by Alice Sebold
He continued.
“Is it a fair statement to say you wear your glasses all the time to be able to see?”
“No.”
“When don’t you wear them?”
“When I’m reading, and basically when I am just doing most anything.”
How could I explain, on the stand, a battle I had had with my eye doctor? He said I wore my glasses more than I needed to. That in my desire to be so clued in, I was ruining my vision and making my eyes, as they are now, dependent on corrective lenses.
“Did you think you needed your glasses on this evening in October?”
He meant May, but no one corrected him.
“It was night, yes.”
“Do you see poorer at night?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Was there any special reason you brought your glasses?”
“No.”
“Is it a fair statement to say you wear your glasses when you leave the dorm all the time?”
“No.”
“Was there any special reason you wore your glasses that evening?”
“Probably because they were a week old and I liked them. They were new.”
He jumped on this: “New prescription or just new design of frame?”
“Just new design of frame.”
“Prescription the same?”
“Yes.”
“Prescribed by whom?”
“Dr. Kent of Philadelphia, near my home.”
“Do you recall where these—do you recall when that was?”
“December 1980,1 think, was my last prescription.”
“Prescribed and made in 1980, is that correct?”
Could he know that he was making his point and losing it simultaneously? That my prescription had been updated six months before the rape. I didn’t know what he was doing but I was going to follow him at every turn. He wanted to back me into a maze I couldn’t get out of. I was determined. I felt I had what Gallagher had—mettle. I could feel it in my veins.
“Umm-hmm,” I said.
“And I believe you say that, at some point during this struggle, your glasses were knocked from you, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“It was a dark area, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“How dark would you say it was?”
“Not that dark. It was light enough so I could see physical features—face, plus the fact that his face was very close to mine and since I am nearsighted and not farsighted, my vision is good up close.”
He turned to the side and looked up a moment. For a second, adrenaline pumping in my veins, I watched the court. Everyone was still. This was business as usual to them. Another prelim on another rape case. Ho hum.
“I believe you said at some point this individual kissed you?”
He was good, sweaty lip, bad mustache, and all. He went, with a keen, deft precision, right to my heart. The kissing hurts still. The fact that it was only under my rapist’s orders that I kissed back often seems not to matter. The intimacy of it stings. Since then I’ve always thought that under rape in the dictionary it should tell the truth. It is not just forcible intercourse; rape means to inhabit and destroy everything.
“Yes,” I said.
“When you say, ‘kissed you,’ do you mean on the mouth?”
“Yes.”
“Were you both standing?”
“Yes.”
“In relation to your height, how tall was the individual?”
He chose the kiss to lead me to the rapist’s height.
“Approximately the same height or an inch above,” I said.
“How tall are you, Miss Sebold?”
“Five, five and a half.”
“You would say this individual was probably the same height or maybe an inch taller?”
“Umm-hmm.”
“When you were standing there, looking at him, he looked to be about the same height, is that correct?”
“Umm-hmm.”
“Just about that?”
“Yes.”
His tone, since questioning my vision, had changed. There was now not even a trace of respect in it. Seeing that he had not yet gotten the best of me, he had switched into a sort of hateful overdrive. I felt threatened by him. Even though, by all measures, I was safe in that courtroom and surrounded by professionals, I was afraid.
“I believe you testified that the description you gave on that night indicated he was of a muscular build?”
“Yes.”
“Short and had short black hair?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember telling the police, when you made your voluntary affidavit, you thought he was about one hundred and fifty pounds?”
“Yes.”
“Is that your best estimate as to the weight of this individual?”
“I am really not very good with weight,” I said. “I don’t know the ratio of muscle or fat in someone’s body.”
“You do recall telling him it was one hundred and fifty pounds?”
“The police officers gave me an estimation of what they might weigh, a man, and I said, yes, that looked approximately correct.”
“Are you saying you were influenced by what the police officer told you?”
“No, he was just giving me an example to follow. It seemed approximately close.”
“Based on what the police officer gave you and your physical observation, is your testimony on May eighth your best estimate of the weight of this individual is one hundred and fifty pounds?”
“Yes.”
“Have you heard anything that would change your mind at this point?”
“No.”
His energy zoomed. He looked just like a boy who is savoring the last bite of cake. Mr. Meggesto had gotten something back after losing on vision, but I didn’t know what.
I was tired now. I was doing my best, but I felt my energy drain. I had to get it back.
“I believe you say you were struck in the face a number of times?”
“Yes.”
“And that you were bleeding?”
“Yes.”
“And your glasses had been knocked from you?”
In hindsight I wish I had the wherewithal to say, “None of this made me blind.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Did you seek any medical attention for your injuries?”
“Yes.”
“When was that?”
“The same night right after I got back to the dorm, and before I arrived at the police station—I reported to the police. The police brought me to Grouse Irving Memorial Hospital and I went to the lab, where they prescribed medication for my facial cuts.”
