muttering to himself. He walked right past me. Stunned, I said, Dad. When he looked up at me, the tension on his face cleared. He seemed dazed. Have you seen that photo, the one of you lying by the . . . ? I shook my head. You looked dead, he said. Like someone tried to toss a body into the dumpster and missed. If something doesn’t happen soon, I’ll sue.
My dad is not one to sue. He makes hummingbird nectar by the pitcher in the fridge and refills the feeders every weekend. Whenever I said the word hate growing up, he said, Be careful, hate’s a powerful word. He’s the one who will clap for the man playing clarinet in the street. Summer afternoons he cooks risotto while singing along to Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. But I heard a new register of rage in his voice, like he would tear the whole place down if I just said the word.
People began spilling into the hallway for recess. I watched a man approach Alaleh, a neon-orange sticker on his shirt that said JURY and thought it was funny jury members were walking around labeled like Chiquita bananas. Sorry to bother you, he said, but I have a dentist appointment this Thursday—do you think I’ll need to cancel it? I smiled to myself, knew the answer before she said it. A taste of my life, of abandoned plans, unknown endings.
Brock emerged. I should’ve been in my victim closet. He walked past me, guided by his father’s hand on his back. His father glanced down at me, then lifted his eyes back up and kept walking. It was one second, but enough to make my insides seize. These were the things I felt but could never explain. The wordless affronts that went unrecorded. His siblings lingered in the hallway. Reporters mulled about. One had cornered Tiffany’s friends the previous week, tried to slip in a few questions when she was alone. Onlookers arrived every day to take and take. I was tired of existing as an object of observation, powerless as my narrative was written for me.
When recess ended, I joined my family in the courtroom. I enjoyed blending in as an observer. My DA stood to face the jury. Now, the fact of the matter is, these types of crimes are often [crimes] of opportunity. It doesn’t matter whether the victim is beautiful, whether the victim behaves in a certain way or dressed in a certain way. All that matters is, she’s incapable of saying no, she’s there, and she’s vulnerable. I was nodding along, everything brilliantly plain and clear.
A trial is a search for the truth. Now, the truth doesn’t always come in a pretty package with a bow on top. Sometimes, there’s deliberate attempts to cloud your ability to see the truth.
She walked us through slides that compared the mismatched facts of Brock’s testimonies, exposed the faulty reasoning, the way new information materialized. She explained that the act of running exhibited consciousness of guilt. It was a wonderful thing watching myself being fought for; I envisioned myself speaking through her, using words like collude and statements like I am going to prove to you. She tugged the thread of his arguments little by little until his facade began unraveling. And I’m going to ask you to return a just verdict for Chanel that says it’s not okay what he did to her, it’s not okay the way he did it to her, and it’s not okay for anyone to violate a human being like that.
When she finished, I fought the urge to applaud.
As she took her seat, the defense rose. For a second, I contemplated slipping out. I wanted to end on this high note, this fullness. But I heard Ladies and gentlemen; it was too late. The defense began by asking the jury to find Brock not guilty.
Let me explain why, he said. When I left Kappa Alpha, Chanel appeared to be fine, so I wasn’t worried about leaving her there. Who told us that? That was Tiffany, her sister. Who knows her better than Tiffany out of all the people that testified at this trial? Nobody. Tiffany knows her the best. . . . That was how she described her sister whom she has known her whole life.
I stood halfway up. But leaving or staying would not matter, he’d go on. So I braced myself. I did not notice I had squeezed my mom’s hand to a pulp. She leaned over, whispering into my ear, Don’t listen to him. These words let me settle back in.
We know from Brock Turner and from the DNA evidence that he put his finger into her vagina. I clenched my knees tightly together. One can reasonably infer from that that he didn’t just put it in and hold it there. He was rubbing it back and forth. That’s totally consistent with what the SART nurse found. So she doesn’t really add anything about the findings of the case. Alaleh had pushed us into the light and now we were being dragged back into the dark, logic disfigured. Mom whispered, Evil, teeny-weeny old man.
To explain Brock’s inconsistencies, he said, So it’s not uncommon for people to not remember details of incidents, especially things that happened so fast and with emotional tension. Brock was allowed a messy mind. Victims often have inconsistencies due to traumatic blockage, alcoholic gaps. His inconsistencies came from what he said before he had a lawyer versus what he said after he hired one. When Brock was arrested and questioned by the detective, all the supposed dialogue between us that he failed to mention was not due to a lack of memory. It was due to the fact that he did not have an attorney to help him construct a narrative, feed him words, brush the clouds from his mind, and figure out which story might get him off scot-free.
The defense’s arguments weakened, slipping through my fingers. He said the reason I sounded slurred in the voice mail was my silly way of speaking to my boyfriend. Said that when I said I’d reward Lucas he knew darn well what was intended . . . I think it gives us very good insight, at 12:18, into Chanel’s thinking. . . . She’s saying that twice, and she’s saying it for a reason.
