“If you’re right,” the producer said, “you’ll be able to name your price in this industry.”
Janice was on a plane to San Francisco two days later.
Now, as she studied the faces of the twelve jurors and two alternates that filed into the courtroom and took their seats, she wondered if it were possible that they might find him guilty, might actually believe the ridiculous lies of some frustrated, rejected, middle-aged woman? They looked so pompous sitting there, puffed up like peacocks with their own importance. Janice wondered what they were thinking, indeed whether they were thinking at all. She wished she could have five minutes with them to set them straight.
“Can’t you see what’s happening here?” she would shout. “Can’t you see there are evil forces at work, determined to keep him out of the White House at any cost? Look at him! Isn’t it obvious that he doesn’t need to assault used-up old women when he’s got vibrant young ones lined up for the privilege of being fucked?”
She smiled to herself. Perhaps the last part wasn’t exactly appropriate. Especially after all the efforts of Smoeller and Dobbs to promote Robert as a devoted family man. It was ironic, mused Janice, when those in the know knew that he probably made it with every halfway decent-looking woman under the age of forty who crossed his path.
Take the prosecutor, for example. That was one he wouldn’t miss were circumstances otherwise. She was a knockout in an Hispanic sort of way, and she knew how to dress. Her slim burgundy suit with matching pumps breathed competence and confidence, and the thin gold chain around her neck added exactly the right touch of femininity.
Power dressing, as it had come to be called, was something the New York newswoman knew a great deal about, and with a sinking heart she realized that an attorney who was sharp enough to wear an outfit like that into court was probably sharp enough to destroy Robert Willmont.
Across the aisle, Felicity Gravois was Studying the twelve faces just as intently as Janice Evans.
“They look pretty ordinary,” she remarked to Demelza.
“Most people do,” the Demion Five co-owner commented.
“But are they bright enough to know the truth when they hear it, and not be taken in by the rich and famous?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“Do you really think there’s a jury in this city that would convict him?” Mitch Rankin asked his wife.
“Look at the prosecutor,” Ione replied. “The one in the smashing burgundy suit. I’d say she knows what she’s doing.”
“Maybe,” Mitch cautioned. “But the defense attorney doesn’t look like any slouch either.”
Ione’s response went unspoken because the bailiff stepped forward at that moment to make his speech, those present scraped to their feet, and the Honorable Oliver Wendell Washington, in his flowing black robes, swept into court and took his seat on the bench.
It was one minute past nine o’clock on Thursday, June 18. The trial of The People of the State of California v. Robert Drayton Willmont had begun.
* * *
“I will remind the gallery that there are to be no outbursts or demonstrations of any kind,” Judge Washington intoned from his side of the bulletproof wall. “You are guests of the court and as such can be removed at the whim of the court. I will also remind everyone—members of the media, in particular—that guests of the court are prohibited from taking photographs during these proceedings or using any kind of recording devices.”
There was a general shifting in the gallery as everyone glanced around at everyone else and then settled down. Judge Washington clasped his hands in front of him and nodded to the prosecutor.
Tess pushed back her chair and stood up.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” she addressed the jury. “My name is Teresa Maria Yacinta Escalante, and I represent the People of the State of California.”
Her voice was melodious and clear and carried easily to every corner of the room.
“That’s why this case is called The People versus Robert Drayton Willmont. When a crime has been committed, it is up to those who represent the People to collect every possible scrap of evidence, examine even the most minute detail, and analyze every available piece of information to determine who may have perpetrated that crime. Only after we have done all that to the best of our ability do we come here, to a court of law, to ask a select group such as you to tell us how well we’ve done our job.”
She stepped out from behind the table.
“There was a time, not all that long ago, when the courts of our country refused to recognize such a thing as rape. When people actually believed that if a man took advantage of a woman it was because he either had some preordained right, or because she had asked for it. Thank God that time is past. Thank God our courts are now willing to prosecute those who rape, and thank God there are juries brave enough to convict them. Because there are few crimes in this world as heinous as rape, and fewer still as heinous as acquaintance rape.”
The ADA walked slowly toward the jury box.
“It’s one thing, ladies and gentlemen, for a woman to be pulled into a dark alley and assaulted by a total stranger. We can get our minds around that. We can say he was a maniac and she was an innocent—and that makes the crime clearly definable and the circumstances acceptable to most of us. But it’s something quite different to be assaulted by someone you know, perhaps even admire, but certainly trust—to put yourself innocently into the hands of such a person and then to be betrayed in such a vicious and violating manner.”
Tess glanced casually toward the defense table.
“That’s the distinction that the courts don’t always make. That there is more than one kind of rape, and that each must be viewed and evaluated separately. That’s the distinction that you are going to be asked to make here. It is the People’s position that just because a woman goes to a bar with a man she knows—sits and drinks with him and even agrees to let him drive her home—does not mean she has agreed to have sexual intercourse with him.”
She looked directly into the eyes of each of the jurors.
