"I understand you can't talk about the case, Miss Ryder," both reporters had said, using virtually the same language, "but can you tell my readers a little about yourself."
"Well…I suppose that's all right," she said. "I'm from Iowa and like every little girl from Iowa, I came to New York hoping to make it on Broadway…"
The next day, the news hit the stands. RUSSIAN CASANOVA RAPES ACTRESS, screamed the headline on the front of the Post. The Times was somewhat more reserved, putting the story below the fold under the headline "Internationally Acclaimed Poet Accused of Raping Student Actress."
She was reasonably happy with both stories, although she thought more could have been done with the small list of acting credits she'd provided-several television spots, a Card Girl appearance at a boxing match in the Garden, and as the dead nude woman in the off-off-Broadway production of Son of Sam, I Am, which had required her to remain absolutely still for ten minutes while the antihero gave his longest monologue as a knockoff of a Dr. Seuss poem. But the newspaper coverage was a start.
Stamping her feet with glee, she read and reread the part about the university suspending Michalik "pending further investigation" and the outcome of the criminal case. "We want to make it clear that NYU will not in any way tolerate any behavior from its faculty and staff that compromises the physical safety and emotional well-being of our students," President Helen Coffman was quoted. "We point out that Mr. Michalik is innocent until proven guilty and will receive due process under the American justice system; however, we feel that there is sufficient grounds to warrant taking this measure to protect our students."
The Post had even dredged up a file photograph of Michalik reading at one of his poetry presentations shortly after his arrival in the United States. Ryder was pleased to see they'd chosen one in which he looked just like a wild-eyed Russian of the sort who'd rape innocent young American girls. Ryder had declined to allow herself to be photographed. "Not at this time. Please understand, I don't want to jeopardize the work of the police department." But she'd handed out black-and-white prints of a glamour shot she'd had made a year earlier for her portfolio.
All day she'd fielded calls. Some from her former lovers, several of whom seemed to find the whole thing about her being raped sort of sexually exciting; of course, they didn't say that flat out, but they wanted to see her "when you feel up to it." She was disappointed that Dmitri wasn't among the callers, but the plastic surgeon had been so titillated by the whole thing-"The newspaper story said he tied you up?"-that she was sure she could get a lip job out of him. The few friends she had-other would-be actresses and models, none of them the sort you'd trust with your life-also called, trying to be associated with the girl in the papers.
There was even a call from the producer of Son of Sam, I Am, who wanted to know her availability in February for a new play he was considering called The Sky Is Falling, "based on a fictional account of people trapped in the World Trade Center on 9/11; they all die." She was polite and said she'd definitely be interested in reading for a part, just in case, but she was hoping for bigger offers than that.
The best call was from Harvey Schmellmann, a lawyer. "You need representation, my girl," he'd said. "And Schmellmann, Fiorino and Campbell is the best in the business. We'd protect your interests in the criminal proceedings-I'm sure you're aware of what happened to the victim in the Kobe Bryant case-as well as any civil litigation we might consider. Not to be insensitive to the trauma inflicted upon you by that monster, but I dare say that a woman of your obvious beauty and strength of character will soon be receiving a lot of calls-if you haven't already. Have you?-from a lot of shysters in the entertainment business trying to lock up your options…I'm talking books, movies, television, and speaking engagements, which can be very lucrative. You don't want to wander into that quagmire without effective counsel, and my partner Gino Fiorino is the very best there is at protecting those rights."
Schmellmann even sent a limousine to pick her up and deliver her to his office "for a first consultation, absolutely free and no strings attached." By the time she left, she'd signed the necessary papers to be his client-"one-third of any profits from lawsuits, plus expenses; 15 percent of any artistic or literary recompense…but don't worry, sister, there'll be plenty to go around by the time we get through with these schmucks. You know, I think we have a good case against that freakin' university for not monitoring this perverted Ruskie."
Then the limo whisked her back home in time to meet the first of three television crews, whose producers had called her after reading the morning newspapers. "Should have called us first," they'd said. But they'd all sent over crews and eager reporters who breathlessly told their stories.
Ryder was proud of the performances she'd given: understated yet powerful, the serious student of Russian literature who'd been preyed upon by a man she'd trusted. "But I really can't go into the details," she said. The only reason she'd agreed to the interviews was "to empower other young women who find themselves in my position." If this had been the stage, I'd win a Tony, she thought. Oh, well, next year.
The story only picked up speed the day after it broke, when Ted Vanders went to the police and said he'd entered the building that night and nearly bumped into a disheveled young woman. "She was crying," he'd said in his statement. "Said she'd been attacked by some professor. But she didn't want to call the police and then took off."
The detective read Sarah the transcript of the interview with Vanders. "He came forward after he saw you on television. So I guess the media did its job. Anyway, he said he'd never met you before that night, didn't even know your name. He'll make a great witness. Pretty much a slam dunk case. You just relax and keep your head up, kid."
The detective hung up feeling good about her job. She hadn't bothered to tell Ryder that this character Vanders-a funny little guy, artsy-fartsy type-had a couple of scratches on his cheek she found interesting. She'd worked in the sex assault division for ten years and had seen a lot of fingernail marks on the faces of perps.
"What happened to your face?" the detective had asked him.
Vanders's hand had gone up to his cheek and his face turned red. "My cat scratched me."
Mighty big cat, the detective thought.
Later that evening, Ryder went over to Vanders's apartment and gave him a mercy screw. "You were a good boy today, Ted," she said. "Keep it up, and I'll keep you up…get it?" Vanders reacted like a puppy who'd been praised by its owner; in fact, she wondered if he was going to pee on himself.
But that was weeks ago, and Michalik still hadn't been charged. At first she'd been happy when the top dog in the district attorney's rape bureau, Rachel Rachman, personally took over the case. The woman had paced back in forth behind her desk when they first met, giving a little speech about how men in positions of authority had used sexual violence against women from the beginning of time. She'd also noted that the police had found plenty of corroborating evidence, "including a beer glass on a bookshelf that he apparently didn't see, with your fingerprints and lipstick on it and traces of rohypnol."
"What's that?" Ryder asked innocently.
"Sometimes called roofies, or the date rape drug…essentially takes away your ability to resist," Rachman said, flashing in anger. "It's the latest thing. Drop it in a drink at the bar, offer to give her a ride home, and then rape her when she's defenseless. Happens to a lot more women than we know about."
Rachman had called Monday saying she was going into some meeting with the district attorney, Karp, and expected to file charges later that day. She was excited because the lab reports were back. "There are traces of rohypnol in your blood," she said. "Even better, your blouse tested positive for semen, and it's a match for Michalik. In other words, he's toast… Um, I was thinking about calling a press conference today to announce the charges-the media has been hounding me about this one. Okay with you?"