Guilt by Association

by Susan R. Sloan

  “Withdrawn,” the Silver Fox demurred. “During the years of 1969 through 1977, Mrs. Doniger,” he asked instead, “where were you living?”

  “On West Twelfth Street in New York City,” the witness replied.

  “Were you at that time familiar with a section of New York known as Greenwich Village?”

  “Very familiar. I worked there and I had very good friends who lived there.”

  “These friends, did they live on Sullivan Street, by any chance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you please tell the court something about the living arrangements of these friends?”

  Karen considered the attorney for a moment. “Like a great many people at the time,” she said finally, “and for economic reasons as much as anything else, they had what you would probably call a commune.”

  “A commune—where several unmarried people of mixed sexes shared the same apartment?”

  “Objection,” Tess called. “Where’s the relevance?”

  “Your Honor,” Sutton argued, “this morning, Mrs. Doniger testified to having had no sexual relationships before her marriage. I’m simply pursuing that line of inquiry.”

  “Objection overruled,” Washington said.

  “Again, Mrs. Doniger, this particular commune—was it shared by both men and women?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many men and how many women?”

  “Different numbers at different times,” Karen replied. “The lease was held by a woman who allowed friends with no place else to go to come and stay as long as they liked.”

  “Would you describe these friends who came and stayed as having been part of a counterculture? What were commonly referred to as ‘hippies’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did these hippies who came and stayed engage in sexual intercourse with one another?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “In fact, didn’t the bedroom of that apartment contain wall-to-wall mattresses?”

  “It was a small apartment. There wasn’t enough space for all the separate beds they would have needed.”

  On the right side of the gallery, Ione shifted in her seat. “Where did he get all this?” she hissed.

  “From the ex-roommate, I’ll bet,” Demelza muttered.

  “Or the ex-landlord,” Mitch growled.

  Across the aisle, Janice Evans sat forward. “Maybe not so lily-white, after all,” she murmured.

  “But it was quite common for two or three or even four different couples to—er—make intimate use of those mattresses at night?” Sutton pursued like a bloodhound.

  “Yes.”

  “And, from 1969 to 1977, you visited at the Sullivan Street apartment quite frequently, did you not?”

  “I did,” Karen confirmed. “As I said, they were my friends.”

  “And how often would you spend the entire night there?”

  “Sometimes once, perhaps twice a week.”

  “Once or twice a week—you stayed the night at an apartment where unmarried couples were openly engaging in sexual activities?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet you want this court to believe that you never had an affair before your marriage?”

  Karen glanced at Tess. A small smile tugged at the corner of the ADA’s mouth, but the Silver Fox missed it.

  “What made those people so very special to me, Mr. Sut ton,” the witness responded serenely, “and the reason why I spent so much of my time with them, was that they never pressured me into doing anything I didn’t want to do.”

  “And you want the jury to believe that you spent night after night in a room full of mattresses and never once participated in any of the activities that were going on all around you?”

  “The jury doesn’t have to believe me,” Karen said. “Most of the people from Sullivan Street are sitting right there in the gallery. Why don’t you ask them?”

  As though it had been rehearsed, five spectators on the right side of the aisle rose silently to their feet. The jury craned their necks to get a good look at the prosperous-looking middle-aged group.

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Sutton murmured as smooth as satin. “I think the jury already has the picture. Now, suppose we turn to the night in question, the night of April seventh.”

  For the rest of the afternoon session, the Silver Fox probed and prodded, searching for ways to exploit a weakness, highlight a contradiction, uncover an inconsistency.

  “So,” he concluded at the end of the long day, “after admitting you considered the senator handsome and charming, after arranging to work late at campaign headquarters that night, after making sure you were in the parking garage when the senator arrived, after suggesting that you go to the bar across the street, after consuming three Scotches, after thinking up an excuse to get the senator to stop his car in a remote part of Golden Gate Park, you still expect this jury to believe that the defendant raped you?”

  “Yes, Mr. Sutton,” Karen retorted. “Because he did.”

  “I have nothing more for this witness,” the defense attorney said with a dismissing wave of his hand.

  Tess Escalante stood up and addressed the bench. “The People rest, Your Honor,” she declared.

  “Did we make a dent?” the defendant asked after court.

  “Hard to say,” Sutton replied in his taciturn way.

  Robert sighed. “Maybe trying to make her out to be some middle-aged, sex-starved groupie wasn’t the right approach.”

  “Without a clue as to her motive, what other choice did we have?” the attorney argued.

  “I know,” the senator conceded. “I’m just wondering how effective it was.”

  “Juries can be hard to read,” Sutton reminded him. “But don’t sell them short. We’ve planted the right seeds, and as long as there aren’t any last-minute surprises, I’m sure some of them will take root.”

  “What kind of last-minute surprises?”

  “Someone who can corroborate her story in some way.”

  Robert gave a short laugh. “I don’t think you need to worry about that. Besides, if the prosecution had unearthed an eyewitness, we would already know about it.”

