"... Then he made me lie down on the ground and he took his pants off and left his sweatshirt on, and he started fondling my breasts and kissing them and doing things like that, and he was very interested in the fact that I was a virgin. He kept asking me about it. So he used his hands in my vagina...."
I was breathing shallowly now. The bailiff beside me became more and more alert.
Mastine did not want the fact of my virginity to go by unnoted.
"Stop for a second," he said. "Had you ever had sexual intercourse with anyone at that time of your life?"
I felt shame. "No," I said, "I had not."
"Continue," said Mastine, stepping back again.
I talked uninterrupted for nearly five minutes. I described the assault, the blow job, talked about how cold I was, detailed the robbery of $8 from my back pocket, his kiss good-bye, his apology. Our parting. "... and he said, Hey, girl.' I turned around. He said, 'What is your name?' I said 'Alice.'"
Mastine needed specifics. He asked about penetration. He asked how many times it had occurred if more than once.
"It would be ten times because--or something to that effect, because he kept putting it in there, and then it kept falling out. So that is 'in there,' right? I am sorry. That is entering, right?"
My innocence seemed to embarrass them. Mastine, the judge, the bailiff beside me.
"So in any event, he did have penetration?"
"Yes."
Next, more questions on lighting. Then the photo exhibits. Photos of the scene.
"Did you receive any injuries as a result of this attack?"
I detailed these injuries.
"Were you bleeding when you left the scene?"
"Yes, I was."
"I am showing you the photographs marked for identification thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. Look at those, please."
He handed me the photos. I looked only briefly at them.
"Are you familiar with the person depicted in those photographs?"
"Yes, I am," I said. I placed them on the edge of the stand, away from me.
"Who is tha--?"
"Me," I interrupted him. I began to cry. By trying not to, I made it worse. I sputtered.
"Are those photographs true and accurate portrayals of how you appeared after the attack on the evening of May eighth, 1981?"
"I was uglier, yes, but they are true portrayals." The bailiff went to hand me a glass of water. I reached for it but my grasp wasn't sure and it fell.
"I'm sorry," I said to the bailiff, crying more now. I tried to dab at her wet lapels with a Kleenex from the box she held.
"You're doing fine; breathe," this steely bailiff said. This made me think of the emergency room nurse on the night of the rape. "Good, you got a piece of him." I was lucky; people were pulling for me.
"Do you want to continue?" the judge asked me. "We can take a short break."
"I will continue." I cleared my throat and wiped my eyes. Now I held a Kleenex balled up in my lap--something I had not wanted to be reduced to.
"Can you tell us what clothing you were wearing that evening?"
"I was wearing a pair of jeans and a blue work shirt and an oxford type of shirt and a cable-knit cardigan sweater that was tan, and moccasins and underwear."
Mastine had been standing near the prosecution table. Now he stepped forward holding a clear plastic bag.
"I am showing you a large bag which is marked exhibit number eighteen. Would you take a look at the contents of that bag and tell us if you are familiar with them?"
He held the bag in front of me. I had not seen these clothes since the night of the rape. My mother's sweater, shirt, and jeans that I had borrowed that afternoon were tightly packed inside. I took the bag from him and held it to one side.
"Yes."
"What are the contents of that bag?"
"They look to be the shirt and jeans and sweater that I had on. I don't see the underwear but--"
"How about where your left hand is?"
I moved my hand. I had borrowed a pair of my mother's underwear. She wore nude, I wore white. This underwear was stained so thoroughly with blood that only one clean patch reminded me of this.
"Okay. My underwear," I said.
They were received into evidence.
Mastine finished up on the events of that day. He established that I had returned to Pennsylvania after failing to pick a photo out of the mug books at the Public Safety Building. We moved to the fall, noting my return day in September for the beginning of my sophomore year.
"I direct your attention now to October fifth, 1981, the afternoon of that day. Do you recall the events of that day, that afternoon?"
"I recall one particular event, yes."
"Is the person who attacked you in Thorden Park, is he in court here today?"
"Yes, he is."
I did what I was warned not to. I focused my attention on Madison's face. I stared at him. For a few seconds, I was unaware of Mastine or of Gail, or of the courtroom.
"Would you tell us where he is sitting and what he has on?" I heard Mastine say.
Before I spoke, Madison looked down.
"He is sitting next to the man with the brown tie and he has a gray three-piece suit on," I said. I relished pointing out Paquette's ugly brown tie and identifying Madison not by his skin color, as I was expected to do, but by his clothes.
"Let the record reflect that the witness identified the defendant," Mastine said.
For the remainder of the direct examination, I did not take my eyes off Madison for more than a second or two. I wanted my life back.
Mastine spent a long time on the events of October 5. I had to describe Madison on that day. What he looked like, what he said. Madison raised his head from the defense table only once. When he did, and saw that I was still looking at him, he turned away and to the city of Syracuse outside the window.
