I STARED THROUGH my oval window at the yellow carpeted hills of California, spotted with dark shrubs. I wished the plane was like a bus so I could miss my stop, could fall asleep and wake up in Honolulu. As we landed I watched the dotted trails of cars along the highway grow larger, the gray bay water expanding out below us, plane belly skimming the surface, until everything became detailed and loud and crisp, and I was small again.
I had arrived to fight the hardest battle of my life, but nobody in Palo Alto knew I was home. I pushed open my parents’ door with a bump of my shoulder, my suitcase teetering over the door ledge, wheels slowing on the carpet, hanging my oatmeal sweater on a plastic hanger in the closet, placing my toothbrush in a ceramic boat.
I had yet to be told what day I would testify. I emailed my new advocate, Myers, whom I had never met. She wrote, Jury selection will occur next week, starting 3/14 and likely ending by 3/16. There is the possibility that you will need to testify the 17th or the 18th, but most likely it will be the 21st or the 22nd. How does one plan for this? Alaleh told me it would take as long as it needed to take, three weeks or more. How should I ration out my energy, how much was I expected to endure, what if I couldn’t last? I felt I shouldn’t be in the courthouse too long, the same way you shouldn’t be in a garage with exhaust, brain cells being killed off.
Tiffany’s winter-quarter finals would start the day jury selection began. After her last test, she would pack a small duffel and drive through the dark hills to spend her senior year spring break in court. Lucas would fly in the day before his testimony. After testifying, they would leave to begin their final spring quarter before graduation. I would stay behind awaiting the verdict.
Two weeks before trial there’s something called a trial readiness conference; a meeting between judge, prosecutor, and defense to ensure they are ready. While this is happening, the victim is off somewhere, lying on her bed, peeling string cheese into limp shreds. No readiness conference exists for her; the witnesses do not gather into a room for a pep talk, putting hands into a pile, to yell out a team cheer. I was not allowed to attend other witnesses’ testimonies, which meant that for the next few weeks I’d spend most days waiting aimlessly at home. I would later learn eighteen people testified, but I had no idea most of them existed. We were like horses, lined up in separate stalls with our blinders on, unaware of those in our periphery. When you heard the bang, felt the smack, you ran for your life.
I was nervous about not having enough people in the courtroom. Brock’s parents and older brother and sister would be flying in, his rows of the courtroom stocked while my side remained sparse. His grandmother will be there, Alaleh had said. She delivered this like bad news. I was unaware the jury was going to be keeping some unspoken tally. Both Swedes would be testifying, along with Detective Mike Kim, Deputy Jeff Taylor, Deputy Braden Shaw, SART nurse Kristine Setterlund, Julia, Colleen, Tiffany, and Lucas. Any witnesses I had were not allowed to sit in the courtroom. Only Detective Kim would be allowed in my audience. My mom and Grandma Ann would come to watch my and Tiffany’s testimonies. My dad would drive over when he could between work. Anne would come and sit through all eight hours every day, for as long as it took. She was the single constant in all the fluctuation; calm, sharp, a mother, a fighter.
When looking into my empty seats I’d have to remind myself there were plenty of people who cared for me. I wanted to explain that Chanel’s social life was healthy and well populated, but it was lonely being Emily Doe, my world much smaller, a shrunken circle of confidants. I wondered how it happened that I was now spending more time with my rapist than my friends.
It was warm outside, white blossoms fell, reminding me of the white dots of paper that’d fall when you emptied your hole puncher. I wore my black down jacket, a sleeping bag that went down to my ankles, less for warmth, and more for insulation from everything else. One evening a few old friends from high school were getting tapas. I joined them wearing my floor-length snow parka, they poked fun, I didn’t mind. I was careful to gently shift the conversation away from myself. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s how much you can get away with by saying work. It’s almost concerning. Why are you home? Work. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you. Work. We should get lunch next week. Can’t, I said, work. You look tired. Work, I said. Totally, they said, I feel you. What I wanted to say was trial. When they said, How are you, I wanted to say, Terrified. When one said, You look tiny! I wanted to say, That’s not always a good thing. They walked away thinking we had caught up, while I held the quiet knowledge they knew nothing.
I grew worried I’d bump carts with someone I knew at the grocery store or cross paths on a jog. Very quickly my world was reduced to my room; the floral bedding I bought when I was sixteen, a ceiling fan that could only be turned on with a remote I’d lost long ago, my brown carpet, my desk coated in half-peeled stickers. I needed to clear my head.
One night, I slipped out of my house in old sneakers and a worn hoodie. I jogged down Alma, my feet carrying me miles down to the railroad tracks where the guard sat. I tucked myself out of the glowing circumference of a streetlamp, resting on the sidewalk, skin prickling with heat, my breathing heavy, elbows resting on my knees, out of his view. I panted and stared and watched and waited.
The guard stood up. The dots of light shielded by metal visors began blinking red. Two tall, thin vertical planks slowly lowered into horizontal position, blocking off oncoming cars. I heard a distant clanging, a clumsy chaotic bell, like a huge cow barreling down the tracks. The screaming of the horn shattered the air, the stabs of white light, the silver nose shooting into the intersection. An elongated silver body, belted with yellow windows, blurring and streaming into one strip of passengers’ heads, tilted this way and that, reading or eyes closed, blinking by, head head head head head, then gone. Stillness. A residual, clumsy banging of pots and pans. The planks gave a tremble and a lurch, rising to point up toward the sky, to announce the performance was over. The guard made a note on a clipboard, took his seat in the plastic chair, and all at once the red lights shut off, the intersection dark and quiet again.
I sat, the hair on my head blown to the other side. Death had breathed on me, had rattled me back into being. In high school, death had become a classmate, a constant presence, returning to collect us from our short lives. I’d begun to see a black hole, a dark oval the size of a puddle, above each kid. Beneath that black hole, the color and texture and everydayness of life glowed. What I prayed was not that the black hole would disappear, but that all of us would have a chance to grow up beneath it first, to experience all the things people talked about in my dad’s practice, marriage, divorce, heartbreak, mortgages, because all of that too was life.
There were times now when I felt like crawling into the hole. In bed some nights, I stared up at it hovering above me. Wouldn’t it be easier? I took inventory: I was twenty-three, assaulted, unemployed, my only accomplishment being a nameless body in the local paper. When I thought of my future, I saw nothing. I wanted to stop.
But as I sat on the street, staring into the portal where kids had disappeared inside a cacophony of glowing red lights and bells, I told myself what I wished I could’ve told them: You have to stay here. I told myself this was just one point in the long life I owed myself to live before I was swallowed up. I knew that soon I’d be humiliated and torn open, feared the denigration that awaited me. But I also knew I would always choose the cold cement of the sidewalk, the finicky pulse of my heart, the sweat in the folds of my stomach, the thinned-out fleece hoodie that’d been through the wash too many times. I would always get up, turn around, and jog home, because it was the only thing I knew how to do.
Alaleh and I were back inside the empty courtroom. I stepped into my assigned box like a trained animal. I scanned the rows of padded seats, like a sad, small movie theater. Soon they’d be filled by my rapist’s family. The court reporter who winked was not there. When I asked where she went, Alaleh responded that someone else was on duty, and I nodded to say of course, but swallowed the sadness that I’d lost one of my few supporters.
So much had changed in the last fifteen months, but in court, everything remained stagnant. Strange the way time did not move, but deepen. We had revisited that same night over and over again. Questions branched out into more questions, a root splitting.
This time I wondered what behavior was acceptable for a victim. What tone? She warned me not to get angry. I learned that if you’re angry, you’re defensive. If you’re flat, you’re apathetic. Too upbeat, you’re suspect. If you weep, you’re hysterical. Being too emotional made you unreliable. But being unemotional made you unaffected. How should I balance it all? Calm, I told myself. Collected. But during the hearing I’d lost control. What about when that happens? My DA reminded me that the jury understood what I was doing was hard. Just be yourself, she said. Which self, I wanted to reply.
She said the defense was going to confront me with theories, reminded me it was his job. If he tried to walk me in another direction, steer it back. I imagined myself a donkey, defense attorney dangling the carrot, don’t follow the carrot. If you don’t know an answer, just say you don’t know it. Be honest. The preview was brief and bland; she never brought up graphic details or warned me about what evidence she would show me. Looking back I wonder if she’d been careful not to cook the emotions out of me too early, keeping them raw for the jury to see.
