Rape (9 page)

“Jay Kirkpatrick.” You had to smile, shake your head over him.

Kirkpatrick had made his reputation in the Buffalo area in 1989. Brilliantly defended the twenty-one-year-old druggie son of a wealthy Buffalo manufacturer who had shot and killed his father. The plea was not guilty for reason of self-defense. Though the father had been unarmed, near-naked, climbing up dripping wet from his swimming pool in the leafy affluent suburb of Amherst, and the son had fired six bullets into his body from a distance of eight feet. Yet Kirkpatrick had convinced a credulous jury that the son had been in “immediate, overwhelming” fear of his life.

Yes. You had to smile. Kirkpatrick was a sly one.

Diebenkorn hated it, Kirkpatrick had entered her dreams. Probably as powerfully, Diebenkorn was prone to think, as that dog-pack of loser punks had entered the dreams of pathetic broken Martine Maguire.

The first time Diebenkorn came to the house on Baltic Avenue to speak with the gang-rape victim, Teena Maguire would not see her. Sick with a headache, Teena had been in bed all the previous day. Too exhausted to lift her head from
the pillow. Teena's grim-faced mother, Agnes Kevecki, grudgingly allowed Diebenkorn to enter her house, asking her to wipe her feet on the doormat first. As Diebenkorn uttered her prepared breathy speech
I must see her. I am a deputy prosecutor with the county district attorney's office and I insist upon seeing Martine Maguire
the older woman said bluntly it was so, her daughter Martine was not a well woman any longer. “Not in her body, and not in her mind. Not just those animals but you people at the courthouse have destroyed her.”

The Diebenkorn woman, as your grandmother would refer to her afterward, leaned forward breathing through her mouth so humid you could almost see it in the air like steam: “Mrs. Kevecki! What a thing to say! The county attorney's office is committed to seeking justice for your daughter and granddaughter, we intend through the law to make restitution to them for the suffering they have experienced! But we must have their cooperation as witnesses. Martine has said she is dropping charges. And will not allow her daughter to testify. But they can't refuse to help us now. If—”

Your grandmother stood with her arms tightly folded across her sloping shelf of a bust. Her steely-ivory hair fitted her skull like a sleek cap and her skin looked as if it had been squeezed in a powerful hand, and released in a pattern of fine wrinkles. She said, with an air of infinite contempt, “You! ‘Prosecutors.' You promised to protect my daughter. And you did not.”

“Mrs. Kevecki, we could not anticipate—”

“You must be ignorant, then. You must be inexperienced. We can't trust you.”

“But Mrs. Kevecki—”

“That man, calling my daughter a whore! A hooker! My poor daughter who was almost killed! Exposing her to such shame! You allowed it, you did not prevent it. A trial would kill her. A trial would kill all of us. Every day in the newspapers, on TV—it would kill our family. And you dare to suggest that my granddaughter be exposed, too!”

Diebenkorn protested, “The defense counsel is unscrupulous! Kirkpatrick is a—a notorious distorter of truths. The man turns truth upside down. Inside out. He's a black magician. He should be disbarred. He resorts to such vicious tactics because he knows that the case against his clients is overwhelming. And a jury will know, I promise! I will see to it, Mrs. Kevecki, I promise. But your daughter and granddaughter, Mrs. Kevecki, must—”

Your grandmother rose stiffly. Her heart fluttered when she was becoming upset. A daily handful of white and green pills monitored her blood pressure yet even so at such moments a pulse beat heavily in her head.

“Ms. Diebehkorn, there is no ‘must' in this house for my daughter and my granddaughter. Good-bye.”

The second time Diebenkorn came to the house on Baltic Avenue, your grandmother refused to answer the door. You slipped out to speak to the prosecutor on the front porch.

It was a damp, overcast day at the Falls. Sky like a dirty bandage and wind from the river smelling like wet chalk.

Diebenkorn began by apologizing profusely. She'd been
taken by surprise by Kirkpatrick. Bushwacked! Her entire team! That would not happen again, Diebenkorn promised.

