Pubin looked as though he wanted to object but then he decided to let it go.
“Yes,” Flynn said. “That would be fair.”
Enough prelims. “Chamique Johnson testified that she made extra money by performing a sexual act on several of the young men at the party. Do you know if that’s true?”
“I don’t know.”
“Really? So you didn’t engage her services?”
“I did not.”
“And you never heard a word mentioned by any of your fraternity brothers about Ms. Johnson performing acts of a sexual nature on them?”
Flynn was trapped. He was either going to lie or admit an illegal activity was going on. He did the dumbest thing of all—he took the middle road. “I may have heard some whispers.”
Nice and wishy-washy, making him look like a total liar.
I put on my best incredulous tone. “May have heard some whispers?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re not sure if you heard some whispers,” I said, as if this was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard in my life, “but you may have. You simply cannot remember if you heard whispers or not. Is that your testimony?”
Flair stood this time. “Your Honor?”
The judge looked at him.
“Is this a rape case or is Mr. Copeland now working vice?” He spread his hands. “Is his rape case so weak now, so far-fetched, that he is now fishing to indict these boys on soliciting a prostitute?”
I said, “That’s not what I’m after.”
Flair smiled at me. “Then please ask this witness questions that concern this alleged assault. Don’t ask him to recite every misbehavior he’s ever seen a friend commit.”
The judge said, “Let’s move on, Mr. Copeland.”
Friggin’ Flair.
“Did you ask Ms. Johnson for her phone number?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I thought I might call her.”
“You liked her?”
“I was attracted to her, yes.”
“Because she was a seven, maybe an eight?” I waved before Pubin could move. “Withdrawn. Did there come a time when you called Ms. Johnson?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell us when, and as best as you can, please tell us what was said in that conversation?”
“Ten days later I called and asked her if she wanted to come to a party at the fraternity.”
“Did you want her to dance exotically again?”
“No,” Flynn said. I saw him swallow and his eyes were a little wet now. “I asked her as a guest.”
I let that sit. I looked at Jerry Flynn. I let the jury look at him. There was something in his face. Had he liked Chamique Johnson? I let the moment linger. Because I was confused. I had thought that Jerry Flynn was part of it—that he had called Chamique and set her up. I tried to work it through in my head.
The judge said, “Mr. Copeland.”
“Did Ms. Johnson accept your invitation?”
“Yes.”
“When you say you invited her as your”—I made quote marks with my fingers—“‘guest,’ do you really mean ‘date’?”
“Yes.”
I followed him through meeting her and getting her punch.
“Did you tell her it was spiked with alcohol?” I asked.
“Yes.”
It was a lie. And it looked like a lie, but I wanted to emphasize the ridiculousness of that claim.
“Tell me how that conversation went,” I said.
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Did you ask Ms. Johnson if she wanted something to drink?”
“Yes.”
“And did she say yes?”
“Yes.”
“And then what did you say?”
“I asked her if she wanted some punch.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said yes.”
“And then what?”
He shifted in his chair. “I said it was spiked.”
I arched the eyebrow. “Just like that?”
“Objection!” Pubin rose. “Just like what? He said it was spiked. Asked and answered.”
He was right. Leave them with the obvious lie. I waved to the judge that I would let it go. I started walking him through the night. Flynn stuck to the story he’d already told, about how Chamique got drunk, how she started flirting with Edward Jenrette.
“How did you react when that happened?”
He shrugged. “Edward is a senior, I’m a freshman. It happens.”
“So you think Chamique was impressed because Mr. Jenrette was older?”
Again Pubin decided to not object.
“I don’t know,” Flynn said. “Maybe.”
“Oh, by the way, have you ever been in Mr. Marantz’s and Mr. Jenrette’s room?”
“Sure.”
“How many times?”
“I don’t know. A lot.”
“Really? But you’re just a freshman.”
“They’re still my friends.”
I made my skeptical face. “Have you been in there more than once?”
“Yes.”
“More than ten times?”
“Yes.”
I made my face even more skeptical. “Okay then, tell me: What sort of stereo or music system do they have in the room?”
Flynn answered it immediately. “They have a Bose speakers iPod system.”
I knew that already. We had searched the room. We had pictures.
“How about the television in their room? How big is it?”
He smiled as if he’d seen my trap. “They don’t have one.”
“No television at all?”
“None.”
“Okay then, back to the night in question…”
Flynn continued to weave his tale. He started partying with his friends. He saw Chamique start up the stairs holding hands with Jenrette. He didn’t know what happened after that, of course. Then later that night, he met up with Chamique again and walked her to the bus stop.
“Did she seem upset?” I asked.
Flynn said no, just the opposite. Chamique was “smiling” and “happy” and light as air. His Pollyanna description was overkill.
“So when Chamique Johnson talked about going out to the keg with you and then walking upstairs and being grabbed in the corridor,” I said, “that was all a lie?”
Flynn was smart enough not to bite. “I’m telling you what I saw.”