Coming for You

by Deborah Rogers

  I think back to last night, to my gym bag on the platform, a symbol of my stupidity and weakness, and get angry all over again. Angry that I lost control and let irrational fear get the better of me.

  I had barely managed to get home without completely falling to pieces. My purse was in that bag. My identification. Driver’s license. Court credentials. A photograph of my face. Where I lived. I couldn’t believe I had been so stupid. Keeping all that sensitive information in one place was a total rookie mistake. In my mind’s eye, I could see him, crossing the platform, sweeping up the bag, retreating to some dark corner to rifle through its contents, grinning a big Bingo grin when he’d discovered he’d hit pay dirt on the whereabouts of Amelia Kellaway.

  And that was my second mistake. I went home. I was so relieved to have my phone with my subway pass and apartment keys in my jacket pocket that I never thought through the implications of going back to the apartment. It wasn’t until I opened my apartment door that I realized how dumb I had been. He could have beat me home. He could’ve been in the apartment, lying in wait.

  But as I stood there frozen to the spot, heart smashing against my chest, I thought back to the man on the street. And the more I thought about him, the more unsure I became. Was it really him? Yes, the height and build were similar, but the posture was different, the coloring, his gait too. The man in the street was younger, more sprightly than a man in his early fifties. And he would be even older now, more worn down by life like I was. As I stood there, thinking, I was reminded of something Lorna had said: my memories had been distorted by trauma and time. Simply put, I couldn’t trust my own eyes anymore. It probably wasn’t him, just my overactive negative-bias imagination, superimposing his face on another person. And my bag? Well, whoever the lucky recipient was would probably be more concerned with the cash and credit cards than where I lived.

  So I began to relax a little and made a few cautious steps into the apartment and that’s when I saw it. My purse on the kitchen counter next to my work satchel. In the rush to get to the gym, I must have left it there. The relief was overwhelming, like a hundred-pound weight had been lifted off my shoulders. The only thing in that gym bag would have been a bottle of water, some tampons, a sweat towel, and a change of clothes.

  But I still went mad with the checking, and now it’s after 8 a.m. and I’m due in court and I’m so tired I can barely think. A tear leaks from my eye. I bat it away roughly. How did things get so out of control?

  I put down the toilet seat lid and sit and hold my head in my hands. How am I going to make it through the hearing today? Maybe I should resign. Stay in my apartment all day. Stay here forever.

  Then I think of Susie and the other little girls and the monster who thought he was so clever he was going to get away with what he’d done and then do it all over again.

  I rise. No. It is up to me. There isn’t anyone else who can do this. I rinse my sleeve in the basin and get ready to leave.

  9

  Courtrooms have a distinctive smell. Sweat and anxiety. The angst of the defendants, the witnesses, the victims, even the lawyers. It somehow leaches into the walls, embeds itself into the upholstery and fixtures. No one comes away clean, especially me.

  I’m not a natural public speaker. I hate the way everyone stares when I talk, how they watch me limp across the courtroom to address a witness, how my voice shakes and makes me sound weak.

  “Well, Ms. Kellaway?”

  It’s Judge Brown. An attractive woman in her mid-sixties with a severe brunette bob. Rumor has it, Judge Brown frequents S&M clubs after hours, but as far as I’m concerned, she’s still a very capable judge and doesn’t suffer fools gladly, although the biggest fool right now is probably me.

  I look back at Judge Brown and remain rooted to my seat. I feel an emptiness in the pit of my stomach. I’ve had nothing to eat (I’m pretty sure black coffee doesn’t count), and now I’m thinking that was a big mistake. I’m usually so good before a trial. My go-to is a simple eggs-over-easy on grainy toast, a nice protein/carb combo for sustained energy across the day. But this morning, even if I felt like eating, I didn’t have time, and I can feel my blood sugar levels plummeting already.