“Everybody in Niagara Falls knows that the rapists and their attorneys are lying. Absolute lies! The entire story is concocted, an invention of Jay Kirkpatrick. The defendants originally told police, when they were brought into custody, that they didn't know Martine Maguire, had never seen or heard of Martine Maguire. They told police they'd never been in the park that night, which is a preposterous lie, we have a dozen witnesses who saw them. And now, this claim of . . .” Diebenkorn paused, panting. You could see the pupils of her eyes contracting. She was speaking to a thirteen-year-old girl, an assault victim. She was speaking to the daughter of a rape victim. Yet she had no choice but to continue, vehemently, like a runaway trailer-truck, “. . .‘consensual sex.' ‘Sex for money.' Ridiculous! Any reasonable jury will reject it. I will see to it that they reject it. And the preposterous claim that a second pack of rapists rushed in—oh, impossible! How a defense attorney can argue such nonsense with a straight face, I don't know. Believe me, Bethel. And tell your mother.”

Blankly you stared at Diebenkorn. You had a new habit of going empty-eyed and uncomprehending when it suited you. It would be a stratagem to serve you through years of public school in Niagara Falls at times in the very presence of enemies. You saw that Diebenkorn had smeared a dark crimson lipstick on her thin lips and that there was lipstick on her front teeth.

Diebenkorn said, guiltily, “It is true, I have to concede. Kirkpatrick has a staff of legal investigators whose mission it
is to uncover dirt about the victims of his clients. His courtroom strategy is to attack the victim, in this case Martine Maguire, to make it appear that she brought her misfortune upon herself. Kirkpatrick believes that if a jury feels that a victim deserves her punishment, they will not wish to punish the defendant but will
identify with the defendant
. ‘Juries want to vote not guilty, it's the generous Christian gesture.' ” Diebenkorn laughed with a strange excitement.

She continued to plead. To threaten. (Just a little. Subpoena? Martine Maguire in her sickbed?) She promised that she and her team would not be “bushwacked” a second time. At the trial, they would have notification of the defense witnesses, they would know beforehand what lies, innuendo, slander were to be presented in court. They would have a chance to rebut. And the rape shield laws in New York State prevent certain kinds of disclosures, Schpiro would be forced to comply. And the forensic evidence—semen, blood, hair, fiber—was overwhelming. The testimonies of the victims, mother and daughter, would be damning. If Teena withdrew her cooperation, the rapists could plea bargain much lighter sentences than they deserved, and that would be
unjust
.

You told Diebenkorn you didn't guess that your mother would cooperate with her anymore. You didn't guess that your mother would give much of a damn about
unjust
.

“Bethel, my life is bound up with this case, too. It isn't just a ‘case' to me it's—it has to do with my life as a woman, too—for when one woman is viciously attacked, the way your mother was, all women are being attacked. That's why rape must be punished as a serious, violent crime.”
Diebenkorn paused, wiping at her eyes. She appeared to be deeply moved. “Bethel, will you at least ask Teena if I could speak with her? Just briefly, today? The defense senses our hesitation, Kirkpatrick is moving now for a ‘swift trial.' I know that I have disappointed Teena, and others, but I promise that I will make up for it. Please give me a chance!”

You didn't think there was much hope but you were a good girl and invited Diebenkorn to step inside the vestibule while you ran upstairs. You hoped that Grandma wouldn't discover her and ask her to leave.

Upstairs you knocked softly on Momma's door. No answer.

She had not been out for several days. Not since John Dromoor had brought her home.

You knocked again on Momma's door. You opened it, to peer inside. The room was darkened, your nostrils pinched against a smell of slept-in bedclothes, perspiration. Momma was lying on top of her bed, on a rumpled quilt bedspread, bare-legged, in just her bathrobe, on her side, unmoving.

Momma don't die. Please Momma we saved you once don't die now
.

Strange to see your own mother sleeping. Unaware, oblivious.

There was no black pool of blood beneath her. You could hear her breathing. A harsh rasping sound like fabric being torn. Yet Momma was peaceful-seeming, lying on her side as a child might lie with her hands clenched between drawn-up knees.

You did not speak. Your heart was beating quickly as if in the presence of danger.

Quietly you shut the door. If Momma could sleep, that was good. It was your duty to let her sleep.

In any case you knew how Teena Maguire felt about the rapists now. You'd heard her tell your grandmother why should she give a damn, let the fuckers rape other women. Nothing to do with her.

Downstairs, Diebenkorn waited eagerly. Those damp doggy eyes.

You hesitated. You bit your lower lip. It was a TV moment, or maybe a court-moment. It was not a rehearsed moment, not exactly.

“Oh gosh! Ms. Diebenkorn! I'm afraid all Momma says to say to you is,” in a lowered voice, with a semblance of a blush, “ ‘fuck you.' ”

“Self-Defense”

O
N
O
CTOBER
11, 1996, Dromoor killed one of the rapists with two shots from his .45-caliber police service revolver.

