By the time I pull onto the campus for the WAR rally (a little late, so Sarah, if I see her, won’t be as likely to introduce me to anyone my mind keeps playing a tape of me being called up to debate one of the speakers), I am feeling better. It has been a profitable afternoon. Besides getting the statements dropped off, I now have free office space. Barton has taken pity on me and graciously offered the free use of his library while I am working on the case in Fayetteville. I even have my own key. After an hour’s wait at Memorial Hospital I found out that the nurse who examined Robin is on vacation this week and won’t be at the hearing Friday. I’ve also learned that this board does not have the power to subpoena witnesses.
Bliss Young, the lawyer who had tried to tell me how the “J” Board worked last week, was willing to cover much of the same ground for me again, and this time I actually listened. If for some reason Robin chooses not to appear, they can’t make her. Additionally, Young told me to re member that I could advise Dade to challenge any of the board for bias. Members have recused themselves from hearing a case once they have been forced to admit they have too many connections with one of the parties. Finally Young told me that while the matter is being ap pealed, all action is stayed, which means Dade plays in the Alabama game, even if they issue a decision as soon as we finish the hearing. That should cheer him up considerably
If I worried about being singled out, I shouldn’t have.
There must be close to six or seven hundred people gathered in front of the Student Union. I am amazed. Any other time on this campus you’d only find this kind of enthusiasm for a pep rally. Doesn’t anyone remember the Hogs are playing Alabama this week? When we played Texas while I was in school, the campus was in a frenzy the whole week before the game. I do not see Sarah as I try to make myself inconspicuous at the edge of the crowd. To blend in a little better, I have taken off my tie and have worn a sports coat. The weather is cool and dry perfect football weather. The women are mostly in jeans and sweatshirts (there don’t seem to be many sorority types here), but the crowd seems to be about a quarter male, many of whom are professor types, though not many my age. Inevitably, there are a couple of TV cam eras and several reporters.
The speaker, a blond woman with a short haircut, who is wearing jeans and tennis shoes (despite my best intentions, I can’t help wondering if she’s a lesbian Sarah would drive a spike in my eye if I admitted this to her), is exhorting the crowd to write or call the university administration to expel Dade. “… He has been charged by the state of Arkansas with a crime of violence, and yet de spite having full authority to remove him immediately if the safety of other individuals is at stake, the university allows him to remain on campus. Why? Because the University of Arkansas doesn’t care about what happens to women if there’s an important athletic contest at stake.
This is the reality of where women are in this state, in the South, in this nation which gives only lip service to the notion of equality..
As she harangues the crowd (impressively, I concede her delivery is appealing and well paced despite the scratchy sound system), I tell a male nearby that I just arrived and don’t know who the speaker is.
“Paula Crawford,” he whispers.
“She’s a law student.”
My mouth flies open. What happened to her hair? Is Sarah going to chop off her beautiful, thick, curly mane, too? Why do they do this? It’s a form of mutilation, as far as I’m concerned. I turn back to Ms. Crawford, who hasn’t paused for breath.
“It is a question of our values as human beings. A woman cries that she has been raped, and no one at the school takes her seriously. But we take football seriously at this school and we take basketball seriously at this school, and if anything jeopardizes the well-being of those sports, another part of the administration acts very quickly, indeed. The first official response on this campus that was taken after Robin Perry said she was raped came from the athletics department, which says volumes about what we value at this university
As she talks, I look in vain for Sarah. She must be here, but it is too dark and crowded to see her. I wonder if she is going to speak. Surely not. On the other hand, who better than a recent convert? Suddenly, Robin Perry is being introduced, and the crowd, which had been standing in rapt attention, bursts into applause. “… enormous amount of courage for her to be here tonight and come forward publicly,” Paula Crawford is saying. I can’t see anyone on the stage, and then a tall, blond girl appears on the steps beside Paula. Thin, but obviously attractive even at this distance, she is wearing stone chino pants and one of those classy barn jackets I’ve seen on some of the wealthier-looking white students. Robin has the physical grace of a model. Though Dade has described her as a good speaker, tonight, not unsurprisingly, she seems al most too shy and nervous to do more than nod at the crowd. Finally, she manages to say, “I want to thank everybody for their support. I can’t tell you how many other girls have told me that they have been a victim of date rape since this has occurred. It is a crime that most girls still do not talk about, but it happens much more frequently than we are aware. Thank you for being here” As the crowd claps enthusiastically, Paula whispers into her ear. Robin shakes her head and disappears into the crowd off to the left. Paula resumes talking, and then introduces another girl who begins to talk about rape statistics, and with her droning, whining voice she immediately loses the crowd’s interest. I am worried now that I will be spotted by a reporter I recognize and decide it is time for me to leave.
Back in my room, I leave a message for Dade on his answering machine that he should bring his friends to Barton’s law office, and I read off his address. He picks up just as I am hanging up. He sounds anxious again, and tells me that he can’t find Eddie Stiles and hasn’t found anything out about Robin Perry that I don’t already know.
I reassure him that Eddie Stiles is not an essential witness Friday and ask him to keep trying to find out any thing about Robin.
“How was practice?” I ask, trying to calm him a bit.
“It was hard to concentrate at first,” he says, “but I got into it.”
I tell him he will be playing in the Alabama game, which has the desired effect of pepping him up a bit. I wish I could tell him that all he had to worry about was playing football, but I can’t. Somehow, I’m supposed to turn this boy into a lawyer between now and Friday morning. How ridiculous! I’m not even going to try.
“I went to the WAR rally tonight,” I tell him, “and saw Robin for the first time. She’s pretty, all right.”