“There have been some celebrated trials concerning this very issue recently, with juries who, comfortable or not, dutifully considered the facts and delivered their verdicts. Now, it’s your turn. There are no eyewitnesses here, as there rarely are in such circumstances, and so the People’s case will come down to two things: credibility and evidence. Whose story will you believe, and what proof will sway you?”
The ADA nodded slowly.
“I think the credibility of the victim will be obvious. And the evidence will show, beyond a reasonable doubt—no, beyond a shadow of a doubt—that Robert Drayton Willmont raped and beat Karen Doniger on the night of April seventh and then left her, like so much garbage, in the middle of Golden Gate Park. It doesn’t matter who his family might be or what high office he seeks. All that matters is that he did it. He did it. And if those of us who represent the People weren’t absolutely sure of that, we wouldn’t be here today.”
With a small nod, Tess walked back to the prosecution table and sat down.
“Way to go,” murmured Mitch on the right side of the gallery.
“Shit,” Janice Evans mumbled on the left.
Judge Washington gestured to the defense and Hal Sutton rose to his feet.
“My name is Hal Sutton,” the Silver Fox began. “But that’s not very important. What’s important is that I am the attorney who represents Senator Robert Drayton Willmont. In fact, that’s all that’s important here.”
He glanced over at Tess.
“The assistant district attorney says it doesn’t matter who my client is, or what high office he seeks,” he went on. “I say that’s exactly what matters. In fact, that’s what this case is all about. And it’s one of the oldest stories in history. Let a man be brave enough to stand up and say: ‘Come with me, I know the way,’ and immediately there are those, too frightened or greedy to follow, who must plot to destroy him. Two thousand year
s ago, such a man died on the cross.”
“Wonderful,” Demelza muttered under her breath. “So now we’ve got Jesus Christ Willmont on trial here.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sutton continued smoothly, “if you understand anything at all about this proceeding, you must understand that, were Robert Drayton Willmont not exactly who he is, were he not running for the highest office in the land, there would be no cry of rape here, there would be no trial, there would be no slander to this honest and decent and hard-working man who has spent the last fourteen years of his life in the service of his country.”
He put his hand on Robert’s shoulder.
“Yes, my client admits to having sex with Karen Doniger. He is, alas, not God, merely one of His imperfect sons. But the fact is, it was she who encouraged him, she who seduced him, she who took advantage of him—morally weakened as he was by stress, fatigue, and Scotch—not the other way around. And then, surprise of surprises, she cries rape. What does that say to you, members of the jury? What does that suggest about the frightened and the greedy?”
He paused for a moment to let his words sink in.
“Senator Robert Drayton Willmont is a devoted son, a devoted husband and a devoted father,” he went on. “His family sits in this courtroom today as testimony to that. And he has been a devoted public servant, too. His election and reelection to both the Congress and the Senate, and his overwhelming victories in this year’s presidential primaries are testimony to that. Does it seem plausible that such a man, on the brink of his greatest achievement, would risk it all on a momentary exercise?”
He pressed Robert’s shoulder lightly and the defendant got to his feet.
“Take a good look at him, ladies and gentlemen. A son of one of San Francisco’s founding families, a true beacon of hope in our country’s time of crisis, a man of wealth and stature and intelligence and charisma, who has chosen to dedicate his life to his country. Is this a man who would have to resort to rape?”
He held his client motionless for a full fifteen seconds before allowing him to retake his seat.
“The evidence to which the assistant district attorney refers,” Sutton concluded, “will indeed show that Senator Willmont and Karen Doniger were intimate. That they had a few drinks together at a downtown bar and then drove to Golden Gate Park, where they got out of the senator’s car and engaged in sexual intercourse. My client does not and has never denied that. But it’s a far cry from consensual copulation to rape. And that, despite what the prosecution will attempt to make you believe, my client did not do.”
“Right on,” murmured Janice Evans on the left side of the gallery.
Across the aisle, John Micheloni shifted uneasily in his seat. “He’s damn good,” he muttered to Jenna.
four
Tess took a sip of cold coffee and stretched her aching back muscles, swearing for the umpteenth time that the city had better get her that posture-perfect chair she had been requesting for over a year now before her spine became permanently bent.
All in all, however, she had to admit that there was little to complain about. The first two days of the Willmont trial had gone well.
Arthur Gertz began the case for the prosecution and his testimony was every bit as effective as she had anticipated it would be. The precise, yet emotional recounting of his predawn jog and his grim discovery at Stow Lake set a chilling scene that had enormous impact on the jury, an impact that Hal Sutton’s brief cross-examination was unable to dissipate.
Next, Officer Kelly Takuda’s dispassionate testimony had fixed two things in the jury’s mind: that Karen Doniger had been found semi-conscious in Golden Gate Park and that all indications were that she had been the victim of a brutal assault.
“Officer Takuda,” Sutton had inquired when Tess finished her direct examination, “was it possible to tell from anything at the scene, or even from the condition of the woman herself, who initiated the sexual activity?”
