The Witness: A Novel (42 page)

She started again, slowly. He finished the rest of his. “One more,” he said over and over. Finally it was enough. He retrieved his kit and shook out two analgesic tablets. She washed them down with the tea.

Sinclair had watched the slow progression of Casey’s recovery plan. It was nearly two. “Jenny, what shall I tell the judge?” he asked.

Her voice was weak but steady. “He killed those women, Colin. I’m not quitting.”

When the knock on the door came and with it the usher’s voice—tentative, this time—Casey helped her to her feet. “Every time I say a
number, you take a step. Davies, bring the chair. Let’s go.”

Fortunately he didn’t count too quickly, and the higher the number, the more time she had to respond. By the time they passed the monster, she wasn’t waiting for his vocal commands. The glue was holding.

J
enny felt a rush of relief when Mr. Alford rose to question her instead of his colleagues. It was short lived, however, because his interrogation continued the attack the defence had adopted from the beginning. He referred repeatedly to the statements she had made to the police and to the prosecutor’s solicitor in examining her activities prior to what he called “her meeting with the accused.”

She was tired when he began, and his ceaseless shuffling of papers exhausted her further. He asked one trifling question after the other, pausing briefly after she responded. Then he shifted gears. He explored the common belief that provocative clothing contributes to the incidence of rape and that most women who claimed to have been raped had invited it. He analysed the role of alcohol in irresponsible behaviour. He wondered aloud how many other men had been damaged by her callous, unthinking actions. He implied that she had been purposefully playing with fire when she aroused his client’s interest, pointing out in a matter-of-fact tone that all adult males needed to experience sexual release following arousal. The frequent objections by the prosecution only prolonged the process.

When she was almost completely worn down, he increased his tempo, firing questions at her so rapidly that she had barely finished answering one when the next erupted. He added detail to the defence portrait of her as wild, immature, untruthful, and resentful of men.

She was apprehensive, expecting him to broadside her with some approach she could not anticipate. The courtroom was stuffy. No air was circulating. She felt a little dizzy, and she began to perspire. She missed a question and then stumbled in her answer. She gripped the sides of the chair to still her trembling.

“Pay attention if you please, Miss Jeffries,” Mr. Alford scolded. He paused, sucking in his breath like a lion preparing to pounce.

As she waited for the panic to pass, she thought about the contrasts that existed in the court setting, the battle between the prosecution and the defence being only the most obvious. Truth was supposed to be the victor, but there were so many ways of shading the truth and coloring falsehood that it was sometimes difficult to tell where one ended and
the other began. What would have been considered vocal abuse in a family was acceptable behavior here. This was not an old historic court, but the processes that took place were. People came and went—were they affected by what happened? Were the officers of the court changed, were the counsel, or were those who appeared in the witness-box the only ones altered? The impartial body of law that supported the whole process was an unfeeling observer, as Colin had said, devoid of mercy, while she felt just as exposed and bloodied as she had on the monster’s rug. His symphony had had three movements: destroy all resistance, rape, and kill. Somehow in the final movement he had dropped his baton.

Mr. Alford said something about her emotional performance having an adverse effect on the fairness of the trial but did not concede that they bore any responsibility for her distress.

“Thank you, Mr. Alford, for explaining that,” the judge sighed. “Need I remind you of the hour?”

“Your Honour, I would like to question this witness further.”

“Then I suggest that you resume your examination in the morning. Half ten? Is that acceptable to you as well, Mr. Benjamin?” He did not wait for their verbal responses. “Court is adjourned.”

Another day in the witness-box. She felt like the Greek figure Sisyphus, doomed forever to roll a huge stone up the mountainside. Sergeant Casey helped her rise, Brian collected her chair, and her little entourage escorted her back to her temporary haven.

She went into the bathroom to change out of her court clothes. When she came out, Davies and Hunt had already left. She had wanted to explain to Hunt why she couldn’t call him Alan—because it had been part of Rob’s name—but he had gone. She curled up on the sofa, but when she closed her eyes to rest, Rob’s face was what she saw. She covered her head with her arms and sobbed, grieving again, not only for his loss but also for the manner in which he had died, because she knew how it felt to be broken.

