Question of Consent: A Novel

by Seymour Wishman

  “I’m calm. The little twerp. Don’t worry, I’ll control myself.” I took a deep breath.

  The fact that I was in love with Lisa was now jeopardizing her life. If I was too emotional to be objective, my competence as a lawyer was at risk. The irony was that I didn’t want to represent monster clients, whom I hated but was so successful in defending, and here I was representing someone I cared for so much that I was apparently rendered unable to act in a professional manner in her behalf. I had to calm down.

  “I won’t lose control,” I muttered to myself.

  Chapter 26

  JOHN LED THE STATE’S first witness through his testimony the following morning. Lisa and I sat at our places at counsel table as the police officer described Betz’s apartment.

  “And where was the body found, Officer?” John asked.

  “In the bedroom,” the police officer said.

  “Was there any evidence of a struggle? Was the room in disarray in any way?” John asked.

  “No. It was very neat.”

  “Did you find any weapons in the apartment?”

  “Just one. The gun. It had five spent shells and one live round left in the remaining chamber.”

  “Was there any other evidence in the room that you found and confiscated?”

  “Yes. Two glasses half-filled with liquor. One of the glasses had the defendant’s lipstick on it.”

  “Your witness,” John said.

  I leaned over and whispered to Lisa, “Were you wearing lipstick?”

  Lisa thought for a moment. “Yes, I guess I was.”

  “Why were you wearing lipstick? You never wear lipstick.”

  “I really don’t know why I put it on. But I did put some on just before going to his apartment.”

  “No questions,” I said.

  “Doctor, how many bullets were found in the body of the decedent?” John asked the next witness.

  “Five,” the doctor answered.

  “In what parts of the body?”

  “One in the head, two in the chest, and two in the abdomen.”

  “Were you able to tell at what distance the gun was fired from?”

  “Yes. By the powder burns. The gun was fired at very close range.”

  “Mr. Roehmer?” John said.

  I stood at counsel table. “Doctor, from your examination of the decedent, were you able to tell which bullet entered the body first?”

  “No. That would be impossible to say,” he replied.

  “Doctor, did you examine the fingernails of the decedent?” This was the information the doctor had confirmed when he had called me in my office months ago.

  “I found skin under the fingernails of three fingers of the right hand.”

  “Doctor, would it be consistent with that finding to conclude that the decedent had scratched the skin of someone else?”

  “Yes. That would be the most likely explanation.”

  “Perhaps when he was violently pulling at the defendant’s clothes in his attempt to rape her?”

  “Objection,” John said. “That would be sheer speculation.”

  “I’ll withdraw the question,” I said. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Mr. Cantor, after you examined the bullets removed from the decedent,” John asked the next witness, “were you able to tell from which gun those bullets were fired?”

  “Yes. From the gun seized at the scene of the crime,” the man answered.

  “Was there any mechanical malfunction in the revolver that would have prevented the firing of the last bullet in the chamber?”

  “No. There was nothing wrong with the gun. The person who fired the gun must have just stopped pulling the trigger.”

  “The fingerprints on the gun matched those found on one of the glasses,” the following witness testified.

  “And were you able to tell whose fingerprints they were?” John asked.

  “Yes. The fingerprints belonged to those of the defendant, Lisa Altman.”

  “Mr. Roehmer?” John said, turning to me.

  “No questions,” I said.

  “The state calls Gene Carter,” John said.

  “What’s he going to say?” I asked, leaning over to Lisa. I had not seen or thought about Gene Carter since I had gone to Lisa’s rehearsal and watched him abuse her on the empty stage.

  “I have no idea what he’s doing here,” Lisa said.

  I looked to the rear of the courtroom and watched as Carter entered and walked with his cane down the center aisle toward the witness stand. He was sworn in and took his seat.

  “At Miss Altman’s first performance after the trial of Mr. William Betz, did you hear her say anything about Mr. Betz?” John asked.

  “Yes,” Gene Carter said.

  “What did you hear her say?”

  “As plain as day. She said she should have killed him. And that she’d kill him the next time.”

  Lisa stood. “That’s a lie,” she shouted.

  “Quiet. I’ll not tolerate another outburst,” Judge Grosso said, pounding his gavel.

  “I never meant that. He knows that,” Lisa pleaded.

  “Miss Altman, sit down,” Judge Grosso said.

  I pulled Lisa back into her seat.

  “Your witness,” John said.

  “Did you say that?” I whispered, leaning over to Lisa. “Did you say anything like that? It’s okay if you did. I can deal with it. But did you say it?”

  “I wasn’t serious. I was just upset,” Lisa said.

  I stood up. “Mr. Carter, how long have you worked with Miss Altman?” I asked.

  “Six or seven years,” Gene Carter answered.

  “Would it be fair to say you’ve had many disagreements, even arguments, with her over the years?”

  “Yes. I guess I would describe our relationship as bumpy. She’s a wonderful dancer, let there be no mistake about that. Wonderful. World class.”