  Another thing is deodorant. Or more specifically, a lack thereof. In my haste, I forgot to apply my “shower fresh” Dove roll-on and now my nose is twitching at the offensiveness of my own rank body odor, made all the worse because today I seem to be sweating buckets beneath my sensible navy suit.

  A stone’s throw away is the defense table, and I wonder if Eileen Mercer can smell me too. She’s certainly looking at me, left eyebrow arched high on her forehead, toying with the creamy string of lustrous pearls around her chubby neck. Close to seventy, the woman is still as sharp as a tack. Not a smidge over five-foot-one, she has the figure of someone who spends most of their day at their desk. Her rotundness works in her favor. That, combined with her seniority, somehow seems to add to her authority.

  Next to her is the defendant, Alistair Kennedy, scribbling notes, rogue teacher, abuser of little girls. The picture of respectability in his nicely pressed whiter-than-white shirt and crimson polka dot tie. He could have been one of the lawyers and not the client. Behind him, the public gallery is full and restless. All eyes are on me. Expectant. Sitting in the second row from the front I spot Detective North in his crumpled shirt. He flashes me a frown of concern.

  I get it. I’m concerned too. My peculiar set of neuroses is getting in the way of thinking straight, let alone doing my job.

  This morning my intention had been to speak with Eileen Mercer before court and come clean about Susie’s previous allegations. I had arrived at the conclusion that I would have to tell the truth and face the consequences and hope that the judge excluded the admission on the grounds it was historical.

  But then I saw Susie in the corridor. Claire Watson had put a pink ribbon in her hair, which made her look more like nine than eleven and all the more vulnerable. I thought about what Susie had gone through, which was at least as bad as what I had experienced if not worse because of her age, and how courageous she was for wanting to confront the monster who took away her innocence.

  Detective North was waiting with them. He’d stood when he saw me.

  “You okay?” he’d asked.

  “Fine. I’m fine. Just running a bit late.”

  I couldn’t look him in the eye. I felt so duplicitous.

  “I think they’re waiting for you in there,” he’d said.

  I’d glanced through the window. Everyone was seated apart from the judge. According to the Lawyers Rules of Professional Conduct and Ethics my overriding duty was to the court, so it was clear what the proper course of action should be—go in there and call for a sidebar and inform the court of Susie’s previous allegations and let the chips fall where they may.

  But I didn’t do that. Instead, I put on my game face and reached for the handle and entered the room and waited until Judge Brown took her seat. Then I delivered my opening and listened to Eileen Mercer deliver hers. I called the first of my two witnesses—the hospital medical examiner—and stepped her through her evidence, and took note of the jurors’ appalled expressions when they saw the graphic nature of the diagrams. And then…well, then the time finally arrived, the point of no return, when I had to choose whether or not to call Susie as a witness or call a sidebar instead.

  So here I am now, with Judge Brown looking at me over the top of her glasses with her penetrating gaze and the whole court is waiting and I know this is my very last chance to act. I feel the weight of Eileen Mercer’s stare. She knows. Everyone knows. I am playing with fire. I will get disbarred. I will cause a mistrial. Part of me is screaming for a sidebar. If I do it now the case could still be salvageable. My addled brain can’t handle this mess. If only I had gotten some sleep. My lips go numb and I smell something, the stale air of the subway, and for one God awful minute I think I’m going to pass out, right there in the middle of the courtroom.

 
Eileen Mercer gets to her feet. “Really, Your Honor?”

  “Indeed,” says the judge, giving me a steely look. “Ms. Kellaway, either present your next witness or rest your case.”

  There’s still time. I could still call for an adjournment. I could still make the disclosure. A murmur filters throughout the court. Everyone is waiting. I fight the urge to flee and never come back.

  “Ms. Kellaway.”

  I rise to my feet. It’s a miracle we’ve made it this far, to trial, after the tentative early days of the arraignment, the defense’s pathetic attempts at a plea agreement in return for a suspended sentence, the eventual withdrawal of each witness, apart from one.