Mastine questioned me in detail about what Officer Clapper looked like, where he was standing. Had I seen Madison approach him? From what direction? Where did I go? Who did I call? Why the time discrepancy between seeing him and calling the police? Oh, he pointed out, the discrepancy was because I had appeared at class to tell my teacher I couldn't attend? Had naturally called my parents and told them what had happened? Had tried to wait for a friend to walk me home? All the things a good girl, he implied, might do after running into her rapist on the street.
His purpose in all this was to make anything Paquette could go after in his cross moot. That was what made Clapper so important. If I had identified Clapper and he, in turn, had identified Madison, this made my case close to airtight. This was the key point of identification Mastine emphasized. What Mastine and Uebelhoer, what Paquette, Madison, and I all knew, was that the lineup was the weak link.
I had thought long and hard about what I was going to say. This time around I would not pretend a command I did not have.
Mastine had me detail my reasoning for ruling out the men I initially had. I took my time explaining the similarities between numbers four and five and how I hadn't been sure at the time I marked the box but that I had chosen five because of the eye contact.
"At the time that you indicated it was number five, were you in fact positive it was him?"
"No, I was not."
"Why did you mark the box, then?"
This was the single most important question of my case.
"I marked the box because I was very scared, and he was looking at me and I saw the eyes, and the way the lineup is, it is not like it is on television, and you are standing right next to the person and he looks like he is two feet away from you. He looked at me. I picked him."
I could feel Judge Gorman's attention heighten. I watched Gail as I answered the questions Mastine put to me, tried to think of good things, of the baby floating inside her womb.
"Do you know to this day who that depicted?"
"Number five?"
"Yes," said Mastine.
"No," I said.
/> "Do you know which position the defendant was in, in the lineup?"
If I told the truth, I could say that the moment I picked number five I knew I was wrong and had regretted it. That everything after that, from the mood in the lineup room, to the relief on Paquette's face, to the dark weight I felt on Lorenz in the conference room, had only confirmed my mistake.
If I lied, if I said, "No, I do not," I knew I would be perceived as telling the truth in my confusion between four and five. "Identical twins," I had said to Tricia in the hallway. "It's four, isn't it?" were my first words to Lorenz.
I knew the man who raped me sat across from me in the courtroom. It was my word against his.
"Do you know which position the defendant was in, in the lineup?"
"No, I do not," I said.
Judge Gorman held up his hand. He had the court reporter read over Mastine's last question and my answer to it.
Mastine asked me if there was any other reason I felt scared or hurried during the lineup.
"The attorney for the defendant hadn't let me have my rape--he wouldn't allow me to have my rape center counselor with me."
Paquette objected. He believed this was irrelevant.
Mastine continued. He asked me about the Rape Crisis Center, about Tricia. I had met her on the day of my rape. He emphasized the connection. All of this went to why, in his mind, I had made my one and only mistake. This mistake, he wanted to make certain, should not invalidate what occurred on October 5 and the corroborating evidence of Officer Clapper.
"Is there any doubt in your mind, Miss Sebold, that the person that you saw on Marshall Street is the same person that attacked you on May eighth in Thorden Park?"
"No doubt whatsoever," I said. And I had none.
"That is all I have at this point, Your Honor," Mastine said, turning to Judge Gorman.
Gail gave me a wink.
"We will take about a five-minute recess," Judge Gorman said. "I caution you, Miss Sebold, don't discuss your testimony now with anyone."
This was what I had been promised--a break between direct and cross. I was assigned to the bailiff. She led me off to the right, through a door, down a short hall, and into a conference room.
The bailiff was as friendly as she could be.
"How was I?" I asked.
"Why don't you sit down," she said.
I sat at the table.
"Can you just make a signal?" I asked. Suddenly I got the idea into my head that the room was bugged--a way to make sure that the rules were followed. "Thumbs up or down?"
"I can't discuss the case. It will all be over soon."
We were quiet. I could now make out the traffic noise outside. I hadn't heard anything other than Mastine's questions while I testified.
The bailiff offered me stale coffee in a styrofoam cup. I took it and wrapped my hands around the warm outsides.
Judge Gorman entered the room.
"Hello, Alice," he said. He stood on the other side of the table from me. "How is she, bailiff?" he asked.
"She's good."
"Haven't talked about the case?"
"No," the bailiff said, "quiet, mostly."
"So what does your father do, Alice?" he asked me. His tone was more gentle than the one he used in court. The voice lighter, more circumspect.
'He teaches Spanish at Penn," I said.
I bet you're glad he's here today."
"I am."
'Do you have any sisters or brothers?"
"An older sister. Mary," I added, anticipating his next question.
He went over and stood by the window.
"I've always liked this room," he said. "What does Mary do?"
"She's majoring in Arabic at Penn," I said, suddenly happy to have questions that were so easy. "She goes there free but I didn't get in," I said. "Something my parents really regret now," I said, making a joke.
"I bet they do," he said. He had been half sitting on the radiator and now he stood and adjusted his robe. "Well, you just sit here for a little while longer," he said, "and we'll call you."
He left.
"He's a good judge," the bailiff said.
The door opened and a male bailiff poked his head in. "We're ready," he said.