He put his finger in the vagina of Chanel. . . . And he did it when she was consenting, conscious, and there was no way he could have believed from what he saw and heard that she wasn’t capable of consenting at that time. He stood there with his notepad like an unenthused student reading off his book report. I’d ask you to take the burden off his shoulders that’s been there for 14 months . . . Instinctively I looked at Brock’s shoulders.
The attorney I’d been so afraid of, had lost sleep over for months, was standing before me, stern faced and shrunken, having delivered an unconvincing monologue. How could this be the closing statement of a year’s worth of investigating? If you’re going to fight me, fight me. But this was it? All these people had been summoned, endured weeks of debate after fourteen months of waiting. All this damage and energy wasted for this underwhelming finale, puttering on about her vagina, or whatever. When my DA was presenting, you felt the room mold around her, eyes watching her pace back and forth. She spoke with fire and urgency and wit, her words laid before us, layering the room with reason and truth. I felt real change was happening, the whole room expanding. She was piercing without being vicious; made it clear we’re not after you, we’re after what you did, and now we are here to hold you accountable.
But when the defense finished, his words did not fall and settle, only floated almost weightless, with nowhere t
o land, eliciting nothing. The air in the room became still, like sails emptied of wind, all of us left sitting on a flat sea. It bothered me the way the ends of his sentences had lifted, as if he himself had been questioning his own arguments, knowing they had been constructed on a feeble foundation.
My DA stood up for rebuttal. I imagined the defense loose toothed and swaying—all she had to do was deliver the final punch and the bell would ring. I’m not going to rebut everything, because some of the arguments I frankly don’t think are—warrant anything . . . the fact the defendant latches on to that to say Tiffany said Chanel was fine does not absolve the defendant . . . the obligation is on him before he inserts his finger in someone’s vagina to make sure they’re capable of consenting, not that their sister thinks that they’re fine. She swung the spotlight back to him, where it belonged. She pointed out that all he had to do to complete the rape was unzip his pants. I’d never put this together; the only thing between my open legs and his erection were the tiny golden teeth of a zipper.
No woman, no woman wants to have debris in their vagina when they met a guy five minutes before. No woman. Not just Chanel. No woman. Her, me, every woman in that room. It was as if she were tossing my shoes out into the audience urging everyone to try them on.
You’re not a bad person or a good person, but what you did on that night is not acceptable, it’s not okay, and it violates the law. Once you stripped everything of complex terms and formalities, the truth was solid and pure. It’s not okay, never okay, for someone to hurt you. There are no asterisks, no exceptions, to this statement.
Don’t forget that there’s a victim in this case that he violated. And when you do that, you’ll see that there’s only one reasonable verdict and that’s one of guilt on all counts. . . . The burden that he has in this case is the burden of guilt. I looked at Brock’s shoulders again. That, that I could see.
Alaleh found us and told us to go home and wait. The jury would deliberate every day from nine to five, and the verdict could take anywhere from a couple of days to weeks. As soon as a verdict was reached, she would send me a text and I would have fifteen minutes to get to the courtroom. Which meant I was on call, unable to stray farther than a few miles from the courthouse.
Tuesday morning I made a list of everyone I’d have to notify as soon as the verdict was announced. I got dressed in my black flats and a blouse I was careful not to wrinkle. I reapplied deodorant every hour. I put my hair up in a tight bun, watched it gradually droop. In the afternoon, my mom taught me how to make my favorite shrimp dish. Together we removed the shells, chopped garlic, sprinkled chili flakes. When their watery gray crescents of flesh hit the hot oil, it spurted out, flecking my blouse. I rushed to wash it. They’d be calling me at any minute.
I looked online, saw an article by the Mercury News, saw they’d written Chanel Doe. I began shaking, my cover blown, anticipating the wave of notifications. The reporter had sat in the room with me; it felt like betrayal that she’d outed me so carelessly. My DA fixed the small leak, but the damage had been done. I trusted no one, could not escape the pervasive sense of invasion. Grandma Ann told me a reporter had leaned over to her in court, whispering, How are you affiliated? My grandma silenced her with one wave of the hand. I called to check in on her. Because she was hard of hearing, she’d missed most of what was said in the courtroom (a tiny blessing). Instead she had primarily paid attention to body language. She felt confident from my DA’s posture, expressions. She told me to take a hot shower and put on pajamas. She said, I am crossing all ten of my fingers and all ten of my toes.
The sun sank and I’d received no word from Alaleh. I slipped off my flats, curled into bed. It’s okay. They just need a little more time. But the feeling in my chest made it difficult to breathe. Didn’t they hear what had been said?
I knew I was not going to sleep, so I tucked myself under my covers and watched Mister Rogers. When I was little I was entranced by the choreography in the opening scene: He comes in, removes his suit jacket, hangs it in the closet, exchanges it for a sweater, takes off his work shoes, slips on soft Keds, ties the laces. This ritual promised control and safety for the next half hour. Lying in bed, locked in the glow of my phone, I dragged the dot backward along the video’s timeline, rewinding the segment to view it again. Watching the sweater zip and unzip, peel off and on and off and on, lace and unlace. When the sun appeared outside, I stepped out from beneath my blankets, stepped into my black flats, pulled up my hair, sat on the bed again.