“What’d she say?” Dade demands, excited again.
I wish I hadn’t brought her up, but he will hear about it anyway.
“Hardly anything,” I say, and then summarize the rally for him.
“She doesn’t seem the WAR type,” Dade observes.
“She dresses too good for them.”
“That’s for sure,” I say, wondering whether there is a way to turn Robin’s appearance against her. Maybe we will simply have to depend on the unconscious reactions of the members of the “J” Board. I can’t imagine any of that group will identify themselves as ardent feminists.
Then again, probably Robin herself would resist that la bel. Tonight, she didn’t have any trouble convincing her self she was merely a victim, one of many.
After trying to reassure him, I hang up and attempt to reconstmct exactly what Robin said. Something isn’t jelling. I stare at the unadorned pale green blank wall across from the door. Robin identified with girls who had been “date raped.” According to both her and Dade, it was more like “study rape.” What if both are lying? Dade could be lying because he was warned repeatedly not to become involved with white girls, Robin because she knows what her parents and others would think. But then maybe Robin was merely trying to identify with the girls who had talked to her. I know I’m not going to be able to even scratch the surface of this case before the hearing Friday.
The phone rings again, and it is Clan, who tells me that after getting permission from their parents, he has contacted a couple of girls inside the Chi Omega House, although getting them to say even one negative word about Robin is impossible.
“She’s become the patron saint of female rectitude,” Clan explains.
Thank goodness the trial isn’t Friday. Robin is riding a wave of sympathy that seems unstoppable. I tell Clan about her appearance tonight.
“The last time anyone clapped for me like that was the night I graduated from high school.”
“She’s pushing the envelope then,” Clan says.
“A lot of people don’t like those women’s groups.”
“Maybe so,” I agree, “but publicly this group isn’t nearly as radical as its leader is in private, according to Sarah. How can anyone not be against rape?”
“Because they’re picking on the Razorbacks,” Clan points out.
“That’s a major faux pas in this state, and you know it.”
“It might be in Little Rock and Pine Bluff,” I concede, “but up here on campus the powers that be have to be more sensitive to the idea that the university is supposed to be more than a sports factory.”
Clan says melodramatically, “I hate it when we try to put on airs in this state.”
Since he’s paying for it, I tell him what’s been going on since I last talked to him.
“Barton’s still a nice guy,” I say, “even if he is filthy rich. He’s letting me use his library as an office when I come up here.”
Clan moans, “Rich? In trial advocacy, he was terrible.”
“The guys who make the real money practicing law,” I lament, “wouldn’t know a criminal defendant unless they caught them trying to steal their Rolexes.”
Clan tells me he will keep trying to find some other girls who know some dirt on Robin but not to get my hopes up.
“It’s a tight group,” he says.
“But, of course, a middle-aged male lawyer isn’t many coeds’ idea of their typical confidante.”
“I need a mole,” I agree.
“Somebody somewhere surely must dislike Robin even if it’s out of simple jealousy.
But thanks for trying. By the way, speaking of young women, have you heard from your friend Gina? I keep forgetting I’ve got her dependency-neglect trial the end of next week.”
“She’s very impressed with you,” Clan coos.
“She thinks you look like Nick Nolte.”
She’s impressed with my fee. No wonder I’m poor. I finally get Clan off the line by telling him I have to work. I still want to talk to the woman from the Rape Crisis Center who came to the hospital to go through the process with Robin, but she hasn’t returned my call either. I dial her number but for the second time today talk to her husband, who must be a student. He is evasive about when she will be in but says he will give her my message. Sure he will. People don’t like lawyers. I can understand that.
I’m not that crazy about them myself. We’re too much like public urinals: an unpleasant necessity sometimes but rarely an uplifting experience. I go to sleep waiting for Coach Carter to call. I’m not sure I want him to be at the hearing. Like everything else about this case I’m doing it could backfire.
At eleven the next morning (an hour late, I point out) Dade brings into Barton’s office Harris Warford and Tyrone Jones. Harris, especially, is enormous. He must weigh almost three hundred pounds and be six and a half feet tall. I wonder how come he isn’t on the starting team.
Dressed in black sweats with Razorback insignia all over them, he looks like a road grader with decals. Tyrone, a defensive back who isn’t even on the second team, naturally isn’t as bulked up, but he is plenty big. Wearing an Oakland Raiders cap over similar black sweats, he has a scowl on his face that looks as if it might be permanent.
Even though they are obviously friends of Dade, I’d hate to meet these guys in a dark alley.
“The girls didn’t show up,” Dade explains.
So much for black women supporting their men.
“I’d like to talk to at least one of them,” I tell Dade. The “J” Board will figure any team member will give favorable testimony to Dade.
“Let’s see if we can get them in the same time tomorrow, okay?”
Dade, who is dressed in jeans and a University of
Arkansas athletics department sweatshirt, says grimly, “I’ll try.” Poor kid. He’s finding it isn’t easy to rally the troops. I know the feeling.
We do not have a productive session, but I learn a few things. The main one is that I do not want Tyrone within two miles of the hearing or a jury. He has an attitude problem that couldn’t be hidden even if he had been dead a year. Cocky, arrogant, he must be Carter’s worst nightmare.
He is from Houston and has the big-city kid’s mentality that “baad” is beautiful, and life is one short beauty contest. Rightly or wrongly, if he were the one on trial, it would take a jury about two seconds to convict him.
He has everything but a neon sign blinking the word “RAPIST” over his head.
Harris, on the other hand, turns out to be a big teddy bear, and it is he who gives me the most information about Robin.