The only statement Brock had ever given was on the night he’d been arrested. That night he’d admitted to fingering me and denied running. He would be testifying for the first time. I expected Alaleh to say, Don’t worry about him. His initial interview had been recorded, he could not unsay those things. But since then he’d learned I could not remember. So instead she said, He’s going to get to write the script. I stared at her a moment, wanting to say that’s not fair, what about the truth the whole truth, he can’t just come in and say whatever he wants.
In the beginning, I thought this would be easy. The first time I was told Brock had hired a prominent, high-paid attorney I thought, Oh, no. And then I thought, So? Even he could not change the truth. The way I saw it, my side was going to convince the jury that the big yellow thing in the sky is the sun. His side had to convince the jury that it’s an egg yolk. Even the most eminent attorney would not be able to change the fact that it is a massive blazing star, not a ludicrous floating egg. But I had yet to understand the system. If you pay enough money, if you say the right things, if you take enough time to weaken and dilute the truth, the sun could slowly begin to look like an egg. Not only was this possible, it happens all the time.
Walking out of the courtroom I noticed a piece of paper taped beside the door reading: PEOPLE OF THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA V. BROCK ALLEN TURNER. I thought, What people? There are about three people in California who know I’m in here. Strange that he was the one supposedly up against a large state, but I was the one who felt outnumbered. Alaleh handed me the stack of transcripts in a manila folder, now thick as a phone book. Every word I’d said in the last fifteen months had been recorded and typed up. I would be sitting on the stand with three other selves; the hospital, police station, and preliminary hearing selves. All four tellings had to align. She said I didn’t have to memorize them word for word. Know them, she said. I understood that memorize is different than know; to know them meant to feel it in my bones. It was not a stack of papers, it was the night itself. I held its weight in both hands. You’d think this is when I’d start preparing; a montage would show me fervently flipping through pages, running through questions, sitting head-to-head with my DA. Instead you could see me rolling my red cart through Target, where I go to calm down, where the world is organized in aisles. Is it time for a new flavor of deodorant? I was squatting in the shampoo aisle, accidentally squirting shampoo onto the tip of my nose to get a whiff. Should I buy a new pan? Do I need a hat? I bought my parents a Swiffer, bought myself a magnolia-scented candle, cookie dough. I would eat half the package of uncooked dough before falling asleep. The trial would start on Monday, March 14, 2016.
All my life I had heard adults sigh about this jury duty business. Twelve people taken away from their own lives. Twelve people who would rather be anywhere else than in the courtroom. Twelve people who I needed more than anyone in the world. The vote would have to be unanimous. When I was told this I wondered if I had heard incorrectly; did you mean to say anonymous? The alternative seemed impossible. I would need all twelve of their votes to win. In the news articles I read, I had never found twelve positive comments in a row.
If a prospective juror had been sexually assaulted, she or he was immediately eliminated. I would later learn that when this question was asked, several women got up to leave. There would be no survivors in the jury.
My DA would later tell me women aren’t preferred on juries of rape cases because they’re likely to resist empathizing with the victim, insisting there must be something wrong with her because that would never happen to me. I thought of mothers who had commented, My daughters would never . . . which made me sad because comments like that did not make her daughter any safer, just ensured that if the daughter was raped, she’d likely have one less person to go to.
My friend Athena had just returned home to Palo Alto. We have been friends since sixth grade—she is Vietnamese American. After college she’d gone to work on a lettuce farm in Hawaii. I picked her up from the airport and she told me how it felt to sleep in a tent, to hitchhike to the ocean, to see clarity of the stars on the Big Island. We went over to my house. When the conversation floated off her island back to my little room, she asked me what I had been up to.
There was always a moment, right before telling someone, that felt like I was peering over the edge of a cliff into water. I was taking a few final breaths, swinging my arms, telling myself I could do it. As I told her about the rapist who swam, about the victim that was me, I was free-falling, preparing for impact. After graduation, we’d gone out to a bar with live music. Drowned in noise she told me she had been assaulted. It happened early in college, she yelled loud enough for me to hear. I just haven’t told many people. I just thought you should know. I said, Are you kidding me. What an asshole. At the time anger was the only thing I knew how to do, more than empathy, more than comfort, more than contemplation. Now I was sorry I hadn’t known how to take better care of her. She leaned forward to wrap her arms around me, just like Claire had done, like she could see in an instant how my whole year had been. We stayed hugging on the floor. Falling and falling and suddenly caught. I said I needed her to come with me, and she said, Tell me when.
Jury selection continued. No word from Alaleh. I’d still refused to touch the transcripts until I was insulated by the presence of Tiffany and Lucas. I got a haircut, just a trim. I took my car to Lozano’s Car Wash, where there was free popcorn and lemonade and the meditation of watching my car glide through the soapy, moppy-headed beasts. I looked for jobs on Craigslist, wrote three sentences of a cover letter. I biked to get a burrito, drank from an expired coke can, sat wearing my helmet on a bench at the park. I took a photo of the burrito and posted it online. I received thirty-two likes. It was a joke with myself, playing tricks on the world. People believed I was enjoying my afternoon, when in reality I was about to face my rapist. How creepy it was that we could conceal these stories. How easy it was to pretend. The slivers we show, the mountains we hide.
Over dinner my dad told me he was proud of me. I’m so proud of you, sweetie, truly proud. When he said this I never responded, it never absorbed. I was almost irritated, dismissive of his unfounded comment. Proud of what? The large gap between his pride and my current reality embarrassed me. Didn’t he see me in my pajamas, shuffling around the house? I got assaulted, there are no trophies for that. What dignity is there in being discarded half naked? I smiled, but said nothing.
Final day of jury selection. Lucas would land in the evening. I arrived at the airport early, didn’t mind looping. He trotted to the car, suit bag slung over his shoulder. He made quick circling motions with his fist, gesturing to roll down the window. He came to the driver’s side to kiss me, and the traffic lady in the yellow-highlighted vest barked at us to keep moving. Give me this one moment, lady.
Usually I immediately relaxed into him, donning his large clothing, like a hermit crab tucked inside its new home. But I knew he would only be here for four days before he’d fly back to school. This time, I could not afford to make him my center.
Alaleh said she was relieved the first time she met Lucas. I wondered what that meant. I had a feeling my boyfriend would have to make Brock look like a downgrade rather than an upgrade. I imagined the back walls of the court parting, Lucas doing a light jog out in his suit, waving to a clapping audience. Here we have a twenty-six-year-old attractive, employed businessman! In his spare time he enjoys woodworking, scuba diving, and rugby. He’s taken her to Indonesia and they live in a high-rise in Pennsylvania. He plans to romance her by engaging in consensual intercourse.
The spotlight would turn sharply, the cone of light encapsulating Brock. He’s just turned twenty and dreams of becoming an Olympian! She’s never met him, but he swims faster than a fish and enjoys fireball whiskey. He plans to romance her in the great outdoors, on a bed of pine needles. Then there’d be me, in a floral dress, smiling wide. She’s wild, compassionate, silly, but not the kind of girl who gives it up so easily! Or does she? Let’s find out! The trombones would be blaring, lights polka-dotting. Now your host, the honorable judge!
Over the year, Lucas had witnessed me screaming, dissociating, leaving the apartment, crying under the covers, in the shower, whenever the case was brought up. And each time, when my breathing finally stabilized, he would excuse himself to go on a run. It never mattered if it was nighttime or raining, I would watch him disappear into the dark, running. I thought him thick-skinned and was so consumed by my own emotions that I’d never paused to question how this had been affecting him. I wondered if there was something raw inside him too, a rage that made him sprint. That night, as I watched him get ready to testify the next morning, I was made still by the seriousness with which he polished his shoes, ironed his clothing, all playfulness evaporating.
When I woke up, Lucas’s hair was already combed, face clean shaven. He would testify today and I would testify tomorrow. I planned to drive him to the courtroom, go to Gap to buy business pants. Tiffany would arrive in the evening, and with both of them home, I would finally open the folder and study it all in one straight go. I understood that I should have been studying them sooner. But you can’t do a little at a time, can’t dip in and out of it each day. I did not possess the ability to control the surging overwhelm and agitation it brought up. To read a small part was to drop dye into water; you could never stop the dye from spreading, a whole day ruined. So I preferred to do it all at once.
I pulled on some jeans. I was looking for a sock. A chime: a text from Alaleh. There may be some extra time left over, so be ready to come in. I sunk slowly to the floor, panic ticking like a stovetop burner, about to ignite into flame. I’m not ready. I don’t have pants. I can’t, how many hours do I have. I raked my fingers along my scalp, I have to wash my hair. I began throwing clothes out of my drawers. I sat, cheeks wet, madly blinking, kicking my feet back and forth to peel off my jeans. All of this was escalating in my mind, calculating how long I had to get ready. If I testified today, nobody would be there for me, my advocate was scheduled to come tomorrow. I’ll be alone again, I can’t.