The door opened and closed behind her, and she heard whispered voices. Someone left, and there was just one voice. “I’ve brought dinner, Jen. Would you eat with me?”

She sat up gingerly. In spite of the medication Sergeant Casey had given her during the lunch recess, she ached all over from her fall. Colin had brought soup with noodles, chunks of chicken, peas, and tiny slices of green onion. Brian would have watched to see if she ate the peas. There was French bread and hot tea. “Colin, I didn’t help anybody in there today. I couldn’t even stand.”

“Jen, you never gave up. You never gave in. That’s the same thing, in my book.”

She shook her head.

“Would it help if I read you the Twenty-third Psalm?”

“I learned it, but I’m stuck on one of the middle lines: ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.’
No matter what I do, I’m afraid. Not just of the monster, but of all the people who work for him, legally and otherwise.”

Colin looked up the verse. “I’m no scholar,” he said, “but it does say ‘walk through.’ You’re not meant to stay in that accursed valley. And it also says you’re not alone.”

He reached across the corner of the judge’s desk and took her hand. “Jenny, I talk to your family every night. They’re very proud of you, and so am I.”

“Proud of what?” She began to cry. “I was terrible out there!”

Colin moved his chair next to hers. “Proud of everything—your commitment, your tenacity, your inner strength.” She accepted his handkerchief. The gentle voice continued. “They tried to destroy you, and they failed. Jenny, you are testifying in St. George Court. That’s appropriate, don’t you think? Dragons are slain here.” He put his hand on her shoulder, and she leaned her wet cheek against it.

When Casey returned, he saw Jenny gripping Sinclair’s handkerchief and trying to absorb his encouraging words.

Sergeant Andrews knocked and entered. “Give her my best,” he said, handing Casey a carrier-bag. “Susie picked these up today. I hope they fit.” He and Sinclair left together.

Casey gave Jenny medication to ease her aches and pains and something to help her sleep. He settled her on the sofa and climbed into his sleeping bag. He hadn’t been there long when he heard her voice.

“Sergeant Casey—please—let me hold onto you. All I see when I close my eyes is that awful picture of Rob.”

He let her crawl into the sleeping bag, and he sat next to her on the floor.

“Thank you for today, Sergeant Casey. The way you helped me after I fainted. I’ll never forget it.”

He wouldn’t either, for other reasons. He’d understood with unwelcome clarity how Sinclair had felt when he’d seen her body bleeding behind the court block. It was a complication he did not want. When she finally fell asleep, he tucked her hand inside the sleeping bag and took her place on the sofa. He searched his mind for some way to help her in the morning, and he would have vehemently denied that it was a prayer.

J
enny didn’t sleep at all well, crying repeatedly during the night. Once Casey saw her trying frantically to brush nonexistent spider webs from her face, chest, and arms. “There’s a spider in Texas whose poison makes your flesh rot,” she explained. “I dreamed it was here.”

He woke early and rang Davies, telling him to parade thirty minutes sooner than the previous mornings and to have Hunt with him. He phoned Sinclair, explaining that since she’d had a rough night, it would take some extra time to get her ready for the day and would he schedule his pre-court visit well ahead of time? Last, he gave Andrews a bell, explaining that he would have to medicate Jenny before her court appearance and they needed breakfast as soon as he could provide it.

When she woke, he handed her the carrier-bag with the new clothes and sent her into the bathroom to dress. When she came out, breakfast had been delivered. She saw the container of pain pills in his hand and gave him a weak smile. “That’s the carrot in front of the horse.”

“Right. You have to eat first.”

Susie Andrews had found a two-piece sweater set, soft yellow with a hint of pink, to go with Jenny’s dark green wool suit. Jenny tucked a napkin in the crew-neck sweater and ate what was necessary. The color of the sweater made her look like a ripe peach, tender and easily bruised.

Casey watched her receive Sinclair’s words of encouragement with a brave smile, only to break down the moment the door closed behind him. When Davies and Hunt arrived, he took the opportunity to brief the officers stationed outside. “I’m going to give the witness a pep talk. No matter what you hear, stay out and keep everyone else out.”