“She acted to me like she kind of liked Dade,” he says, oblivious to my client’s discomfort.
“At Eddie’s she was pretty quiet while her roommate did all the talking. I remember her smiling a lot.”
Unfortunately, Harris cannot be more specific, though he is willing to talk at length about the evening they were all together. I wish the girls were here. Doubtless, they would be quite a bit more attuned to any signals Robin might have been generating. I see I should have interviewed Harris out of Dade’s presence. He might remember more if Dade weren’t glowering at him.
“I would have fucked her, too,” Tyrone volunteers as I usher them out the door about noon.
“She is one goodlookin’ bitch.”
Thank you for that poignant observation, Tyrone. This case could definitely be worse. I could have Tyrone for a client. I tell Harris that I might want to use him as a rebuttal witness at the hearing and explain what that means.
He nods soberly. I like him as much as I dislike Tyrone. I only wish he were normal size. Anybody this big and black has got to be a little scary to the average white juror in Arkansas.
After I go to lunch with Barton, I decide to pay a visit to the Chi Omega House. Probably neither Robin nor her roommate. Shannon Kennsit, will see me, but what do I have to lose? If this were a civil case, I could take their depositions, but this hearing doesn’t qualify as either. I park in a visitor’s slot near the Administration Building and walk east on Maple, passing the law school.
I am thankful I didn’t want to be a lawyer right out of undergraduate school, for I would have squandered that money as badly as I wasted the money that my mother spent educating me. For the first time in years, I ask my self if it was as much fun as I have told myself I remembered it. Now it seems more frenzied than anything else.
What I remember most is always being hungover and late to get somewhere to a class, to a meeting, to some event, because I was too intent upon cramming it all in, including enough alcohol to float a battleship. Was the Peace Corps an escape from all that activity, or was it a refuge from the impoverished emotional existence I thought awaited me if I returned to live in eastern Arkansas?
As I look across the street at the coeds walking past the sorority houses on the other side of the street, I realize I still don’t know
the answer. The only conclusive fact I have in my head thirty years later is the knowledge that in a drunken stupor early one morning I lowered my pants and crapped on the steps of the Chi Omega House to protest being dumped by a girl I thought I cared about. I cross the street, deciding to wait another thirty years be fore making my confession.
I last a total of five minutes at the door before being told in no uncertain terms by the housemother, an attractive, blue-haired woman by the name of Ms. Fitzhugh, that neither Robin nor Shannon will be available to see me. Yet, maybe the word will get around to the other girls: if you hate Robin or Shannon, you can tell your story to Dade Cunningham’s lawyer. The little flurry of activity my presence produced was almost comical. You would have thought Fidel Castro was at the door. I should have said that I was a recruiter from WAR and had come by to pack up Robin and take her on a national protest tour. That would have really upset them. These girls in their stockings and tailored clothes don’t seem ready to storm any barricades. I remain impressed that Paula Crawford was able to persuade Robin to appear at the rally. Maybe she could give me lessons.
During the next day and a half of trying to prepare for the hearing I encounter several more dry holes: Despite going to her house, I never am able to talk to the girl who volunteers for Rape Crisis. Wednesday night Coach Carter calls back and hems and haws but finally tells me that he can not appear as a character witness for Dade be cause it would “compromise his future neutrality” in the matter. What neutrality, I want to scream at him but don’t. His tone makes it clear
he has made up his mind (or somebody has made it up for him) and I thank him again for all he has done. Dade, he says, is having some good practices this week and seems ready for the Alabama game. Not as sanguine about the hearing, I decline to reassure him that all is going well in my area.
Thursday morning only one of the girls from Dade’s party back in the spring at Eddie Stiles’s rented house shows up at Barton’s office and is no help at all. Doris Macy would gladly say that Robin and Shannon raped Dade if I wanted her to, but witnesses as eager as this girl hurt the credibility of an entire case. I remember that she is the one who has been described as a “hanger-on,” and I tell her I will call her if I decide she can help at the hearing
Thursday afternoon before practice Dade shows me where the incident occurred. Even taking a shortcut, Happy Hollow Road is at least a couple of miles east of the campus. Out Highway 16 on the road to Elkins, Dade directs me to turn off to the left, and soon at the end of the blacktopped street we come upon an ugly yellow frame rectangle that can’t contain more than a thousand square feet. There is no house around us for a hundred yards. To the north are fields and the slopes of Mount Sequoyah. As isolated as a place can be in this developing area, this is a perfect spot for an interracial tryst, but a lot of trouble to go to to find a place to study.
“I can’t find Eddie anywhere,” Dade apologizes.
“I’ve tried for two days straight.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, stopping the Blazer in a wide space in a road. This place is so rural that the house even has a well. It is
boarded up, but still, it’s a nice touch. I say, “Dade, you need to level with me. Had you ever had sex with her before? It’s okay if you did. In fact, it’ll help our case if you did.”
Stubbornly, Dade shakes his head.
“This was the first time,” he says.
“She didn’t fight me or anything.”
Damn. There has to be more to it than this.
“You think people are going to believe you each drove out in separate cars three miles to this place to study? Nobody is that dumb.”
Dade looks off into the woods.
“I tried to kiss her that evening in the spring, but she didn’t want me to.”
Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. I ask, “What do you mean she didn’t want you to kiss her? Why’d she come over if she wasn’t interested?”
“That’s what I said!” Dade responds hotly.
“She and I was off by ourselves in the kitchen getting a beer while the rest of ‘em were in the living room. It pissed me off.
She said we were jus’ friends, and if I was gonna do stuff like that she was gonna leave. She said she’d come be cause Shannon was such a big fan and wanted to meet me. We went back in the living room, and that was it.
