"I didn't say a word in the room."
"You knew that by marking number five that what you were indicating was that he would be a suspect or might well be a suspect in a rape trial?"
"Yes." It seemed the wrongs I'd done were endless.
"So it wasn't until after you left the room that you discovered that number five wasn't the person that you should have picked?"
"No. I went to my rape crisis counselor and I said number four and five looked like identical twins. That is what I did."
"You didn't express that to anyone beforehand?"
"I did it in the room, and before that I hadn't seen them and I couldn't."
He didn't wish to linger long enough to clarify. I had meant the conference room this time, not the lineup room.
"You picked number five?"
"Yes, I did."
"I believe that your testimony is, then, that you were raped on May eighth?"
"Yes."
"That you didn't see your assailant again until Marshall Street?"
"October fifth, yes."
"Then you saw him on Marshall Street?"
"Yes."
"There was a police officer right there, wasn't there?"
"Yes."
"Did you approach that officer?"
"No. I did not approach the officer."
"Did you go to the nearest phone and call the police?"
"I went to the Hall of Languages, where I had a class, and called my mother."
"So you called your mother...." He was snide. It brought me all the way back to the preliminary hearing, the way his colleague, Meggesto, had savored the words "Calvin Klein jeans." My mother, my Calvin Klein jeans. It was what they had on me.
"Yes."
"Then you talked to your professor?"
"I called my mother and then I called some friends, to try to get in contact with someone who could walk me back to my dormitory. I was very scared, and I knew I had to go to school. I couldn't get hold of anybody. I went upstairs to my teacher and told him why I wasn't attending class. I told him, and I walked to the library to find one of my friends to walk me the rest of the way home and go with me to the police and then I went back to my dorm and I had called the friend of mine who is an artist, so he could help me draw a picture, which he did not do. Then I called the police and they arrived with the Syracuse University security officers."
"Did you ever call security to give you a ride home?"
I began to cry. Was everything my fault?
"Excuse me," I said, apologizing for my tears. "They only do that after five or during night hours." I looked for Gail. I saw her staring intently at me. It's almost over, her look said. Hang on.
"How much time went by from the time that you saw him on Marshall Street?"
"Forty-five to fifty minutes."
"Forty-five to fifty minutes?"
"Yes."
"Now, you have not identified Mr. Madison from that moment until today; is that right?"
"Identified him, you know, in your presence?"
"Identified him here in the legal proceedings as the person that raped you."
"Not in legal proceedings, but I did today."
"Today you did. How many black people do you see in the room?"
Jumping the gun, knowing his insinuation. How many other black people, besides the defendant, do you see in the room? I answered, "None."
He laughed and smiled up at the judge, then swept his hand in the direction of Madison, who looked bored. "You see none?" Paquette said, emphasizing the last word. She really is quite incredible, he seemed to be saying.
"I see one black person other than--the rest of the people in the room."
He smiled in triumph. So did Madison. I wasn't feeling powerful anymore. I was guilty for the race of my rapist, guilty for the lack of representation of them in the legal profession in the City of Syracuse, guilty that he was the only black man in the room.
"Do you remember testifying about this lineup in a grand jury proceeding?"
"Yes, I do."
"Was it on November fourth, the same day as the lineup?"
"Yes, it was."
"Do you remember--looking at page sixteen of the grand jury minutes, line ten--'You picked him out of the lineup? Are you absolutely sure this is the one?'
"'Number five; I am not absolutely sure. It was between four and five. But I picked five because he was looking at me.'
"So the juror says, 'What you are saying is you are not absolutely sure he was the one?'
"'Right.'
"'Number five is the one.'
"'Right.'
"So you still weren't sure on November fourth?"
I didn't know what Paquette was doing. I felt lost. "That number five was the one? I was not sure five was the one, right."
"You surely weren't sure that number four was the one because you didn't pick him."
"He was not looking at me. I was very scared."
"He wasn't looking at you?" His syllables dripped with pitiless sarcasm.
"Yes."
"Did you notice anything unusual on May eighth, when you were accosted by this person, that you haven't told us about, about his features or scars or marks or anything, facial features, his teeth, fingernails, or his hands or anything?"
"Nothing unusual, no."
I wanted it to be over now.
"You said that you looked at your watch when you went in the park?"
"Yes."
"What time was it?"
"Twelve o'clock."
"You looked at your watch when you got to your dorm?"
"I didn't look at my watch. I--was very aware of what time it was because I was surrounded by police, and I may have also looked at my watch, and I knew that it was two-fifteen when I got back to the dorm."
"When you got back to the dorm? Were the police called when you got back to your dorm?"
"Yes."
"When you got back to the dorm, at two-fifteen, and there had been no police called yet?"
"Right."
"They came sometime after that?"
"Yes. Immediately after I got back to my dorm."
He had finally worn me down. It made awful sense that no matter how hard I tried, he would be left standing at the end.
"Now, you said, you testified that he kissed you; is that right?"
"Yes."
Once or twice or a lot of times?"
I could see Paquette. Madison sat behind him, interested. I felt the two of them were coming in after me.