“Back me up,” he told Davies and Hunt. “Jenny, pay attention.”

She had no choice: It was The Voice.

“Long ago, before we met you, we were briefed—Davies, Sullivan, and I. Graves and Sinclair described this assignment, and I didn’t want any part of it. I wanted to get armed criminals off the streets. I wanted to join other armed officers in fighting the war against drugs. I did not want to be shut up in a bloody flat day after day minding some Yank—a friggin’
female
at that—who was overimpressed with her own
importance.”

He had made her cry. He had expected that. He raised his voice slightly and kept the same firm tone. “Do you want to know what changed my mind? Do you? I saw pictures of what Scott did to you, photos taken at hospital, and I got angry. Not yell-at-persons angry—not throw-things angry—but determined angry, deep-in-the-gut angry. Remember where your pain was that time I examined you?” He reached out and touched the fabric of her skirt just a few inches above her pubis. “There, Jenny. I want you to fill that place with anger.”

He raised the volume another notch and his intensity with it. “I don’t give a toss what your reason is—God knows, you’ve got enough to choose from. Get angry for the other women! Get angry for your scars! Get angry for the months of your life that scumbag has taken! Get angry for Sullivan, Jenny!” He grabbed her arm and jerked her to her feet. “Give me a bloody pillow, Hunt!”

He faced her. “All these months we’ve watched you struggle—heard you cry—because of what that bloody bastard did! Haven’t you been a punch bag long enough? Now hit it! Take a swing, and hit it like you mean it!”

She saw his fists clenching the sides of the pillow. She remembered the monster’s fists coming at her. She was sobbing out loud now.

“Hit it like it’s his bloody face!”

She struck out blindly, unable to see because of her tears.

“Damn it, hit harder, Jenny! Does he still have power over you, or are you going to take your power back?”

She slammed the pillow. She pounded it. She pummeled it.

“Texas, go, go, go!” yelled Hunt.

“Take him down, JJ!”

“I hate you!” she screamed, punching harder and faster, the tears streaming down her face. “I hate you!”

He dropped the pillow to grip her shoulders, stopping her next swing. “Well done!”

He saw her shake her head, trying to refocus.

“Healthy anger can make you stronger. Hold onto that power! Take it into the courtroom with you.”

When they heard the usher’s voice, she turned toward it, her shoulders straight. There was strength in her step for the first time. When she seated herself on the chair Davies had supplied, they saw her gather her feet beneath her, rest her fists loosely in her lap, and raise her chin.

Mr. Alford rose slightly. “Your Honour, my worthy colleague, Mr. Rhoads, will continue the cross-examination of this witness.”

It was the pit bull. Hunt had other names for him, more colorful ones. She was ready for him.

“Did you have a good rest last night, Miss Jeffries?”

“I slept like a baby,” she answered with a fixed smile.

Casey had told Sinclair that she’d cried half the night. Oh—just like
a baby!

“How old are you, Miss Jeffries?”

“Your Honour,” said Mr. Benjamin, “her age is a matter of record.”

“So it is,” said the judge. “Move on, Mr. Rhoads.”

“Miss Jeffries, do you actually expect us to believe that you were still a virgin at the mature age of twenty-three?”

“Your Honour,” said the prosecutor, “the Crown will present objective evidence of that.”

“Quite. Be very careful, Mr. Rhoads.”

“Bleeding,” continued defence counsel undeterred, “can occur for all kinds of reasons. Were you in your menstrual cycle at the time of the alleged attack?”

“Your Honour,” objected Mr. Benjamin, “Miss Jeffries has testified to the cause of her vaginal bleeding. The medical report, a copy of which was provided for the defence, confirms it. Her hymen was ruptured by the defendant!”

“I will not warn you again, Mr. Rhoads,” the judge said.

“Miss Jeffries, the description you gave of your attacker was quite particular. More of your fiction?” Rhoads asked.

“No.”

“Then how do you account for the details you provided?”

“The light was on in the room, and it was happening to me.”

“Miss Jeffries, the record shows that you identified my client from an artist’s sketch. Is that correct?”