“I went to the WAR rally tonight,” I tell him, “and saw Robin for the first time. She’s pretty, all right.”
“What’d she say?” Dade demands, excited again.
I wish I hadn’t brought her up, but he will hear about it anyway.
“Hardly anything,” I say, and then summarize the rally for him.
“She doesn’t seem the WAR type,” Dade observes.
“She dresses too good for them.”
“That’s for sure,” I say, wondering whether there is a way to turn Robin’s appearance against her. Maybe we will simply have to depend on the unconscious reactions of the members of the “J” Board. I can’t imagine any of that group will identify themselves as ardent feminists.
Then again, probably Robin herself would resist that la bel. Tonight, she didn’t have any trouble convincing her self she was merely a victim, one of many.
After trying to reassure him, I hang up and attempt to reconstmct exactly what Robin said. Something isn’t jelling. I stare at the unadorned pale green blank wall across from the door. Robin identified with girls who had been “date raped.” According to both her and Dade, it was more like “study rape.” What if both are lying? Dade could be lying because he was warned repeatedly not to become involved with white girls, Robin because she knows what her parents and others would think. But then maybe Robin was merely trying to identify with the girls who had talked to her. I know I’m not going to be able to even scratch the surface of this case before the hearing Friday.
The phone rings again, and it is Clan, who tells me that after getting permission from their parents, he has contacted a couple of girls inside the Chi Omega House, although getting them to say even one negative word about Robin is impossible.
“She’s become the patron saint of female rectitude,” Clan explains.
Thank goodness the trial isn’t Friday. Robin is riding a wave of sympathy that seems unstoppable. I tell Clan about her appearance tonight.
“The last time anyone clapped for me like that was the night I graduated from high school.”
“She’s pushing the envelope then,” Clan says.
“A lot of people don’t like those women’s groups.”
“Maybe so,” I agree, “but publicly this group isn’t nearly as radical as its leader is in private, according to Sarah. How can anyone not be against rape?”
“Because they’re picking on the Razorbacks,” Clan points out.
“That’s a major faux pas in this state, and you know it.”
“It might be in Little Rock and Pine Bluff,” I concede, “but up here on campus the powers that be have to be more sensitive to the idea that the university is supposed to be more than a sports factory.”
Clan says melodramatically, “I hate it when we try to put on airs in this state.”
Since he’s paying for it, I tell him what’s been going on since I last talked to him.
“Barton’s still a nice guy,” I say, “even if he is filthy rich. He’s letting me use his library as an office when I come up here.”
Clan moans, “Rich? In trial advocacy, he was terrible.”
“The guys who make the real money practicing law,” I lament, “wouldn’t know a criminal defendant unless they caught them trying to steal their Rolexes.”
Clan tells me he will keep trying to find some other girls who know some dirt on Robin but not to get my hopes up.
“It’s a tight group,” he says.
“But, of course, a middle-aged male lawyer isn’t many coeds’ idea of their typical confidante.”
“I need a mole,” I agree.
“Somebody somewhere surely must dislike Robin even if it’s out of simple jealousy.
But thanks for trying. By the way, speaking of young women, have you heard from your friend Gina? I keep forgetting I’ve got her dependency-neglect trial the end of next week.”
“She’s very impressed with you,” Clan coos.
“She thinks you look like Nick Nolte.”
She’s impressed with my fee. No wonder I’m poor. I finally get Clan off the line by telling him I have to work. I still want to talk to the woman from the Rape Crisis Center who came to the hospital to go through the process with Robin, but she hasn’t returned my call either. I dial her number but for the second time today talk to her husband, who must be a student. He is evasive about when she will be in but says he will give her my message. Sure he will. People don’t like lawyers. I can understand that.
I’m not that crazy about them myself. We’re too much like public urinals: an unpleasant necessity sometimes but rarely an uplifting experience. I go to sleep waiting for Coach Carter to call. I’m not sure I want him to be at the hearing. Like everything else about this case I’m doing it could backfire.
At eleven the next morning (an hour late, I point out) Dade brings into Barton’s office Harris Warford and Tyrone Jones. Harris, especially, is enormous. He must weigh almost three hundred pounds and be six and a half feet tall. I wonder how come he isn’t on the starting team.
Dressed in black sweats with Razorback insignia all over them, he looks like a road grader with decals. Tyrone, a defensive back who isn’t even on the second team, naturally isn’t as bulked up, but he is plenty big. Wearing an Oakland Raiders cap over similar black sweats, he has a scowl on his face that looks as if it might be permanent.
Even though they are obviously friends of Dade, I’d hate to meet these guys in a dark alley.
“The girls didn’t show up,” Dade explains.
So much for black women supporting their men.
“I’d like to talk to at least one of them,” I tell Dade. The “J” Board will figure any team member will give favorable testimony to Dade.
“Let’s see if we can get them in the same time tomorrow, okay?”
Dade, who is dressed in jeans and a University of
Arkansas athletics department sweatshirt, says grimly, “I’ll try.” Poor kid. He’s finding it isn’t easy to rally the troops. I know the feeling.
We do not have a productive session, but I learn a few things. The main one is that I do not want Tyrone within two miles of the hearing or a jury. He has an attitude problem that couldn’t be hidden even if he had been dead a year. Cocky, arrogant, he must be Carter’s worst nightmare.
He is from Houston and has the big-city kid’s mentality that “baad” is beautiful, and life is one short beauty contest. Rightly or wrongly, if he were the one on trial, it would take a jury about two seconds to convict him.
He has everything but a neon sign blinking the word “RAPIST” over his head.
Harris, on the other hand, turns out to be a big teddy bear, and it is he who gives me the most information about Robin.
“She acted to me like she kind of liked Dade,” he says, oblivious to my client’s discomfort.
“At Eddie’s she was pretty quiet while her roommate did all the talking. I remember her smiling a lot.”
Unfortunately, Harris cannot be more specific, though he is willing to talk at length about the evening they were all together. I wish the girls were here. Doubtless, they would be quite a bit more attuned to any signals Robin might have been generating. I see I should have interviewed Harris out of Dade’s presence. He might remember more if Dade weren’t glowering at him.
“I would have fucked her, too,” Tyrone volunteers as I usher them out the door about noon.
“She is one goodlookin’ bitch.”
Thank you for that poignant observation, Tyrone. This case could definitely be worse. I could have Tyrone for a client. I tell Harris that I might want to use him as a rebuttal witness at the hearing and explain what that means.
He nods soberly. I like him as much as I dislike Tyrone. I only wish he were normal size. Anybody this big and black has got to be a little scary to the average white juror in Arkansas.
After I go to lunch with Barton, I decide to pay a visit to the Chi Omega House. Probably neither Robin nor her roommate. Shannon Kennsit, will see me, but what do I have to lose? If this were a civil case, I could take their depositions, but this hearing doesn’t qualify as either. I park in a visitor’s slot near the Administration Building and walk east on Maple, passing the law school.