Lucas came in and saw me in my underwear kicking, clothes lumped like washed-up sea life across the floor. What’s going on, he said. I have to get ready, I said. I’m going today and I don’t have any pants. This jacket is too wrinkled. I was seven years old again, small and helpless, remembering school mornings, inconsolable, I have nothing to wear.
Tell her you’d prefer to go tomorrow, he said. I looked at him like he was crazy. I can’t, I said. There’s a schedule. You don’t know how this works. I have no control. Why aren’t you helping me get ready. I need to study, I don’t have enough time. I was exasperated until I heard his voice, loud and firm, No one can make you do anything. They can’t do this without you. If they have to wait, they’ll wait. You’re in charge. Tell her you can’t go until tomorrow.
I sat with bare legs, wild hair. It hadn’t even occurred to me to assert myself, to do anything other than blindly obey. I had been conditioned to accept every schedule change, every question asked, no matter how upsetting or personal or sudden. I had forgotten it was possible to have limits. I drafted a message: Hi Alaleh. Hey Alaleh! Would it be okay if. I would feel more comfortable if. Hello hope all is well. I would like for my mom and my grandma to. Apologies. I will not be able to come today. Good morning. If it’s all right I would like go tomorrow as planned.
She said that would be fine; if it went too quickly she would try to stall. It was so simple, all I had to do was ask. Better? he said. Better. We had an hour until Lucas was scheduled to testify, so we drove to the Driftwood Deli on El Camino. I sat in the sun in my jeans and wrinkled jacket, crappy shoes, awash in relief. I had gotten my day back. I dropped him off at the courthouse, waiting until I saw him walk through the front doors before pulling away. He would text me when he was done.
I walked into Gap. Anything I can help you with, an employee said. A lot, I wanted to say. Three hours passed and I hadn’t heard from Lucas. I purchased gray straight-leg pants, cheap black flats. Finally I got the text to pick him up. How’d it go, I asked. He said they hadn’t even reached his cross-examination, they’d resume tomorrow. At the start of the day it was predicted there’d be extra time, when in reality, they’d run out of it. The testimonies before him had run longer than planned and he had been waiting in the victim closet for three hours. I felt awful nobody had been there with him. It’s hard to keep your adrenaline up, he said. It was the first time I’d heard him admit to anything being hard. Tiffany came in late that night, sleep deprived after her final exams.
With everyone home, I was ready to submerge, to go back and meet the three selves. Memory is often perceived as the victim’s weakness, but I believe memory is a victim’s greatest strength. Trauma provides a special way of moving through time; years fall away in an instant, we can summon terrorizing feelings as if they are happening in the present. I spread my transcripts across the floor. My carpet was the equivalent of a rope tied around my waist as I lowered myself into the past. I was brushing the carpet gently with one hand. In all of these memories, there was no carpet. I could see long, wet clumps of hair enclosing my face as my head hung. I am at the rape clinic. The water filling my ears, smearing my vision, sealing my nose and running over my mouth. Outside, there is a highway, a steady stream of cars, one pulled over on the side of the road. It is my sister, heaving cries so hard she cannot see. She is trying to come get me. Carpet. I am in a plastic chair in the rape clinic, hair dripping wet. Tiffany is sitting next to me, frayed, upset. How do I make her feel better. Carpet. I am telling the police woman, please don’t call my home. I do not ever want to see this man again. Carpet. I see the yellow curls of his head as he looks into his lap, I am crying, looking out into empty seats. Carpet.
I wiped my nose. Tears were drawing lines down my neck, slipping under my collar, down my chest. For five hours, my chest folded over my legs on the floor as I flipped through pages and typed. I laid out the framework, every minute of January 17, every sip, location, remark, observation, infiltrating my mind. Chaos was slowly giving way to order. On the front page I wrote encouragements: Shut it down with truth. I plugged up all the tiny holes in my memory. I ignored the gaping hole. This was not the time for self-pity, for dwelling, for second-guessing. Study it hard. Know the timeline. Go back to the carpet.
Lucas woke up at sunrise to be grilled by the defense, while I was scheduled to testify at 1:30 P.M. I was supposed to drive him, but he kissed my forehead and told me to go back to sleep, so I rolled over into the warmth his body had left. Hours later I felt the sun soaking my bed, heard him come through the door, watched through squinted eyes as he peeled off his polished shoes. He crawled back into bed fully dressed and held me. I didn’t ask him how it went. If it was bad, I didn’t want to know yet.
I ran my arms through my oatmeal sweater, becoming Emily, hair clipped back on both sides. I hesitated with my mascara wand in hand, painted my lashes lightly. Pretty, but not too pretty. Makeup would turn my tears into dark blots, eyes dripping with ink. But going blank faced would make me look fatigued.
Lucas drove. I was mute, sitting on my hands, studying the printed guidelines in my lap. My appetite was nonexistent but I knew better than to leave my stomach empty. There was nowhere to park at the bagel shop, so he pulled over while I went inside. I located the glass display of beige circles. I forgot all the names of the bagels. She asked me what I wanted, I just pointed. I took a white paper bag, unsure if it was mine. I stared at all the strangers around me, separated inside their warm reality of conversation and coffee. I pushed out the door, shuffled back into my car of silence, my notes. The bagel was hard to swallow, dry and thick.
We pulled up to the courthouse. I folded down the small mirror to check for seeds in my teeth. Are you sure there are none? Lucas nodded. He and Tiffany would be waiting for me on the outside. A kiss on the cheek. I stepped out of the car and he was gone.
I wanted this scene to open with me striding down the halls, shoulders back and head lifted, but when I walked through the plastic security frame, I felt a bristling on my skin, something was wrong. I’d seen those guards before. I stared down the hallway. Empty. But I sensed the cluster of bodies above. I ducked into the first-floor bathroom, squatted in the corner of the handicapped stall, my papers rolled into a scroll, whispering to myself to hold it together. My DA texted me, Are you here? My hands were shaking, On my way.
I closed my eyes. I could see the inside of the courtroom, the judge like a floating bald head above a black trapezoid, the mediator of this game. Teams would be divided into two sides, obeying an unspoken rule never to cross over. I was mentally prepared, but my body braced for pain.
No amount of preparation could protect me from the erasure of self, the unbecoming. Even after I’d leave, I knew my mind would stay there a long time, depleted for weeks.
I let myself out of the bathroom, urgently pressed the elevator button. Alaleh slipped out of the courtroom to let me into the victim closet. She had to return to wrap up a couple of testimonies; the SART nurse was testifying before me. My heart lit up; the nurse, a protector in this game. I wondered which nurse it was; I remembered three of them huddled around the peaks of my naked knees. I liked to imagine them as a three-headed dragon in a white coat, snapping mouths and metal tools, fighting off anything that came after me.
My new advocate, Myers, stepped out of the elevator. She had perfect posture, neat hair, a level demeanor. I liked her immediately. Soon my mom arrived with Grandma Ann and Athena, Hi, Chanoodle. Anne was already inside. All of us were scooting our chairs around to fit. I could hear my grandma asking Myers where she was from, how long she’d been working at the YWCA, how she got into this field. I tuned out, flipping through my notes beginning to end. As soon as I finished, I went through them again. Every ten minutes I’d excuse myself to go to the bathroom, to pee one last time, to smooth my hair down, fix my clips, check and double-check that my pants were zipped. One hour went by.
I reminded myself it was simple; the jury would respond to authenticity, what is real. My advocate handed me a small ball covered in acorn patterns, my new toy to squeeze on the stand. Athena told me to envision a rose before me: all of the defense’s bad energy would be absorbed into the rose instead of me, allowing me to sit and observe his words at a safe distance. My therapist had said, Visualize women around you, behind you, touching your shoulder, walking with you. I could even summon Maya Angelou if I wanted. Grandma Ann took out a bag of dark chocolate. She was also wearing a pin I’d given her of a tiny red wagon. When Tiffany and I were little, she’d pull us around the cul-de-sac in a red metal wagon. I recalled something else my therapist had told me: Remember who you are, what you like about yourself.
