“Yes.”
“There. Was that so hard?”
Me again. “Your Honor…”
“No need for the dramatics, Mr. Hickory. Get on with it.”
Flair Hickory walked back to his chair. “Have you ever had sex with Jim Broodway?”
“His name is James!” Chamique said again.
“Let’s call him ‘Mr. Broodway’ for the sake of this discussion, shall we? Have you ever had sex with Mr. Broodway?”
I couldn’t just let this go. “Objection. Her sex life is irrelevant to this case. The law is clear here.”
Judge Pierce looked at Flair. “Mr. Hickory?”
“I am not trying to besmirch Miss Johnson’s reputation or imply that she was a woman of loose morals,” Flair said. “Opposing counsel already explained very clearly that Miss Johnson has worked as a prostitute and has engaged in a variety of sexual activities with a wide variety of men.”
When will I learn to keep my mouth shut?
“The point I am trying to raise is a different one and will not at all embarrass the defendant. She has admitted having sex with men. The fact that Mr. Broodway might be one of them is hardly stapling a scarlet letter to her chest.”
“It’s prejudicial,” I countered.
Flair looked at me as if I’d just dropped out of the backside of a horse. “I just explained to you why it is very much not. But the truth is, Chamique Johnson has accused two youths of a very serious crime. She has testified that a man named Jim raped her. What I am asking, plain and simple, is this: Did she ever have sex with Mr. Jim Broodway—or James, if she prefers—who is currently serving time in a state penitentiary for sexual battery?”
I saw now where this was going. And it wasn’t good.
“I’ll allow it,” the judge said.
I sat back down.
“Miss Johnson, have you ever had sexual relations with Mr. Broodway?”
A tear rolled down her cheek. “Yeah.”
“More than once?”
“Yeah.”
It looked like Flair was going to try to be more specific, but he knew better than to pile on. He changed directions a little. “Were you ever drunk or high while having sex with Mr. Broodway?”
“Might have been.”
“Yes or no?”
His voice was soft but firm. There was a hint of outrage now too.
“Yes.”
She was crying harder now.
I stood. “Quick recess, Your Honor.”
Flair dropped the hammer before the judge could reply. “Was there ever another man involved in your sexual encounters with Jim Broodway?”
The courtroom exploded.
“Your Honor!” I shouted.
“Order!” The judge used the gavel. “Order!”
The room quieted quickly. Judge Pierce looked down at me. “I know how hard this is to listen to, but I’m going to allow this question.” He turned to Chamique. “Please answer.”
The court stenographer read the question again. Chamique sat there and let the tears spill down her face. When the stenographer finished, Chamique said, “No.”
“Mr. Broodway will testify that—”
“He let some friend of his watch!” Chamique cried out. “That’s all. I never let him touch me! You hear me? Not ever!”
The room was silent. I tried to keep my head up, tried not to close my eyes.
“So,” Flair Hickory said, “you had sex with a man named Jim—”
“James! His name is James!”
“—and another man was in the room and yet you don’t know how you came up with the names Jim and Cal?”
“I don’t know no Cal. And his name is James.”
Flair Hickory moved closer to her. His face showed concern now, as if he were reaching out to her. “Are you sure you didn’t imagine this, Miss Johnson?”
His voice sounded like one of those TV help doctors.
She wiped her face. “Yeah, Mr. Hickory. I’m sure. Damned sure.”
But Flair did not back down.
“I don’t necessarily say you’re lying,” he went on, and I bit back my objection, “but isn’t there a chance that maybe you had too much punch—not your fault, of course, you thought it was nonalcoholic—and then you engaged in a consensual act and just flashed back to some other time period? Wouldn’t that explain your insisting that the two men who raped you were named Jim and Cal?”
I was up on my feet to say that was two questions, but Flair again knew what he was doing.
“Withdrawn,” Flair Hickory said, as if this whole thing was just the saddest thing for all parties involved. “I have no further questions.”
CHAPTER 13
WHILE LUCY WAITED FOR SYLVIA POTTER, SHE TRIED TO Google the name from Ira’s visitor’s log: Manolo Santiago. There were lots of hits, but nothing that helped. He wasn’t a reporter—or no hits showed that to be the case anyhow. So who was he? And why would he visit her father?
She could ask Ira, of course. If he remembered.
Two hours passed. Then three and four. She called Sylvia’s room. No answer. She tried e-mailing the BlackBerry again. No response.
This wasn’t good.
How the hell would Sylvia Potter know about her past?
Lucy checked the student directory. Sylvia Potter lived in Stone House down in the social quad. She decided to walk over and see what she could find.
There was an obvious magic to a college campus. There is no entity more protected, more shielded, and while it was easy to complain about that, it was also how it should be. Some things grow better in a vacuum. It was a place to feel safe when you’re young—but when you’re older, like she and Lonnie, it started becoming a place to hide.
Stone House used to be Psi U’s fraternity house. Ten years ago, the college did away with fraternities, calling them “anti-intellectual.” Lucy didn’t disagree that fraternities had plenty of negative qualities and connotations, but the idea of outlawing them seemed heavy-handed and a tad too fascist for her taste. There was a case going on at a nearby college involving a fraternity and a rape. But if it isn’t a fraternity, then it would be a lacrosse team or a group of hard hats in a strip club or rowdy rockers at a nightclub. She wasn’t sure of the answer, but she knew that it wasn’t to rid yourself of every institution you didn’t like.
Punish the crime, she thought, not the freedom.
The outside of the house was still a gorgeous Georgian brick. The inside had been stripped of all personality. Gone were the tapestries and wood paneling and rich mahogany of its storied past, replaced with off-whites and beiges and all things neutral. Seemed a shame.