Sly Fox: A Dani Fox Novel (30 page)

“Are you saying he put a gag on her?”

Some spectators chuckled.

“No, I mean he did all the talking.”

Kent said, “So as far as you know, Carmen Gonzales might have asked her father to go with her because she needed him there, isn’t that correct? She might have asked him to speak for her because she was too shy and reserved to speak for herself, isn’t that correct?”

“I object,” I said. “Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase,” Kent said. “Doctor Cox, did you ask Mr. Gonzales if his daughter had asked him to come with her?”

“No. All I can testify to is that he brought her there and did the talking.”

A smiling Kent sat down.

My next two witnesses were two bartenders who worked in nightclubs where Carlos Gonzales had taken Carmen on “dates.” Both testified that Carlos had introduced her as his girlfriend. Kent didn’t bother cross-examining either man.

It was now time for me to call Carmen Gonzales.

33

To get a conviction, jurors had to believe Carmen. I had Anne Marie take her shopping the day before the trial. She appeared in court wearing a baggy, high-necked dress with long sleeves that completely concealed her curves. She wore flats. Style was immaterial. I wanted Carmen to look even younger than her sixteen years. She wore no makeup and her hair was in a ponytail to diminish her natural sexuality.

I couldn’t have asked for a better performance. Carmen’s eyes filled with tears as she described in graphic terms how her father had called her into his bedroom after her stepmother’s suicide and beaten her so viciously that she’d been forced to shower to wash away the blood. She’d then described the multiple rapes.

In her childlike voice, she recounted how she’d closed her eyes while her father was raping her and had thought about her favorite children’s book,
The Velveteen Rabbit
, by Margery Williams.

“My stepmother used to read it to me.”

“Why
The Velveteen Rabbit
?”

“Because in the story the stuffed rabbit thinks he is real but he isn’t. When my father was on top of me, I pretended I was a doll and what was happening was not real. I know it sounds dumb, but I would imagine it really wasn’t happening. That he was doing these things to a doll.”

“Were you afraid of your father?”

“My stepbrother and stepsister were too young to know what was going on. But my brother, Hector, knew, only he was so terrified and only twelve years old so there was nothing he could do. He could hear me being beaten and screaming. Hector told me that he would cry and cover his head with his pillow. When my father was at work, we would talk about how wonderful it would be if he had died instead of our stepmother. Hector even talked about getting a shotgun and shooting him.”

I gingerly asked Carmen to describe her trip to the clinic. “My father was so angry when he discovered I was pregnant. He wanted to kill the baby. He punched me several times in my stomach, and when that didn’t work, he took me to that place for an abortion.”

I kept her on the witness stand nearly two hours and felt confident that Carmen had come across as truthful.

Kent began his cross-examination by asking: “Did your father ever hit you when your stepmother was still alive?”

“Not with his belt. He spanked us, but he didn’t whip me until after she died.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone he was supposedly beating you?”

“My father said he would hurt my brother.”

“Is it your testimony that you never told anyone that he was doing these terrible things to you over and over again, night after night?”

“I was afraid to.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Kent said. “Did you tell anyone—even at school?”

“I told Detective O’Brien after my father was arrested and in jail, but that was it.”

Kent said, “Judge, I’d like a sidebar.”

Judge Williams waved us forward and Kent said in a low voice, “I would like you to declare a mistrial.”

“Why?” the judge asked.

“This witness has just poisoned the jurors’ minds by testifying that her father was arrested and in jail when she first contacted Detective O’Brien. They’ll naturally conclude that my client has been charged with additional crimes.”

I felt a sense of panic. Judge Williams had already ignored the law when he wouldn’t let me introduce photos of Carmen’s scars. I certainly didn’t think there was a reversible error in what Carmen had just testified but I’d lost all confidence in his judgment. “Your Honor,” I said, “Mr. Kent opened the door by asking the witness why she finally told O’Brien she was being molested. At best, this is a harmless error. For all the jury knows, the defendant could have been in jail for a traffic citation.”

Judge Williams pondered for a moment and then said, “I’m not going to declare a mistrial. Let’s keep going.” I breathed a sigh of relief. At least Judge Williams had gotten this ruling right.

Back at the podium, a clearly disappointed Kent gave Carmen a stern look and said, “You just testified that you didn’t tell anyone about this alleged abuse—except for Detective O’Brien. Are you aware that you can be charged with perjury if you lie on the witness stand?”

An instant look of fear swept across Carmen’s face. “I didn’t lie. I didn’t tell anyone.”

“Isn’t it true that you told your deceased mother’s best friend, Yolanda Torres?”

Carmen looked surprised and so did I. This was news to me and, I assumed, O’Brien.

“I forgot,” Carmen said softly. “The first time it happened. The first time he raped me. I went to see Yolanda because I thought I could confide in her. I thought she would help me, but she didn’t do nothing.”