Any minute now, I thought, stay ready. Two hours passed, all of us crammed in the room, touching knees in our small circle of seating. I must have peed twelve times. Finally a knock. The room was cleared, everyone guided out by my advocate to get settled in their seats. I had a few minutes alone. This felt right. When I took the stand, I knew I would be on my own. If I needed help, I would have to turn inward. Everything I need to get through this, I already have. Everything I need to know I already know. Everything I need to be, I already am.
I set down my packet and stood in the silence with my eyes closed. For a moment, the fidgeting stopped, the nervousness simmering away. In the past year, snow had fallen and melted, my hair had been cut and grown, the world kept moving, and I could’ve continued to move on with it, yet I had returned. What did it mean, that I kept finding myself in this tiny room, abandoning an orderly life to keep fighting. Didn’t this count for something?
I left the packet on the desk, stepped out, the door locking behind me. I walked down the hallway, rubbing my damp hands on my pants. Alaleh and Myers stood outside the courtroom doors. Are you ready? I nodded. Tink tink tink. Breathe as you descend. She pulled the door open. I clasped my hands together, inhaled once more, and walked through.
The fullness of the room made me shrink. Walking into coffee shops is anxiety inducing. Walking into court, everyone stared at me. I didn’t look anyone in the face. What I sensed were shapes, the landscape of formless bodies filling the room along the sides and in the stands, a denser presence than I’d felt at the hearing. I kept my eyes on my feet and told myself to walk. Get to your box.
I could not tell you how many males or females, ethnicities, kinds of outfits were in the courtroom. Half the jury could’ve been wearing tiger face-paint and I wouldn’t have noticed. It was my second time seeing the judge and I still couldn’t tell you what he looked like, only knew the pale curve of his smooth head and his gown, a looming shadow in my periphery.
I heard, Do you solemnly swear . . . nothing but the truth, my hand floated up, I do. I tucked myself into my chair in the hollowed-out stand, fixed my eyes on Alaleh’s. I was told to spell my name into the microphone. I worried I would jumble the letters, began slowly.
DA: Can you just do me one favor and try to pull the microphone a little bit closer to you? You’ve got a soft voice.
It was true. It’s as if my throat was padded with insulation, my voice a notch above a whisper. Still I could hear each word drop into the silent room, swallowed by dozens of eyes and ears.
The first questions were always easy; born in Palo Alto, one sister, UCSB, majored in literature, height is five foot eight. I was doing okay. How much do you weigh? I’m sorry to ask you that question. It is the question no woman wants to be asked in front of a microphone. I worried that if I guessed a number too low they would think, no chance. My driver’s license said 140, but I weighed 163 in college. Probably 158, I said. Later I realized I was much lighter, my wrists slimmed, my body never hungry, my pants had dropped two sizes. Whatever weight I’d been, I shouldn’t have been ashamed to declare it; a rock weighs differently than a lion weighs differently than a pile of mangoes and none of it matters.
Okay. Now, I want to draw your attention to January—the weekend of January 17th and 18th of 2015. I took a deep breath, nodded, refocusing on what we’d come here to do. We started at Arastradero Preserve, then moved on to the taqueria, which taqueria, she asked. I had never looked up the name. Minus one, I thought. She asked me what I ordered, one taco. Plus one. Then we were off, the questioning brisk as skipping stones; which of my sister’s friends had come over to my house prior to the party, if I knew them, how many times I’d seen them, what time we started drinking.
I talked about never going to parties with Tiffany because I felt more like her mom than her sister. I talked about Lucas, who was Lucas, when’d you meet, where is and was he living, how do you maintain your relationship, do you visit him, how would you describe your relationship.
She asked if I’d ever been involved in Greek life, if I’d ever been a member of a sorority, no and no. Back to Stanford, where exactly was the party located, name your mode of transportation, exact time of arrival.
Me: There was a table by the door, and Julia, Tiffany, and I stood behind it, like a panel, and decided to be a welcoming committee. We were just singing songs and acting really goofy. I was embarrassing my sister but definitely not trying to impress anybody.
DA: How were you embarrassing your sister?
Me: Singing out loud and dancing funny.
DA: Okay. And could you tell if your sister was getting embarrassed?
Me: Yeah. She laughed in spite of herself.
I heard the jury lighten, not so much laugh, just blow air out of their noses in amusement. I was smiling, I always smiled when I talked about my sister, even when boxed in by a witness stand. I felt myself loosening up, questions tedious but harmless, what brand of vodka, into what cup, was it a free pour.
DA: When you were dancing, how were you dancing?
Me: Ridiculous. The opposite of sensual. . . . Arms flailing, very wiggly.
I could already see it in the news, victim reported to be very wiggly. I talked about going outside to pee.
DA: Okay. And I know this is kind of graphic, but did you guys just squat behind a tree? . . . Did you guys shield each other from view of the people from the outside?
I tried to make it clear that even when I peed I’d done it discreetly. A woman who peed outside would be judged differently than a man who peed outside. She asked if it had been near a basketball court. I’d never been back to the scene. Maybe it would have served me to visit, but I could never get myself to go. I do not recall, I said. It was very dark. Back to the patio, seeing Caucasian guys who were shorter than me. The diluted beer I gave Tiffany, the guys shotgunning beers.
DA: Have you ever shotgunned a beer?
Me: I can’t.
DA: Why can’t you?
Me: Because it’s hard.
A small chuckle. They could hear my honesty. By now about two hundred questions had gone by, reporters scribbling away in the back row. I admitted to not knowing a few of them, but had missed nothing too egregious. She asked about my next memory. I woke up in the hospital, I said.
It happened before I knew it was happening. My eyes went blurry, my breathing suddenly choppy, I couldn’t speak, couldn’t see.
DA: Do you have any memory before that?
Me: (Witness did not respond audibly.)
Tears were coming out of my eyes, out of my nose, I was worried they would somehow leak out of my ears, my mouth. Everything warm and wet and slimy, my inhaling erratic. I was mortified, as if I was soiling myself, everyone watching me wipe my face, I just needed a moment. I heard his voice.
Defense: I’m sorry. Could we get a verbal answer?
I had already forgotten the question, something about memory, did I have memory.
Me: No.
Defense: Thank you.
DA: Do you need a moment?
Me: I’m okay.
DA: There are some tissues right there.
I wanted to stuff the tissues into my mouth and nostrils, clog up all the holes in my face. Wanted to drag my hands down my cheeks and smear off my features. Alaleh tried to keep things moving, I could detect the defense’s irritation. Get ahold of yourself.
DA: When you woke up in the hospital, can you tell us—do you have any idea what time it was?
I was awakening inside that feeling again, my mind trapped in that white hallway. I stared out, trying to come back to the present, seeing suits around me, tasting snot, my tongue cleaning my upper lip, salty.
DA: How were you feeling when you woke up, your physical feelings?
I was sputtering breath and wetness, suddenly found it impossible to craft a single smooth sentence.
Me: And then the—I saw the dean of students and the deputy, and they asked me—
Defense: Objection. Hearsay.
I was struck silent.
DA: It’s not coming in for the truth, Your Honor. It’s coming in for her state of mind and her level of understanding where she was.
Judge: All right. I’ll allow the—the—question asked.
DA: When you say “they,” can you specify who asked you?
Me: Sure. The deputy and the dean of students were speaking to me and asked me who I was and asked me if I could give them a number for them to contact. They told me, “I have reason to believe” that I had been sexually assaulted.
Defense: Objection. Move to strike. Hearsay.
I was suddenly aware of the defense’s palm wrapped firmly across the top of my head, holding me underwater, saying, Don’t you come up. Perhaps he’d realized this was the most agonizing portion, wanted to silence me before the jury could hear it. I told myself kick, you must kick hard.
Me: I had to use the restroom. . . . And they said that I had to wait because they might need to collect a urine sample. And that’s when I—I—that sounded serious to me, because I still didn’t—I thought they were—
Defense: Objection. Hearsay. This is a narrative as well.
DA: So when you indicated that you wanted to use the restroom, were you allowed to use the restroom?
Me: Eventually, but first denied because they might have to collect my urine sample.
Defense: Objection. Move to strike. Personal knowledge.
Judge: All right. I’ll strike everything after “Eventually.”
Personal knowledge? Isn’t everything personal knowledge? My memory was being flicked on and off like a light. She’s wrong, shut up, hurry up, stop talking, so stricken, keep going, narrative, objection. I couldn’t get oriented. The interruptions felt like being hit.
DA: Other than being confused about where you were, what were you confused about?