  “Then it’s just her word against yours,” Sutton said agreeably, “and the jury will hear your word last.”

  “You were sensational,” Ted told her that evening. “So calm and collected. It was almost as though you knew the defense attorney was going to ask about Sullivan Street.”

  “I didn’t,” Karen admitted, “but Tess did.”

  “He was sure barking up the wrong tree. Trying to make the jury think you set it all up. But I guess if I were the defense, that’s exactly what I’d do—see if I could put the jury off-track by giving them other possibilities to think about.”

  In Tess’s dream, a perfect spring day was marred by the incessant whiz of a bumblebee that hovered around her head. In reality, someone was leaning on the door buzzer of her Russian Hill flat.

  Tess opened her eyes and glanced at the clock radio on her nightstand. The ghostly green digits told her it was almost three o’clock. She climbed out of her canopy bed and stumbled toward the door, wrapping her fluffy chenille robe around her as she went.

  “Who is it?” she yawned as she pressed the intercom.

  “Lamar,” said the box.

  Tess pushed the button that would spring the outer release and unlocked her door. “This had better be good,” she cried when his bulk appeared in the hallway. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Make some coffee,” the investigator suggested.

  He was always amused at the way she lived, in a world of lace and ruffles and “froufrous,” as his mother used to call them, when her professional facade was so tailored. Neat Victorian sofas and small Edwardian tables and a froth of chiffon at the windows. A company of stuffed animals, fresh flowers, a Persian carpet. She was the complete opposite of the police investigator, who flaunted his outrageous western attire and lived like a Spartan.
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  “Coffee?” she echoed.

  He nodded. “I want you wide awake for this one.”

  It wasn’t often that Lamar Pope appeared at her door in the middle of the night. Tess padded into the kitchen. Five minutes later, they were seated in her living room with their hands wrapped around steaming mugs of instant coffee.

  “What? You expected percolated on such short notice?” she grumbled when Lamar grimaced over the first gulp. “Now, tell me why I’m sitting here with you at this ungodly hour when I should be sound asleep so that I can be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in court at nine o’clock?”

  “I’m on to something,” he said, setting his mug down and fumbling in his jacket pocket for his notepad. “I’ve been talking to a woman named Margaret Smith of Provo, Utah.”

  “So?”

  “It seems Mrs. Smith once worked as a secretary for Robert Willmont.” Indeed, he had painstakingly tracked down every female employee of the defendant, from his days at Sutton Wells to the present. “In 1984, a year and a half into the senator’s first term, she claims he raped her and then told her if she ever said a word about it to anyone he’d not only deny it—and who would take her word over his?—but he’d see to it that she never worked in Washington again.”

  “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” Tess implored, any idea of returning to sleep forgotten.

  “Wait—it gets better,” Lamar declared. “She says he then sat down and wrote out a check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, right on the spot, and told her it would be good only if she got permanently lost.”

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand?” the ADA gasped.

  “Yep.”

  “So she got permanently lost.”

  “You guessed it. But first she went to a hospital. The doctor had to make a report, so of course the police came around. She told them she’d been raped but that she didn’t get a good look at her assailant. Hell, between a quarter of a million dollars and little assurance of a successful prosecution, she figured she’d take the money and run.”

  Tess shrugged. “It’s beautiful, but it’s nothing more than her word against his.”

  “Not exactly,” Lamar corrected with a slow smile. “It seems she took a copy of the hospital record—made up some excuse about needing it for her own doctor, and then, before she cashed the check the senator gave her, she ran it through a li’l ole Xerox machine.”

  “She still has it?”

  “Yep. Tucked away nice and safe for a rainy day.”

  Tess’s eyes widened. “Will she testify?”

  Lamar nodded, neglecting to mention the hours it had taken him to persuade her. “She’s been following the trial and she’s ready to help you nail the bastard. She’s been married the last five years and only just got around to telling her husband what happened. But he’s obviously a good guy because he’s behind her one hundred percent.”

  “Did you check everything out?” Tess asked, hoping she already knew the answer.

  “Sure,” Lamar nodded. “I got onto the hospital in D.C. she said she went to. Don’t ask how, but I tracked down the police officer she said she talked to. I called a couple of people I know who were on Capitol Hill around the time. And I just woke up a former congresswoman from Connecticut. I didn’t want to come to you until I was sure that everything checked out. As far as I can tell, it does.”

  “How soon can she get here?”

  “She can be on a plane in the morning.”

  There was a shrewd glint in the ADA’s black eyes as she considered her options. Lamar could almost see the wheels whirling inside the razor-keen mind.

  “No,” she said slowly. “Call her and tell her to pack her bags but not to come out until Tuesday night. Then tell her to call my office on Wednesday—make sure it’s after nine o’clock but before noon—and leave a message for me. Tell her to say something about having information that may pertain to this case.”

  “I know that glint,” Lamar observed. “It means that what you’ve got in mind may be slightly left of ethical.”

