At last, it was Elsie’s turn. During her wait, as she paced the carpet of the small room, she developed a new respect for the angst suffered by witnesses in the courtroom process.
Steven Bennett, the U.S. attorney handling the hearing, held the door open for her to enter, and she nodded at him as she passed. But once she arrived inside the grand jury room, she paused, baffled.
The room didn’t resemble any courtroom she’d ever seen. It was set up like a college classroom, with a conference table at one end, and roughly two dozen men and women seated at a distance, facing her.
She looked for a judge, but observed no one wearing a black robe.
“Ms. Arnold,” said the attorney, his arm indicating a seat at the conference table.
She turned to him and whispered, “Who is going to swear me in? There’s no judge.”
A court reporter sat before the table, with his court reporting device. “Leonard,” Bennett said, “please swear the witness.”
The court reporter instructed Elsie to raise her hand; she followed his orders, repeating the familiar oath. As she sat at the table, she felt heat rise in her face. She was glad she didn’t wear eyeglasses; she might steam them up. It was the product of nerves and the discomfort she felt as a fish out of water.
Steven Bennett stood beside her and spoke. “Please state your name.”
“Elsie Arnold.”
“What is your occupation?”
“Assistant prosecuting attorney of McCown County, Missouri.”
“And where do you live?”
“1100 East Kimbrough Street. In Barton, Missouri.”
“And Barton is?”
“The county seat of McCown County, Missouri.”
“Thank you. Ms. Arnold, I’d like to direct your attention to November 18 of this year. Where did you go on that date?”
Elsie broke eye contact with the U.S. attorney and scanned the grand jury members. They were attentive; several jotted notes on pads of paper. Most of the jurors were older than Elsie by a decade or more; but she was chagrined to note they were more fashionably attired than she. A woman in the front row wore a silk scarf in autumnal hues draped artfully around her neck and a smart pair of brown shoes polished to a high shine. Elsie glanced down at her own feet. The toes of her best shoes bore scuff marks. She wished she’d thought to polish them before court. And the sole of the left shoe was coming loose, separating from the leather at the toe.
Lifting her gaze, she locked eyes with the attorney. “I drove to the EconoMo Motel on I-44, in Bodine County, Missouri. It’s on the outskirts of Albany.”
“And for what reason did you go to that location on that date?”
“I went to meet a man who called himself Tony, who claimed he was an agent for a business called Marvel Modeling. I had an appointment for an interview.”
The attorney’s lips twitched. “Do you moonlight as a model, Ms. Arnold?”
Someone in the room chuckled. Elsie resisted the urge to hunt him down and give him the stink eye.
“I do not.”
She straightened in her seat, raising her chin. The attorney gave her a quizzical look, as if he expected her to continue. When she maintained her silence, he said, “Why did you have the appointment with Marvel Modeling?”
“I had reason to suspect that young women in my community were being lured by a false modeling enterprise. A young girl, a student at Barton Middle School, was missing. I wanted to see whether there was a connection with Marvel Modeling.”
“How did you happen to make the connection with Tony?”
Elsie paused before she answered, instinctively wary of a question that called for hearsay information. In state court proceedings, hearsay evidence—where a person testifies about what they heard another person say—was inadmissible.
But this was a grand jury hearing. The rules were different. No defense attorney was present to jump up and object.
She spoke. “I’d seen a modeling page on Taylor Johnson’s computer search. And in a conversation with Desiree Wickham’s mother, Kim, she made a reference to Tony at Marvel Modeling. She said that Desiree found the agency from an ad on Backlist.com.”
“So, you hunted Tony down on your own.”
“I did.”
“And made an appointment to meet with him.”
“I did.”
“Did you tell him you were a prosecutor?”
“I did not.”
The fashionable woman on the front row raised her brow. Elsie focused on her as she said, “I told him I was interested in modeling.”
Steven Bennett stepped away from the table where Elsie sat and paced in front of the assembled grand jurors.
“Are you a police officer, Ms. Arnold?”
“No.”
“A law enforcement official?”
“No.”
“An investigator of any sort?”
When she didn’t answer, the attorney swung around, a look of impatience on his face. “Did you hear my question?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I’m considering my response.” Elsie shifted in her seat, leaning forward so that she could see the faces of all of the grand jurors.
“I’m an assistant prosecuting attorney in a small county. I prosecute crime; as a felony prosecutor, I largely prosecute violent and sexual crime, and try these cases before juries.”
“How is that—”
She cut him off. “In my job as a trial attorney, I don’t have all the resources that are at your disposal in the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You have the FBI at your beck and call. I’m putting together the cases on my own. And yes; at times, that means my job bleeds over into an investigative role of sorts.”
“So, what happened to you at the EconoMo is a regular occurrence.”
To Elsie’s horror, a sudden rush of hot tears choked her throat and came dangerously close to running down her face.
She ducked her head, and cleared her throat to hide her discomfiture. When he said, “Ms. Arnold?” she raised an index finger and shook her head.
It took a moment to pull herself together. She rubbed her eyes, to make sure no moisture seeped out. When she raised her head, her face was calm and resolute.
“Beg pardon. No. What happened at the motel in Bodine County is not a common occurrence. Not in my experience.”
The attorney had the grace to look regretful.
“What happened at the motel, Ms. Arnold?” His voice held a respectful note, for the first time in their acquaintance.
She took a breath. “I was invited into Room 217 by a woman who identified herself as Dede.”
The attorney poised on the edge of the conference table, his eyes steady as they studied her. “Go on,” he said.
And she did. She told the whole ugly story, from start to finish.