I lost it, throwing open my arms, pleading, I didn’t know where my sister was. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know what they were talking about. I didn’t know anything. There was no explanation. And they tell me, and I thought, “You have the wrong person.” I thought they must be confused. I thought, “I just want to find my sister and go home.” I let go, emptying my lungs into the grape-sized microphone. Guttural sounds crawled out of my throat, long and loud. I didn’t collect myself, didn’t take my little sip of water, didn’t daintily dab at the tips of my eyes, didn’t say I’m okay, just decided, you will wait for as long as it takes. This is it, everybody. Here it is, you did it.
Not a single person in the room knew what to do with this unhinged wailing. But I had finally come out of the end of an answer without interruption. I felt manic, it was intoxicating, everyone forced to swallow my siren sounds. Calm, collected, centered, strong, bullshit, I abandoned all of it, had no intention of stopping, had lost the little voice that told me to reel it in, could only think release, release, release.
I heard my DA say, Your Honor, can we take a break please?
I know what that meant, the bathroom, my favorite place, escape! I stood up, a fragile shell, following Myers down the aisle, cries sputtering out of my chest. A wave of humiliation passed over me as I brushed by my row of loved ones, wishing they’d never seen this. I tucked my face in the cave of my hands as she led me out the dark wooden doors.
At last, my tranquil refuge. I was calmed by the salmon-colored tiles, the old toilets. I was grateful for Myers, who stood by the door, my guardian. Part of me wanted to pull out a small white flag and toss it through the courtroom doors. I felt spineless, depleted. My face looked like it had been rubbed in poison ivy and Vaseline, shining, smeared, patchily red. The metal sink creaked as I turned on the faucet, holding the brown paper towel under the cold water. I rubbed it beneath my bloated eyes, smelled the earthy pulp. I rinsed my mouth, draining my head of mucus, spitting, blowing my nose. Looking in the mirror, a small laugh tumbled out of me.
I realized this was it, rock bottom, I was touching the bottom. It could not get any worse. I was standing in a ratty bathroom with single-ply toilet paper in the middle of my rape trial. My dignity had diminished, my composure gone to shit. Everything I feared would happen happened, was happening. Now there was nothing to do but slowly crawl back out. When Myers opened the door, the compass in my body led me back to my seat.
DA: So, Chanel, just before our short break, I was talking to you about waking up in the hospital. Do you remember?
Each time, I could see myself sleeping on the gurney. Present me did not want to wake her up and tell her what happened. I could see myself lifting up my loosely bandaged hands, blinking and looking around. I wished to approach her and say, good morning, go back to sleep. I’d quietly roll the gurney back into the ambulance, we’d speed in reverse. I’d be asleep again in the bumpy vehicle, delivered by paramedics back onto the ground. Brock’s hand would slide out of me, my underwear shimmying back up my legs, my bra tucking over my breast, my hair smoothing out, the pine needles swimming back into the ground. I’d walk backward into the party, standing alone, my sister returning to find me. Outside the Swedes would bike past to wherever they were going. The world would continue, another Saturday evening.
But as much as I wanted this scenario, there was always the unsolved problem: Brock. I was out of his hands, but if he didn’t get what he wanted at that party, then he would at the next. We are taught assault is likely to occur, but if you dressed modestly, you’d lower the chances of it being you. But this would never eradicate the issue, only redirecting the assailant to another unsuspecting victim, off-loading the violence. I never wanted to see him again, but I’d rather have him watch me wipe mucus onto my sleeve than roam free. One small victory.
I got all the way to the part where my underwear was missing and another organ seemed to burst in me like a water balloon. I surprised myself with how much water my face produced. I described being given a blanket, falling asleep. I worried that the fact that I had slipped so quickly to sleep that night undermined the shock I had felt.
DA: And I’m going to show you a couple photos at this point and ask you if you recognize them. I’m showing you People’s 15, 16, and 17. . . . Chanel, I’d like you to take a look at People’s 15. Tell me if you recognize that photo.
I was unaware there had been photos of me unconscious at the hospital. Now being pushed across my podium was my head, my brown scalp threaded with long auburn pine needles in a room I’d never seen. My stomach seized. It’s me, that’s me. I felt cutting pains in my stomach, put these away.
DA: What’s—what’s People’s 15 depict?
Me: My hair.
DA: And when you went to the bathroom and realized there [were] pine needles in the hair—in your hair, does People’s 15 depict what you were describing to us?
I was transfixed, my lower jaw shaking so hard my teeth felt like they’d tumble out. What other pictures did they have?
DA: I’m going to show you People’s 16, and you can tell me if you recognize People’s 16.
Me: Yes.
DA: And what are you—what is it?
Me: My head and my hair.
DA: Do you have any memory of being in that position in the hospital?
Me: No. I didn’t know there were photographs.
DA: Have you ever seen these photos before?
Me: No.
DA: Just so the jury can see that picture, Chanel, I’m going to publish the exhibits again.
Before I could say anything, she turned, walking toward the projector, the large screen against the left wall. I stared straight ahead at my family, tried to lock eyes to warn them, Don’t look at it, just look at me, look at me, but I watched their gaze follow her, heads turning in unison as if magnetized by her heel clicks. This is People’s 15. Is that you, Chanel? I turned to my left, and there was my head, a brown planet filling the room, strapped to some sort of backboard.
I watched my mom cover her mouth with her hands. I wanted to whisper “Mom” into the microphone, but everyone would hear. I looked around, everyone’s gaze fixed on the photo. My eyes became hot, my head pulsed thinking can somebody cover her eyes please. I wanted to say, That’s not me, me is right here, sitting in front of you. I clenched my hands, flexed my feet, trapped in my stand with no power to stop what was happening.
DA: Is that you, Chanel?
Yes, I said.
When my DA returned to the stand, my anger had drained, my tears dried up. I sat detached in some strange, sad resignation. The defense could’ve screamed at me and I would’ve sat mutely. Brock could’ve thrown his water in my face and I wouldn’t have moved. I thought I could protect my family, tried to hide the damage. But I had failed. This is all I am to everyone here and nothing more. It did not matter what questions followed. I did not care about the outcome, about impressing a jury. I didn’t believe in the rose, could not summon Maya Angelou. All I could think was home, I was ready to go home.
She asked me to describe the SART exam. Invasive, I said. My voice was flat as I talked through the spread legs, metal needles, red Q-tips propped in a row. The gruesomeness no longer scared me. I had nothing left to hide.
She showed me the picture I had seen at the hearing, of my underwear at the scene. Do you have any recollection of being in this area where your cell phone and underwear is: this shrubbery and pine needles?
Me: No.
DA: Did you ever willingly go with anyone to an area like that?
Me: No.
Defense: She has no memory. She can’t testify about—
DA: Your Honor—
Defense:—personal knowledge. Objection.
Judge: Overruled.
DA: Thank you.
Me: I would never want to go somewhere where my—
Judge: The—there’s no question pending. So next question.
I finished the answer in my head: where my sister couldn’t find me. It didn’t matter, what I said or couldn’t say.
DA: Now, that night, when you went out to Stanford, did you have any intention of meeting anybody?
I felt a flicker, a kick, a branch emerging in the stream to grab on to.
Me: No.
DA: Did you have any intention of hooking up with anybody?
In my head I always go back. Many times I have tried to envision the moment he had me on the ground, and every time I imagine my eyes bursting open, blaring. My body coming to life below him, twisting, pushing him off me. Crawling on top, rising above, swinging my arms back and slamming them into his chest, my knee digging into his crotch like a battering ram, eliciting a cry, a whine, his harsh exhaling. I imagine leaning over his face, using my thumb and index fingers to peel his eyes open, dirt sprinkling into the wet pink slivers below his blue pupils, saying look at me and tell me I enjoy this. You think I am soft, you thought this was easy. I’d shove my palm into the center of his face, blood leaking from his nose, wetting my wrists. I would get up, land a final stomp between his legs, and walk away.
DA: Did you have any intention of kissing the defendant?
I looked up at Brock, his eyes already on me. I stared back. The thing about victims is that they wake up. Maybe you thought I’d never be able to go through with this. Maybe you thought, She has no memory, but I will never let you forget.
DA: Did you have any interest in him at all?
I wanted to climb onto my stand with a large red paintbrush, to paint NO across the back wall of the courtroom in long red strokes, each letter twenty feet tall. I wanted a banner to unfurl from the ceiling releasing crimson balloons. I want everyone’s shirts lifted, Ns and Os painted across hairy stomachs, NONONONONO, doing the wave. I wanted to say, Ask me again. Ask me a million times and that will always be my answer. No is the beginning and end of this story. I may not know how many yards away from the house I peed, or what I’d eaten earlier on that January day. But I will always know this answer. I was finally answering the question he’d never bothered to ask.
