I reached for my father's hand.
"Good luck," he said.
I turned. I was glad for Murphy. I thought suddenly that if my father were to go to the men's room, he might bump into Mr. Madison. Murphy would keep this from happening. I let it come now, the thing that had been burning at the corners of my temples the night before and boiled beneath the surface all that year: rage.
I was frightened and shaking when I crossed the courtroom, passed the defense table, the judge at the podium, the prosecution table, and came to take the stand. I liked to think I was Madison's worst nightmare, although he didn't know it yet. I represented an eighteen-year-old virgin coed. I was dressed in red, white, and blue.
A female bailiff, middle-aged and wearing wire-framed glasses, assisted me up onto the stand. I turned around. Gail was seated at the prosecution table. Mastine was standing. I was aware of other people, but I didn't look at them.
The bailiff held a Bible in front of me.
"Place your hand on the Bible," she said. And I repeated what I had seen on TV a hundred times.
"I swear to tell the truth… so help me, God."
"Be seated," the judge said.
My mother had always taught us to be scrupulous when wearing a skirt by smoothing it out before sitting down. I did this and as I did, I thought of what lay beneath the skirt and slip, still visible, if I lifted up the hem, through the flesh-tone stockings. That morning, while I dressed, I had written a note to myself on my skin. "You will die" was inked into my legs in dark blue ballpoint. And I didn't mean me.
Mastine began. He asked me my name and address. Where I was from. I barely remember answering him. I was getting the lay of the land. I knew exactly where Madison sat, but I didn't look at him. Paquette cleared his throat, rustled papers. Mastine asked me where I went to school. What year I had just finished there. He took a moment to close the window, first asking permission of Judge Gorman. Then he led me back in time. Where was I living in May of 1981? He directed my attention to the events of May 7, 1981, and the early hours of May 8, 1981.
I went into minute detail and, this time, did as Gail had told me to; I took each question slowly.
"Did he say anything to you by way of a threatening nature while you were screaming, and while the struggle was taking place?"
"He said he would kill me if I didn't do what he said."
Paquette stood. "I am sorry. I can't hear."
I repeated myself: "He said that he would kill me if I did not do what he said."
A few minutes later, I began to stumble. Mastine had led me up and now into the amphitheater tunnel.
"What happened there?"
"He told me to-that he was-well, I figured out by that time that he was-didn't want my money."
It was a shaky start to the most important story I would ever tell.
I began a sentence only to trail off and begin again. And this wasn't because I was unaware of exactly what had happened in the tunnel. It was saying the words out loud, knowing it was how I said them that could win or lose the case.
"… Then he made me lie down on the ground and he took his pants off and left his sweatshirt on, and he started fondling my breasts and kissing them and doing things like that, and he was very interested in the fact that I was a virgin. He kept asking me about it. So he used his hands in my vagina……"
I was breathing shallowly now. The bailiff beside me became more and more alert.
Mastine did not want the fact of my virginity to go by unnoted. "Stop for a second," he said. "Had you ever had sexual intercourse with anyone at that time of your life?"
I felt shame. "No," I said, "I had not."
"Continue," said Mastine, stepping back again. I talked uninterrupted for nearly five minutes. I described the assault, the blow job, talked about how cold I was, detailed the robbery of $8 from my back pocket, his kiss good-bye, his apology. Our parting. "… and he said, 'Hey, girl.' I turned around. He said, 'What is your name?' I said 'Alice.' "
Mastine needed specifics. He asked about penetration. He asked how many times it had occurred if more than once.
"It would be ten times because-or something to that effect, because he kept putting it in there, and then it kept falling out. So that is 'in there,' right? I am sorry. That is entering, right?"
My innocence seemed to embarrass them. Mastine, the judge, the bailiff beside me.
"So in any event, he did have penetration?"
"Yes."
Next, more questions on lighting. Then the photo exhibits. Photos of the scene.
"Did you receive any injuries as a result of this attack?"
I detailed these injuries.
"Were you bleeding when you left the scene?"
"Yes, I was."
"I am showing you the photographs marked for identification thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. Look at those, please."
He handed me the photos. I looked only briefly at them.
"Are you familiar with the person depicted in those photographs?"
"Yes, I am," I said. I placed them on the edge of the stand, away from me.
"Who is tha-?"
"Me," I interrupted him. I began to cry. By trying not to, I made it worse. I sputtered.
"Are those photographs true and accurate portrayals of how you appeared after the attack on the evening of May eighth, 1981?"
"I was uglier, yes, but they are true portrayals." The bailiff went to hand me a glass of water. I reached for it but my grasp wasn't sure and it fell.
"I'm sorry," I said to the bailiff, crying more now. I tried to dab at her wet lapels with a Kleenex from the box she held.
"You're doing fine; breathe," this steely bailiff said. This made me think of the emergency room nurse on the night of the rape. "Good, you got a piece of him. " I was lucky; people were pulling for me.
"Do you want to continue?" the judge asked me. "We can take a short break."
"I will continue." I cleared my throat and wiped my eyes. Now I held a Kleenex balled up in my lap-something I had not wanted to be reduced to.
"Can you tell us what clothing you were wearing that evening?"
"I was wearing a pair of jeans and a blue work shirt and an oxford type of shirt and a cable-knit cardigan sweater that was tan, and moccasins and underwear."
Mastine had been standing near the prosecution table. Now he stepped forward holding a clear plastic bag.
"I am showing you a large bag which is marked exhibit number eighteen. Would you take a look at the contents of that bag and tell us if you are familiar with them?"
He held the bag in front of me. I had not seen these clothes since the night of the rape. My mother's sweater, shirt, and jeans that I had borrowed that afternoon were tightly packed inside. I took the bag from him and held it to one side.
"Yes."
"What are the contents of that bag?"
"They look to be the shirt and jeans and sweater that I had on. I don't see the underwear but-"
"How about where your left hand is?"
I moved my hand. I had borrowed a pair of my mother's underwear. She wore nude, I wore white. This underwear was stained so thoroughly with blood that only one clean patch reminded me of this.
"Okay. My underwear," I said.
They were received into evidence.
Mastine finished up on the events of that day. He established that I had returned to Pennsylvania after failing to pick a photo out of the mug books at the Public Safety Building. We moved to the fall, noting my return day in September for the beginning of my sophomore year.
"I direct your attention now to October fifth, 1981, the afternoon of that day. Do you recall the events of that day, that afternoon?"
"I recall one particular event, yes."
"Is the person who attacked you in Thorden Park, is he in court here today?"