“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.
