"Yes, he is."
I did what I was warned not to. I focused my attention on Madison's face. I stared at him. For a few seconds, I was unaware of Mastine or of Gail, or of the courtroom.
"Would you tell us where he is sitting and what he has on?" I heard Mastine say.
Before I spoke, Madison looked down.
"He is sitting next to the man with the brown tie and he has a gray three-piece suit on," I said. I relished pointing out Paquette's ugly brown tie and identifying Madison not by his skin color, as I was expected to do, but by his clothes.
"Let the record reflect that the witness identified the defendant," Mastine said.
For the remainder of the direct examination, I did not take my eyes off Madison for more than a second or two. I wanted my life back.
Mastine spent a long time on the events of October 5. I had to describe Madison on that day. What he looked like, what he said. Madison raised his head from the defense table only once. When he did, and saw that I was still looking at him, he turned away and to the city of Syracuse outside the window.
Mastine questioned me in detail about what Officer Clapper looked like, where he was standing. Had I seen Madison approach him? From what direction? Where did I go? Who did I call? Why the time discrepancy between seeing him and calling the police? Oh, he pointed out, the discrepancy was because I had appeared at class to tell my teacher I couldn't attend? Had naturally called my parents and told them what had happened? Had tried to wait for a friend to walk me home? All the things a good girl, he implied, might do after running into her rapist on the street.
His purpose in all this was to make anything Paquette could go after in his cross moot. That was what made Clapper so important. If I had identified Clapper and he, in turn, had identified Madison, this made my case close to airtight. This was the key point of identification Mastine emphasized. What Mastine and Uebelhoer, what Paquette, Madison, and I all knew, was that the lineup was the weak link.
I had thought long and hard about what I was going to say. This time around I would not pretend a command I did not have.
Mastine had me detail my reasoning for ruling out the men I initially had. I took my time explaining the similarities between numbers four and five and how I hadn't been sure at the time I marked the box but that I had chosen five because of the eye contact.
"At the time that you indicated it was number five, were you in fact positive it was him?"
"No, I was not."
"Why did you mark the box, then?"
This was the single most important question of my case.
"I marked the box because I was very scared, and he was looking at me and I saw the eyes, and the way the lineup is, it is not like it is on television, and you are standing right next to the person and he looks like he is two feet away from you. He looked at me. I picked him."
I could feel Judge Gorman's attention heighten. I watched Gail as I answered the questions Mastine put to me, tried to think of good things, of the baby floating inside her womb.
"Do you know to this day who that depicted?"
"Number five?"
"Yes," said Mastine.
"No," I said.
"Do you know which position the defendant was in, in the lineup?"
If I told the truth, I could say that the moment I picked number five I knew I was wrong and had regretted it. That everything after that, from the mood in the lineup room, to the relief on Paquette's face, to the dark weight I felt on Lorenz in the conference room, had only confirmed my mistake.
If I lied, if I said, "No, I do not," I knew I would be perceived as telling the truth in my confusion between four and five. "Identical twins," I had said to Tricia in the hallway. "It's four, isn't it?" were my first words to Lorenz.
I knew the man who raped me sat across from me in the courtroom. It was my word against his.
"Do you know which position the defendant was in, in the lineup?"
"No, I do not," I said.
Judge Gorman held up his hand. He had the court reporter read over Mastine's last question and my answer to it.
Mastine asked me if there was any other reason I felt scared or hurried during the lineup.
"The attorney for the defendant hadn't let me have my rape-he wouldn't allow me to have my rape center counselor with me."
Paquette objected. He believed this was irrelevant.
Mastine continued. He asked me about the Rape Crisis Center, about Tricia. I had met her on the day of my rape. He emphasized the connection. All of this went to why, in his mind, I had made my one and only mistake. This mistake, he wanted to make certain, should not invalidate what occurred on October 5 and the corroborating evidence of Officer Clapper.
"Is there any doubt in your mind, Miss Sebold, that the person that you saw on Marshall Street is the same person that attacked you on May eighth in Thorden Park?"
"No doubt whatsoever," I said. And I had none.
"That is all I have at this point, Your Honor," Mastine said, turning to Judge Gorman.
Gail gave me a wink.
"We will take about a five-minute recess," Judge Gorman said. "I caution you, Miss Sebold, don't discuss your testimony now with anyone."
This was what I had been promised-a break between direct and cross. I was assigned to the bailiff. She led me off to the right, through a door, down a short hall, and into a conference room.
The bailiff was as friendly as she could be.
"How was I?" I asked.
"Why don't you sit down," she said.
I sat at the table.
"Can you just make a signal?" I asked. Suddenly I got the idea into my head that the room was bugged-a way to make sure that the rules were followed. "Thumbs up or down?"
"I can't discuss the case. It will all be over soon."
We were quiet. I could now make out the traffic noise outside. I hadn't heard anything other than Mastine's questions while I testified.
The bailiff offered me stale coffee in a styrofoam cup. I took it and wrapped my hands around the warm outsides.
Judge Gorman entered the room.
"Hello, Alice," he said. He stood on the other side of the table from me. "How is she, bailiff?" he asked.
"She's good."
"Haven't talked about the case?"
"No," the bailiff said, "quiet, mostly."
"So what does your father do, Alice?" he asked me. His tone was more gentle than the one he used in court. The voice lighter, more circumspect.
"He teaches Spanish at Penn," I said.
"I bet you're glad he's here today."
"I am."
"Do you have any sisters or brothers?"
"An older sister. Mary," I added, anticipating his next question. He went over and stood by the window.
"I've always liked this room," he said. "What does Mary do?"
"She's majoring in Arabic at Penn," I said, suddenly happy to have questions that were so easy. "She goes there free but I didn't get in," I said. "Something my parents really regret now," I said, making a joke.
"I bet they do," he said. He had been half sitting on the radiator and now he stood and adjusted his robe. "Well, you just sit here for a little while longer," he said, "and we'll call you."
He left.
"He's a good judge," the bailiff said.
The door opened and a male bailiff poked his head in. "We're ready," he said.
My bailiff stubbed out her cigarette. We didn't speak. I was ready now. This was it.
I reentered the courtroom and took the stand. I took a deep breath and looked up. In front of me was my enemy. He would do everything he could to make me look bad-stupid, confused, hysterical. Madison could look at me now. His man had been sent in. I saw Paquette approach me. I looked right at him, took him all in: his small build, ugly suit, the sweat on his upper lip. He may have been, in some part of his life, a decent man, but what overwhelmed me now was my contempt for him. Madison had committed the crime but Paquette, by representing him, condoned it. He seemed the very force of nature I had to fight. I had no trouble hating him.