“No, sir,” the witness responded. “There was nothing to indicate how it began. All that was discernible was the result.”
“So it’s entirely possible then,” Sutton pressed, “that what you found at Stow Lake on the morning of April eighth was not the result of an assault, as you previously described, but the result of a consensual sexual act that might have been performed more, shall we say, exuberantly than most?”
The policewoman considered for a moment. “Anything’s possible, I guess—but it’s not probable.”
“But is it possible?” Sutton drilled.
“I suppose so.”
“Thank you, Officer Takuda,” Sutton said resuming his seat. “That’s all.”
“Officer Takuda,” Tess said on redirect. “How many incidents relating to sexual violence have you personally investigated in the past six months?”
“About forty,” Kelly replied.
“And last year?”
“Maybe a hundred, a hundred and ten.”
“Then based on your experience, having dealt with perhaps as many as a hundred and fifty such investigations in just the past eighteen months, when you reached Stow Lake on the morning of April eighth, was it your conclusion that the semiconscious woman you found there, bruised and bleeding, had participated in a consensual sexual encounter?”
“No, it was not,” the policewoman confirmed. “My conclusion was then, and is now, that she was the victim of sexual assault and battery.”
“Just one more thing, Officer Takuda,” Tess concluded. “Do you think it’s possible—not probable, mind you, but possible—that the sky will fall tomorrow?”
“Objection!” shouted Hal Sutton.
“Miss Escalante,” Judge Washington admonished, “you know better than that.”
“Withdrawn, Your Honor,” Tess conceded with a contrite smile. “I have nothing more.”
The Rape Treatment Center nurse-examiner’s testimony, detailing the procedures she used to collect the evidence and the precautions she took to keep the chain of custody intact, closed out the second day of the trial. She was a solid witness in the prosecution’s case, confirming that everything she had observed during the course of her examination was totally consistent with forced sex. Sutton had been unable to dislodge her.
Now it was Friday night and tomorrow would begin the third day of the trial. While the court was not usually in session over the weekend, pressure by the defense for a speedy resolution had caused Judge Washington to adjust the schedule. Officially, he explained the Saturday session as an effort on the part of the court to have the proceedings concluded and the jury dismissed by the July 4th holiday.
Actually, Tess was pleased. She planned to put the police lab technician on the stand in the morning, and his testimony and cross-examination would probably last the entire day. Tess would have him go over each item, each piece of Karen’s clothing, each grass stain and dirt smudge and blood smear and trace of semen. Next, she would have him detail his examination of Robert Willmont’s clothing, the tear in his jacket, the split seam in the trousers, and whatever stains, smudges, smears and traces had been found on them. Finally, she would have him produce the highly technical, dreadfully boring but absolutely essential DNA evidence.
If all went well, the jury would retire to the Sheraton Hotel with two vital facts to mull over until Monday morning: first, the DNA unequivocally placed Robert Willmont’s semen inside Karen Doniger’s vagina and mouth; and, second, the condition of her clothing as well as the traces of blood in the vaginal smear clearly indicated that force had been used.
The ADA stretched again and stood up. Through her window, she could see a steady stream of headlights along the freeway, weekend traffic heading out of town. All those people with somewhere to go, she mused, unmindful that the biggest theatrical of the decade was being played out right here at home on the stage of the Glass Courtroom.
What had begun for her as a dubious duty had become a crusade. From a distance, Robert Willmont seemed a bright promise, but up close, he had
lost much of his shine. There was something about the combination of humble contrition and angry indignation he portrayed to the outside world at every opportunity that rubbed Tess the wrong way and made her even more positive of his guilt.
“We’re going into court with the strongest case I’ve seen in years,” she continued to assure Karen. “And let me tell you that I’ve won verdicts with a great deal less.”
“I trust your judgment,” Karen said.
“What?” She chuckled. “You’ve found new faith in the system?”
“I never doubted that the system works,” Karen corrected her. “What I said was that there can be a big gap between the system working and justice being served.”
It was true more often than Tess liked to admit.
She remembered that now as she finished the last of her preparations for tomorrow’s session, snapped off her desk lamp, closed the door of her office, and made her way down the third floor corridor toward the elevator. She had meant what she said about the case being strong, but she also understood the vagaries of a jury. No, understood wasn’t the right word. She had never been able to understand juries, she had just learned how to work with them.
“You sound tired,” Mariah Dobbs said from the New York end of the telephone line on Sunday night.
“I guess I am,” Randy admitted from his studio apartment in the Marina district. “And lonely.”
“You do understand why I can’t be there with you, don’t you?” she asked.
“Sure,” he sighed. “You’ve got other clients who need you.”
“Exactly,” she agreed, although the real reason had more to do with distancing herself and her firm from Senator Willmont’s unfortunate circumstance. “There’s really nothing more I can do for him at this point, anyway. It’s in the hands of the jury now, and I have no way of influencing them. But if he’s acquitted, you can count on my being around to launch a media bombardment that, come November, will dump him right at the door of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.”
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