My bailiff stubbed out her cigarette. We didn't speak. I was ready now. This was it.
I reentered the courtroom and took the stand. I took a deep breath and looked up. In front of me was my enemy. He would do everything he could to make me look bad--stupid, confused, hysterical. Madison could look at me now. His man had been sent in. I saw Paquette approach me. I looked right at him, took him all in: his small build, ugly suit, the sweat on his upper lip. He may have been, in some part of his life, a decent man, but what overwhelmed me now was my contempt for him. Madison had committed the crime but Paquette, by representing him, condoned it. He seemed the very force of nature I had to fight. I had no trouble hating him.
"Miss Sebold, I believe that you testified that you were headed into Thorden Park on May eighth around midnight. Is that right?"
"Yes."
"You were coming from Westcott Street?"
"Yes."
"Did you go through an entrance through the park there, like a gateway?"
"There is a bathhouse and there is pavement in front of the house, and I went on the pavement and then it continues on a brick path by the pool and I walked on that brick path."
"So that the bathhouse, then, is at the perimeter of the pool, on the Westcott side?"
"Yes."
"The path you are talking about takes you right into the center of the park and right out on the other side, would it?"
"Yes, it would."
"You started to go down that path?"
"Yes, I did."
"You testified today that the whole area was surrounded by lights and that the lighting was quite good?"
"Yes, I did."
"Do you remember testifying in a preliminary examination on this case?"
"Yes, I did." I hated these questions. Who wouldn't remember? But I held my sarcasm in check.
"Do you remember saying that there were some lights on anyway from the bathhouse but--"
"What page?" Mastine asked.
"Page four, the preliminary exam."
"Is this the preliminary exam?" Gorman asked, holding up a group of papers.
"Yes," Paquette said.
"Line fourteen. 'I think there are some lights from my way to the bathhouse I could see behind. It was dark, but not black behind me.'"
I remembered my phrase "dark but not black."
"Yes, I said that."
"Isn't that a little bit different than saying you were surrounded by lights on all sides and quite good lighting?"
I knew what he was doing.
"It may sound more dramatic to say surrounded by lights. The light was there and I saw what I saw."
"My question is, was it dark but not black the way you testified in the preliminary, or was it quite good lighting, surrounded by lights, the way you testified today?"
"When I said quite good lighting, I meant quite good lighting in the dark."
"Okay. Now, you went about how far into the park before you were first accosted?"
"I went past the bathhouse and past the gate and the fence that is along the pool and about ten feet past that fence, and then I was taken by the man."
"How many feet or yards would it be from the entrance to the park until that point that you described as ten feet beyond?"
"Two hundred feet."
"About two hundred feet? You were into the park about two hundred feet when you were first accosted?"
"Yes, I was."
"Did that person come up from behind you?"
"Yes, he did."
"Grabbed you from behind?"
"Yes, he did."
"You struggled at that point?"
"Yes, I did."
"Did that struggle take a long time?"
"Yes."
"About how long?"
"About ten or fifteen minutes."
"Now, there came a point when this individual took you from where you were first accosted into another area of the park. Is that right?"
"It wasn't another area. It was just further in."
"Further into the park?"
"Not further into the park but--on an outside the--we struggled outside the tunnel and then he took me inside the tunnel."
"Could you describe this tunnel for me?"
The questions were fast and furious. I had to breathe quickly to keep up. I couldn't see anything but Paquette's lips moving and the beads of sweat above them.
"Well, I keep calling it a tunnel because somebody told me that it was a tunnel leading up to the amphitheater. From what I see, and it doesn't have--you can't go farther into it than a distance of about ten feet. It is more like a cave and an arch. It has got stonework above it and a gate in front of it."
"How deep does it go in there, from the gate to the wall?"
"I would say about ten, fifteen feet at the most."
"At the most?" he said. It felt like a sudden, unexpected parry in a fencing match. "I ask you to take a look at exhibit number four, which has been received into evidence, and I ask you, do you recognize that?"
"Yes, I do."
"What is that?"
"That is the path by which he took me to the tunnel and that is the gate in front of the tunnel, the opening of the gate."
"So if we were looking at this picture, and would he have taken you farther down that path walking, and I would call it into the picture, or am I misstating--"
"The tunnel is behind the gate, or the cave is behind the gate."
Suddenly it dawned on me what he was doing. All the gate and tunnel questions, the rapid fire on where I was coming from, going to, how many feet it was or wasn't. He was trying to wear me out.
"Could you point out to me any other spotlight or streetlights that you see in the picture?"
I sat forward on my seat and studied exhibit four closely. I was attentive; I waited to form the answers that would equal him move for move.
"I don't see any streetlights, except right up here on that tip there is a light."
"Way in the back of the picture?"
"Yes."
"Are there any lights there that weren't depicted in this photograph?"
"Yes."
"There are?" he said, again the same disbelieving tone, meant to imply that I was really a bit insane, wasn't I? "They are missing from the picture?" he said. He smiled up at the judge, bemused.