by Alice Sebold
“That doesn’t say anything about the jaw or pug nose or any almond eyes, does it?”
“No,” I said, “it does not.” I was not thinking fast. How, if I had not mentioned them, could the composite have been made? Why didn’t the police take those things down? When presented with the insufficiency of my statement, I was unable to reason that the lack in it had not been my fault. Paquette had won his point.
“Now, you saw this—individual on Marshall Street again, and this was in October; is that right?”
“Yes.”
“I gather from your testimony that you made a—correct me if I am wrong—you made an effort to remember the features of that person so that you could go back and reconstruct it?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Then what you did was, you went back to your dorm and reconstructed those features that you recall from that encounter on Marshall Street; is that true?”
“Also from the encounter on May eighth,” I said. Anticipating his point, I rushed on, “And I could not have identified him as the man who raped me unless he was the man who raped me.”
“Repeat that?”
I was glad to.
“In other words, I am saying that I would not have spotted him on the street as the man who raped me unless he was the man who raped me. So I knew those features. I had to know those features and what they looked like in order to identify him in the first place.”
“You were on Marshall Street, and you saw this individual for the first time on that day? What was he doing?”
“I saw him for the first time on May eighth, and I saw him for the second time on October fifth.”
I noticed Gail; she had been leaning forward listening to the cross. With that answer she sat back in her chair with a force of pride.
“That is what I said, for the first time on that day. I was trying—”
“I don’t want to get tripped up,” I said.
“Okay.”
“Now,” I started again, “the first time that I saw him, and I knew for sure that it was him—the man who had raped me—was when he was crossing the street and said, ‘Hey, girl, don’t I know you from somewhere,’ and the first time I saw the same body was on the other side of the street, when he was talking to the man in the alley between Way Inn and Gino’s and Joe’s.” I was being as exact as possible. I had first spotted his body from the back—not becoming certain it was him until a few minutes later when he spoke to me and I saw his face.”
“He was talking to someone in the alley there?”
“Yes.”
“That is how far from where you were?”
“From where I was when?”
“Where you were standing when you saw him.”
“I was walking, and when I saw him and it—it is just the street, he was on the sidewalk, and so it was just the street.”
“You didn’t say anything to him?”
“No. I said nothing.”
“He didn’t say anything to you?”
“He said, ‘Hey, girl, don’t I know you from somewhere?’”
Paquette was suddenly excited. “Did he say that? Are you saying that he said that then or after he came back down the street?”
“He wasn’t in the alley,” I said. I wanted to make certain of what I said now. I couldn’t imagine the cause for Paquette’s excitement. Wouldn’t know for fifteen years that the defense had claimed Madison had been talking to Officer Clapper when he said, “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?” I backtracked. There was something Paquette was after and I didn’t know what. “He was talking to a man in the alley. He said that to me when I was on the other side of the street, the Huntington Hall side, and walking up and away from the Varsity. He said that as he was crossing the street and coming toward me.”
“That would be the second time of that day that you saw him?”
“Yes. That was the first time that I knew for sure that that was the man who raped me.”
“A lot of things happened,” Paquette said. The tone he used was breezy, as if it had been a big and overwhelming day at the fair for me. As if I couldn’t get my story straight because there was no straight story. “Did you contact the police and make a statement to the police on October fifth?”
“Yes, I did.”
“That was the sworn statement that you signed?”
“Yes.”
“You did ask the lieutenant to indicate that was full and accurate and complete?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Did you tell the police on October fifth, 1981 that the man you saw on Marshall Street was the man who raped you, or did you say that you had a feeling that he might be the man?”
“I said that that was the man who raped me on May eighth.”
“You are sure of that?”
He was setting something up. Even I could see that. The only thing I could do was stick to my story as he pinned me down.
“Yes, I am.”
“So if the statement says something else, then the statement is wrong?”
I was in a minefield now; I kept walking.
“Yes, it is.”
“But you signed the statement, didn’t you?”
He was taking his time. I looked right at him.
“Yes, I did.”
“Did you have a chance to read it over?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Did they review it with you before you signed it?”
This was excruciating.
“They didn’t review it. They gave it to me to read.”
“Who are they?” he asked belligerently. He checked a note he’d made. He was grandstanding now. “You’ve had fourteen years of school,” he said, “and you read it, and that was no problem, and you understood it all?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Your testimony today is that you were sure that that is true. Even if the statement on October the fifth doesn’t say that—”
Mastine objected. “Perhaps we could have a question and answer?”
“Sustained,” said Gorman.