Me: No.
DA: I have nothing further.
Judge: All right. We are going to take our recess.
I felt my surge of adrenaline wash away, tired to my bones. It was time for the cross-examination, but I didn’t want to speak. I needed fresh air, to sit beneath a tree, get out of this building. My DA informed me that it was already four o’clock, we’d run out of time. A miracle. I was free to go, we would resume on Monday. I collected the wad of tissues on my stand, flew out the door, returned the acorn ball to my advocate, gave her a hug, Have a good weekend, see you Monday.
I stood alone in the parking lot with a young deputy, still shaken. Where was Lucas, Tiffany. It was overcast, everything gray, no shadows. I made no effort to engage in small talk, feeling rattled and light, too tired to make a show of politeness. My phone dinged. We’re waiting for you by the courtroom, at the pizza place. I said good-bye to the deputy and walked away. He insisted on escorting me, walking briskly to keep in step. He asked how I was doing. I told him I was nervous about Monday, the defense attorney. He said, Don’t worry about him, he’s an asshole. His honesty surprised me. I’d grown accustomed to everyone’s formalities. When he saw me laugh, he smiled too. You can take him, he said. You’ll be okay.
I turned into the doorway, saw Lucas and Tiffany in crewneck sweaters, a hot pizza between them, beaming, You’re alive! I rested my head on the table, my cheek pressed against the cool wood. Their arms enfolded me, relief. My sister was rubbing my back, tucking the hairs away from my face. I was starved, began feeding one warm slice after the other into my mouth. I closed my eyes, tasted melted cheese, crunchy pieces of olive and onion. Cold sips of coke, crunchy blocks of crust. Lucas surprised me with a bag of gummy worms, made one worm dance and peck me on my cheek. I was safe, growing sleepy. They had carved out a warm place to collapse into, without having to ask or explain anything. I felt fear dissolving, the world a gentle place again.
When night fell, my mom insisted we use the sparklers left over from Chinese New Year. I said I was too tired, didn’t feel like it. But she insisted we use them that night, like they were bananas on the brink of rotting. The sky was black. The sparklers were ignited, flurries of crackling light. My dad had a sparkler in each hand, standing on the diving board, waving his arms, wildly conducting. Lucas was chasing my mom, who ran in slippers around the pool, shooting nonsensical spells at the plants, the small yellow flowers, the oval towers of cactus. I was running through the house to get Tiffany, telling her to come out because our parents had gone nuts. My mom gave me the last sparkler. I was watching the sizzling light crack and sputter down the stick. In its final glow my mom said, To the new year, new beginnings, to all of us healthy, all of us happy, all of us together, may the future be bright! A small prayer, a new year ceremony in March, five sparks of light in the moonless night.
Lucas flew back to school. I spent the weekend distracting myself with banal tasks, but there was something I could not shake. The thing is I feel embarrassed on an airplane when I wake up and realize I’ve been sleeping with my mouth open. I was slow to realize how many men had seen me naked that night. I counted: Peter (1), who chased Brock (2), Carl (3), who squatted beside me. Guys from the fraternity (4, 5, 6, 7), who called the police. One guy (8) had been seen standing and shining a light over my body, before fleeing the scene. Deputy Taylor (9) was dispatched, a guy (10) led him to me. Next came Deputy Sheriff Braden Shaw (11), partner Eric Adams (12). Followed by paramedic Shaohsuan Steven Fanchiang (13), his partner Adam King (14), pinching my fingernails until I briefly opened my eyes, responding to the pain before slipping back out. The whole time I was lying there, left nipple out, ass bare, stomach skin folded, while polished shoes stepped on mulch around me. The deputies were crouching, taking notes, entire buttock visible, left breast was exposed, clothes all messed up in a various array, bra area completely a mess. I was photographed on the ground. These photographs, included the ones at the hospital, would be put up on the projector for everyone in the courtroom to see. Here I lose count.
I dreaded Monday’s cross-examination. I remembered a night in college when my drunk guy friend dragged a cinder block all the way home. When asked why, he said, Because I needed a doorstop! We laughed because it made no sense, but in his world it seemed like the perfect idea at the time. Imagine presenting this in court. Well don’t you find a cinder block a little unreasonable? Why wouldn’t you choose something lighter? Or get an actual doorstop, small and rubber? Approximately where was the cinder block located when you found it? Did you steal it? How drunk did you feel when you found it? Do you sleep with your door open or closed? What’s your motive for propping it open?
The first time I watched Grease I was nine, I loved Sandy, in her peach-colored skirt and silky ponytail. The entire movie was going smoothly until the final scene. Suddenly this woman in black leather pants and purple-lidded eyes emerged and I was in a panic thinking, Where did Sandy go? Is she okay? She must have transferred schools. Does she know John Travolta is cheating on her with this huge-haired tobacco-smoking woman? Why is no one else worried? I was watching the group of friends running through the carnival, while Sandy was nowhere to be found, and I was devastated. This is why, for so many years of my young life, I hated Grease.
It took me years to realize I was seeing two sides of the same person. At the time it seemed inconceivable. They looked and acted nothing alike; how were we expected to recognize one in the other? How do laced-up white sneakers become black heels snuffing out cigarette butts? Now the defense would be creating a new persona; the version he would show the jury would be someone I’d never seen.
Everyone was back in place, as if we’d never left. Before the cross-examination began, my DA had me stand in my new blue blouse with a red marker in my hand at the front of the courtroom, a large white pad of paper behind me. I had the urge to draw, wanted the jury to yell out objects and animals I could bring to life before them, to give them a glimpse of my real self before turning back into Emily.
On the paper was a timeline that looked like a vertical spine, marked up in green and blue notes from those who’d testified before me. My DA instructed me to write in the times I had tried to call Julia and Tiffany. I hesitated, reluctant to turn my back to everyone as I wrote. So I backed up, shoulder to shoulder with the white pad, awkwardly curling my wrist to mark the paper with the times I’d remembered from my call log. My red numbers came out crooked, squeezed in between other time stamps. She had no further questions. I took my seat.
The defense attorney stood up without raising his eyes from his notepad. He was a compact, rigid man. There was no greeting, no good morning, no smile. Chanel, with regard to the testimony you’ve just given this morning as to those screenshots and—and what you saw on your phone the next day, not only do you not remember any conversation, you don’t remember making any of those calls, correct?
I flinched, my red marker lines wiped away in one stroke. He was staring at his notepad like it was my résumé and this was a job interview, wondering why I thought I was qualified enough to show up.
Do you have any idea what time it was when your last memory at the Kappa Alpha house occurred when you were standing on the patio with your sister?
I stated a time.
You don’t have any way to know what the time is. That’s your best estimate, right?
I already felt I knew less than I originally thought.
Now, you testified—at the beginning of your testimony Friday, you gave us your height and weight. Were those numbers that you gave us what your height and weight was on January 17th, 2015?
My mind went blank. I didn’t know what I weighed on January 17.
At one point in your testimony, you said—about the possible plan of going to the KA house—you said something about going with your sister, but you felt more like her mom than her sister. What do you—what do you mean by that?
Had I been wrong to say that? He sounded irritated, as if he had a hundred people in line behind me waiting to talk to him. He asked if I’d been dropped off that night at the Tresidder Memorial Union parking lot. I’d never heard this name, had only thought of it as an area of asphalt.
It was the parking lot by the Stanford bookstore, I said.
Is that behind the bookstore or in front of the bookstore?
But the answer was neither; it was the lot adjacent to the bookstore, which was in the center of campus. How to explain this. He asked me what the closest building was to where I was dropped off. But I didn’t know any names of the nearby buildings on campus.
Defense: You also talked about, fairly shortly after you got to the Kappa Alpha house, pretending to welcome people and singing and embarrassing your sister. That’s what you decided to do at that time, right? That was an intentional thing.
Me: Intentional to welcome people or to be silly?
Defense: To be silly.
Me: Yes.
Was that bad? Was silly bad?
Defense: Okay. And it would be the same thing when you drank the quantity of vodka in the red cup. You drank it all down at once, right? Like, chugged it.
Me: Yes.
Defense: Okay. And that was a decision you made, right?
I cast my eyes down, aware this was a bad decision.
Defense: And you did a lot of partying in college, right?
He read this off his notes like an accusation, not a question.
Me: I did a decent amount. I would not consider myself a party animal.
Defense: Well, you did tell the police when you were interviewed that you did a lot of partying there too, right?