“She didn’t believe you?”

“No, she was drunk and said it wasn’t her problem.” Looking up at Judge Williams, Carmen said, “I didn’t mean to lie. I forgot. Honest.”

“Okay,” Kent said loudly, “let’s get to the bottom of what really happened here. Are you now telling this court—and remember you can be charged with perjury for lying—that you had a conversation with Yolanda Torres about your father?”

“I went to see her. I asked for her help.”

“So you were lying a minute ago?”

I said, “I object, asked and answered.”

“Sustained. Move on, Mr. Kent.”

But the damage was done. A badly ashamed Carmen was staring at the floor, embarrassed.

Kent said, “Did you and Yolanda Torres discuss extorting money from him?”

“I never said I wanted money. I wanted her to tell him to stop hurting me.”

“Did you and Yolanda Torres ever discuss how you could get money from him by accusing him of rape?”

“No, no, no,” Carmen said, beginning to panic. “You’re twisting my words. I never said I wanted any money. I wanted him to leave me alone.”

“You’re not answering my question. Did either of you have a conversation about making your father pay you?”

Carmen was quiet for a moment. I knew her well enough to know that she was trying to choose her words carefully, but I suspected some jurors saw her hesitancy as a sign that she was being coy.

“I told her,” she said, “that he was beating me with his belt and having sex with me. I asked her to make him stop. I never asked for any money.”

“Did Yolanda Torres say to you, ‘I’ll make him pay?’ or something like that?”

“I don’t remember. I just remember she was drunk.”

“You don’t remember or you don’t want to remember?”

“I object,” I said. “He’s badgering the witness.”

Kent said, “I’ll withdraw the question. Isn’t it true that Yolanda Torres demanded sixty thousand dollars in cash from your father? Otherwise, she said the two of you would go to the police and accuse him of raping and beating you.”

Carmen looked stunned. “No. I never asked her to say that. She was drunk. She said she would talk to him. I don’t know what she said. I don’t know anything about any money.”

“So now you are changing your testimony once again. Now you’re telling us that Yolanda Torres said she would talk to him and did agree to help you, is that correct?”

“Yes, I mean, no. She told me later that she’d talked to him. But she never told me about asking him for money.”

“Ms. Gonzales,” Kent said, sounding frustrated, “isn’t it true that you and Torres dreamed up this entire plot because you wanted money to buy nice things—a car, clothes, jewelry?”

“I never did any of that.”

“Just like you didn’t tell anyone—except Detective O’Brien—about these alleged attacks,” Kent said in a disgusted voice.

Before Carmen could reply, he said, “Isn’t it true that we’re here today because you and Yolanda Torres wanted sixty thousand dollars, and when he wouldn’t pay you, you told Detective O’Brien that your father was whipping and raping you—just like the two of you had threatened?”

I started to object, but before I could, Carmen looked directly at Kent and said with chilling certainty, “We’re here because my father raped me. He beat me with his belt. I don’t know anything about money.”

Kent sighed, suggesting that he didn’t believe her and moved on.

“When did you become sexually active?”

“I object, Your Honor,” I said. “This witness was raped by her father. Whether or not she was or is now sexually active has no bearing whatsoever on these charges.”

I knew that when someone young is sexually abused, especially by a parent, a common reaction can be inappropriate sexual behavior. But Carmen’s sex life, if any, was not relevant to the issue before the jury. The New York Rape Shield law guaranteed that.

“Overruled,” Judge Williams said. “Answer the question, young lady.”

Carmen glared at her father at the defense table. She understood where this was going and that he was the source. He responded with a smug smile.

“My father raped me,” Carmen said. “That was my first sexual experience.”

I thought, Good for you.

Kent said, “And when was your second sexual experience? And the others that followed?”

I objected, but Carmen answered over me, “That would have been when he raped me the second time and the third and fourth and fifth.”

Kent had underestimated Carmen as a witness. Her answers were alarming.

Trying to regain control, Kent said, “Didn’t your father catch you when you were thirteen with a boy in the house fondling your breasts?”

Rising, I said, “Your Honor, really. How is this relevant?”

Judge Williams said, “I’m inclined to agree. If you have a point, you need to make it.”

“I do have a point,” Kent said. “Ms. Gonzales, isn’t it true that you recently had sexual intercourse with four different teenage boys on the same night in a car parked less than a block away from your house and that your father caught you?” Holding up his notepad, Kent added: “If you’d like, I can read you their names.”

I immediately objected. “What does this have to do with her being raped by her father?”

Surprisingly, Judge Williams agreed. “You don’t have to answer that question. The jury will disregard the last question.”

But from the looks on their faces, I knew Kent had gotten his point across. He was victimizing Carmen again. I looked at her sitting in the witness chair. She had started to tear up.