Other people

Four Thomassy

How many hundreds of clients over the years have responded to "Tell me what happened?" by proceeding to convince me of their inarticulateness. Most people use the language as if it were a grab bag of words, flinging them about in the hope that some will fit their meaning well enough to convey, loosely, what they want to say. Francine Widmer, to the contrary, strove for precision. If her first comment about something didn't satisfy her, she modified it. Her mind seemed to work the way I imagined a sculptor worked on a block of stone, chiseling away the debris until he got to the truth. When a client first tells me his or her story, I look for those small facial expressions — the tic of concealment, the eyes desperate to please — that sometimes tell you more than the words do. With Francine Widmer, one could concentrate on the words. During her recital of the events of March 22,I began to admire the inside of her head.

Which is quite a discipline considering how the outside looked, not just the strangely shaped eyes and the magnificent cheekbones, but also the curve of her long neck, the occasional pale blue vein under the skin, the way she sat tall like a dancer.

And though she must have been more distressed than she let me see, she didn't lose her sense of humor, which most people do the instant they are angry.

When she finished her story of the rape, I said "Thank you." One of her brows arched upward.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"That's what he said."

"Who?"

"Koslak. Before he left he said thank you."

A thief acknowledging the donor. A point to remember about Koslak if we went to trial.

"A few more questions, Francine."

"Yes."

Most people would have said All right.

"What was the first moment when you felt there might be trouble?"

She thought. "When he exposed himself."

"Not before?"

"He was just a neighbor come to borrow something. He was friendly."

"Wouldn't the wife normally come for a cup of something?"

"Normal isn't normal these days. I did wonder why he hadn't gone to the people across the hall upstairs. It crossed my mind that perhaps the wives didn't get on."

"All right. When he exposed himself. Did you think of screaming, that a scream might scare him off?"

"I don't think I've ever screamed out loud in my life."

"Not even on a roller coaster?"

"I was never much for scaring myself. Look, I realized this was very weird behavior, but if you start screaming at every crazy you see, you'd better stay out of New York. I didn't at first feel it as a threat to me. He was a neighbor. I had seen him on the stairs several times. I had seen him at the gas station. Suddenly the neighbor behaves weird. I guess I hoped he was an exhibitionist, something like that. Do you understand? I didn't immediately see it as a threat to me."

"Did you think of screaming at any point?"

Francine put her long fingers to her lips. "Yes. As a matter of fact, twice. When he wouldn't let me telephone, for a second I was going to scream as loud as I could, and immediately thought they wouldn't hear me in the street, the windows were closed, a neighbor might or might not hear. Everybody hears somebody scream once in a while, they might or might not investigate. I doubt that they'd call the police. I guess what I thought was that if someone did come to the door, Koslak might make me say it was all right, or he might zip up and let them in, he had that perfect excuse, the cup he came in with, he'd lie about everything else. I'd feel ridiculous."

"Wouldn't it have been better to feel ridiculous than to be raped?"

"I wasn't thinking sensibly."

"You should have screamed."

"I wasn't sure anyone could hear me. I thought he'd get violent if I screamed. Okay, I should have screamed."

"And you didn't. All right, do you see what I'm getting at?"

"You're questioning me about things other people will be questioning me about."

"They won't be as friendly. They'll want to show that you didn't take advantage of early opportunities to scare him off, that maybe you were leading him on."

"But—"

"The courtroom, if we get there, is a very tough and dirty forum designed to protect the innocent."

"He wasn't innocent."

"He has the presumption of innocence in his favor. Did you at any point consider using physical means to stop him?"

"I said so."

"Would you have known what to do?"

"You mean like knee him in the balls, or a thumb in his eye, sure. I went to one of those consciousness-raising things. I saw a karate demonstration, one of those lethal blows, you know, the bridge of the nose, the Adam's apple. There was the scissors lying right there. Maybe I couldn't bring myself to kill him, I didn't know if I could, maybe all I'd do is hurt him and make him angrier and he'd kill me, you just don't think cleady under circumstances like that. I might have missed."

"The truth is…"

"I really thought I could outsmart him, talk him out of it."

"You know what others will see."

"What?"

"That you didn't scream, and that you had an idea of how to defend yourself and didn't do it."

She put her left thumb and forefinger in the inside corners of her eyes, sighing as if from sudden great weariness.

"Did you cry? When he left."

"I don't usually cry."

"Look," I said, "I'm sorry if this is trying for you. We're just fact gathering. We needed to assess our cards and their cards. It's better to know where our weaknesses are."

"Yes."

"Now tell me what happened immediately afterward."

