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.