  “Your Honor, I call Susan Angela Watson to the stand.”

  10

  I look at poor Susie in the witness box. A smile forms on her lips. A kind smile for a kid. As if she can feel my terror and wants to reassure me that everything’s going to be okay. Prior to Susie taking the stand, the witness screen had been wheeled into court. The lightweight laminate partition is effective in its simplicity, and completely obstructs any view that Susie has of Alistair Kennedy and him of her, although the jury, who are seated to Susie’s left, can see her clearly, including, I hope, the same slightly trembling chin that I’m witnessing.

  I take a breath and begin. We start with the easy questions first, her name, date of birth, where she attended school. Then we get into the evidence proper. The tough stuff. The kind of stuff that makes juries cringe. I steer her through her evidence-in-chief, one painful incident at a time. Four incidents, in particular, that mirror the charges brought against Kennedy. Susie confines herself to answering the questions, just as we talked about during her pre-trial prep, offering no more information than necessary. She does well, leaning into the microphone and speaking clearly so everyone can hear. A slight quiver thins her voice but she holds herself together in a way that is both admirable and heartwarming in its sincerity.

  We get to the storeroom incident at the school involving the digital penetration and I hone in on the details. There are intakes of breath. People shift in their seats. It’s unpleasant and hard to listen to but critical for everyone to hear. I look at the jury. Seven men. Five women. Three Latino. One black. One Korean. One Lebanese. The rest white. A good cross-section overall. Two are crying.

  “Susie, are you able to identify the man who did that to you?”

  “Yes.”

  I enter in a large poster-sized six-person montage as Exhibit 12.

  “Can you point him out in this montage labeled Exhibit 12?”

  She raises her hand and points to Alistair Kennedy’s face.

  From his chair to the right, Kennedy shifts uncomfortably, his mouth a grim flat line. In the row directly behind him, his loyal wife and three grown sons are stone-faced in their seats.

  “Susie, is what you’ve told us here today the truth?”

  Her reaction is immediate. Shoulders back. Chin raised.

  She nods. “Yes, Ms. Kellaway, it is.”

  I turn to the judge. “Nothing further, Your Honor.”

  There’s a short recess and then Susie is back on the stand. Eileen Mercer gets to her feet. I study the worn carpet in front of the witness box and begin to shake. This forty-plus-year veteran once worked for the same prosecution office as I did but turned her back on the public service for a career defending the indefensible. She was an idealist and believed everybody deserved a defense no matter what they were accused of. Mercer played by the rules and firmly expected that everyone else should too. If she ever found out that I had not disclosed something I should have, there would be hell to pay. A complaint to the Bar, the loss of my practicing license in the district of New York, possibly the entire length of the United States. Mercer was a powerful woman in the legal profession and she would never let it go.

  I had studied her as a law student, attending six of her trials. She was renowned for her cross-examination techniques. And she certainly had a talent, that was for sure, and could unravel witness testimony like no other lawyer I had ever encountered. One strand at a time, methodical, ruthless in her action but soft in her tone. She would peer at the jury over her glasses every time a witness faltered as if to say “see, he’s not telling you the truth.” She was a skilled operator and juries loved her sharp wit and her grandmotherly demeanor. Hiring her was the smartest thing Alistair Kennedy could have ever done.

  “How are you, dear?” says Mercer, throwing a kindly smile Susie’s way.

  Susie pulls at her sleeve, “I’m good, ma’am. Thank you.”

  But Susie looks anything but good. Her evidence-in-chief has clearly drained her and I wish I had requested an adjournment until morning.

  “I’m going to ask you a few questions, Susie, and then you can get down. Does that sound fair?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Again, the tug of the sleeve.

  Mercer takes the half-moon spectacles from around her neck and holds them up to read her notes.

  “Susie,” she says, letting her spectacles drop to her ample bosom, “Susie, do you know the difference between telling the truth and a lie?”

  I go cold.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mercer pauses and gives the jury a meaningful look.