I would try and stay steady. I would give the facts.
“Were you able to find your glasses on the night of this incident?”
“The police found the glasses—”
He interrupted me.
“You didn’t have them when you left the area? You did not leave with your glasses?”
“Right.”
“Anything else you remember?”
“No.”
I felt hushed by him now. The gloves were off.
“Can you tell me briefly what you were wearing on the night of October fifth?”
Mr. Ryan stood and corrected the date. “May eighth.”
“On May eighth,” Mr. Meggesto rephrased, “tell me what you were wearing.”
“Calvin Klein jeans, blue work shirt, heavy beige cable-knit cardigan sweater, moccasins, and underwear.” I hated this question. Knew, even on that stand, what it was all about.
“Was that cardigan sweater one that pulled on or buttoned up the front?”
“Buttons up the front.”
“You didn’t have to take it over your head to get it off? Is that correct?”
“Right.”
I was seething. I had gotten my energy back because what my clothes had to do with why or how I was raped seemed obvious: nothing.
“I believe you testified this individual attempted to disrobe you and, failing that, ordered you to do so?”
“Right, I had a belt on. He couldn’t work the belt correctly from the opposite side of me. He said, ‘You do it,’ so I did.”
“This was the belt holding up your Calvin Klein jeans?”
He emphasized “Calvin Klein” with a sneer I was unprepared for. It had come to this.
“Yes.”
“He was facing you?”
“Yes.”
“Your testimony was he wasn’t able to work the clasp, whatever the gimmick was, that closed that belt?”
“Umm-hmm.”
“You did it on his orders?”
“Yes.”
Now it was his turn to take a point. He questioned me on the rapist’s knife. I had seen it only in the photos of the crime scene and in my mind’s eye. I admitted to Meggesto that, though the rapist had threatened me and made gestures to retrieve it from his back pocket, because of the struggle on my part, I had never seen it.
“Is it a fair statement to say you were very frightened by all this?” Meggesto asked, moving on.
“Yes.”
“When did you first become frightened?”
“As soon as I heard footsteps behind me.”
“Did your pulse beat increase?”
“I imagine some, yes,” I said. I didn’t understand why he was asking me this.
“Do you recall?”
“No, I don’t recall if my pulse beat increased.”
“Do you recall becoming scared and breathing short and fast?”
“I recall becoming scared, and whatever physical things come from that, I probably had them, but I wasn’t hyperventilating or anything like that.”
“Do you remember anything else other than being scared?”
“Mental state?” I thought I’d say it since that’s what I thought he was driving at.
“No,” he said, “I mean physically. Do you remember how your body acted when you were frightened? Did you tremble, increase in pulse rate, have any change in breathing?”
“No, I don’t remember any specific changes except for the fact that I was screaming. I did keep telling the rapist that I was going to vomit, because my mother gave me articles that said if you say you are going to vomit, they won t rape you.”
“That was a ruse to use on this individual and might scare him off?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever learn the identity of this individual?”
“Exactly what time or—”
“Did you ever learn the identity of this individual?”
“By me, no.” I wasn’t quite sure of what he was asking. Interpreted him to be asking if I knew Madison’s name back in May.
“Well, did you ever see this individual prior to May of 1981?”
“No.”
“Did you ever see this individual after May of 1981?”
“Yes, I saw him in October.”
“Did you ever see this individual between May and October of 1981?”
“No.”
“Never did?”
“No.”
“When did you see him after May of 1981?”
I told him of the incident on October 5.1 detailed the time, location, and my sighting, at the same time, of the redheaded policeman who had turned out to be Officer Clapper. I told him I had called the police and had come back to the Public Safety Building to give a description of the rapist.
“You gave a description to whom?” he asked.
Mr. Ryan objected. “I think we have gone outside the scope of direct examination,” he said. “Anything further would be for a Wade Hearing.”
I had no idea what that was. The three men, Mr. Ryan, Mr. Meggesto, and Judge Anderson, debated what had been stipulated prior to the preliminary. They reached an agreement. Mr. Meggesto could continue concerning the arrest of the individual. But the judge warned that he was “going into it”—the issue of identification. The judge’s last words recorded in the transcript are “Come on/’ Even now I hear the fatigue in them. His major motivation, I feel certain, was to wrap it up and get to lunch.
Frantic, because I had not understood the decision or even, frankly, what the hell they had been talking about, I tried to focus back on Mr. Meggesto. Whatever was said, it gave him permission to attack again.
“After you crossed the street and went to Huntington Hall, did you ever see this individual again?”
“No.”
“Were you shown any photographs?”
“No.” At the time I didn’t know that there was no photo lineup in my case because a mug shot of Gregory Madison did not exist.
“Ever taken to a lineup?”
