After handing me my coffee, Ms. Dozier warns me, “Frankly, lawyers find our hearing procedures a little unsettling.
Are you at all familiar with what we do?”
I do not say I received and mostly ignored a mini lecture on the subject from a Fayetteville lawyer just last week and ask for a full explanation. Rubbing her hands together as if she knows she has her work cut out for her, she nods.
“Well, we view the hearing process as a part of the educational mission of the university. Punishment is not our goal here, education is, and, if warranted by the facts, that can entail correction.”
She makes this statement with a straight face. Doubtless, this message is appropriate when someone has been accused of playing his stereo too loud, but I suspect that if the board finds that Dade is guilty of what he’s been charged with, it will entail more than writing one hundred times on the blackboard: I won’t rape Robin anymore.
“What is the burden of proof?” I ask, looking down at the form that Dade handed me on the way over. It lists Robin as one of four witnesses. The other three are identified as Robin’s roommate, a woman from the local Rape Crisis Center, and a nurse from Memorial Hospital. It has already occurred to me that this proceeding will be useful for discovery purposes. Arkansas does not require witnesses to talk to opposing counsel in criminal cases be fore trial. Depositions are not allowed, so I can’t force a witness in a criminal case to say a single word. All I can do is get the statements they gave to me prosecutor.
“The same as in civil court cases,” Ms. Dozier says.
“Fifty-one percent. I’ll just run through the procedure, if you don’t mind, and then you can ask questions.”
“Fine,” I say, feeling like a school kid in front of this woman who surely was a teacher at one time.
Ms. Dozier refers to a sheet of paper on her desk and says: “Let me start with the individuals who will hear this case. The All-University Judiciary is made up of nine people five faculty members, one of whom is the chair person, and four students. Dade will have a right to have present two counselors who may advise him but who can’t speak or ask questions. This isn’t like a case in court where the judge acts like a referee for the lawyers.
It is much more informal than that. We aren’t bound by hearsay rules or rules of evidence, though, of course, the T Board takes the source of information into account in assessing credibility. The hearing is closed to the public and confidential. The complaining party and respondent each have the opportunity to make an opening statement.
The members of the board and the opposing parties can then ask questions of the witnesses and each other. Dade will be allowed to summarize his position at the end, a closing statement, if you will, and so will the complaining party. I’ve written down the names and positions of the witnesses who’ll be called by the complaining party.
They include her roommate, a woman from the Rape Crisis Center who met the complaining party at the hospital, and a nurse there.”
As the woman drones on, I realize quickly why this procedure drives lawyers crazy: we don’t get to do anything to help our clients except whisper in their ears.
Dade could hang himself if we aren’t careful.
“What is the range of possible punishments?” I ask.
“Educative sanctions,” Ms. Dozier insists on saying, “range from probation to expulsion. The board also could suspend the student from representation of the university in intercollegiate activities.” She hands me some papers labeled, “Student Judicial System Procedural Code,” and the list containing the names of the witnesses and adds, “This contains everything I’m saying and more. You’ll notice that appeals go to the vice-chancellor and chancellor, but there is no rehearing of the facts by them.
Finally, the chancellor reviews the decision of the vice-chancellor.”
I flip through the papers.
“How do I formally request that the hearing be postponed?” I ask.
“Three days isn’t much time to prepare when so much is at stake.”
Ms. Dozier’s smile disappears.
“You could ask Dr.
Ward, the faculty member who presides over the board, but I don’t think you should expect it to be postponed. Actually, it is in the university’s discretion to require immediate expulsion and have a hearing later.”
Her tone leaves no doubt that had the decision been left up to her, Dade would have been living off campus by now. I may still ask for a postponement.
“Are you a member of the board?” I ask.
“I’ll be there,” she assures me, “but only in my capacity as coordinator. I have no vote.”
Good, I think but do not say.
“Dade,” I ask, “do you have any questions?”
Dade shrugs.
“No.” He seems intimidated by Ms.
Dozier, whose voice has become increasingly stern. I have my doubts about his ability to ask any meaningful questions at the hearing. Of course, that is what lawyers are for.
I stand, followed by Dade.
“I’ll call you if I have any questions,” I promise Ms. Dozier, whose smile has re turned now that we are leaving.
“That will be fine,” she says.
“The hearing will be down the hall in room two-thirteen.”
“We’ve got a lot of work to do between now and Friday,” I tell Dade once we get outside.
“I want you to get in touch with Eddie Stiles and the four people who you told me were at the party last spring with you and Robin.
Tell them you need them to meet me at the Ozark Motel at ten tomorrow. Try to see if any of your friends know anything about Robin and her roommate. And let your mother know about the hearing. Tell her I’ll be calling her, okay? ““Yes sir,” Dade replies, his voice listless.
“Come on now!” I snap at him.
“It’s really going to be just your word against hers. This isn’t going to be any picnic for her either. You can do this.”
“She talks real good,” Dade says, not quite looking me in the eye.
A pretty black girl, dressed in a beige sweater and tight jeans, yells in our direction: “Come here, Dade!”
This is not the time or place for a pep talk. Students, several of them black, look over at us from a huge bulletin board where they are gathered. This must be where the black students hang out. I see more here than I have on the rest of the campus combined except for Darby Hall, the athletic dorm.
“Believe me,” I whisper, “she’ll be a lot more nervous than you will. I’ll see you tonight.
I’m going to the prosecutor’s office and see if I can get the statements she and the others have given.”
Dade nods again perfunctorily, and I head for my car, wishing I knew what I could say to him that would get his head off his chest. Yet, I have the same discouraged feeling that is registered on my client’s face. If Dade were going to appear before a group of kids like himself, he would have more of a chance. Instead, I have no doubt the students on the “J” Board will resemble Robin (in more ways than just skin color) instead of him. Surely, there will be one black face, but all it will take to “discipline” him will be a majority vote. As I unlock the Blazer, I think of Marty’s comments about blacks and nearly laugh out loud. I don’t think she would choose to trade places with Dade right now.
Binkie Cross, the Washington County prosecuting attorney, has the bearing of a hillbilly-not the wormy, inbred sodomite who buggered poor Ned Beatty in Deliverance, but the rugged, lean, born individualist to whom the law is at best a painful necessity. At six-five he towers over me in an ugly brown suit that is too short in the sleeves and pants. Oblivious to his appearance, he sticks out his hand and swallows mine in his.
“Sorry, I missed you last week,” he says.
“I was on vacation. Call me Binkie, by the way. Everybody else does.”