the Woods (2007)

by Harlan Coben

  Mort Pubin was up. "Objection."

  I spread my arm and looked exasperated. "Your Honor."

  "I'll allow it," the judge said.

  "Go on," I said.

  "Jerry got a beer from the keg and he kept looking at it."

  "Looking at his beer?'

  "Yeah, a little, I guess. He wouldn't look at me no more. Something was different. I asked him if he was okay. He said, sure, everything was great. And then", her voice didn't catch, but it came awfully close-"he said I had a hot bod and that he liked watching me take off my clothes."

  "Did that surprise you?"

  "Yeah. I mean, he never talked like that before. His voice was all rough now." She swallowed. "Like the others."

  "Go on."

  "He said, 'You wanna go upstairs and see my room?'"

  "What did you say?"

  "I said okay."

  "Did you want to go to his room?"

  Chamique closed her eyes. Another tear leaked out. She shook her head. "You need to answer out loud." "No," she said. "Why did you go?" "I wanted him to like me." "And you thought he would like you if you went upstairs with him?" Chamique's voice was soft. "I knew he wouldn't if I said no." I turned away and moved back to my table. I pretended to look at notes. I just wanted to give the jury time to digest. Chamique had her back straight. She kept her chin high. She tried to show nothing, but you could feel the hurt emanating from her.

  "What happened when you got upstairs?"

  "I walked past a door." She turned her eyes back to Jenrette. "And then he grabbed me."

  Again I made her point out Edward Jenrette and identify him by name.

  "Was anyone else in the room?"

  "Yeah. Him."

  She pointed to Barry Marantz. I noticed the two families behind the defendants. The parents had those death-mask faces, where the skin looks as if it were being pulled from behind, the cheekbones appear too prominent, the eyes sunken and shattered. They were the sentinels, lined up to shelter their offspring. They were devastated. I felt bad for them. But too bad. Edward Jenrette and Barry Marantz had people to protect them.

  Chamique Johnson had no one.

  Yet part of me understood what really happened here. You start drinking, you get out of control, you forget about the consequences. Maybe they would never do this again. Maybe they had indeed learned their lesson. But again too bad.

  There were some people who were bad to the bone, who would always be cruel and nasty and hurt others. There were others, maybe most that came through my office, who just messed up. It is not my job to differentiate. I leave that to the judge during sentencing.

  "Okay," I said, "what happened next?"

  "He closed the door."

  "Which one?"

  She pointed to Marantz.

  "Chamique, to make this easier, could you call him Mr. Marantz and the other one Mr. Jenrette?"

  She nodded.

  "So Mr. Marantz closed the door. And then what happened?"

  "Mr. Jenrette told me to get on my knees."

  "Where was Mr. Flynn at this point?"

  "I don't know."

  "You don't know?" I feigned surprise. "Hadn't he walked up the stairs with you?"

  "Yeah."

  "Hadn't he been standing next to you when Mr. Jenrette grabbed you?"

  "Yeah."

  "And then?"

  "I don't know. He didn't come in the room. He just let the door close."

  "Did you see him again?"

  "Not till later."

  I took a deep breath and dove in. I asked Chamique what happened next. I walked her through the assault. The testimony was graphic. She spoke matter-of-factly, a total disconnect. There was much to get in, what they had said, how they had laughed, what they had done to her. I needed specifics. I don't think the jury wanted to hear it. I understood that. But I needed her to try to be as specific as possible, to remember every position, who had been where, who had done what.

  It was numbing.

  When we finished the testimony on the assault, I gave it a few seconds and then approached our trickiest problem. "In your testimony, you claimed your attackers used the names Cal and Jim."

  "Objection, Your Honor."

  It was Flair Hickory, speaking up for the first time. His voice was quiet, the kind of quiet that draws all ears.

  "She did not claim they used the names Cal and Jim," Flair said.

  "She claimed, in both her testimony and prior statements, that they were Cal and Jim."

  "I'll rephrase," I said with a tone of exasperation, as if to say to the jury, can you believe how picky he's being? I turned back to Chamique.

