Lucky

by Alice Sebold

  NINE

  On the morning of November 4, a county car met me at Haven Hall. I watched for it through the glass walls of the dorm’s entranceway. Students had already attended breakfast in the cafeteria upstairs and gathered their books to leave for classes.

  I had been up since five. I tried to linger over the rituals of hygiene. I took a long shower in the bathroom down the hall. I moisturized my face as Mary Alice had taught me to do the year before. I selected and pressed my clothes. My body alternated between stony chills and hot flashes of nerves centered near my chest. I was aware that this might be the kind of panic that ruled my mother. I swore I would not allow it to rule me.

  I left the glass-walled foyer and met the detective as he was coming in. I engaged his eyes. I shook his hand.

  “I’m Alice Sebold,” I said.

  “Right on time’

  “It’s hard to oversleep on a day like this,” I said. I was sunny, cheery, reliable. I wore an oxford-cloth shirt and a skirt. On my feet I wore my Pappagallo pumps. I had fretted that morning because I could not find nude hose. I had black and I had red, neither of which was an appropriate choice for the virgin coed the grand jury would expect. I borrowed a pair from my resident advisor.

  In the county car, marked with the seal of Onondaga on the front doors, I rode in the front beside the detective. We made small talk about the university. He talked sports teams, which I knew nothing about, and projected that the Carrier Dome, little over a year old, would bring a lot of revenue to the area. I nodded my head and tried to contribute but I was obsessively worried about the way I looked. The way I spoke. The way I moved.

  Tricia, from the Rape Crisis Center, would be my company that day. We had about an hour of waiting before the lineup to be held at the Public Safety Building jail. This time the elevator of the Public Safety Building did not stop at the floor I was familiar with, where the reassuring sight of a security door and policemen with coffee mugs met you once you stepped off The hallways the detective, Tricia, and I walked down were full of people. Police and victims, lawyers and criminals. A policeman led a man in handcuffs down the hall past us, while he barked an amiable joke about some recent party to another policeman on the hall. There was a Latina, sitting in a plastic chair in the hallway. She stared at the floor, clutching her purse and a crumpled Kleenex in her hand.

  The detective brought us into a large room in which makeshift dividers no more than four feet tall separated desks from one another. There were men—policemen—sitting at most of them. Their postures were tense and temporary; they came there to fill out reports or quickly interview a witness, or make a call before going back out on patrol or, perhaps, finally going home.

  We were told to sit and wait. That they were experiencing a difficulty with the lineup. His lawyer, it was intimated, was the problem. I had yet to meet Assistant District Attorney Uebelhoer. I wanted to meet her. She was a woman, and in this all-male atmosphere, this made a difference to me. But Uebelhoer was busy with whatever was holding up the lineup.

  I was worried about Madison seeing me.

  “He won’t be able to see you,” the detective said. “We lead him in and he’s behind a one-way mirror. He can’t see a thing.”

  Tricia and I sat there. She didn’t talk like Tess had talked, but she was attentive. She asked after my family and classes, told me line-ups were “one of the most stressful procedures for rape victims,” and inquired several times whether I wanted anything to drink.

  I now think what distanced me from Tricia and from the Rape Crisis Center was their use of generalities. I did not want to be one of a group or compared with others. It somehow blindsided my sense that I was going to survive. Tricia prepared me for failure by saying that it would be okay if I failed. She did this by showing me that the odds out there were against me. But what she told me, I didn’t want to hear. In the face of dismal statistics regarding arrest, prosecution, and even full recovery for the victim, I saw no choice but to ignore the statistics. I needed what gave me hope, like being assigned a female assistant district attorney, not the news that the number of rape prosecutions in Syracuse for that calendar year had been nil.

  Suddenly, Tricia said, Oh, my God!”

  “What?” I asked, but I did not turn around.

  “Cover yourself.”

  I had nothing to do this with. I bent over and put my face in my skirt. I kept my eyes open against the cloth.

  Tricia was up and complaining. “Get them out of here,” she said. “Get them out of here.”

  A hurried “Sorry” came from a policeman.

  Moments later, I looked up. They were gone. There had been faulty communication about which way to lead the men in the lineup into the lineup room. I was out of breath. Had he seen me? I was sure if he had, he would find me and kill me. The treachery of my lies that night—that I would not report it to anyone, that I was too ashamed—would not be lost on him.

  I looked up.

  Gail Uebelhoer was standing in front of me. She held out her hand. I offered her mine. She shook it firmly.

  “Well, that was a little scary,” she said. “But I think they got them out in time.”

  Her hair was short and black, and she had an arresting smile. She was tall, nearly five ten, and had a real body. No emaciated waif, she was solid and female. And she had sparkling, intelligent eyes. The connection for me was immediate. Gail was what I wanted to be when I grew up. She was there to do a job. She wanted what I wanted: to win.