Both of us was kind of cool the rest of the semester, but like I told you, she started getting real friendly just a week or so before she claimed I raped her.”
More than ever, I’m convinced Robin changed her mind. This year Dade was a bigger star than ever and still a nice guy. His body obviously hadn’t deteriorated any over the summer, and she thought she would try it out, but started feeling guilty almost immediately. Or maybe it was date rape. People lie to themselves all the time about what they are
doing and why they are doing it. I go back over his story, but I don’t get much more out of him.
I just hope I’m not the last person to know what happened that night.
Thursday night I finally get hold of Sarah and meet her for dinner at a cafe Barton has recommended only a block east of the Ozark.
“Danny’s” has pictures of Elvis and Marilyn on the walls and plays one after another “The Thrill Is Gone,”
“Dancin’ in the Street,”
“The Great Pretender,” and “Bridge over Troubled Waters,” before it seriously nose dives with “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do.”
With the music, black-eyed peas and corn bread on the menu, and peach cobbler for dessert, this is my kind of place. Sarah, ever cautious of good food at a reasonable price, orders a Caesar salad and talks about the WAR rally after I explain I was there, too.
“You should have stayed around to the end to say hello. I would have introduced you to Paula. She’d like to talk to you.”
I bet she would. Women seem to love to try to straighten me out.
“I would have liked to talk to Robin,” I say, as I sugar my iced tea, “but she doesn’t want to talk to me.” I do not mention that I couldn’t get my foot in the door at the Chi Omega House. It would embarrass her that I tried.
“Dad, it took a lot of guts for her to speak at the rally,” Sarah says defensively.
“I couldn’t have done it.”
“Yeah, how did Paula manage to bring that off?” I ask, noticing that Sarah is wearing no makeup. Great. Next, she’ll be telling me she’s joining a convent.
“I’ve told you,” Sarah says, spooning ice from her water and putting it into an ashtray.
“Paula is very persuasive. I think you’re afraid to take her on.”
A no-win situation if there ever was one.
“You make her sound like a prize fighter,” I say, over “Midnight Hour,” the Wilson Pickett version, though I like the way it was done in the movie The Commitments. Maybe Sarah and I should just listen to the music.
We continue bantering throughout the meal. Sarah hits me with a few feminist jabs, but I don’t have the heart to take the gloves off, or maybe I have too much sense.
Maybe she’s right and women are exploited night and day in this country. But if things are so bad for them, why do women outlive men so long? God help us if the statistics were reversed. Before she cranks her engine in the Volkswagen outside the restaurant, I tell her once again that I still think Dade is probably innocent.
“Why? Why can’t you believe her?” Sarah demands, hugging her jacket against her in the cool mountain air.
“I can’t go into the reasons,” I say hiding behind legal ethics and feeling guilty because of it.
“Mainly, I just think Dade is telling the truth.”
“And I think Robin is telling the truth! Why would she lie about a thing as serious as rape?” Sarah says, her voice trembling now.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“I wish I did.”
“I wish you did, too.” Angry, Sarah roars off, grinding gears as she goes. I need to get her a new car. What she’s driving now would crumble if she went over a curb at ten miles an hour.
Friday morning at ten the press is out in full force. I’ve told Dade to ignore the questions and the cameras again as best he can. The
hearing itself is supposed to be confidential, but as I shove a microphone out of my face going up the stairs, I get the feeling the hearing is going to be televised to the entire country.
We are apparently the last to arrive. Inside room 213 the’T’ Board is lined up on one side of a long conference table, and the witnesses, including Harris Warford, I’m relieved to see, are lined up on the other. The head of the board, a Professor Haglar from the history department, tells us to sit across from him and introduces the “J” Board members too fast for me to write all their names down. Robin is sitting in a chair off to the side, presumably with her attorney, and only looks up briefly. Up close she is even prettier than I had imagined and looks as if she had just come from a modeling assignment. Her face is made up to beat the band and she is wearing silver jewelry over a flax vest that covers a scoop-necked cotton T-shirt. Her outfit is completed by an expensive-looking long green print skirt.
Haglar seems nervous and keeps turning to look at Clarise Dozier, the Coordinator of Judicial Affairs, who is seated on his left, for reassurance. She smiles as if he is doing beautifully although he is visibly sweating, and we’ve barely begun.
“I want to remind Mr. Page and Mr.
Sanderson that under our rules you may not ask questions of witnesses or argue the case, but you can advise your client on any matters you wish. I also want to point out that Professor Haglar is sitting in for the regular “J’ Board chairperson, who is ill today,” Ms. Dozier explains, reading my mind.
“We’ll probably go a little slower than usual.”
That’s okay with me. Dade seems lost already, which is understandable under the circumstances. The board is right on top of him. In a courtroom the defendant has more personal space, but I remind myself this is educational.” Sure. I write Sanderson’s name down and make a note to ask Barton about him. For all I know, he may be a family friend and not a lawyer. I’m surprised one of Robin’s parents is not here. But perhaps she didn’t want them. On the conference table in front of Ms. Dozier is a tape recorder which may come in handy later. While Haglar assures us that this proceeding will be very informal and goes over several items that I’ve already covered with Dade, I study the faces of the rest of the board.
Though a couple of the male professors have opted for shirts open at the throat and sports jackets, the others, perhaps sensing this may be the high point of their semester are wearing their Sunday best. The black female, a Ms. Osceola Glazer (whose name I did get), is actually wearing a dark jade polo dress identical to one owned by Sarah. Introduced as an assistant professor in the math department, she looks young enough to be a student. The university had few black teachers when I was here. I doubt if it is any different now. It occurs to me that no Arkansas jury will be as educated or as economically well off as this group. Unfortunately, what they may make up for in their presumed lack of racial prejudice may be overshadowed by their political correctness.