  "Which one was Cal and which one was Jim?"

  Chamique identified Barry Marantz as Cal and Edward Jenrette as Jim.

  "Did they introduce themselves to you?" I asked.

  No.

  "So how did you know their names?"

  "They used them with each other."

  "Per your testimony. For example, Mr. Marantz said, 'Bend her over, Jim.' Like that?"

  "Yeah."

  "You are aware," I said, "that neither of the defendants is named Cal or Jim."

  "I know," she said.

  "Can you explain that?"

  "No. I'm just telling you what they said."

  No hesitation, no trying to make excuses, it was a good answer. I left it alone.

  "What happened after they raped you?"

  "They made me clean up."

  "How?"

  "They stuck me in a shower. They used soap on me. The shower had one of those hoses. They made me scrub off"

  "Then what?"

  "They took my clothes, they said they were going to burn them. Then they gave me a T-shirt and shorts."

  "What happened next?"

  "Jerry walked me to the bus stop."

  "Did Mr. Flynn say anything to you during the walk?"

  "No."

  "Not one word?"

  "Not one word."

  "Did you say anything to him?"

  "No."

  Again I looked surprised. "You didn't tell him you were raped?"

  She smiled for the first time. "You don't think he knew that?"

  I let that go too. I wanted to shift gears again.

  "Have you hired a lawyer, Chamique?"

  "Kinda."

  "What do you mean, kinda?"

  "I didn't really hire him. He found me."

  "What's his name?"

  "Horace Foley. He don't dress nice like Mr. Hickory over there."

  Flair smiled at that one.

  "Are you suing the defendants?"

  "Yeah."

  "Why are you suing them?"

  "To make them pay," she said.

  "Isn't that what we're doing here?" I asked. "Finding a way to punish them?"

  "Yeah. But the lawsuit is about money."

  I made a face as though I didn't understand. "But the defense is going to claim that you made up these charges to extort money. They're going to say that your lawsuit proves, in fact, that you're interested in money."

  "I am interested in money," Chamique said. "Did I ever say I wasn't?"

  I waited.

  "Aren't you interested in money, Mr. Copeland?"

  "I am," I said.

  "So?"

  "So," I said, "the defense is going to claim it's a motive to lie."

  "Can't do nothing about that," she said. "See, if I say I don't care about money, that would be a lie." She looked at the jury. "If I sat here and told you, money means nothing to me, would you believe me? 'Course not. Same as if you told me you didn't care about money. I cared about money before they raped me. I care about it now. I'm not lying. They raped me. I want them to go to jail for that. And if I can get some money from them too, why not? I could use it."

  I stepped back. Candor-real candor-smells like nothing else.

  "Nothing further," I said.

  Chapter 8

  The trial broke for lunch. Lunch is usually a time to
discuss strategy with my subordinates. But I didn't want that right now. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to rework the direct in my head, see what I missed, figure out what Flair was going to do.

  I ordered a cheeseburger and a beer from a waitress who looked as though she wanted to be in one of those want-to-get-away? commercials. She called me hon. I love when a waitress calls me hon.

  A trial is two narratives competing for your attention. You need to make your protagonist a real person. Real was much more important than pure. Attorneys forget that. They think they need to make their clients sweet and perfect. They don't. So I try to never dumb it down for the jury. People are pretty good judges of character. They are more likely to believe you if you show your foibles. At least on my side, the prosecutions. When you're doing defense, you want to muddy up the waters.

  As Flair Hickory had made abundantly clear, you want to bring forth that beautiful mistress known as Reasonable Doubt. I was the opposite. I needed it clear.

  The waitress reappeared and said, "Here, hon," as she dropped the burger in front of me. I eyed it. It looked so greasy I almost ordered a side of angiogram. But in truth, this mess was just what I'd wanted. I put both hands on it and felt my fingers sink into the bun.

  "Mr. Copeland?"

  I didn't recognize the young man standing over me.

  "You mind?" I said. "I'm trying to eat here."