You learned this news from Teena.

“The first of them. He's dead.”

Teena spoke dazedly. Her eyes burned with fever.

The first of them
. You would wonder if these were Dromoor's words, carefully chosen.

You would wonder if Dromoor had called Teena from the parking lot, on his cell phone. Except no, such a call might be traced. He would have waited, to call from a public phone some distance from the shooting. But he wouldn't have waited long.

Next you saw TV news. And next the
Niagara Journal
.

DeLucca, James. “Jimmy.” Twenty-four, unemployed at the time of his death. Resident 1194 Forge Street, his parents' home in Niagara Falls. Survived by . . .

There was DeLucca on the TV screen. Photo taken when he'd been in a glittery doped-up mood. Greasy dark hair
falling in his face. Presley/greaser style. Some girls would think he was sexy. An overgrown kid. This photo didn't show DeLucca as he'd looked in the courthouse in his neatly pressed serge suit and neatly tied necktie and neatly combed haircut but more the way he'd actually looked that night in Rocky Point Park. Careening into you. Whooping, yelping. One of the dog pack yipping as he'd leapt to block you with muscled arms outstretched like it's a rough basketball game, somebody has passed you the ball, you are vulnerable and trapped and the target and DeLucca is the guy laughing as he crashes into you.

Hey babygirl! Babygirl gonna show us your titties, too?

In the living room, blinds drawn. Turning from one TV channel to another to follow the news. Momma stares at the screen with her fever-eyes, hands clamped between her knees. Grandma watches murmuring to herself. And you.

Why two bullets? Where one would've been fatal?

Carefully it would be explained by NFPD spokesmen that two shots are a NFPD requirement. If an officer has made a decision that deadly force is necessary he is trained to fire two shots.

Dromoor was only following his NFPD training.

The shooting had occurred in a parking lot behind the Chippewa Grill, 822 Chippewa Street, on the East Side of town. Twelve-fifty-eight
A.M
. of October 11, 1996. Ray Casey was the primary witness. Ray Casey would be interviewed many times. Fact is, Ray had been making the rounds
of the East Side taverns. Since the break-up with Teena he'd been spending more and more time alone, drinking. Driving his car along the river to Youngstown and back. Stopping at country taverns where no one would have heard of
what-happened-to-Teena
on the Fourth of July in Rocky Point Park.

Teena Maguire, who was Ray Casey's lover. Almost they'd decided to live together, in Casey's house. When Casey's divorce came through.

Now you didn't dare speak to him about Teena Maguire. Not a word about any of it.

Casey had near about cracked his estranged wife across the mouth for certain remarks she'd made about Teena Maguire.

As for Teena she would not see him now. Would not speak with him on the phone.
Ray leave me alone, I'm so tired. I don't want your pity. Somebody better put me out of my mercy. I mean misery
.

He felt so guilty about Teena! Wanted to love her like he'd done but she wasn't the same person now. Never would be again. The hurt was deep inside her, it would never be healed.

Or maybe Casey had not loved her enough. That was the test, maybe. A woman raped by how many men: even she didn't know.

At the Chippewa Grill, Casey had not been in a belligerent mood. This could not be claimed against him by witnesses like the other time, at Mack's Tavern. It was DeLucca who'd sighted Casey and recognized him. Are you following me, asshole? DeLucca had asked. Casey looked blank at him not seeming to know who the hell DeLucca
was. But when he left the tavern there was DeLucca waiting to jump him.

Dromoor happened to be at the Chippewa, too. Off-duty. Not in his police officer's uniform and he didn't much resemble a cop wearing a ratty gray sweatshirt, khakis. Dromoor, too, was drinking in a neighborhood several miles from his own. Why this was, Dromoor could not say. He offered no explanation. It just was. He had not shaved for two days and his jaws were covered in stubble like wires. At the bar Dromoor drank three glasses of ale: Black Horse. Watched TV, Roy Jones, Jr. outboxing an opponent in Vegas, bloodying the man's face humiliating him through twelve excruciating rounds without knocking him out like that's too much trouble. Dromoor admired cruel-sly boxers like Jones, all over his opponent and inside his head and makes it look easy like some kind of dance. Dromoor watched TV but refrained from commenting on it like others at the bar one of whom was Ray Casey who was more vociferous, the kind of guy who talks to the TV screen like he's expecting it to talk back.