Dr. Haglar asks me if we have any more witnesses who will be showing up, and when I tell him that Harris is our only one, he has each witness formally identify him-or herself and then explains to them that they will now be excused so that they won’t hear each other’s testimony.
Ms. Dozier leads them out a door in the back of the room to another office where they will wait until they are called. It is my first glimpse of Shannon Kennsit and Mary Purvis, the Rape Crisis counselor, neither of whom would talk to me. Shannon is by far the more interesting looking of the two. A redhead with permed hair down to her shoulders, she is wearing a hot pink silk blouse and tight black pants. She looks nothing like a female sports junkie, but I overheard her ask Harris about the Alabama game as they walked out the door.
When Ms. Dozier is seated once again, I whisper to Dade that he should read aloud the first question on his pad. He raises his hand and is recognized by Haglar.
Speaking in a stiff voice, Dade asks, “Are any of you members of WAR or any similar group, or have any of you attended one of their meetings or rallies?”
No one raises a hand or speaks, and he continues to read questions designed to get at whether any of them know Robin or her roommate. One studious-looking girl with big glasses whose name I have written down as Judith raises her hand and says she sits beside Robin in a psychology class but that they are only acquaintances.
Dade looks at me uncertainly, but I shake my head. We can’t very well ask her to recuse, nor would I want her to.
Judging from her tone, she may think that Robin is an airhead beauty queen and not particularly credible. I point to a question on the legal pad, and Dade reads, “Have any of you formed an opinion about this matter as a result of talking to others or news coverage?”
Typically, no one speaks up, but it is a question that has to be asked and just might keep one of these people honest. The truth is, all of them have some opinion even if it is not a strong one, but human nature being what it is, the answer is almost always in the negative. By letting Dade conduct what in a courtroom would be voir dire, or an examination of the jury’s qualifications, my plan is for him to get over his nervousness before he begins to testify.
Sanderson, who has a young face but is prematurely bald, asks the board if any of them knows Dade personally.
Again, no one raises his or her hand. He then asks if anyone will be influenced by Dade’s status as a star football player. Again no one answers. I hope to hell someone is lying.
Haglar calls on Robin, who has been completely silent, to come sit at the table and give her opening statement.
Accompanied by Sanderson, she sits toward the end of the table near the door where we entered, and Sanderson sits between her and me, partially blocking my view of her and certainly Dade’s, who is sitting to my right. I start to protest that she should change places with Sanderson, but realize it will just irritate the board.
Robin, to my dismay, is disturbingly convincing. Without halting or even clearing her throat, she tells the board her story, which uniformly tracks the statement she gave Detective Parley. Though it is vague in spots, she leaves no doubt that she was convinced she had no choice but to submit to Dade.
“I know some of you are probably thinking I was stupid to go over there, but I never really believed anything like this would ever happen, especially not with Dade,” she says, her head turning slowly back and forth, making sure she has eye contact with each board member.
“Shannon and I had gone over to that same little house in the spring, really so she could meet Dade when you talk to her you’ll see she’s a real Razorback fan. We felt perfectly safe the whole time. Two other players were there and, I guess, their two girlfriends. They were as nice as they could be. One is here today, I think, as a witness for Dade….”
As she talks, I go back and forth in my mind as to whether Dade should try to get her to admit that he had tried to kiss her in the spring, but it seems too damaging.
If she isn’t going to mention it, he might be better off not bringing it up because in some ways her story helps Dade. He comes off as a perfect gentleman. She has admitted as much. As she concludes, I whisper in his ear not to mention it to the board. He nods, relieved.
Though we have practiced it several times, Dade’s opening statement doesn’t come out of his mouth nearly as smoothly as Robin’s. Halfway through it, he begins to ramble and says crudely, “Robin didn’t get anything she didn’t want.”
Though it is clear what he means, this one simple statement might well make him sound far more brutal than he is, and I look at the faces of the females on the board to gauge their reaction. Perhaps I am imagining it, but Judith what’s-her-name seems to turn even paler than she already is, and she shrinks back in her seat. Dade comes off in this exchange as a defensive, almost sullen young man with a chip on his shoulder, doubtlessly a victim in his own eyes, but one who doesn’t inspire sympathy. Instantly, I regret not having him admit that he tried to kiss Robin. Without that admission, his actions seem purely motivated by lust.
The board members begin to ask questions. Predictably they are most interested in why Robin waited so long to go to the hospital. Growing more comfortable by the minute, Robin speaks with a practiced earnestness that is impressive.
“I think I was almost in shock from the time I left the house on Happy Hollow Road until I woke Shannon up with my crying. If it hadn’t been for her, I don’t think I would have gone to the hospital. I was too ashamed. Until I talked to Shannon, I was afraid nobody would believe me, just like Dade said….”
The “I Board doesn’t roll over for her. One of the fe male professors asks why she took her car if she wasn’t worried about anything happening.
“I just wanted to be able to leave whenever I thought I needed to,” she says carefully.
“Maybe down deep I wasn’t as sure of the situation as I thought I was.”
“Why did you feel ashamed?” a male professor at the far end of the table asks.
“I don’t know,” Robin says, her voice hoarse with emotion for the first time. Her eyes redden and she begins to cry.
“I guess because I knew it was my fault for going over there by myself. And I knew how much pain this was going to cause my parents. They’re very conservative. It was stupid to go there by myself; I admit it.”