“Do you recall,” Paquette began again, “saying in the statement to the police, ‘I had a feeling that the black male—’”
Mastine stood. “I will object to the counsel reading from the statement or using the statement to impeach credibility; reading from the statement is improper, and in fact I object to it on that basis—”
“He could read from the statement,” Gorman said to Mastine. “I believe, Mr. Paquette, you should form the question something like this, ‘Do you recall giving the statement to the police, on such and such a date?’ and read the statement. If you would, please.”
“Sure,” Paquette said. Some of his steam had been lost.
“Do you recall giving the statement to the police on October fifth?”
“Yes.”
“Do you recall telling the police that ‘I had a feeling that the black male might be the person that raped me last May in Thorden Park’?”
I had caught on to the game now. “I would like to see a copy of it just to be sure,” I said.
“Sure, be happy to. I would ask that this be marked as defendant’s C for identification, the statement made by Alice Sebold on October fifth.
“I ask you to review the statement and ask you if that refreshes your recollection as to the information you gave at the time?”
I scanned the contents of my affidavit. Immediately I saw the problem.
“Okay,” I said.
“Did you advise the police in that statement that you were sure—”
I interrupted him. Suddenly I knew that the last few minutes were ones I could wrestle back from him.
“The reason why I said that I had a feeling at that point was because I had only seen his back and his mannerisms at that point. I was sure when I saw his face on the second time, when I was on the other side of the street. I had a feeling, because of his build and mannerisms on the first time, when I saw him from the back, but since I had then not seen his face
at that time, I was not sure. When I saw his face I was sure that that was the man who raped me on May eighth.”
“This statement was made after you had seen him both times on Marshall Street, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was. They asked me to describe it and in chronological order, which I did.”
“Does that statement in any way reflect a change in your stance from ‘might be’ to ‘is’?”
“No, it does not.”
“Thank you.” He acted as if he had won something. He wanted out of that line of questioning and he took what he could get. He opted to muddy the water. Wasn’t it clear from all this feeling to sure, might be to is that I was too confused to be believed?
“By the way,” he said, reapproaching again, “on the day of the lineup in November, were there people from the Rape Crisis Center present in the building?”
“Yes, there were.”
“Had you had counsel with them just prior to the lineup?”
“Counsel?”
“Did you talk to them and were they available?”
“Yes. She accompanied me to the Public Safety Building.”
“As soon as you left the lineup, were they still available to you?”
“Yes, she was.”
“She was?”
“Yes.”
“You talked to her before and you talked to her after; is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Are they here today? Is there anyone from the Rape Crisis Center here today?”
“No, they are not.”
“They are neither in the courtroom or in the building?”
“No.”
Paquette hadn’t liked the point Mastine had made earlier, that Paquette, by not allowing Tricia in the room, could himself have had a hand in undermining the lineup as evidence.
“Now, there was a lineup procedure held, wasn’t there?”
“Yes, there was.”
“I believe that that was on November fourth?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Do you remember an Investigator Lorenz being there?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Had you recognized him from seeing him before?”
“Yes, I had.”
“Where had you recognized him from?”
“He is the man who took my affidavit on May eighth.”
“Did he ever tell you that he didn’t believe the statement that you made on May eighth?”
I did not stop. Neither Gail nor Mastine had told me that Lorenz initially doubted me.
“No, he did not.”
“Do you remember him advising you in any way when you first came into the lineup room?”
“He told me that my duty was to look at the five men and mark the box as to which one was the man in question.”
“Do you recall who else was in the lineup room?”
I went through my head, reimagining the room and the bodies in it. “Mrs. Uebelhoer, the court stenographer, or the room stenographer—I don’t know what you call them—and the other man was sitting there, and he did something, and me.”
“Do you recall—”
“Yes, you.”
His tone had switched suddenly. He was fatherly, shepherding. I didn’t trust him.
“Do you remember an Investigator Lorenz advising you to take your time and look the people over and feel free to move around?”
“Yes. I do remember that.”
“Do you recall me asking the investigator to explain to you how to—”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you recall me asking the investigator to explain to you how you should use the form?” His smile was almost benevolent.
“I don’t recall you specifically,” I said.
“You remember he did tell you that?”
“Somebody told me how to use it.”
“In fact,” he said, his smile gone now, “you did stand up and move around the room?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you even have the suspects make some sort of a motion; I think you had each of them turn to their left? Do you remember that?”
“Yes, I did.”
“The investigator had each do that—‘Number one, turn to your left’—and you remember that?”
He was dragging this out; it was his job to.
“Yes.”
