So Alice was it. All or nothing. A multiple-count felony case with only one witness.
I’d never heard of anyone trying anything like it before.
Alice walked in with her eyes downcast and slowly climbed the steps up to the witness chair. Her hair was shoulder-length, her face smooth and cream-colored. She looked frightened, and as I led her through the routine preliminary questions, her voice was trembling. But when we got to the serious questions, she sat up straight and started talking directly to the jurors. I started at the beginning, asking her about her life, how she’d been abandoned by her mother and had no idea who her father was, and how she’d grown up impoverished, one of five people sharing a bathroom and two bedrooms in an old trailer. I asked her about the sexual abuse at the hands of her uncle, and she told the jury, in a moving moment, that she blamed herself for her aunt losing her husband. After twenty minutes or so, we got around to Trent.
“Do you know the defendant?” I said.
“Yes. His name is William Trent. We called him Bill.”
“And would you point him out, please?”
She looked right at him and held out her hand. It wasn’t shaking. “That’s him, in the blue suit.”
“Let the record show the witness has identified the defendant,” Judge Langley said.
“Miss Dickson,” I said, “would you tell the jury how you came to know Mr. Trent?”
“My girlfriend Rosalie and I went to his restaurant and applied for a job.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Four years ago. I was fifteen.”
“The indictment in this case alleges that William Trent used his supervisory power and authority over you to sexually abuse you. Did that happen?”
“Yes. Many times.”
“Would you please tell the jury in your own words what happened?”
She began to speak, and for the next half hour she recounted the same tale that she’d told Cody Masters two years earlier. She described in explicit detail the mole on the head of William Trent’s penis and the small tattoo of a pitchfork-wielding devil on the left cheek of his ass. She recalled the size of the penis as being “about the same as one of those Oscar Mayer wieners, maybe a little shorter. It wasn’t very big.”
She described the pornography, the lingerie parties, the liquor in the small refrigerator behind the counter. I didn’t ask her about the drugs, because she told me she’d never used them. Rosalie was the one who liked the drugs.
Alice then went into Trent’s sexual habits, his fetishes, his refusal to use a condom, and his insistence that the girls use birth control. She described his preference for having sex in places like the walk-in cooler. Snodgrass tried to object, saying that she couldn’t testify to anything that wasn’t alleged in the indictment, but after a short hearing outside of the jury’s presence, the judge ruled that the testimony could be used to prove a pattern of conduct, and he let it in.
I ended the direct examination by asking her about the exact dates on which both she and Rosalie had had sex with Trent and had her describe the events in detail. She was obviously embarrassed by what she’d done, but she also came across as contrite, apologizing repeatedly to the jury and saying, “I’m so ashamed.”
When she was finished, I glanced at the jury. Three of the women were in tears, and a couple of the men looked like they wanted to jump over the railing and kill Trent. I could hear Snodgrass wheezing. He pushed himself up from the table and lumbered to the podium.
“That’s quite a memory you have there, Miss Dickson,” he said. She didn’t respond. “Since you have such a fine memory, especially when it comes to your sex life, how about recalling for the jury your other sexual experiences?”
Judge Langley looked at me, waiting for an objection, but I kept my mouth shut. The question was improper, but I already knew the answer, and I knew Snodgrass wouldn’t like it.
“I haven’t had any other sexual experiences,” Alice said softly.
“I beg your pardon? Are you telling this jury that you’ve never had sex?”
“No, I’m not saying that,” she said. “I’ve had sex with your client, and my uncle raped me. That’s all.”
“Come on, Miss Dickson,” Snodgrass said sarcastically. “Surely you don’t expect this jury to believe that you would engage in what you’ve described as kinky, consensual sex with a man more than twice your age on a regular basis and not be sexually active otherwise. Are you saving yourself for marriage?”
Alice dropped her head and closed her eyes for a moment. I saw her shoulders rise as she took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes, a tear was running down her left cheek.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be married,” she said. “No one would want me after what he did to me, after what I did with him. I feel… I feel … dirty.”
She covered her face with her hands and began to sob quietly, and I felt a lump in my throat. After a half minute had passed, Judge Langley reached down and offered her a tissue.
Snodgrass had stepped in it. I looked over at the jurors, and could tell that even the men were moved by the testimony. Alice was coming across as sincere, and I didn’t think there was anything Snodgrass could do. He stood mute at the podium, waiting for Alice to regain her composure. When she stopped crying and looked at him, he went on the attack.
“I’m not even going to get into the specifics of these allegations with you, because, frankly, I find them utterly preposterous,” Snodgrass said. “So let’s talk about the truth. The truth is that you don’t have anything to prove that you ever had sex with my client besides your and your friend’s word, do you, Miss Dickson?” he barked.
“I guess not,” she said.
“The truth is that you don’t have any of Mr. Trent’s DNA to back up your claims, do you?”
“No. I don’t.”
“No pictures?”
“No.”
“No video- or audiotape?”
“No.”
“No sex toys with Mr. Trent’s fingerprints on them?”
“No.”
“No witnesses other than your friend Miss Harbin?”
“No.”
“How many people would you estimate worked for Mr. Trent during the two years that you were there?”
“I don’t know. People came and went some. Twelve, thirteen, maybe a few more,” Alice said.
“And none of those people ever witnessed any of the things you’re claiming, did they?”
“Yes, they did. They just don’t want to get involved.”
“Don’t want to get involved? They don’t want to help put what you claim is a sex maniac who takes advantage of young girls behind bars? I find that hard to believe, Miss Dickson.”
“I think they’re ashamed. Like me.”
“The truth is, you didn’t report this conduct until after Mr. Trent fired you, isn’t that correct?”
“I needed the job. I needed the money.”
“Are you saying that you couldn’t have found a job where your employer didn’t require you to have sex?”
“He paid us twice what anyone else would have paid. I couldn’t have found a job making ten dollars an hour.”
“So for two years, you allowed yourself to be sexually abused and you never told a soul. Did you tell your aunt?”
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
“You say you were raped by your uncle. Did you tell anyone about that?”
“I told my aunt. She kicked him out and divorced him.”
“Did you tell her immediately?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t wait two years?”
“No.”
“So you tell your aunt immediately that your uncle raped you, but then you allow yourself to be sexually abused for two years and don’t say a word, is that what you want us to believe?”