We stop for a moment while she composes herself, and I have a chance to study her. Damned if I can tell whether this is all an act.
Throughout she is vague on the actual details of the rape, and understandably the “J” Board is reluctant to press her too closely. The student at these hearings, ac cording to the papers Dozier gave me, is permitted not to answer a question if she or he chooses not to, and theoretically, no inference of wrongdoing can be made. She isn’t even under oath. If she chooses not to answer, she can simply refuse, which she couldn’t do at a trial.
There are several other questions, but Robin, though shaky, handles them well enough, and at a bathroom break requested by the oldest professor there, I take Dade into a corner and try to persuade him that he should ask her if she admits that he tried to kiss her at the party in the spring. If she does, and she further contends she resisted him, then he can ask her why she so willingly came over alone a few months later.
Dade, sweating profusely in a dark wool suit that is too tight in the shoulders, flatly refuses.
“I’m not doing it now. I should have told them when I first started talking.
They’ll think I’m lying now.”
“No, they won’t,” I plead fervently.
“Tell them the truth. Tell them your parents told you never to get involved with a white girl, but that you liked her. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Dade shakes his head and leaves me standing by myself.
I follow him back to the table, feeling terrible. I should have figured this out better beforehand, but I just kept going back and forth in my own mind and had hoped I could resolve it before the hearing in a way that made sense. Shit, I hate this business of the lawyers not being able to ask questions. It isn’t fair to the student.
The board members are not as gentle with Dade.
Clearly, some of the faculty members think he forced her to have sex. Though their questions are not unexpected, it is the tone that bothers me. I whisper to him that he should continue to say that he never threatened Robin, nor did he ever say that she would not be believed. All I can do is sit here and listen to him repeat his answers and hope he doesn’t trip himself up.
“Mr. Cunningham,” a Dr. Darcy asks, after a flurry of questions by the males on the board, “did her coming out there give you the wrong idea, as Robin has suggested?”
I can’t decide whether she is trying to trap him or not.
Even if he agrees, that is still no justification to force her to have sex. I whisper to him that now is the time for him to say he had tried to kiss her in the spring and that he thought she had changed her mind about their relationship.
Even if it sounds crude, it may be his best chance to convince them he didn’t rape her.
Dade nods, but answers, “It was just how she acted when she got there,” and describes how she had come over to him after a few minutes.
“She wanted me to kiss her, and it was her idea to get in the shower, but when it was all over she just got up and left.”
Frustrated, I force myself to sit poker-faced. There is nothing I can do. I don’t want to give them the impression I am arguing with him. Judging by their frowns, this answer doesn’t sit well with some members of the board, who obviously would find more plausible a case of classic date rape. A professor named Dow asks the same question for the second time, “Now, what did you tell her you would do if she told anyone?”
I can’t remain, in the words of one of the “Irangate” lawyers, a potted plant, any longer.
“Dr. Haglar, this has already been covered.”
Professor Haglar, not unlike some judges I’ve appeared before, mutters something unintelligible and clears his throat and nods indecisively. I whisper to Dade to say that he has already answered that question twice.
He does, and five minutes later there is finally silence in the room.
Dr. Haglar looks down at his watch, and after consultation with Ms. Dozier, suggests that since we are moving so quickly we work through lunch, since it appears we could be through before two. Not a single board member objects, and Ms. Dozier goes through the door in the back of the room and brings back Shannon Kennsit. I no tice for the first time Shannon is wearing a “Beat Alabama” button over her left breast. She is that not-so-rare article, a genuine female Razorback nut.
If Dade’s trial comes off, I fear she will be a devastating witness. In comparison to Robin’s coolness, this girl is friendly and open as a puppy and entirely believable.
She, too, in response to the questions, tracks the statement she gave to the police. She tells the board that she was in the room with Robin the night of the rape and she was sure she didn’t have anything to drink that night be fore she left the sorority house. She describes the little party she and Robin attended as “fun” because she got to talk to a real star for the first time.
One of the male students whose name I didn’t catch asks if Robin had ever said that she liked Dade or thought he was attractive. I listen carefully for Shannon’s answer, but she disappoints me by saying, “She never said she liked him like he was some guy she had a thing for,” her tone matter-of-fact.
“But she liked him as a person. She thought he was a friend, I guess, not just somebody she was helping.”
The black math professor. Dr. Glazer, picks up on this question.
“Ms. Kennsit, if Robin had been attracted to Dade,” she asks, her voice slightly ironical and detached, “given the fact that he is an African-American and she is white, and the fact that public interracial relationships are rare on this campus, is she the kind of person who would be sure to confide in you or her friends, or might she be more cautious and not say anything, especially at first?”
Shannon, whose most attractive characteristic as a witness thus far has been her lack of guile, hesitates for the briefest of instants before answering, “Robin is kind of private, but I think she would have told me if she had liked Dade, you know, that way.”
“Ms. Kennsit,” the same woman asks again, “who else might Robin have confided in?”
Bless this woman’s soul. Whether she knows it or not, this woman is helping us out, if not today, then for the trial. I think she is trying to help us out.
“Robin and I are best friends,” Shannon says eagerly.
“If she didn’t tell me, I don’t think she would tell anybody.”
I don’t think this girl is lying. But if Dade is telling the truth, there is more to this case than meets the eye. Robin could easily be hiding something but what is it? I don’t have a clue. At least I will have plenty of time to work on Dade before the trial.