"Once or twice when we were standing and then, after he had laid me down on the ground, a few times. He kissed me." The tears were just rolling down my cheeks now and my lips trembling. I didn't bother to wipe them. I had sweat through the Kleenex that I held.
Paquette knew he had broken me. That was enough. He didn't want this.
"May I have a moment, Your Honor?"
"Yes," Gorman said.
Paquette went to the defense table and conferred with Madison, then checked his yellow legal pad and files.
He looked up. "Nothing further," he said.
The relief in my body was immediate. But then Mastine stood.
"A couple of questions, if it please the court."
I was tired but knew now that Mastine would handle me gently if he could. His tone was firm but I trusted him.
Mastine was concerned with working Paquette's former territory, going back to strengthen weak lines. He made a quick five points. First he established how late it was and how tired I was when I gave my statement on the night of the rape. He had me detail all the things I had been through and on no sleep. Then he moved on to my statement on October 5, the one Paquette had gleefully put forth to me--the feeling versus sure. Mastine was able to establish that, as I had said, it was an affidavit in which I retold the encounter with Madison chronologically. I first saw him from the back and had a feeling. I then saw him face-on and was sure.
Then he asked me if anyone was with me. He wanted to p
oint out that because my father was present, I had elected to decline the presence of a rape crisis representative.
"My father is waiting outside," I said. This fact didn't seem real to me. Far away, in the hall outside, he was reading. Latin. I hadn't thought of him since entering the courtroom. I couldn't.
Mastine asked me how long I had been under Madison in the tunnel and how far away from his face I was.
"One centimeter," I said.
Then he asked me a question I felt uncomfortable with, one I had known he might ask if Paquette's approach warranted it.
"Could you give the judge an idea of how many young black men you would see on a daily average in your travels, or class or dormitory or at all?"
Paquette objected. I knew why. It went straight to his case.
"Overruled," said Gorman.
I said, "A lot," and Mastine had me quantify. "More than fifty or less?" I said that it was more. The whole thing made me uncomfortable, separating the students I knew by their race, pooling them into columns, and tabulating their number. But this wouldn't be the first time, or the last, that I wished my rapist had been white.
Mastine had no further questions.
Paquette got up only to have me repeat one thing. He wanted me to repeat the distance of Madison's face from mine during the rape itself. I did: one centimeter. Later he would try and use my certainty against me. Quoting this distance in his final statement as to why I couldn't be trusted as a credible witness.
"No redirect," Mastine said.
"You are excused," Judge Gorman said, and I stood.
My legs were shaky underneath me and I had sweat through my skirt and stockings and slip. The male bailiff who had led me in came toward the center of the room and waited for me.
He took me out.
Down the hall, Murphy spotted me and helped my father gather his books. The bailiff looked at me.
"I've been in this business for thirty years," he said. "You are the best rape witness I've ever seen on the stand."
I would hold on to that moment for years.
The bailiff walked back toward court.
Murphy hustled me off "We want to get away from the door," he said. "They'll be breaking for lunch."
"Are you okay?" my dad asked.
"I'm fine," I said. I did not recognize him as my father. He was just a person standing there, like all the rest. I was shaking and needed to sit down. The three of us, Murphy, my father, and I, returned to their bench.
They spoke to me. I don't remember what they said. It was over.
Gail breezed out of the courtroom and over to us. She looked at my father. "Your daughter's an excellent witness, Bud," she said.
"Thank you," my father said.
"Was I okay, Gail?" I asked. "I was worried. He was really mean."
"That's his job," she said. "But you held up under him. I was watching the judge."
"What did he look like?" I asked.
"The judge? He looked exhausted," she said, smiling. "Billy is really tired. I wanted to get up there so bad. We have a break until two and then it's the doctor. Another pregnant lady!"
It was like a relay race, I realized. The leg I'd run had been arduous and long, but there were still others--more questions and answers--more key witnesses, many more hours to Gail's day.
"If I learn anything I'll contact the detective," she said, turning to me. She extended her hand to my father. "Nice to meet you, Bud. You can be proud."
"I hope the next time we meet it's under more pleasant circumstances," he said. It had just hit him. We were leaving.
Gail hugged me. I had never hugged a pregnant woman before, found it awkward, almost genteel, the way both she and I had to lean only the upper halves of our bodies in. "You're incredible, kiddo," she said quietly to me.
Murphy drove us back to Hotel Syracuse, where we packed. I may have slept. My father called my mother. I don't remember those hours. My attention had been so focused that now I let go. I was aware that my case was still continuing as we folded clothes and waited for Murphy to pick us up later that afternoon. My father and I sat on the edges of the twin beds. Putting distance between us and the city of Syracuse was our unspoken goal. We knew the plane would do it. We waited.
Murphy came early to meet us. He brought news.
"Gail wanted to be the one to tell you," he said, "but she couldn't get away."
My father and I were in the carpeted lobby, our red American Tourister luggage waiting nearby.
"They got him," he said joyfully. "Guilty on six counts. He was remanded to jail!"
I went blank. My legs felt weak beneath me.
"Thank God," my father said. He said this quietly, acknowledging an answered prayer.