  “Mr. Carter, did you ever hear Miss Altman say things in anger?”

  “Many times. She has quite a temper. You have to understand the enormous pressure on star performers. And they’re especially anxious when they know there are only a limited number of years left in their careers.”

  “Has Miss Altman ever directed that anger at you?”

  “Yes. Many times.”

  “Has she ever threatened you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Threatened to kill you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And has she ever?”

  “Ever what?”

  “Killed you?”

  “Not yet.”

  The spectators in the back of the courtroom laughed.

  “Thank you, Mr. Carter,” I said.

  Chapter 27

  LISA SAID THAT FOR the sake of her sanity she needed to spend the nights during the trial alone in her apartment, and I understood that. She needed some quiet and solitude to be able to withstand the pressure in the courtroom. I would have preferred to share the nights with her, but I knew pushing her would be selfish, no matter how much I missed being with her.

  The night after Gene Carter’s testimony, I was alone in my study preparing for the next day, when Lisa would take the stand. I was sure it wasn’t simply as a distraction or a break from my work that I found myself flipping through a file I kept in my desk that I had long ago marked “Personal.”

  I removed a copy of a letter I had written to Jenny more than twenty years before. We had been seeing each other for about six months, and she had given me a kind of autobiography her mother had written to her when Jenny was twelve. Jenny’s mother had known she was dying and had wanted to give her daughter something of herself to hold on to after she was gone. Jenny had never shown it to anyone before she gave it to me.

  I had labored over a response to Jenny, writing draft after draft, before sending her a letter. The letter in my file had been the last draft, typed by me and with words crossed out and handwritten changes written all over it. I read it:

  Dearest Jenny,<
br />
  The portrait of your mother was moving and lovely. While the facts were new, I somehow felt I already knew her by knowing you so well. Being privy to so personal a glimpse makes it tempting to offer a commentary, but because the glimpse is so incomplete, any conclusions would be presumptuous. What emerged was how much she would have enjoyed loving you as you are now. I’m not referring to the many interests she would have delighted in sharing with you—the people, ideas, music, books, etc.—they are obvious. But what I’m thinking of in particular is the passionate caring and involvement you bring to them, and the integrity with which you carry it all off. (Although I’d like to think your mother would have agreed with me that this integrity of yours is, at times, a pain in the ass.)

  I sense that your mother would have had a strong empathy with a young woman who handles herself with your relentless honesty. Life without the honesty, well, you wouldn’t consider it. “Wouldn’t consider it!” you’d say with that marvelous wave of your hand. Your mother’s compassion for people would no doubt have focused with very special attention and very special pride on you. It’s evident from the way she led her life that she would have had a profound understanding of the fears and loneliness that that honesty at times entails. Your loss, among the many losses involved in her absence, is not now to have the benefit of her wisdom and her constant affirmation, her reassurance that you’re right, absolutely right, in the most fundamental and important ways. I don’t think your mother would have put you on any pedestal for it—she would have expected no less from her daughter; but she could not have hoped for more.

  I understand how private these pages are to you, and so I return them to you now. They would have been returned earlier had I resigned myself sooner to so inadequate a response.

  Love, Michael

  Jenny had been very moved by my letter. This had, no doubt, been one of my goals in writing it. I wondered as I sat alone in my study why I always tried to find the worst motives in everything I did. The fact was that I had been genuinely knocked out by what Jenny’s mother had written, and I had meant every word of my letter to Jenny—but I had wanted her to be moved by it.

  I returned the letter to my “Personal” file and put the file back into the drawer of my desk.

  Chapter 28

  “THE DEFENSE CALLS LISA Altman,” I announced.

  Everyone in the courtroom watched as Lisa stood and walked to the witness box. The court clerk held out a black Bible, and she placed her hand on it.

  “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” the clerk asked.

  “I do,” Lisa said.

  “Please take a seat. State your name and spell it for the court reporter,” the clerk ordered.

  “Lisa Altman. L-I-S-A. A-L-T-M-A-N.”

  As I walked toward my witness, I looked over the rail and saw the woman who did the drawings for the local television station. She was working in pastels, and she was already well on her way with a dramatic picture of Lisa in the witness box.

  I was determined to keep my direct examination as brief as possible. John would bring out all the lurid details. Then I would still have an opportunity on redirect examination to go back over the most important points of her testimony. On the strength of my redirect, I hoped to leave the most lasting impression on the jury.

  “Miss Altman, did you know the decedent, William Betz?” I asked as my first question. I didn’t want to ask the more typical questions about her background to introduce her to the jury. I was sure the jury was already well aware of who she was.

  “Yes. I knew him.”

  “How was it that you knew him?”

  “He was the man who had raped me before, and when he tried to do it again, I shot him.” This was the answer Lisa had given me the dozens of times we had rehearsed the question—and she gave it now in the same soft tone and slow tempo we had prepared.

  “How did you come into possession of the gun that you used to shoot him?”