The hearing speeds up considerably after Shannon finishes. Mary Purvis, the counselor from the Rape Crisis Center, is the next witness, and I don’t regret not having caught up with her. She is in her early
twenties and she lacks the experience to make a useful witness. A student board member, a boy I thought was having trouble staying awake for the last hour, asks her exactly how many rape victims she has counseled after she says that “Robin’s reaction was typical.” Three, is her reply. No one asks her any more questions after this admission.
After she departs, Dr. Haglar says that the board will consider the hospital admission record which contains the nurse’s comments and the physician’s examination.
Since this evidence is favorable (there is no indication whatsoever that Robin was hurt or suffered any sexual trauma), I have no problems with it.
The last witness is Harris Warford, who tells the board that he saw Dade about nine-thirty, less than an hour after the rape was supposed to have occurred.
“Did he seem any different to you or say anything about what had happened Dr. Haglar asks.
Buddha-like in his calm passivity, Harris appears more relaxed than any witness so far.
“Dade seemed puzzled more than anything,” he says quietly.
“He told me he’d gone to study at Eddie’s house with Robin, but ended up doin’ her. He said it was weird because she was all hot, and then when it was all over, she got out of there like she didn’t even know him. I kidded him about how she must not have liked it, but he said she wasn’t hurt or anything.
She just got up and took off.”
This answer prompts a number of questions, but the most persistent come from Dr. Glazer, who asks, “Did Dade ever tell you or anyone you know that he liked Robin more than just as a friend, or that he’d like to have sex with her?”
“After the time she and her roommate came to Eddie’s house in the spring, we ragged him some about her,” Harris says without changing his expression, “but he never said he liked her.”
“Do you think he did?” Dr. Glazer presses him.
“Dade had plenty of girls,” Harris says as if he were commenting on the weather, but not answering her question
“He didn’t worry much about any particular one.”
Dr. Glazer, judging from her expression, doesn’t seem to think much of that answer, but lets it go, and ten minutes later Dr. Haglar, after consulting with Ms. Dozier, announces we are done. I had expected the hearing to last much longer. Dade is visibly relieved, but if he thinks this was bad, the trial will be ten times worse. Dr. Haglar says that a decision will be made as quickly as possible, and shows us a way out through the back door to avoid the re porters. I look at Dade, who nods gratefully at him. He has to be ready for practice at three. I take it as a good sign that a couple of the students wish him good luck against Alabama.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Dade asks, “What do you think they’ll do?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly as I try to keep up with him.
“They weren’t as hostile as I thought they’d be. But we can’t forget that the burden of proof is not like it is in a criminal case. I think it will just come down to whether they want to believe her or you.”
Amazingly, we have come out at the back of the Union, and there isn’t a reporter in sight. I remind him not to make any comment regardless of the outcome.
“Remember that you have a right to appeal, and nothing will happen until that process is over, and it could take weeks. Good luck tomorrow.”
He nods.
“You’ll do more at the trial, won’t you?” he asks.
“I know you couldn’t ask questions or say anything here” I laugh for the first time today.
“A hell of a lot more. I can guarantee you that.”
Twenty minutes later, as I go to check out of the Ozark, I have a message to call Barton before I leave town: he has a ticket for me to the Alabama game. Good of’ Barton!
I had resigned myself to watching it on TV with Clan tomorrow. I hope he has a place for me to stay, too. The Ozark and every other motel around here has been taken this weekend for weeks, probably months. The game is at two, so I can still get home tomorrow night in time for my date with Amy. I’ll need to find a washing machine, too. I’ve run out of clothes.
“Hell, you deserve to go to this game,” Barton says an hour later. He hands me a beer he has taken from a little bar he has in a small room off his office, which is now unofficially closed in honor of the Arkansas-Alabama battle to come tomorrow.
“You’re single-handedly responsible for us having a chance to win it.”
I pop the top on a Tecate and marvel at the human animal’s capacity for hero worship.
“I haven’t done much,” I say modestly, knowing Barton won’t believe me.
“But at least he’ll play tomorrow, whatever they decide.”
Outside, we can see students driving the square, honking their horns, their “Beat “Bama” signs plastered all over their cars. It is not even five o’clock in the afternoon, but Hogs football fans have waited years for a chance to play a game that means something. If we win, we’ll surely be ranked in the top five and have a real shot at playing for the national championship on New Year’s Day.
“If the board’s smart,” Barton says, pouring bourbon for himself, “they won’t announce their decision until Monday. Why take a chance on messing with Dade’s head? That boy’s gonna need to concentrate all he can.”
“That’s for sure,” I say. There is no point in tormenting Barton with the information that a good many people within the university community would like nothing better than to sky write over Razorback stadium tomorrow afternoon a message that the business of rape is more important than a football game.
Within an hour’s time Barton and I are feeling no pain, which is fortunate, because he gets a call from his wife to turn on the five o’clock news. The “J” Board is reported to have made a decision. Barton snaps on his stereo, and we see the luscious female reporter, who is usually on later, reading into the camera, “.. . will no longer be permitted to take part in intercollegiate athletics the remainder of the year but will be permitted to attend classes.
Clarise Dozier, the All-University Coordinator of Judicial Affairs, has just explained that any disciplinary action will not go into effect until the vice-chancellor and chancellor have ruled on any appeal and reviewed the actions taken by the board. This means that star wide receiver Dade Cunningham, unless head Razorback football coach Dale Carter says otherwise, will be in the starting line-up against the Crimson Tide tomorrow afternoon….”
“Shit!” Barton whines at the screen.
“Those assholes could have waited! If we lose, it’ll be their fault.”