We were in the car. Murphy was chattering. He was high off it. I sat in the back of the car while my father and Murphy sat in the front. My hands were cold and limp. I remember feeling them distinctly resting on either side of me, useless.
At the airport, while my father and Murphy sat off at a distance in an airport lounge, I called my mother from a pay phone. Murphy offered to buy my father a drink.
I pushed in my home phone number and waited.
"Hello," my mother said.
"Mom, it's Alice. I have news."
I faced the wall and cupped the mouthpiece in both hands. "We did it, Mom," I said. "All six counts except the weapons one. He was remanded to jail."
I didn't know what remanded meant yet but I used the word.
My mother was ecstatic. She shouted up and down the house in Paoli, "She did it! She did it! She did it!" over and over again. She could not contain her joy.
I had done it.
Murphy and my father exited the bar. Our flight was boarding soon. I found out what remanded meant. It meant Madison would not be released between conviction and sentencing. They had handcuffed him inside the courtroom as the charges were read. This made Murphy gleeful.
"I wish I could have been there to see his face."
It had been a long, good day for John Murphy, and, as my father confided on the airplane, Murphy could really pack the drinks away. But who could blame him? He was heady, celebratory, off to see his Alice.
I was drained. Though it took me a while to realize it, I, too, had been remanded. I would be held over for a long time.
On June 2, I received a letter from the probation department of the County of Onondaga. They wrote to inform me that they were conducting "a presentence investigation of a young man who was recently found guilty after trial of Rape First Degree, Sodomy First Degree and other related charges. These charges," the letter stated, "stem from an incident in which you were the victim." They wrote to inquire if I had any input on the sentencing recommendation.
I wrote back. I recommended the maximum sentence allowable under the law, and quoted Madison calling me "the worst bitch." I knew Syracuse had been voted the seventh-best city to live in that year, and I pointedly stated that having men like Madison on the streets wouldn't bolster this reputation. I knew my best hope to be heard was by making the point that a maximum sentence would make the men who sentenced him look good. That way they wouldn't be doing it for me, but for the people who elected them and paid their salaries. I knew this. Whatever skills I had, I used.
I closed my letter by signing it over my title: victim.
On July 13,1982, in a court where Gorman presided, and Mastine, Paquette, and Madison were in attendance, Gregory Madison was sentenced. It was the maximum for rape and sodomy: eight and a third to twenty-five years. The larger sentences, along with lesser ones given for the four remaining charges, would run concurrently.
Mastine called to tell me. He also informed me that Gail had given birth. My mother and I went shopping for a gift. When I saw Gail fifteen years later, she brought the gift along to show me she remembered.
TWELVE
That summer I began my makeover. I had been raped but I had also been raised on Seventeen and Glamour and Vogue. The possibilities of the be
fore-and-after that I had been presented with all my life took hold. Besides, those around me--namely my mother now, with my sister working in Washington before leaving for Syria, and my father off in Spain--encouraged me to move on with my life. "You don't want to become defined by the rape," she said, and I agreed.
I got a job in an ill-fated T-shirt shop where I was the only employee. I stamped badges in an unventilated attic and did sloppy silk-screening for local softball teams. My boss, who was twenty-three, was out hustling up business around town. Sometimes he was drunk and showed up with his buddies to watch TV I was wearing huge clothes at the time, ones I made myself, what even my mother called tent dresses. And I wore a lot of them in the June and July heat of 1982. One day when my boss and his friends taunted me to show a little flesh, I turned around and walked out. I drove home in my father's car, covered in inks.
It was just me and my mother again, like the summer when I turned fifteen. I kept looking for another job--my journal is full of shoe-store interviews and office-supply-store applications--but like in any suburb during the summer, jobs were scarce once mid-summer hit. Mom was trying to lose weight. I decided to join her. We watched Richard Simmons and bought an exercise bike. I have a memory of the Scarsdale diet, small, measured steak and chicken bits that we could barely get down. "This diet is costing a fortune," my mother said as we ate more meat that summer than I have since.
But I began to take off pounds. I would sit in front of the television in the morning and watch obese women cry with Simmons, setting off a sort of round-robin of tears among the guest, Simmons, and the studio audience. Sometimes I cried too. Not because I thought I was as fat as the women on the screen but because I thought I knew exactly how ugly they felt. I might have been able to get down the street without being called names and I could see my shoelaces over my belt, but I identified with Simmons's guests as I did with no one else. They were the walking, talking ostracized who had done nothing wrong.
So I cried. And I got on that bike. And I hated my body. I used that hate to shed fifteen pounds.
In late summer, after my father had returned from Spain, the three of us were out in the yard doing yard work. I was supposed to ride the ride-on mower. A typical Sebold fight erupted. I didn't want to, etc. Why did Mary get to go live in D.C. and then go to Syria? My father called me ungrateful. It escalated. Suddenly, just as it was traveling down the familiar path to all-out shouting, I burst into tears. I started crying but couldn't stop. I ran inside up to my room. Trying to sop up the tears was futile. I cried until I was spent, dehydrated, my eyes and the flesh around them a site map of broken capillaries.