Which police? Detective Kim? Did I say that?
Me: Sure. I—
Defense: Okay.
Me: I’m a social person.
Defense: And all—
I was being trampled. My DA intervened.
DA: Your Honor, I would ask they not talk over each other—
Judge: Yes.
DA:—and allow her to explain her answer completely.
Judge: Let’s—let’s go one at a time. Next question.
Defense: Okay. And you’ve had blackouts before, right?
I wondered where he was taking me.
Defense: And when you’ve had them before, it was usually at the end of the night, right?
Me: Or fragmented parts of my night that I do not remember—
Defense: And—
Me:—not necessarily at the end.
This was a game of speed, stepping stones disappearing beneath my feet. I could not move as quickly, but I was determined to keep up.
Defense: Well, when you were interviewed by the police, you told Detective—or Officer DeVlugt that it’s usually at the end of the night when the blackout happens, right?
The name DeVlugt didn’t bring a face to mind, was she the deputy with long hair? I watched his eyebrows lift, heard his loud exhales, angry when I took too long.
Me: Right. Yes. But then I’ll remember other parts.
Defense: Okay. During that same period of time, do you recall ever hearing your phone ring, as if somebody were attempting to contact you?
Me: I think I had silenced it because I don’t like the clicking sound it makes when I take photos, and I was taking photos.
Defense: Do you have a specific memory of silencing it that night?
Me: I silence it often. It’s very easy to do if it’s a slide that can let you just slide.
Defense: I understand, but that’s not the answer I need for my question.
He set his legal pad down, his arms now bent at the hip. He cocked his head, wearing an expression of bewilderment. I did something wrong. Everything in me registered alarm, my body tensing as if watching a snake begin to coil. He was visibly upset. Were we still talking about the phone?
Defense: The question is: That night, do you have any specific recollection of having done that, silence it?
Me: I’m telling you, I always silence it, especially when I’m taking photos.
He dropped his arms, shaking his head, began hastily flipping through pages.
Defense: All right. Do you remember testifying in the preliminary examination in this case in October? You were asked this question—Counsel, this is page 50, lines 10 to 21. You were asked this question: “That night, while you were at the party and you had your cell phone in your possession, it was set so that if it rang, you would hear it. It was an audible ring, correct? Answer: I believe it was set so that it could ring. Sometimes I turn it off because, if I’m taking a lot of pictures, I don’t like the sound it makes every time it takes a picture. So I set it on silent. I believe it was auto. It was also loud.” That was what you said at that time, isn’t that correct?
Defeated, by my own words. Humiliation. I didn’t study hard enough. I had failed to anticipate the way he could make me my own enemy. The way he could step back and say, I’m not accusing you, I’m just repeating what you previously said. Suddenly I was staring myself in the face and thinking how could I argue against me?
My DA stood up for redirect examination.
DA: You were just asked, Chanel, a question about the preliminary hearing and regarding your cell phone. Do you remember that?
Me: Yes.
DA: Counsel left out the last part of that sentence. Did you also say, “But it’s also possible I could have silenced it”?
Me: Yes.
She had caught him. He had deliberately stopped reading the passage early, had cut off my quote. She began coaxing me out of the corner I’d been backed into. She asked if my previous blackouts had been different than my one on January 15. I said that in previous blackouts, I’ve never been half naked outside. I wanted to curtsy. She gave me more opportunities to clarify:
DA: When you moved back home, how would you describe your level of drinking?
Defense: Objection. Relevance.
Judge: Sustained.
DA: Had your tolerance changed at all from college—from your college experience days?
Me: Yes.
Defense: Objection. Relevance.
Judge: Overruled.
DA: How had it changed?
She was trying to give me the chance to state that at the time of my assault my tolerance level had significantly declined since my college days, while he knocked her questions away. I was attempting to tell the same story through two different filters; through the questions of my DA and the questions of the defense. Their questions created the narrative, building the framework that shaped what I said.
When I’d been questioned by my DA, I felt gutted, forced to come face-to-face with my painful memories, reliving it for the jury to see. Being questioned by the defense was stifling. He didn’t want to open up the emotional territory that she did; he wanted to smother it, to erase my specific experience, abstract me into stereotypes of partying and blackouts, to ask technical questions that tied my shoelaces together, tripping me as he forced me to run.
Something else was happening that I’d recognized in the hearing; the frequency of the word right. He’d planted answers in his questions rather than leave them open ended: Right? Isn’t that right? Correct? Right? To an observer, it would seem he was just verifying facts. But so much of it had not been right. It made me self-conscious, disagreeing with him repeatedly in front of the jury; wouldn’t they believe the suited man who seemed to have everything in order rather than the woman with fragmented memory? Who was I to keep saying, wait a minute, actually. The entire time I felt he was pulling my hand in one direction and I was digging my heels into the ground attempting to resist.
When asked how many times I’ve blacked out, I’d said four to five. I detected a sudden shift in the room, heads tilting down to make note of this remarkable fact, a pause while pens scribbled around me. Goddamnit, I thought. I knew immediately that by evening I’d be reading this fact in the news. I wondered whether, when my DA told me to be honest, she didn’t mean this honest. Whether I should have said two to three. They never would have known. But it wouldn’t have felt right, because it didn’t matter how many times I’d blacked out before. This blackout remained different. I was not here to lie about who I was or to apologize for my past. Still, I berated myself, my character flaw burying my whole team deeper.
The final question the defense asked me, stern faced and level toned: And your dinner consisted of broccoli and rice. I stared at him, waiting for some punch line, but did not detect a glimmer of amusement.
The end was abrupt. When I was excused, I sat for a moment, like I’d been spun in circles, instructed now to walk in a straight line. I hurried out of the courtroom, down the stairs, locking myself in the car, reclining my seat back until I lay flat.
I was supposed to feel a wash of relief, but I felt unease. I couldn’t tell if I did well or ruined my credibility. In a setting where every word was deliberate, why did he end with the broccoli and rice? After I left I realized that my dad may have made quinoa, not rice—and quinoa may have lowered my alcohol tolerance. I typed out a text to my DA to clarify it was quinoa, not rice, could she please let them know, but hesitated, knowing she was already busy questioning whoever was next. I’d lost my chance. And what was the importance of the phone ringing? I will never forget the way he looked at me like I’d insulted his mother. Why so angry? Is it better if it rang or was on silent? Which one would win my case? Quinoa or rice? Bookstore in the front or back? Three blackouts or five? We had tiptoed around all of the heaviest moments and fixated on minute details, many of which I seemed to get wrong. The defense had months to come up with questions I only had seconds to respond to.
I shut my eyes and remembered something else he said; That’s not the answer I need for my question. I felt naive as it dawned on me he was never interested in my responses. He already knew the answers he wanted; he just wanted me to say them. I had also heard an underlying pattern: That’s what you decided to do at that time, right? That was an intentional thing. And that was a decision you made. He littered my night with intentions and poor decisions, suggesting they had everything to do with the final act. If you decided to go to this party, intentionally got wasted, is it really that hard to believe you intended to get handsy, fool around? I tapped my forehead with the heel of my palm, a small tempo, telling myself, idiot, idiot, idiot.
I was done with my testimony, but it was time to steel myself and be strong; in a few hours Tiffany would testify. As I put my hands to the steering wheel I saw them again; cuts like scarlet parentheses. It looked like red cough syrup had spilled beneath my skin. No matter how composed I had appeared, my stress had found an outlet, hands clenched beneath the stand, fingernails pinching each other like crabs fighting to the death, while I had felt none of it.
At home there was a note on the counter from my dad: Girls, Will be thinking of you today. Remember, the truth will set you free. Mac & cheese, salmon, and chicken soup for the heart. Be strong! A glass casserole of macaroni and cheese had gone cold from sitting out. I dug into it with a metal spoon.
Tiffany was in the bedroom getting ready, wearing a scarlet blouse, changing into a black one, back into the scarlet one, sweating through, then lifting her arms as I blow-dried the dark areas. I busied myself helping her; if I sat and thought too long I knew I wouldn’t let her go back to that place.
Earlier in the day, before leaving the courtroom, I’d seen an Asian man in dress pants and a messenger bag standing in the hallway. I’d been told a DNA expert would be testifying and I wondered if that was him. I would later learn his name is Craig Lee, a forensic biologist, followed by Shaohsuan Steven Fanchiang, the paramedic, and Alice King, the criminal analyst, who all testified on my behalf in the time I was at home making sure Tiffany and I were fed and ready. While I was taking care of her, they were fighting for us both.