I reach for the phone and dial Dade’s room and get his answering machine. Hoping I don’t sound drunk, I say that he shouldn’t worry and that if he needs to call me, I can be reached at either Barton Sanders’s home or his office tonight and tomorrow morning. Barton gives me the numbers, which I read into the phone, wondering how Dade will react I hang up, pissed at the “J” Board but knowing it could have been worse. While Barton continues to rant, I try to think what lesson there is to be gained from their decision.
Obviously, they don’t consider Dade presently a threat to Robin, but they believed her over him. Not a good sign, but I don’t know what factor politics, campus or otherwise, played into their decision. A lot, probably, since Dozier told me they try to achieve a consensus. I’d love to know what part war’s rallies played in this decision, but I know I never will.
“You got problems,” Barton says, gloomily sipping at his drink.
“If you can’t convince students and professors Dade is innocent, think what a bunch of hillbillies on that jury will do to him.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” I say, glad Barton called about the ticket before we got the news. I don’t seem like such a hero all of a sudden. I call Sarah to find out her reaction, but only get her answering machine as usual. She is probably out celebrating with Paula Crawford. On second thought, they are probably furious Dade wasn’t kicked out of school. Nothing will ever satisfy them.
Unlike last week in Knoxville, the weather stays gorgeous all morning Saturday, and walking to the stadium it is easy to forget that football at this level is essentially a business. Hundreds of tailgate parties are going on simultaneously in a sea of Razorback red; multi generation Arkansans gather together outside their RVs in lawn chairs and wolf down tons of barbecue, potato salad, cole slaw, and baked beans and drink beer. Diet Coke, and iced tea, trading friendly insults with the healthy con ting gent of Alabama fans who are, as usual, cocky but not obnoxious, at least not before the game. Truly, it is a cultural thing, right or wrong, the way we live. If the fans are right, the Hogs are back. The Alabama game will prove it.
During the warm-up I train my binoculars on Dade and am shaken as twenty yards downfield he drops a perfectly thrown ball. When he trots back in. Carter, who apparently has been watching too, says something to him, and Dade listens with his head bowed. He didn’t call last night or this morning. I spoke with his mother briefly be fore I left for the game, and she hadn’t heard from him either. If he is able to turn pro after this season, I wonder how much money this game alone will be worth to him.
Alabama’s preseason All-American safety, Ty Mosely, will be covering him all afternoon. If Mosely shuts him down, it will be hard for a pro owner to forget his statistics, since he will have seen the game. As the cheerleaders minus Robin Perry lead the crowd in calling the Hogs, it is impossible not to feel a shiver run down my spine. It is just a game, I tell myself. Of course, it’s not.
The Hogs come out as fired up as the crowd and out quick the bigger Tide linemen as Carter keeps the ball on the ground even in obvious passing situations. By the second quarter with the Razorbacks on top 10 to 7, it is easy to forget Dade is even on the field. Jay Madison, the Hogs’ quarterback, has thrown a total of three passes, all screens to his backs. Incredibly, with one minute left in the half Alabama fumbles inside its own five, and the Hogs recover and go up 17 to 7 at the half.
I realize my dominant emotion is one of relief. The game will put a crimp in some of Dade’s total season statistics, but if Arkansas wins, it can’t hurt him too badly. If Madison doesn’t throw the ball to him, he can’t drop it.
Just at the kickoff I return to my seat from a trip to the bathroom. Predictably, someone was drunk and sick (it sounded like an animal giving birth to a too large off spring). The crowd around me is reasonably in control, but it won’t be if we win. I don’t look forward to the drive back to Blackwell County after the game, no matter what happens.
As I feared, Alabama’s strength begins to tell by the fourth quarter, and their offense begins to look like Sherman marching through Georgia, and they go ahead 21 to 17 with five minutes left. Now, stuck on our twenty-yard line, we have to throw, and everybody in the stadium knows it.
Quickly, the battle between Ty Mosely and Dade be comes awesome to watch. Dade is a step faster, but Mosely has an uncanny gift of being able to react while the ball is in the air, and unless Jay Madison throws the ball almost perfectly, Mosely will just get a hand on it and knock it away from Dade at the last moment. Though there is now double coverage on Dade, the Hogs are still able to move downfield, thanks to Madison’s success in finding secondary receivers. With the ball on the twenty with one minute left, Dade has caught four passes on this drive, three for first downs, so there is no doubt about his ability to perform under pressure. Forgotten is his dropped ball in warm-ups. Even if we don’t win, he has performed creditably.
With second and ten, Dade accelerates faster than I’ve seen him all day and blows by Mosely and heads for the corner of the left end zone. The right safety comes over to cover him, but Dade suddenly plants his foot and cuts to the right at the instant the ball is thrown. The exact moment the ball reaches him, he is almost decapitated by the left safety who has come over to cover him. Somehow, Dade manages to hold onto the ball while being knocked into the end zone, and the stadium erupts as I’ve never seen it. In my excitement I trip over the seat in front of me and fall forward onto the back of a huge fat guy who is so deliriously happy he jumps up and down with me clinging to his shoulders.
“We win! We win!” he screams as tears stream down his cheeks.
Twenty minutes later I am on my way out of town, heading back to Blackwell County, listening to the postgame comments on the radio. Coach Carter calls Dade’s catch the greatest he has ever seen. His interviewer does not mention that if the All-University Judiciary Board’s decision is upheld, it will be the last one he’ll make as a Razorback this season. Caught hopelessly in traffic on Highway 23 (I’ll have to call Amy and tell her I’ll be late), I think that the reason men like sports is that if we try hard enough we can pretend for a couple of hours that the real world doesn’t have anything to do with us.