  "This is for you."

  He dropped a note on the table and left. It was a sheet from a legal yellow pad folded into a small rectangle. I opened it up.

  Please meet me in the back booth on your right.

  EJ Jenrette It was Edward's father. I looked down at my beloved burger. It looked back at me. I hate eating cold food or anything reheated. So I ate it. I was starving. I tried not to wolf it down. The beer tasted damn good.

  When I was done I rose and headed toward the back booth on my right. EJ Jenrette was there. A glass of what looked like scotch sat on the table in front of him. He had both hands surrounding the glass, as if he were trying to protect it. His eyes were transfixed on the liquor.

  He did not look up as I slid into the booth. If he was upset by my tardiness, heck, if he noticed it, EJ Jenrette was hiding it well.

  "You wanted to see me?" I said.

  EJ nodded. He was a big man, ex-athlete type, with designer shirts that still looked as though the collar was strangling the neck. I waited.

  "You have a child," he said.

  I waited some more.

  "What would you do to protect her?"

  "For one," I said, "I'd never let her go to a party at your sons frat house."

  He looked up. "That's not funny."

  "Are we done here?"

  He took a long pull on his drink.

  "I will give that girl a hundred thousand dollars," Jenrette said. "I will give your wife's charity another one hundred thousand."

  "Great. Do you want to write the checks now?"

  "You'll drop the charges?"

  "No."

  He met my eye. "He's my son. Do you really want him to spend the next ten years in prison?"

  "Yes. But the judge will decide the sentence."

  "He's just a kid. At worst, he got carried away."

  "You have a daughter, don't you, Mr. Jenrette?"

  Jenrette stared at his drink.

  "If a couple of black kids from Irvington grabbed her, dragged her into a room and did those things to her, would you want it swept under the rug?"

  "My daughter isn't a stripper."

  "No, sir, she isn't.

  She has all the privileges in life. She has all the advantages. Why would she strip?"

  "Do me a favor," he said. "Don't hand me that socioeconomic crap. Are you saying that because she was disadvantaged she had no choice but to choose whoredom? Please. It's an insult to any disadvantaged person who ever worked their way out of the ghetto."

  I raised my eyebrows. "Ghetto?"

  He said nothing.

  "You live in Short Hills, don't you, Mr. Jenrette?"

  "So?"

  "Tell me," I said, "how many of your neighbors choose stripping or, to use your term, whoredom?"

  "I don't know."

  "What Chamique Johnson does or doesn't do is totally irrelevant to her being raped. We don't get to choose like that. Your son doesn't get to decide who deserves to be raped or not. But either way, Chamique Johnson stripped because she had limited options. Your daughter doesn't." I shook my head. "You really don't get it."

  "Get what?"

  "The fact that she's forced to strip and sell her self doesn't make Edward less culpable. If anything, it makes him more so."

  "My son didn't rape her."

  "That's why we have trials," I said. "Are we done now?"

  He finally lifted his head. "I can make it hard on you."

  "Seems like you're already trying that."

  "The fund stoppage?" He shrugged. "That was nothing. A muscle flex." He met my eye and held it. This had gone far enough. "Good-bye, Mr. Jenrette." He reached out and grabbed my forearm. "They're going to get off."

  "We'll see."

  "You scored points today, but that whore still needs to be crossed. You can't explain away the fact that she got their names wrong. That will be your downfall. You know that. So listen to what I'm suggesting."

  I waited.

  "My son and the Marantz boy will plead to whatever charge you come up with so long as there is no jail time. They'll do community service. They can be on strict probation for as long as you want. That's fair. But in addition, I will help support this troubled woman and I will make sure that JaneCare gets the proper funding. It's a win-win-win."

  "No," I said.

  "Do you really think these boys will do something like this again?"

  "Truth?" I said. "Probably not."

  "I thought prison was about rehabilitation."

  "Yeah, but I'm not big on rehabilitation," I said. "I'm big on justice."

  "And you think my son going to prison is justice?"

  "Yes," I said. "But again, that's why we have juries and judges."