  She explained that I was about to view a lineup and that afterward we would talk about the grand jury and she would tell me exactly what to expect, how the room would look when I walked in, how many civilians there would be in the room, and what kind of questions they might ask—questions, she warned, that might be hard to answer but that I must.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Led by Gail, Tricia and I approached the open door to the viewing side of the room. Inside it was dark. There were a number of men. One I recognized, Sergeant Lorenz. I had not seen him since the night of the rape. He nodded his head. There were two uniformed men and another, the attorney for the defendant, Paquette.

  “I don’t know why she has to be here,” he said, indicating Tricia.

  “I am a representative from the Rape Crisis Center,” Tricia said.

  “I know who you are but I think there are too many people in here already,” he said. He was small and pale, balding. He would be with me through the rest of the case.

  “It’s common practice,” Sergeant Lorenz said.

  “To my knowledge she is not an official here. She has no official connection to the case.”

  The argument continued. Gail got involved. Sergeant Lorenz stated again that it was becoming more and more accepted in rape cases to have a representative of Rape Crisis there.

  “She has her female attorney here,” Paquette said. “That’s enough. I refuse to have my client involved in this lineup until she is removed.”

  Gail consulted with Lorenz near the front of the dark room. She returned to where I stood with Tricia.

  “He won’t continue,” she said. “We’re already behind on the lineup and I have to be in court at one.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m okay.”

  I was lying. I felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me.

  “Are you sure, Alice?” she asked. “I want you to be sure. We can delay.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m okay. I want to do this.”

  Tricia was dismissed.

  The lineup procedure was explained to me. How five men would be led into the area behind the mirror, and how before they were led in, the lights in that area would be turned on.

  “Since it is light on their side and dark here, they won’t be able to see you,” Lorenz said.

  He explained that I should take my time. Could ask him to have them turn to the left or the right or to speak. He repeated that I should take my time. �
�When you are sure,” he said, “I want you to walk over and place an X solidly in the corresponding box on the clipboard I have set up over there. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do you have any questions?” Gail asked.

  “She said yes,” Paquette said.

  I felt like I had as a child. The adults were not getting along and it was up to me to be good girl enough to drain the tension from the room. That tension made my breath shallow and my heart race. I could tell Meggesto my symptoms of panic now. I was thoroughly intimidated. But I had said I was ready. It was wrong to turn back.

  The room itself frightened me. I was unable to take my eyes from the one-way mirror. On television shows there was always an expanse of floor on the other side of the one-way mirror, and then a platform with a door off to the side where the suspects stepped into the room, filed up two or three stairs, and took their places. There was a reassuring distance between the victims and the suspects.

  But the rooms I’d seen on cop shows were nothing like this one. The mirror took up a whole wall. On the other side of the wall was a space little wider than a man’s shoulders, so that when they entered and turned, the front of their bodies would be almost flush against the mirror. I would share the same square foot of floor with the suspects; my rapist would be standing right in front of me.

  Lorenz gave the order over a microphone and the light was switched on, on the other side of the mirror. Five black men in almost identical light blue shirts and dark blue pants walked in and assumed their places.

  “You can move closer, Alice,” Lorenz said.

  “It’s not one, two, or three,” I said.

  “You don’t need to rush,” Uebelhoer said. “Move closer and take a good look at each of them.”

  “I can have them turn to the left or right,” Lorenz said. Paquette was quiet.

  I did as instructed. I moved closer, even though, already, they appeared close enough to touch.

  “Can you have them turn to the side?” I asked.

  They were asked to turn to the left. Each of them, individually. When they faced front again, I drew back.

  “Can they see me?” I asked.

  “They can see a movement on the glass,” Lorenz said, “but they can’t see you, no. They know when someone’s standing in front of them but they won t know who it is.”

  I took this at face value. I did not say, “Who else could it be?” There had been no one else with us in that tunnel. I stood in front of number one. He looked too young. I moved to two. He looked nothing like the suspect. Out of the corner of my eye I already knew the challenge came two men down, but I stood in front of three long enough to agree with my earlier assessment. He was too tall; his build was wrong. I stood in front of number four. He was not looking at me. While he looked toward the floor I saw his shoulders. Wide like my rapist’s, and powerful. The shape of his head and neck—just like my rapist’s. His build, his nose, his lips. I hugged my arms across my chest and stared.

  “Alice, are you all right?” someone asked.

  Paquette objected.

  I felt I had done something wrong.

  I moved on to number five. His build was right, his height. And he was looking at me, looking right at me, as if he knew I was there. Knew who I was. The expression in his eyes told me that if we were alone, if there were no wall between us, he would call me by name and then kill me. His eyes gripped on and controlled. I mustered all my energy and turned around.

  “I’m ready,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” Lorenz said.

  “She said she was ready,” Paquette said.

  I approached the clipboard while Lorenz held it for me. Everyone watched—Gail, Paquette, and Lorenz. I placed my X in the number-five box. I had marked the wrong one.

  I was excused. I saw Tricia in the hall.

  “How was it?”

  “Number four and five looked like identical twins,” I said, before the uniformed policeman assigned to me led me into the conference room nearby.

  “Make sure she doesn’t talk to anyone,” Lorenz said, ducking his head in. His tone was a reprimand, now that I already had.