“At the end of that procedure, what did you do? What was the next thing that happened?”
“I counted down to four and five, and I chose five because he was looking at me.”
“You chose number five?”
“Yes. I put the X in the box for five.” I would say it a thousand times; I had done it.
“You signed that?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Did you express in words, in that room, at that time, to anyone, any concern in your mind over it not being number five?”
“I didn’t say a word in the room.”
“You knew that by marking number five that what you were indicating was that he would be a suspect or might well be a suspect in a rape trial?”
“Yes.” It seemed the wrongs I’d done were endless.
“So it wasn’t until after you left the room that you discovered that number five wasn’t the person that you should have picked?”
“No. I went to my rape crisis counselor and I said number four and five looked like identical twins. That is what I did.”
“You didn’t express that to anyone beforehand?”
“I did it in the room, and before that I hadn’t seen them and I couldn’t.”
He didn’t wish to linger long enough to clarify. I had meant the conference room this time, not the lineup room.
“You picked number five?”
“Yes, I did.”
“I believe that your testimony is, then, that you were raped on May eighth?”
“Yes.”
“That you didn’t see your assailant again until Marshall Street?”
“October fifth, yes.”
“Then you saw him on Marshall Street?”
“Yes.”
“There was a police officer right there, wasn’t there?”
“Yes.”
“Did you approach that officer?”
“No. I did not approach the officer.”
“Did you go to the nearest phone and call the police?”
“I went to the Hall of Languages, where I had a class, and called my mother.”
“So you called your mother….” He was snide. It brought me all the way back to the preliminary hearing, the way his colleague, Meggesto, had savored the words “Calvin Klein jeans.” My mother, my Calvin Klein jeans. It was what they had on me.
“Yes.”
“Then you talked to your professor?”
“I called my mother and then I called some friends, to try to get in contact with someone who could walk me back to my dormitory. I was very scared, and I knew I had to go to school. I couldn’t get hold of anybody. I went upstairs to my teacher and told him why I wasn’t attending class. I told him, and I walked to the library to find one of my friends to walk me the rest of the way home and go with me to the police and then I went back to my dorm and I had called the friend of mine who is an artist, so he could help me draw a picture, which he did not do. Then I called the police and they arrived with the Syracuse University security officers.”
“Did you ever call security to give you a ride home?”
I began to cry. Was everything my fault?
“Excuse me,” I said, apologizing for my tears. “They only do that after five or during night hours.” I looked for Gail. I saw her staring intently at me. It’s almost over, her look said. Hang on.
“How much time went by from the time that you saw him on Marshall Street?”
“Forty-five to fifty minutes.”
“Forty-five to fifty minutes?”
“Yes.”
“Now, you have not identified Mr. Madison from that moment until today; is that right?”
“
Identified him, you know, in your presence?”
“Identified him here in the legal proceedings as the person that raped you.”
“Not in legal proceedings, but I did today.”
“Today you did. How many black people do you see in the room?”
Jumping the gun, knowing his insinuation. How many other black people, besides the defendant, do you see in the room? I answered, “None.”
He laughed and smiled up at the judge, then swept his hand in the direction of Madison, who looked bored. “You see none?” Paquette said, emphasizing the last word. She really is quite incredible, he seemed to be saying.
“I see one black person other than—the rest of the people in the room.”
He smiled in triumph. So did Madison. I wasn’t feeling powerful anymore. I was guilty for the race of my rapist, guilty for the lack of representation of them in the legal profession in the City of Syracuse, guilty that he was the only black man in the room.
“Do you remember testifying about this lineup in a grand jury proceeding?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Was it on November fourth, the same day as the lineup?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Do you remember—looking at page sixteen of the grand jury minutes, line ten—‘You picked him out of the lineup? Are you absolutely sure this is the one?’
“‘Number five; I am not absolutely sure. It was between four and five. But I picked five because he was looking at me.’
“So the juror says, ‘What you are saying is you are not absolutely sure he was the one?’
“‘Right.’
“‘Number five is the one.’
“‘Right.’
“So you still weren’t sure on November fourth?”
I didn’t know what Paquette was doing. I felt lost. “That number five was the one? I was not sure five was the one, right.”
“You surely weren’t sure that number four was the one because you didn’t pick him.”
“He was not looking at me. I was very scared.”
“He wasn’t looking at you?” His syllables dripped with pitiless sarcasm.
“Yes.”
“Did you notice anything unusual on May eighth, when you were accosted by this person, that you haven’t told us about, about his features or scars or marks or anything, facial features, his teeth, fingernails, or his hands or anything?”