"When he left, I—"

"No. Before he left."

"He went into the bathroom, it's just off the bedroom, left the door open, I heard the sink run, I suppose he was washing himself off so his wife wouldn't detect anything, I don't know."

"Did you put your dress back on?"

"It was a caftan really, not a dress. I just pulled it over me on the bed, like a blanket."

"You didn't think of escaping, or calling the police?"

"Actually, I didn't think of anything except would he hurry up and leave so I could take a bath."

"That was the worst thing you could do."

"They told me at the hospital. I just didn't think. I'll remember it the next time."

"I hope there won't be a next time."

"The son of a bitch could come down any time. He got in once, why not again? The odds are on his side, the damn law's on his side."

"The law is on nobody's side. It's a game."

"A game?"

"Like checkers. Like chess. Everybody starts the same. It's the moves you make that count. I'm trying to plan our tactics. Please try to understand."

She did that deep breath thing she does.

"Okay," she said.

"Now. He got dressed?"

"Well, he didn't leave naked."

"Did he say anything?"

"Like goodbye? I told you he said thank you. When I didn't answer he said see you around, something like that. For him it was normal."

"And then?"

"I bathed. I douched. I wanted more than anything else to talk to someone, to tell someone. It was too damn grotesque."

"Yes, I know."

"Well, I called Dr. Koch, my anchor."

"And?"

"He was impossible."

"I'm surprised."

"Think how damn surprised I was! Anyway, I went to the hospital, then to the police station on Wicker Street, then to Dr. Koch's. Bill drove me. He's a young man I know."

I hadn't thought about a boy friend. I may not have wanted her to have one.

"Finally, Bill drove me to my parents' home."

"Did he stay with you?"

"In my parents' house? Are you kidding?"

"It's a question you'll be asked. Tell me about the hospital."

"Nothing to tell. A bull dyke filled out a form. A kid resident examined me. He said he couldn't take a sample or whatever because I had douched and bathed. He said he saw no internal injuries. In fact, he said there was no sign that I had had sexual intercourse, much less forcible."

"Great."

"I told him I knew who did it. He said to tell it to the police."

"Tell me about that."

"Well, I knew where the precinct was. I went and asked the desk sergeant if I could see a police matron. He asked what was the problem? I told him. He sent me upstairs to talk to a detective and the matron. They filled out forms."

"Did they offer to go back home with you?"

"No."

"Did you tell them you knew who did it?"

"Of course!"

"What did they do?"

"They wrote it down and said it was a serious accusation. I could be sued if I charged somebody with something I couldn't prove. They asked if somebody had witnessed the alleged offense. They kept calling it that, alleged offense. I said no, it happened in my apartment, there was no one there. They asked about the hospital and I had to tell them it was no use. I told them I knew who it was, and they kept saying it wasn't enough, I needed proof."

"What were the names of the detective and the matron?"

"I don't know!"

"Well, we can get it off the report. If they filed it."

"You mean they might not have kept the form?"

"Anything is possible. Where did you go from the police station?"

"To Dr. Koch's. He wasn't helpful. I was angry. He was the one who told me to see a lawyer. That's when Bill drove me home to my parents."

"You told your parents."

"More or less."

"What does that mean?"

"There's a limit to what you can tell your parents. I told my father because Dr. Koch suggested I see a lawyer."

"Let's stop a minute. Understand this: you are the only witness we have."

"I know."

"We'll have to come up with very strong corroboration from independent sources for a jury."

"What kind?"

"That's the problem."

"What about Dr. Koch?"

"What he knows, he heard it from you. That's hearsay. That's the same story, not corroboration. However, we have a little time. My date's not till seven. I want to hear about your relationship to Dr. Koch, why you went to him, what you discuss. I realize that's private, but you see, if we succeed in persuading the D.A. or anybody else to take any action against this man, it's going to come out that you are seeing an analyst. That means — to the average person — that you have emotional problems, that you're neurotic, that… now don't get jumpy, we have to face the facts, that you could have made up some of the elements of this story. Or all of it."

Francine, who did not usually cry, was fighting to control her tears.

"Go ahead if you have to," I said.

"I'm not crying," she sobbed as I offered her a Kleenex.

She was crying uncontrollably when I said, "That's good."

Blowing her nose, trying to stop her sobs, she said, "What the hell do you mean that's good!"

"It'll be useful on the witness stand." I handed her another Kleenex.

"You bastard. You wanted to see me cry."

"I needed to know if you could. It's part of my preparation." I put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm not a bastard," I said. "I'm a lawyer. Now tell me about Dr. Koch."