  “We all tell fibs from time to time, Susie. But we’re in a court now, in front of a judge. All of us must tell the truth here.”

  I feel the blood rise up my neck and into my face. I feel completely and utterly sick. Susie glances at me, uncertain. I look away.

  “I know,” says Susie, “I am.”

  Mercer draws close to the witness box, her Laura Ashley pumps slipping slightly against the gossamer of her hosed feet.

  She lowers her voice and speaks gently. “When police questioned you at the start, you said Mr. Kennedy never touched you. Isn’t that right?”

  Susie nods. “He told me not to tell.”

  I let out a breath. That’s it? That we can handle.

  “Did you tell your mother?” continues Mercer.

  “No.”

  “Your best friend? What is her name?” Mercer glances at her notes. “Emily?”

  Susie starts to cry. “I’m not lying.”

  Mercer puts a box of tissues on the ledge in front of Susie. Lets her settle for a bit. She can’t afford to alienate the jury and she knows it.

  “It’s all right, dear. Take your time.”

  Susie reaches for a tissue and wipes her eyes. She looks at the judge, cheeks blotchy from crying. “Can I go home now?”

  Judge Brown offers her a sympathetic smile. “When you’ve answered all of Ms. Mercer’s questions.”

  Still teary, Susie nods silently. My heart aches. But there’s nothing I can do.

  “There’s been a lot of fighting at home, hasn’t there, Susie? Your Mom and her new boyfriend haven’t been getting along, have they?”

  Susie looks at her knees.

  “That must be hard.”

  Susie bites her lip. “Sometimes they shout.”

  “They split up, didn’t they?”

  Susie nods.

  “And your Mom’s been struggling to cope?”

  “Mom’s been sad.”

  “Isn’t it the case, dear, that Mr. Kennedy simply gave you a hug when you got upset after what’s been going on at home?”

  Susie shakes her head. “No.”

  Mercer turns to the jury. “You’ve been distraught about it, haven’t you? So distraught, in fact, that you felt you needed attention. A story like the one you’ve made up here would give you the attention you desired, wouldn’t it, Susie?”

  I get to my feet. “Objection, Your Honor, she’s badgering the witness.”

  Mercer fakes outrage. “I resent that, Your Honor. These questions must be put to the witness. They are central to the defense’s case and I am certainly not badgering the witness.”

  Judge Brown agrees. “Sustained.”

  I sit down and Mercer turns to Susie, whose eyes are locked on th
e tissue she’s twisting in her hands.

  “You’re doing very well, dear. Almost there.”

  Susie sniffs and nods. Mercer pauses and frowns at the ceiling as if something has just occurred to her. It’s an act. I know this because I’ve seen her do it before. It’s called “taking the jury along on the journey” so they can feel like they are discovering “the truth” in real time right along with the defense. But a good lawyer never asks a question they don’t already know the answer to and Mercer is a great deal better than just a good lawyer.

  Mercer turns to look at me, a hint of a smile on her lips. “Susie, I’m wondering if you’ve made similar claims before?”

  I stop breathing.

  “Another teacher perhaps?” says Eileen Mercer, consulting her notes. “Back in Seattle, six, no seven, years ago?”

  “I don’t know,” says Susie shakily.

  Mercer frowns, overplaying her disappointment. “Come on now, dear, you know that’s not true. Isn’t it actually a fact that your mother told you to say that a preschool teacher, a Mr. Lucas Ackerman, sexually assaulted you? And didn’t your mother insist that your preschool pay her a substantial sum of money to stop your allegation from reaching the police?”

  I swing around and look at Claire Watson. She won’t meet my eye.

  “And isn’t it true that your mother was eventually found out and charged with making a false complaint to police?”

  I get to my feet. My cane clatters on the floor. “Objection!”

  “I don’t know,” sobs Susie.

  Mercer flaps a piece of paper in the air. “I have the police report right here, Your Honor.”