"I walked past a door." She turned her eyes back to Jenrette. "And then he grabbed me."

Again I made her point out Edward Jenrette and identify him by name.

"Was anyone else in the room?"

"Yeah. Him."

She pointed to Barry Marantz. I noticed the two families behind the defendants. The parents had those death-mask faces, where the skin looks as if it were being pulled from behind, the cheekbones appear too prominent, the eyes sunken and shattered. They were the sentinels, lined up to shelter their offspring. They were devastated. I felt bad for them. But too bad. Edward Jenrette and Barry Marantz had people to protect them.

Chamique Johnson had no one.

Yet part of me understood what really happened here. You start drinking, you get out of control, you forget about the consequences. Maybe they would never do this again. Maybe they had indeed learned their lesson. But again too bad.

There were some people who were bad to the bone, who would always be cruel and nasty and hurt others. There were others, maybe most that came through my office, who just messed up. It is not my job to differentiate. I leave that to the judge during sentencing.

"Okay," I said, "what happened next?"

"He closed the door."

"Which one?"

She pointed to Marantz.

"Chamique, to make this easier, could you call him Mr. Marantz and the other one Mr. Jenrette?"

She nodded.

"So Mr. Marantz closed the door. And then what happened?"

"Mr. Jenrette told me to get on my knees."

"Where was Mr. Flynn at this point?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" I feigned surprise. "Hadn't he walked up the stairs with you?"

"Yeah."

"Hadn't he been standing next to you when Mr. Jenrette grabbed you?"

"Yeah."

"And then?"

"I don't know. He didn't come in the room. He just let the door close."

"Did you see him again?"

"Not till later."

I took a deep breath and dove in. I asked Chamique what happened next. I walked her through the assault. The testimony was graphic. She spoke matter-of-factly, a total disconnect. There was much to get in, what they had said, how they had laughed, what they had done to her. I needed specifics. I don't think the jury wanted to hear it. I understood that. But I needed her to try to be as specific as possible, to remember every position, who had been where, who had done what.

It was numbing.

When we finished the testimony on the assault, I gave it a few seconds and then approached our trickiest problem. "In your testimony, you claimed your attackers used the names Cal and Jim."

"Objection, Your Honor."

It was Flair Hickory, speaking up for the first time. His voice was quiet, the kind of quiet that draws all ears.

"She did not claim they used the names Cal and Jim," Flair said.

"She claimed, in both her testimony and prior statements, that they were Cal and Jim."

"I'll rephrase," I said with a tone of exasperation, as if to say to the jury, can you believe how picky he's being? I turned back to Chamique.

"Which one was Cal and which one was Jim?"

Chamique identified Barry Marantz as Cal and Edward Jenrette as Jim.

"Did they introduce themselves to you?" I asked.

No.

"So how did you know their names?"

"They used them with each other."

"Per your testimony. For example, Mr. Marantz said, 'Bend her over, Jim.' Like that?"

"Yeah."

"You are aware," I said, "that neither of the defendants is named Cal or Jim."

"I know," she said.

"Can you explain that?"

"No. I'm just telling you what they said."

No hesitation, no trying to make excuses, it was a good answer. I left it alone.

"What happened after they raped you?"

"They made me clean up."

"How?"

"They stuck me in a shower. They used soap on me. The shower had one of those hoses. They made me scrub off"

"Then what?"

"They took my clothes, they said they were going to burn them. Then they gave me a T-shirt and shorts."

"What happened next?"

"Jerry walked me to the bus stop."

"Did Mr. Flynn say anything to you during the walk?"

"No."

"Not one word?"

"Not one word."

"Did you say anything to him?"

"No."

Again I looked surprised. "You didn't tell him you were raped?"

She smiled for the first time. "You don't think he knew that?"

I let that go too. I wanted to shift gears again.

"Have you hired a lawyer, Chamique?"

"Kinda."

"What do you mean, kinda?"

"I didn't really hire him. He found me."

"What's his name?"

"Horace Foley. He don't dress nice like Mr. Hickory over there."

Flair smiled at that one.

"Are you suing the defendants?"

"Yeah."

"Why are you suing them?"

"To make them pay," she said.

"Isn't that what we're doing here?" I asked. "Finding a way to punish them?"

"Yeah. But the lawsuit is about money."

I made a face as though I didn't understand. "But the defense is going to claim that you made up these charges to extort money. They're going to say that your lawsuit proves, in fact, that you're interested in money."

"I am interested in money," Chamique said. "Did I ever say I wasn't?"

I waited.

"Aren't you interested in money, Mr. Copeland?"

"I am," I said.

"So?"

"So," I said, "the defense is going to claim it's a motive to lie."

"Can't do nothing about that," she said. "See, if I say I don't care about money, that would be a lie." She looked at the jury. "If I sat here and told you, money means nothing to me, would you believe me? 'Course not. Same as if you told me you didn't care about money. I cared about money before they raped me. I care about it now. I'm not lying. They raped me. I want them to go to jail for that. And if I can get some money from them too, why not? I could use it."

I stepped back. Candor-real candor-smells like nothing else.

"Nothing further," I said.

Chapter 8

The trial broke for lunch.

Lunch is usually a time to discuss strategy with my subordinates. But I didn't want that right now. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to rework the direct in my head, see what I missed, figure out what Flair was going to do.

I ordered a cheeseburger and a beer from a waitress who looked as though she wanted to be in one of those want-to-get-away? commercials. She called me hon. I love when a waitress calls me hon.

A trial is two narratives competing for your attention. You need to make your protagonist a real person. Real was much more important than pure. Attorneys forget that. They think they need to make their clients sweet and perfect. They don't. So I try to never dumb it down for the jury. People are pretty good judges of character. They are more likely to believe you if you show your foibles. At least on my side, the prosecutions. When you're doing defense, you want to muddy up the waters.

As Flair Hickory had made abundantly clear, you want to bring forth that beautiful mistress known as Reasonable Doubt. I was the opposite. I needed it clear.

The waitress reappeared and said, "Here, hon," as she dropped the burger in front of me. I eyed it. It looked so greasy I almost ordered a side of angiogram. But in truth, this mess was just what I'd wanted. I put both hands on it and felt my fingers sink into the bun.

"Mr. Copeland?"

I didn't recognize the young man standing over me.

"You mind?" I said. "I'm trying to eat here."

"This is for you."

He dropped a note on the table and left. It was a sheet from a legal yellow pad folded into a small rectangle. I opened it up.

Please meet me in the back booth on your right.

EJ Jenrette

It was Edward's father. I looked down at my beloved burger. It looked back at me. I hate eating cold food or anything reheated. So I ate it. I was starving. I tried not to wolf it down. The beer tasted damn good.