She drove us back to the courtroom. I asked her how she was doing, but she was distracted by a caterpillar clinging to the windshield, its fine white hairs blowing in the wind. She said we needed to save it. I said we were going to be late, but next thing I know she was pulling off the road into a parking lot, cutting the engine. I was unbuckling my seat belt, sifting through the middle console to find a crumpled receipt. I stepped out and wedged the receipt bit by bit below its tiny feet, and lowered it into the grass. When I got back into the car, she asked me if I saw it crawling away to make sure it was still alive. I got back out, confirmed it was moving. Only then was I allowed back in the car.
My sister had two friends, Elizabeth and Anusha, in the waiting room. I was grateful for the way they made this foreign world feel a little more familiar. The self that cried only hours ago had already transformed into a different person, upbeat and reassuring. When it was time, I sent my advocate with her.
I was no longer needed; this was the part where I was supposed to go home. But I didn’t want to leave yet. I walked down the hallway that led to the courtroom. I wondered if someone would see me and accuse me of trying to listen. I peered through the sliver of window in the courtroom door.
When I was ten, my sister eight, we were in China and had gone to an indoor pool, vast and empty with glass walls like a greenhouse, the water stretching so far it created its own horizon. The glass was fogged by the heat and tinged yellow. It was an empty weekday morning, only one older woman slicing back and forth along the surface. My dad gave me a copper key that unlocked a private changing room at the far end of the pool, then quickly fell asleep in a pool chair by the entrance.
We unlocked our room, running barefoot along the benches, all of it ours. A door along the back wall led to a small shower room. The shower door closed behind us and we began pumping shampoo, gelling our hair into pointed peaks. My sister wanted to return to the pool, but couldn’t open the door. Sure she wasn’t doing it right, I went over and jiggled the knob myself until I realized we were stuck. She stood there in a metallic rainbow suit, goggles glued to her forehead, elbows resting on her little belly, hands holding her face, looking at me expectantly. I told her it was a little jammed so we just had to wait for dad to come. We sat in silence under the shower, I was putting shampoo back on my head, but it was not as fun anymore. Soon the water ran cold. I didn’t know how to say “help” in Chinese. On the count of three, just yell HELLO, okay? I said. Before I got to three, she was screaming like I’d never heard her scream before. What scared me more was the silence that followed, no padding of feet, no jostling of the door handle.
Whenever my sister is crying, I am thinking. I crawled up on the sink ledge to peer out. There was nothing but highway. I imagined our naked limbs running down the road along a river of semi trucks. Then I noticed ventilation slats at the bottom of the wooden door. I pushed the meat of my palms against the first plank of wood until it snapped like a breaking bone. I cracked the second. I cracked the third, the splintered pieces lying defeated around my knees. Hands sore, I turned around to see if my sister could help, but she stood covering her eyes. I rested a moment, then worked through all six planks until there was only a wooden frame with nails sticking out on each side like teeth. I bent each nail, curving them away from me. I sucked in my stomach, gingerly placed my arms and my head through the opening. The nail tips grazed the skin on my ribs. I freed myself, but the lock remained broken. I craned my neck to peer up at her through the square, and said, Stay here and count to one hundred and by the time you are done I’ll be back. I ran the length of the pool, shook my dad awake. As soon as he opened his eyes, I began sobbing, crying my sister’s name.
My dad got a guy to come fix the doorknob, while my sister wailed alone on the other side. The guy said it got stuck sometimes. I was furious, can you see that my sister is trapped? As the door swung open and she ran to my dad, I looked at the little pile of broken wood and thought, I got us out. I will always find a way.
I was standing in the tiled hallway in my black coat, staring through the thin vertical window of the courtroom door. I could see her sitting there, all the way up at the front of the room, her head pea size in front of the microphone, mouth moving. I wanted to reach my hand in from above, like a claw in a machine, and pluck her gently out of there, to take her by my side, for us to leave this all behind. My eyes burned as I watched her, stuck on the other side of the door.
I met Athena at a bakery to pass the hours until Tiffany would be done, eating apricot hamantaschen in the rain. As it neared 5:00 P.M., we walked back to the courthouse, expecting her to emerge any second. A lone reporter stood outside. The press was not allowed to talk to me, but her gaze latched on and followed us. The way she was tilting her phone made me paranoid that she was taking pictures. It unnerved me, so we stepped inside through security just as the elevator doors parted and Brock appeared, hands in pockets, followed by his whole family and his attorney. I expected them to stop, retreat, an invisible boundary they were not allowed to cross. But they glanced at me and kept coming, and I did not have time to move, simply stood with my back turned as they passed me like I was nobody. When I looked at myself through their eyes, I shrunk one hundred sizes smaller, nothing more than a vacant-headed victim, the rotten stain on his life. Suddenly my advocate appeared. She said Tiffany was already waiting in the car.
We sat in the parked car as the windows blurred. She said we’d go when the rain lessened. I knew what she meant, that she needed to sit mindless for a moment. I learned she had run out of time, would have to return in the morning. I wanted to ask her how it went, to tell me everything, but was paranoid we’d be accused of sharing information. Even in a locked car sealed in by the roar of the rain, the fear of being watched, of doing something wrong, always snuffed the conversation out.
That night we put on a movie with Tom Hanks to take our minds off everything. Her phone rang, interrupting the stillness. It was my DA, my sister slipping away down the hall. When she returned her eyes were wet. She sat on the couch staring at the screen. I messed everything up, she said. That’s impossible, I said. I did, she said. My comforting was useless, as she insisted I didn’t understand, I wasn’t there. I hated that I wasn’t permitted to know what was happening. Later I would discover my sister had testified that when she left me briefly that night she thought I’d be fine. The defense was using this to argue that when Brock found me he had every reason to think I was fine too. If they could prove Brock genuinely believed I was coherent enough to consent, they could walk away with the case. I meant I thought you’d be fine, she said. I knew what she meant; she meant she didn’t think that her older sister would’ve been raped. Alaleh had called to tell her she needed to clarify and hold her ground, because the defense would nail her on this tomorrow.
I was ready to grab my keys, walk straight out the door. I wanted to pull up to the defense attorney’s house, run up the carpeted stairs, and rustle him awake in his stupid pajamas, his glasses on the bedside table. I would throw the quilted blankets off him, revealing his hairy white legs, his tube socks. I’d ask him if he knew how he was disturbing my little sister, couldn’t he figure out a goddamn way to do this decently, to keep it between me and Brock, to look at the evidence scrawled across the board, my BAC level, the voice mail, what more do you want, do you want to destroy my sister in the process, because I will end you. Somehow it had become all of our faults, except his.
As I sat there witnessing her crumbling before me, her agony in trying to carry this all, I finally understood. He knew there was a part in us that was self-conscious, the lingering voices that told us we were in the wrong. Wasn’t it you, who left? Who said she was fine? He found it, hooked into it, injected it, grew it until the guilt was all-consuming. Until we became so inundated by self-blame, so blinded by the pain, we lost the ability to see.
It was happening to her and it was happening to me, the two of us fed distorted realities, our words twisted until we became uncertain, discredited, writing ourselves off as flawed and broken. We willingly rammed our heads against the walls, confused, apologizing, unsure of what right we had to speak. I had unlocked the secret of the game; this was not a quest for justice but a test of endurance. His mistake was that he was going after someone I would go to the ends of the earth for. See, if it had just been me in there, being attacked, I might’ve backed down, retreating to my places of self-doubt. But her? I had been asked, earlier in the day, what I meant when I’d said I was more of a mother to her than a sister. I wanted to say, I don’t know, you tell me. What happens when a person gets in between a mother bear and her cub, have you read about the maulings, faces ripped clean.
I took my meticulously typed guidelines and encouragements, threw them in a drawer, gave myself a new mantra: fuck the fried rice. Fuck what you sipped, how you sipped, when you sipped with whom, fuck if I danced on the table, fuck if I danced on the chair. You want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? Your whole answer was sitting with his shoulders low, head down, his neatly cut hair. You want to know why my whole goddamn family was hurting, why I lost my job, why I had four digits in my bank account, why my sister was missing school? It was because on a cool January evening, I went out, while that guy, that guy there, had decided that yes or no, moving or motionless, he wanted to fuck someone, intended to fuck someone, and it happened to be me.
This did not make me deficient. This did not make me inadequate. But it did make me angry. My sister allowed me to see what I needed to see. Pain, when examined closely, became clarity. I knew now what the attorney had come here to do, and I would not let it happen. He believed he could break us, but from this day forward, I would begin to build.