“No.”
“You came there and made an identification at the police station?”
“Yes.”
“That is after you called your mother?”
“Yes.”
“And after that you were informed someone was arrested?”
“I wasn’t informed that night. I was informed, I think it was this Thursday morning, by Officer Lorenz.”
“So, you didn’t know of your own knowledge whether or not the individual that you saw on October fifth was the individual that was arrested?”
“There was no way I could know that unless the police who arrested him—”
“The question is, yes or no, do you know whether or not the individual—”
This time when he cut me off, it made me mad.
“As they described the man, it was the man they arrested—”
“Question is, do you know?”
“I haven’t seen him since he was arrested.”
“You didn’t see him.”
“The man I described on the eighth of May and the individual on October fifth is the man that raped me.”
“That is your testimony, you believe the man you saw on October fifth—”
“I know the man I saw on October fifth is the man that raped me.”
“The man you say is the man who raped you is the same man you saw on October fifth?”
“Right.”
“But you don’t know whether that man was arrested?”
“Well, I didn’t arrest him, how would I know?”
“That is my question—you don’t know?”
“All right, I don’t know, then.” What else could I say? He had proven, very dramatically, that I was not a member of the Syracuse Police Department.
Mr. Meggesto turned to the judge. “I don’t think I have anything further,” he said.
But he wasn’t done. I stayed in the witness stand while the judge listened, and then debated, the point of identification with him. It turned out that Ryan’s purpose had been to have Madison in the court, that by Madison’s having waived his right to appear, all Ryan now had to prove was that a rape had taken place on May eighth and that I had identified a man I believed to be my assailant. There was confusion. Ryan believed that in Madison waiving his right to appear, Meggesto had forfeited the question of identification. That was not Meggesto’s understanding.
“Held for action of the grand jury,” the judge said finally. He was tired. I concluded from the movements of Ryan and Meggesto— they were closing up their briefcases—that I was done.
Tess and I went to lunch. We had Upstate New York food—cheese fries, that sort of thing. We sat in a restaurant booth and the smell of the grease from the kitchen filled the air. She talked. She filled the time with talk. I stared up at the lush restaurant philodendrons that adorned and softened the high shelves separating each booth. I was exhausted. Now I wonder if Tess was silently asking the question I do when I reread the transcripts from that day. Where were my parents?
I want to give them an excuse. Perhaps they don’t need one. At the time I felt that since it had been my decision to return to Syracuse, the outcome of this—that I had indeed run into my rapist again—was left to me. Now I’m tempted to make all the excuses available to them. My mother di
dn’t fly. My father was teaching. Et cetera. But there was time. My mother could have driven up. My father could have canceled his classes for one day. But I was nineteen and ornery. I was afraid of their comfort, that to feel anything was to feel weak.
I called from the restaurant and told my mother the judge’s decision. She was happy I had Tess with me, asked questions about when the grand jury would be held, and fretted about the lineup— any close proximity to him. She had been nervous all day, waiting for the phone to ring. I was glad to bring her good news—it was the closest I could get to straight A’s.
I was taking a normal course load in school. Of the five classes two were writing workshops but three were requirements. Tess’s survey course. A foreign language. Classics in translation.
In the Classics class I was bored stiff. The teacher spoke less than he intoned and this, combined with the shabby, much-used textbook, made the class seem like an hour of death every other day. But in the midst of this teacher’s droning on, I started to read. Catullus. Sappho. Apollonius. And Lysistrata, a play by Aristophanes in which the women of Athens and Sparta rebel—until the men of both nation-states agree to make peace, these women of warring cities unite in a boycott of all marital relations. Aristophanes wrote this in 411 B.c. but it translated beautifully. Our teacher insisted that it was low comedy but in its hidden message—the power of women united—the play was very important to me.
Ten days after the preliminary hearing, I returned home to my dorm after the Italian 101 class I appeared to be failing. I could not speak the words out loud the way we were required to. I sat in the back of the classroom and couldn’t keep my mind on the conjugations. When I was called on, I butchered some form of what I was convinced might be a word but which the professor had trouble recognizing. Under my door at Haven, someone had slid an envelope. It was from the office of the district attorney. I was being subpoenaed to testify before the grand jury on November 4 at 2:00 P.M.
I was supposed to go down to Marshall Street with Lila after she got back from class. While I waited, I called the DA’s office. Gail Uebelhoer, who would represent me, wasn’t in. I had the office assistant say her name a few times slowly. I wanted to get it right. I still have the piece of paper where I wrote down, phonetically, how to say it. “You-bel-air or E-belle-air.” I practiced saying it in front of the mirror, trying to make it sound natural. “Hello, Ms. You-bel-air, it’s Alice Sebold from State versus Gregory Madison.” “Hello, Ms. E-belle-air…” I worked on it. I put Italian aside.