  “Just slightly,” Tess conceded. “Sutton’s got a lineup of witnesses that will probably take us through Wednesday, and if he’s as smart as I think he is, he’ll play his ace last. He’s going to count on the senator’s charisma to win over the jury, and I’m going to play along. I’m not going to reopen the People’s case—I’m going to keep Mrs. Smith for rebuttal.”

  Lamar nodded. “I like it.”

  A satisfied smile spread across Tess’s face. “In fact, I’m going to do everything I possibly can to help the good senator put the noose around his own neck.”

  seven

  Just as Tess had predicted, the defense paraded a staggering array of technical, psychological, and character witnesses past the jury which lasted through the following Tuesday, and included a Harvard pathologist, an Oxford psychiatrist, the mayor of San Francisco, two female members of the House of Representatives, two notable United States senators, a justice of the Supreme Court, and even a famous entertainment personality who had been flown in from Hollywood for the occasion.

  The two congresswomen, who testified to having worked closely with the defendant in a number of capacities, described the senator as a dedicated public servant who had never treated them, or any other woman, to their knowledge, with anything but the utmost respect. The Harvard pathologist assured the jury that the mountain of physical evidence presented by the People was not nearly as conclusive as the prosecution believed and was clearly open to other interpretation. On the basis of a twenty-minute interview, the Oxford psychiatrist pronounced the senator emotionally stable, mentally alert, well-focused, and not the least bit inclined to violence.

  Tess’s cross-examinations were perfunctory.

  Finally, on Wednesday morning, Robert Drayton Willmont was called to the stand.

  “There is no one in this court, or in this state, or probably even in this country, who doesn’t know who you are, Senator Willmont,” Hal Sutton began. “But I think it would be appropriate for you to tell the jury something about the man behind the public face.”

  “I’d be happy to,” Robert replied.

  And so the first hours of the defendant’s long-awaited testimony were spent in congenial commentary about his background, his family, his work, his personal values. He wasted little time in telling the jury that he was a devoted son, a proud father, and a loving husband.

  “I’ve been my mother’s strength and support ever since my father died,” he said. “I still tuck her up in bed at night every chance I get.”

  In the gallery, Amanda Drayton Willmont wagged her head in agreement.

  “My boy Adam is going into eighth grade in September,” Robert boasted. “He’s already almost as tall as I am—and at least twice as smart.”

  Sitting beside her mother-in-law, Elizabeth Willmont wondered where he had found the time to notice.

  “My wife and I are going to celebrate our silver wedding anniversary in October,” he said brightly. “She’s given me twenty-five wonderful years and the best home a man could ask for—and I’m afraid I was ingenuous enough to promise her the White House in return.”

  A faint ripple of amusement ran through parts of the gallery. A faint smile was all Elizabeth could muster.

  “My family has always meant everything to me,” Robert expanded. “Elizabeth, especially. It’s true what they say, you know, about there being a smart women behind every successful man. I’ve been exceedingly fortunate. Elizabeth and I are very close. We understand and respect each other. We discuss every important decision before I make it, we examine every action before I take it. She’s my motivation, my inspiration. Without her behind me, believing in me, supporting me, I would probably still be an associate in my father’s law firm.”

  With a palsied hand, Amanda reached over to pet the daughter-in-law she had always resented.

  Next, Robert praised his elementary and high school teachers, proclaimed his good luck to have attended the two finest
universities in the country, waxed eloquent about his decade and a half in public service, and then spoke at length about his decision to run for President.

  “I believe in America,” he declared. “I believe in an America where people will work together to ensure that the greed of today doesn’t impoverish the children of tomorrow. An America where the middle class can have a fair shake instead of always being made to bear the burden of the rich and the profligate. Even though I was born into money—no, because I was born into money—I was not only able to see where many of the problems were coming from, I could see practical ways to fix them. And it was clear to me that only as President of the United States would I have a real opportunity to implement my solutions.”

  “He’s making a goddamn campaign speech,” Mitch grumbled. “‘Forget that I raped a woman, folks. I’ll put money back in your pockets.’“

  By the time the Silver Fox elicited the desired response to a final preliminary question, Judge Washington was ready to call for the noon break.

  “Clever,” Tess observed to Anne Jenks. “Sutton is going to make very sure that his direct examination doesn’t end until we adjourn for the day. That way, the jury will get to take the defendant’s uncontested words to bed with them.”

  “Why didn’t you object to all that irrelevant patting himself on the back he was doing?” her assistant asked.

  But Tess just smiled. “Because I want the senator to have every possible opportunity to hang himself.”

  “Will he?”

  “He already has,” the ADA replied serenely. “Oh, by the way,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “notify Judge Washington’s clerk at the end of court today that we might be presenting a rebuttal witness.”

  “I can take care of that right now, if you like,” the efficient staff assistant offered.

  “No,” Tess said firmly. “At the end of court today.”

  The afternoon session began promptly at one-thirty.

  “Will you tell the court, in your own words, Senator,” Sutton requested without further preamble, “what really took place on the night of April seventh?”