“Didn’t her roommate come in with her?” I ask, curious about Shannon Kennsit’s reaction. If her roommate was at all suspicious of her story, I might begin to get some hints now.
Looking at her watch, Joan Chestnut says, “I didn’t re member until now that that girl was her roommate. She was very supportive, I know that. From what I recall, I think she felt in some way responsible. Like if she hadn’t been going out that night, Robin wouldn’t have gone out there by herself, and it wouldn’t have happened.”
Ms. Chestnut has told me that she is supposed to be checking on a patient, but I say, “One more question. Was Robin worried about being pregnant?”
“Of course she was!” she says, looking at me as if I were slightly insane.
I spread my hands in a dismissive gesture.
“She could have gotten an abortion if that had been the case.”
Ms. Chestnut puckers her mouth as if she has been forced to swallow something unpleasant.
“That’s a terrible burden to place on a young woman, Mr. Page. I know lots of people who would only allow abortion if the mother’s life were in danger.”
Despite what this nurse thinks, I’m not out to make an enemy of her. I need her a lot more than she will ever need me.
“Thanks for your time, ma’am,” I say politely.
“I’m glad women have someone like you to support them.”
She stands up, ready to make her getaway.
“If you saw what we do,” she says, “you’d react the same way.”
“I have no doubt,” I say scrambling to my feet.
“One very last question. I know the lab report says she wasn’t pregnant at the time of the incident. Would she have found that out before she left the hospital?”
Ms. Chestnut looks puzzled.
“She would have known she wasn’t pregnant.”
“But if she thought she had been,” I persist, “she would have known that she wasn’t by the time the hospital got through with her, is that right?”
As usual, one last question has become two or three.
“She would have known,” Ms. Chestnut agrees.
“Do you know how she reacted to the information,” I ask, “that she wasn’t pregnant at the time of the alleged rape?”
Ms. Chestnut gives me a blank stare.
“She didn’t react to that news at all,” she says, clearly nonplussed by my question.
“It was the trauma of being raped she was re acting to.”
Shit. So much for my theory that she thought she was pregnant by her professor and had concocted a rape story so she could justify getting an abortion.
“If you think of something you didn’t tell me,” I say sincerely, “I’d appreciate it if you’d call me collect.”
Now that I am leaving, she smiles and lights up the entire room.
“I’ll be happy to,” she says, dropping my card into a pocket on her thigh.
“Am I going to be subpoenaed?”
I won’t hold my breath waiting for her call.
“Not by me.” I walk out the automatic double doors of the emergency room realizing I’m not going to be able to do any thing with this woman at the trial except pretend she’s boring the jury to death.
Like an old drunk who can’t remember anything except where he lives, I check into my room at the Ozark, which seems to be having a heating problem. It must be fifty degrees in here. I’d move, but I’m too damn lazy.
After complaining to the manager, I call Sarah. Reluctantly she gives me the telephone number of a girl named Lauren Denney at the Tri-Delt House.
“She’s the one who’s the cheerleader,” Sarah says irritably.
“She’s too eager. Dad. She wants to talk to you. Her last exam was this morning, but she said she could see you before she leaves town tonight.”
“What’s she like?” I ask.
“Two-faced,” Sarah warns me.
“She’s got more ex friends than anybody I know.”
“She sounds charming,” I comment. Defense witnesses, like clients, don’t come with a Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval stamped on them. When they appear sincere and competent like Joan Chestnut, they are usually on the other side.
“Actually, she is,” Sarah says, “for the first twenty minutes or so you’re around her. But she can be a bitch!”
I rarely hear Sarah attack another girl, but I know she isn’t all sugar and spice either. There’s got to be some of me in her somewhere.
“Any other names?”
“Jenny Taylor,” Sarah says.
“I got her as she was just leaving to go home. She lives in Heber Springs, and she said she’d probably talk to you after Christmas if you went up there to see her. She wanted to talk to her parents first. She doesn’t want to be involved and is mad at me for telling you.”
She’ll get over it, I think but don’t say.
“What’s her number in Heber Springs?”
Sarah gives it to me, and I hang up and dial Lauren Denney’s number. She may be a terrible person, but she has a nice voice, unusually low but distinct, and she agrees at once to meet me at Danny’s, my diner that plays the golden oldies. I started to suggest the Ozark, but one rumor floating around is enough in this case When Lauren strolls into the restaurant twenty minutes later, I get a good look. She is wearing tight jeans and a tobacco-colored sweater that blends nicely with her long, honey-colored hair. If I were a Razorback, I wouldn’t have any trouble being inspired. We are escorted to a booth in the rear by a boy in a ponytail. I ask her what she would like to eat, but she says she just wants coffee, and I order some for both of us. She looks tired and admits it.
“Exams,” she explains needlessly.
“I haven’t slept for two days.”
I feel selfconscious, but she could easily pass for my daughter.
“I won’t keep you long,” I say, deciding to get to the point. If Sarah is correct, this girl doesn’t need any priming. I explain briefly what Sarah has told me and that I believe Dade has been set up, but that I can’t explain the motive.
“Why would she pretend she was raped?”
As if on cue, Lauren narrows her eyes.
“To keep Dr.
Hofstra seeing her for as long as she could. He was trying to break it off, and she thought she could get his sympathy by claiming she had been raped.”
I put down my spoon.
“How do you know this?” I ask, dumbfounded.
Lauren doesn’t miss a beat. She tries her coffee first and then says, “She told me.”
“Told you when?” This girl has a way of dramatizing everything she does. I see what Sarah means. She is charming, but I don’t trust her and I’ve only been with her five minutes. The jukebox plays “Runaround Sue” by Dion. There must be five guys my age in here by them selves. It suddenly occurs to me that Danny’s is a gay hangout. Boy, I’m dumb. I thought they just liked the music.
“See, Robin and I used to be good friends. We were in school together up here this past summer, and we shared an apartment. She took a history course, and like an idiot, he showed up one day in our living room. I wasn’t sup posed to be there that weekend, and I walked in on them.
They were just sitting there, but after he left, it was so obvious they were sleeping together that I made her admit it.”
All this comes out in a voice that drops even lower as she continues to talk. The lack of sleep has turned her into a junior Lauren Bacall. I ask, “Did he say anything?”
She stretches, straining her breasts against the wool until I think they are going to pop through. I don’t know whether this is for my benefit or she thinks I’m so harm less that I don’t even notice.
“He muttered something ridiculous about her exam, turned red as a beet, and got out of there. You see, Robin is supposed to be so sweet and demure, but she attracts guys like you wouldn’t believe When I heard she spoke at the WAR rally, I nearly died laughing. She’s no more a feminist than I am. What a hoot!”
It sounds as if Lauren is the jealous one, but I can’t imagine why. Even exhausted, she looks great.
“How do you know she was still having an affair with him when she accused Dade of raping her?”