  "Have you ever made a mistake, Mr. Copeland?"

  I said nothing.

  "Because I'm going to dig. I'm going to dig until I find every mistake you ever made. And I'll use them. You got skeletons, Mr. Copeland. We both know that. If you keep up this witch hunt, I'm going to drag them out for all the world to see." He seemed to be gaining confidence now. I didn't like that. "At worst, my son made a big mistake. We're trying to find a way to make amends for what he did without destroying his life. Can you understand that?"

  "I have nothing more to say to you," I said.

  He kept hold of my arm.

  "Last warning, Mr. Copeland. I will do whatever I can to protect my child." I looked at EJ Jenrette and then I did something that surprised him. I smiled.

  "What?" he said.

  "It's nice," I said.

  "What is?"

  "That your son has so many people who will fight for him," I said. "In the courtroom too. Edward has so many people on his side." "He is loved." "Nice," I said again, pulling away my arm. "But when I look at all those people sitting behind your son, you know what I can't help but notice?"

  "What?"

  "Chamique Johnson," I said, "has no one sitting behind her."

  I would like to share this journal entry with the class," Lucy Gold said.

  Lucy liked having her students form a big circle with their desks. She stood in the center of it. Sure, it was hokey, her stalking around the "ring of learning" like the bad-guy wrestler, but she found it worked. When you put the students in a circle, no matter how large, they all had front-row seats. There was no place to hide.

  Lonnie was in the room. Lucy had considered letting him read the entry so she could better study the faces, but the narrator was female. It wouldn't sound right. Besides, who ever wrote this knew that Lucy would be watching for a reaction. Had to know. Had to be screwing with her mind. So Lucy decid
ed that she would read it while Lonnie searched for reactions. And of course, Lucy would look up a lot, pausing during the reading, hoping something would give.

  Sylvia Potter, the brown noser, was directly in front of her. Her hands were folded and her eyes were wide. Lucy met her eye and gave her a small smile. Sylvia brightened up. Next to her was Alvin Renfro, a big-time slacker. Renfro sat the way most students did, as though they had no bones and might slide off their chairs and become a puddle on the floor.

  "This happened when I was seventeen," Lucy read. "I was at summer camp. I worked there as a CIT. That stands for Counselor In Training'a"

  As she continued to read about the incident in the woods, the narrator and her boyfriend, "P," the kiss against the tree, the screams in the woods, she moved around the tight circle. She had read the piece at least a dozen times already, but now, reading out loud to others, she felt her throat start to constrict. Her legs turned rubbery. She shot a quick glance at Lonnie. He had heard something in her tone too, was looking at her. She gave him a look that said, "You're supposed to be watching them, not me," and he quickly turned away.

  When she finished, Lucy asked for comments. This request pretty much always followed the same route. The students knew that the author was right there, in this very room, but because the only way to build yourself up is to tear others down, they ripped into the work with a fury. They raised their hands and always started with some sort of disclaimer, like, "Is it just me?" or "I could be wrong about this, but," and then it began:

  "The writing is flat."

  "I don't feel her passion for this P, do you?'a"

  "Hand under the shirt? Please!"

  "Really, I thought it was just direct."

  "The narrator says, 'We were kissing, it was so passionate.' Don't tell me it was passionate. Show me!"

  Lucy moderated. This was the most important part of the class. It was hard to teach students. She often thought back to her own education, the hours of mind-numbing lectures, and could not remember one thing from any of them. The lessons she had truly learned, the ones she internalized and recalled and put to use, were the quick comments a teacher would make during discussion time. Teaching was about quality, not quantity. You talk too much, you become Muzak-annoying back ground music. If you say very little, you can actually score.

  Teachers also like attention. That can be a danger too. One of her early professors had given her sound and simple advice on this: It's not all about you. She kept that front and center at all times. On the other hand, students didn't want you floating above the fray. So when she did tell the occasional anecdote, she tried to make it one where she messed up-there were plenty of those anyway-and how, despite that, she ended up okay.