Linda Fairstein - Final Jeopardy

“Well, I don’t exactly remember everything that happened, but I know I was violated.”

“Steven tells a very different story than you do. And before we lock somebody up for first-degree rape you can be damn sure we’re going to explore every detail of the events and try to reconstruct them. If it’s clear he committed a crime, Steven will be arrested and charged.

“The best thing you can do is relax, try and answer all my questions as candidly as possible, and understand that I need to know every bit as much about you as Steven knows everything that he will tell his lawyer about your encounter on Saturday.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Beverly, that your case is different than a case where a man climbs through a window or stalks a woman from a subway station and attacks someone he’s never seen before. It may be every bit as serious, but it’s different.

In those situations, they’re only together for as long as it takes to accomplish the rape -but the attacker doesn’t know anything about his victim, she hasn’t confided in him, she hasn’t trusted him like someone on a date with a friend does. Understand?“

“Sure. But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t raped.”

“No. But it means that Steven knows a lot more about you than I know, information he can try to use against you. I can’t just limit my questions to the point in the evening that you went to his room, I’ve got to start with what brought you together in the first place, what you told him about yourself, whether there was any foreplay during the evening, whether there was any conversation about sex.

And first of all I need to know why your memory of the events is so unclear is it because of the trauma, or is it the amount of alcohol?“

“Oh God. This isn’t going to be easy, is it?”

“No, Beverly, it’s not going to be easy. There’s too much at stake for both you and Steven, and now is the time to get the answers not six months from now, at a trial. I’ll just begin with the background information I need try and relax.”

I walked the young woman through the personal material the sheet called for: date of birth, permanent address, roommates, status at school, medical history, means of support. Like most of the witnesses who had preceded her in that seat, this overweight nineteen-year-old was nervous and uncomfortable, barely able to meet my eye when she responded to questions. She was a sophomore at Hunter College this fall and living in an apartment with two other students the first time she was away from her parents’ home. She explained that she didn’t want them to know what happened because she was sure they would make her move back to Queens or drop out of school. I assured her that our meeting was confidential.

“Why don’t you tell me how and when you first met Steven.”

“Who, me?”

“Yes, Beverly.”

She explained how she saw him at a school mixer a couple of weeks earlier, talking with a guy she knew from her sociology class, and she had gone out drinking with them after the mixer.

“What did you have to drink that first night?”

“Who, me?”

“Yeah.”

Beverly struggled to remember what combination of rum and sodas she had the first time she and Steven sat at a bar for four hours, drinking and talking about their classes, their interests, and their mutual friends. She had called him several times during the last few weeks but he had never returned the messages. He seemed to be interested in one of her roommates, and yes, Beverly admitted that she had a bit of a crush on Steven.

We finally got the events up to last Saturday night, when she ran into Steven at Zoo Bar on the Upper West Side.

“What were you drinking, Beverly?”

“Who, me?”

Three ‘who, me?s’ were my limit.

“We’re sitting in a small room with the door closed. We’re sitting face to face with each other, in two armchairs, barely a foot apart. I’m staring directly at you, and there’s nobody else around. Of course I mean you.” I was beginning to lose patience with Beverly, whose resort to ’who, me?“ was an effort to stall and think of whether or not to give a candid or complete answer to the particular question I was asking.

I got tough with her and she stopped wasting my time. Out poured the rest of the story in a far more direct manner. She told me that Zoo Bar is famous for serving drinks in fishbowls. One fishbowl containing an unidentifiable mixture of alcoholic beverages is served with eight straws, to be shared by a group of drinking friends. Beverly remembered splitting the first one with just her two roommates and ordering a second one, which she consumed most of by herself. She remembered flirting with Steven, while he was unsuccessfully flirting with her roommate. She remembered little else: when she left Zoo Bar, how she traveled to Steven’s apartment, who else was with them, how she wound up in his bed, and how her clothes came to be on the couch in his living room. But she could assure me that she would never have slept with him if indeed she had slept with him had she been sober. Somewhere in that story I was supposed to find the crime.

A buzz on the intercom interrupted the meeting.

“Sorry to break in, Alex, but Chapman’s on the phone.”

“I’m almost done, Laura. See where he is and tell him I’ll call him right back.”

I had been working with Beverly for more than an hour and she seemed ready for a break. Her mouth was drawn taut with anxiety and her fingers tensely folded and unfolded the edges of the newspaper she had held on her lap since she walked into the room.

“This is a good start, Beverly, but it’s only the first step. I’m going to have to interview everyone else who was with you at the bar, anyone who observed what you said and did, when you left, how you left. I’m going to have to talk to your roommates and to Steven’s. I’ll need to speak with the doctor you saw last night. I’m trying to find out why you said you ”think“ you were raped after all, if you’re not even sure, I don’t know how we can be.”

“Well, I didn’t plan to report this to the police, Ms. Cooper. I just went to the doctor at Student Health Services to make sure I didn’t have any risk of infections or pregnancy, in case Steven had penetrated me, and she said maybe I had been raped. She’s the one who called the detectives.“

Maybe? We’re going to start to prosecute people for felonies on the basis of drunken conjecture and the suggestion of roommates and doctors and significant others who weren’t anywhere near the scene of the ‘crime’? Neither Beverly nor her doctor knew whether or not a sexual act had been consummated.

“One step at a time, Beverly. We’ll look into every aspect of this very carefully. In the meantime, just keep in touch with me and if you have any questions, leave a message with Laura and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” And I bit down on my lip to stop myself from giving politically incorrect advice about how foolish I thought she was to drink unknown quantities of unidentified substances in uncontrolled situations the way she did. Save that for another visit.

I ushered her out and picked up the slip of paper with Mike’s home number on it.

“Just thought you’d like to know that Wally Flanders called. He’s coming into town tomorrow ‘cause he wants our help. Nice enough to admit he has no experience with homicide. He’s got Burrell and Garelli agreeing to fly in here to be interviewed so we can do it together. Only downside is that it keeps the FBI in this, so Luther will be here, too we’re letting Wally declare it an interstate investigation, so the feds keep a piece of the pie. Anyway, we’ll do the work up at the squad. Also, LAPD got some shrinks’ names from Isabella’s house, so they’re trying to round them up, too. See if any of them look like whackos.”