  “After he was acquitted on the rape charge, I was terrified. I knew he would come after me again. Then he called me. I wasn’t surprised, but I was terrified.”

  “Where were you when he called you?”

  “I was in Houston, appearing in Swan Lake. He called me at my hotel. He knew I was in Texas. He found out what hotel I was staying at.”

  “What did you do?”

  “As I say, I wasn’t surprised, but I was terrified. I went to a store. They have gun shops there. And I bought a gun and some bullets.”

  “When was the next time you saw Betz?”

  “When I returned to New York. He called me again, several times. He said he wanted to see me. He said that he didn’t want to rape me again, he wanted to worship me.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “I told him he was crazy. That he should leave me alone.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “He called me again. He said if I didn’t come over to his apartment, he’d come get me. If not that night, another night—he’d find me and force me to love him.”

  “What did you think when he said this to you?”

  “I knew it was just a matter of time before he’d try to rape me again.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I went to his apartment. I went there to plead with him, to threaten him, I don’t know.”

  “You took your gun?”

  “I wasn’t going to use it. I was going to threaten him with it, to convince him to leave me alone.”

  “So you went to his apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “He insisted we have a drink. We drank. He told me he would make me very happy. I told him he was crazy and to leave me alone.”

  “Yes?”

  “I took the gun out of my handbag. I wasn’t going to use it. He laughed. He laughed at me. He started to come toward me.”

  “Miss Altman, did you go to the apartment of William Betz with the intention of shooting him?”

  “I did not. I swear it. I did not.”

  “When he was walking toward you, what were you thinking?”

  “He was smiling. He had that crazed, fixed smile on his face.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “I knew he was going to rape me again, and I was terrified.”

  “Your witness,” I said.

  The first act was over. Lisa had been good, very good. The courtroom was dead silent. The jury had been hanging on her every word. Only Judge Grosso looked dubious as he sat there with his lips pursed like a man who had just tasted a lemon.

  John stood and approached Lisa as I returned to my seat at counsel table.

  “Miss Altman,” John began, “you said you felt threatened by Mr. William Betz, and feared he might rape you again. Did you tell anybody of your anxiety before you went to his apartment and shot him?”

  “No. I had no one to tell,” Lisa said.

  “Miss Altman, you could have called the police. Did you call the police?”

  “No. I didn’t think they would do anything about it.”

  “Miss Altman, you said you received threatening phone calls from Mr. Betz. Did you tell anybody about that before murdering him?”

  “Objection,” I shouted. “It wasn’t murder, it was self-defense. Mr. Phalen knows the difference.” I certainly wasn’t going to let him slip that by. But I had shouted, and I hadn’t needed to do that. It was clear to me that I was on a hair trigger. I told myself to calm down, calm down, damn it!

  “Your Honor, it’s for the jury to decide if they really believe it was self-defense,” John said. “I’ll rephrase the question. Did you tell anybody about the alleged phone calls before shooting Mr. Betz?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Miss Altman, did you call the police about the phone calls?”

  “No. They didn’t help me the last time.”

  “Miss Altman, you claim that you bought the gun to protect you
rself. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. That’s true.”

  “Did you plan on using it?”

  “No. I had never fired a gun in my life. I thought if he ever came after me, pointing the gun at him would be enough.”

  “Then why did you buy the bullets?”

  “I don’t know. They sold them to me at the same time. The man at the gun store asked me, ‘Do you want bullets?’ And I said yes.”

  “Miss Altman, when you went to Mr. Betz’s house, you knew there were bullets in the gun, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. That’s where I kept the bullets. And it was good that I did. Pointing the gun at him was not enough. When I pointed the gun, he just kept coming at me.”

  John walked over to where I was sitting at counsel table. “That was good, Michael,” John whispered. “You prepared her well.”

  “Thank you, John,” I said, being careful not to smile, which would have looked bad to the jury.

  John, standing behind me, turned back to Lisa. “You put five bullets into the man, didn’t you?”

  “I honestly don’t know how many. I just kept firing.”

  “Miss Altman, I assume you are trying to tell this jury you were panicked, you didn’t know what you were doing. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. That’s what happened.”

  “Then what happened to the sixth bullet?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Miss Altman, if you were so panicked, why didn’t you empty the gun and put the sixth bullet into him?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I just stopped. He had fallen to the floor. I guess I just stopped pulling the trigger.”

  “Isn’t it a fact, Miss Altman, that you hated this man?”

  “Yes. I hated him.”

  “And that you wanted to kill him for what he had done to you the last time you had been alone together?”

  “I hated him. But I didn’t go there to kill him. I didn’t want to kill him. I just wanted him to stop tormenting me.”

  “Miss Altman, you wanted revenge, that’s why you deliberately shot him. Isn’t that a fact?”

  “No. That’s not a fact.”

  “When he came at you, he didn’t have a weapon, did he?”

  “No. He didn’t have a weapon. He didn’t have a weapon the last time he raped me, either.”