  In the conference room I searched the eyes of the uniformed man for whether I had chosen the right one. But his face was impassive. I felt a wave of nausea hit me and paced the floor in between the conference table and a row of chairs against the wall. My throat was thick and clogged. I became convinced in those moments that I had chosen the wrong man. I told myself I had acted on impulse, not considered the two men and their postures long enough. I had been so intent on getting it over with that I hadn’t been thorough. Ever since I’d been little my parents had accused me of this: not taking my time, acting rashly, jumping the gun.

  The door opened and a downcast Lorenz walked in. I could see Gail out in the hallway. He closed the door.

  “It was four, wasn’t it?” I asked him.

  Lorenz was big and burly, a sort of sitcom-father stereotype with a more gritty, Northeastern twist. I sensed immediately that I had disappointed him. He didn’t need to say anything. I had chosen the wrong one. It was number four.

  “You were in a hurry to get out of there,” he said.

  “It was four.”

  “I can’t tell you anything,” he said. “Uebelhoer wants an affidavit. She wants you to detail the lineup for her. Tell us exactly why you chose five.”

  “Where is she?” I was suddenly frantic. I felt myself collapsing inward. I had failed them all and this was the wrap-up. Uebelhoer would go on to other cases, better victims; she had no time to waste with a failure like me.

  “The suspect has agreed to provide samples of his pubic hair,” Lorenz said, and couldn’t help but grin. “Counsel has elected to be present in the men’s room for extraction.”

  “Why would he do that?” I asked.

  “Because he has reason to believe that the hair found on your person the night of the incident may not match his.”

  “But it will,” I said. “He has to know that.”

  “His lawyer weighed the odds and decided to do it. It looks good if they volunteer. We need to take a statement. You sit tight.”

  He went to find paper and to attend to things I couldn’t know. The uniform left me alone in the room. “You’ll be safe in here,” he said.

  During that time I put two and two together: I had identified the wrong man. Directly afterward, Paquette had agreed to voluntary extraction of a pubic hair from his client. Uebelhoer had told me the defense was building a case based on misidentification. A panicked white girl saw a black man on the street. He spoke familiarly to her and in her mind she connected this to her rape. She was accusing the wrong man. The lineup went directly to this.

  I sat down at the conference table. I brought it all together in my mind. Thought of what had just happened to me. I had been so afraid, I had chosen the man who scared me most, the one who had been looking at me. I felt I had just caught on—too late—to a trick.

  Lorenz was going to be back any minute. I needed to rebuild my case.

  When Lorenz returned, he smiled while telling me that Madison’s pubic hair had to be plucked, not cut. He was trying to be jolly in front of me.

  He took an affidavit. It noted that I had entered the room at 11:05 and left at 11:11.1 quickly gave my reasons for ruling out the men in positions one, two, and three. I compared four and five and noted they looked similar, with four’s features being a bit “flatter and broader” than the suspect’s. I said that four had been looking down the whole time and that I chose five because he was looking right at me. I added that I had felt rushed and defense counsel’s refusal to allow a member of Rape Crisis in the lineup room had further intimidated me. I said that I never got a good look at four’s eyes and said again that I chose five because he was looking at me.

  The room was quiet for a moment, save the noise of Lorenz’s hunt-and-peck typing.

  “Alice,” he said, “it is now my duty to inform y
ou that you failed to pick out the suspect.” He did not tell me which one was the suspect. He couldn’t. But I knew.

  He noted that he had informed me of my failure, and I stated, for the record, that in my opinion the men in positions four and five were almost identical.

  Uebelhoer came into the room. There were other people with her. Police and Tricia now. Uebelhoer was angry, but she smiled nonetheless.

  “Well, we got the hair out of the bastard,” she said.

  “Officer Lorenz told me I chose the wrong one,” I said.

  “She thinks it was four,” Lorenz said.

  The two of them looked at each other for a moment. Gail turned to me.

  “Of course you chose the wrong one,” she said. “He and his attorney worked to make sure you’d never have a chance.”

  “Gail,” Lorenz warned.

  “She has a right to know. She knows anyway,” she said, looking at him. He thought I needed protection; she knew I craved the truth.

  “The reason why it took so long, Alice, is because Madison had his friend come down and stand next to him. We had to send a car to the prison to get him here. They wouldn’t go ahead until he showed.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “He’s allowed to have his friend stand next to him?”

  “It’s the defendant’s right,” she said. “And it makes good sense on a certain level. If the others in the lineup don’t appear to the suspect to look enough like him, he can choose someone to stand beside him.”

  “Can we say that?” I was beginning to see a window of explanation here. I might still have a chance.

  “No,” she said, “it goes against the defendant’s rights. They really worked a number on you. He uses that friend, or that friend uses him, in every lineup they do. They’re dead ringers.”

  I listened to everything she said. Uebelhoer had seen it all, but still was passionate enough to get mad.

  “So the eyes?”

  “His friend gives you a look that’s scary. He can tell when you’re standing in front of the mirror and he psyches you out. Meanwhile, the suspect looks down like he doesn’t even know where or why he’s there. Like he got lost on the way to the circus.”