How long can humans live in suspended states? I felt like a lone cow, a rope around my neck, staring into a metal building, where I could see the huge pink cocoons lined with white ribs dangling from chains. Behind me was a meadow, the scent of grass in the wind. One of two things would happen; I’d be led by my rope up the metal walkway to be churned to red mush, or I’d be set free in a sun-filled pasture. Until then, I just stood, feeling the itch of rope on my skin.
The sun peaked in the sky then rolled downward. It was four o’clock. If the jury did not decide in the next hour, Wednesday would come to a close. Thursday was an off day. Friday a holiday. Saturday. Sunday. Which meant I’d have to wait at least another four days. If the jury found him innocent, I had to tell myself these cases were extremely hard to win. That it did not make me a failure. I tried to ready myself, but knew that if I lost, I was scared for what I might do.
When Lucas called, I let the phone rest on my face as tears trickled out. He kept telling me to go outside, get fresh air. I only scratched my head, grease shiny on my fingers. The neckline of my knitted sweater was loose, my black pants had collected stray hairs. My phone buzzed against my cheek as he spoke, a text. It’s time, I said, and hung up before he could reply.
I am on my feet walking toward the bathroom. The verdict will be read in fifteen minutes. It’s an eight-minute drive to the courtroom, twelve minutes with traffic, which means I have three minutes to get ready. I can’t figure out the order of what I’m supposed to be doing, if I should wash my face or call somebody or put on shoes or change my sweater. I splash water on my eyes but stop midway, realizing I should notify everyone first. I turn to get my phone, chin dripping and thumbs wet, coating my phone screen in water. I don’t know what to type. I set down my phone, hastily combing fingers through my hair. I must take a shower, no time. I stand frozen at the sink, faucet running. The list. I am calling my grandma, the long rings excruciating, It’s time. I hang up. I type out each text with shaking hands. My car keys are missing. I can’t find my phone. It is on the sink. I walk out to the living room. My mom is sitting at the table with a friend having tea. I tell her this is it and when she looks up at me her face changes and she’s immediately out of her seat. She takes me by my hand back into the bathroom, pulls lip gloss from the wooden drawer. She paints it on and I watch my lips become pink and shiny and flecked with glitter. I rip off a piece of toilet paper and wipe it off, I need to be taken seriously. It brightens you, she says. I see her standing there, lip gloss hovering in one hand, desperate to revive me. I turn to see myself in the mirror through her eyes, this limp-haired, thin-limbed person with tired eyes, someone who has forgotten to care for herself. I turn to face my mom, letting her coat my lips again and then I am out the door unable to wait, telling her she can meet me there.
My mind is already inside the courthouse, while some part of me attends to the reds and greens of the lights. I ride as a passenger inside my own body, looking out the window as if on a ride, the car smooth and gliding as if on a track, making all the right turns. I worry I’ll be the only one there, had the texts gone through, will they come? I do not remember parking or arriving, only know that I am seated in the front row, it is 4:24, Athena on my left, my grandma on my right, Anne, they have come.
I can hear my heart thudding unevenly like a tennis ball in a drying machine. I wonder if I’m going to have a heart attack. Is that possible for people this young? I need to puncture a hole
in my chest to release the pressure. The judge is speaking, but I can’t hear him over the thumping. The thought of having a breakdown here, of having to leave, is unbearable, I try to orient myself. I stare at the gray, square back of Alaleh’s suit. I see my Grandma’s hand clasped around my shaking knee. I am pushing air out of my mouth, pressing a flat hand to my chest, envision myself deflating. In my head I make my lungs disappear, my heart disappear, and I am a simple, empty shell. I am surrounded by infinite amounts of air. I take the air in slowly and then I let it out, in and then out.
I hear the judge talking, going over questions that had been raised by the jury during deliberation. And then finally, we received jury question No. 5 which states or asks, “Is contact with the inner lining of labia majora or any portion of labia minora considered penetration?” I see this labia like a piece of sashimi, turned over in their hands, existing on its own independently from me. Finally, the judge asks, Juror No. 5, has the jury reached a verdict?
A man from the jury box rises, Yes, Your Honor. The judge says, If you could please hand the verdict forms to the deputy. I hadn’t expected the answer to be on a piece of paper. I watch the jury member lean over the ledge of the box to give the paper to a deputy. The deputy walks casually as if carrying a cabbage to his grocery cart, go fucking go, across the room and passes it to the court clerk. I want to leap up and rip it out of her hands.
The clerk stands up, her tufty blond hair glowing under the skylight, glasses reflected so that I cannot see her pupils, a dark pink shirt, the paper in front of her. I’ve never seen her before. It turns out she had been there the entire trial, had been the one who stood two feet in front of me administering the oath as I was sworn in before testimony, but this is the first time she registers in my mind. She has no microphone, no microphone! speaking so softly! I can’t believe it. LOUDER. I lean forward, squinting, as if this will help my hearing, staring as her lips shape the words.
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