A Summons to New Orleans Read online

  “Yes, I was working at the Collier House. I am the night manager there.”

  “What time did you start work that night?”

  “At ten o’clock.”

  “And you were still on duty at a little after midnight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see Simone Gray on the night of the twenty-seventh?”

  “Yes, I did. She came into the office at around twelve-fifteen.”

  “Please describe her appearance at the time.”

  “She was wearing some kind of dress. Blue, I think, sleeveless. The first thing I noticed was that her face was all red, and streaked with makeup. She had obviously been crying.”

  “Did you notice anything else about her?”

  “Yes. She was shaking. And she was having a hard time talking.”

  “Had you ever seen Simone Gray prior to this occasion?”

  “A couple of times, I think. She stays at the hotel a lot.”

  “And she appeared markedly different than on previous occasions . . .”

  “Objection. Leading the witness.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Will you please tell the court what Ms. Gray said to you when she walked in your office?”

  “Yes. She said, ‘Can you call the police? I’ve been attacked.’”

  “Was she drunk?”

  “No.”

  “Objection. He can’t possibly have determined that.”

  “Sustained.”

  “I’ll rephrase. Did she appear to be drunk?”

  “No. She did not.”

  “And what do you base that judgment on?”

  “She wasn’t slurring her words or anything. She just seemed very upset. She was crying.”

  “Did you then call the police?”

  “I did.”

  “At this time, Your Honor, I would like to play the nine-one-one call.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Margaret turned on a tape machine, and Nora felt her skin crawl as Jeffrey’s frantic voice filled the room.

  “This is Jeffrey Bloom at the Collier House. Could you send a policeman over here? One of our customers was attacked on the street.”

  “Is she there now?” a female operator said.

  “Yes. She’s very upset.”

  “Does she need an ambulance?”

  “Do you need an ambulance? . . . No, she doesn’t.”

  “Was she raped?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” He paused and then said, “Yes, she says she was.”

  “Okay, we’ll send someone right away.”

  The line went dead. Margaret switched off the machine.

  “Can you tell us what happened next?”

  “Well, she was really upset, so I asked if she wanted a drink or anything. She said she’d like some wine, so I gave her some.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know. Two or three glasses. It took the cops a while to come.”

  “Did you make another phone call?”

  “Yes, about an hour later.”

  “Your Honor, may I play that tape?”

  The judge nodded, and Margaret turned on the machine again. This time Simone’s voice was audible in the background. The room filled with her racking sobs, and then Jeffrey’s voice came back, even more frantic.

  “Yes, I called earlier about a woman who was raped . . .”

  “The police aren’t there yet?”

  “No, and could you ask them to hurry because she’s completely hysterical and I don’t know what to do.”

  “I’ll call them again.”

  “Thank you.”

  Margaret let the room sit in silence for a beat after she turned off the machine.

  “And what happened, Mr. Bloom, while you were waiting for the police?”

  “I just kept giving her wine.”

  “How much did you give her, do you think?”

  “She drank three quarters of a bottle, I believe.”

  Nora looked at the jury. A couple of them frowned at this and shifted in their seats. Poppy stared straight ahead, showing no emotion.

  Jeffrey went on to say that the cops finally arrived, asked her a few questions and then took her away. He did not see Simone Gray again.

  “Your witness,” Margaret said.

  Bill Farrell stood. “May I approach the witness, Your Honor?”

  “Yes.”

  Bill glided across the room and came to a dramatic stop right in front of Jeffrey Bloom. He stared at him for a moment and said, “I really only have one question for you, Mr. Bloom. Were you present when this alleged rape occurred?”

  Jeffrey looked at him. “No, I wasn’t.”

  “So you didn’t see this attack happen.”

  “No.”

  “You only know what Ms. Gray told you.”

  “Yes, but she was . . .”

  “Thank you.” He walked away, then turned. “Oh, one more thing. Have you ever been convicted of a felony?”

  “Objection,” said Margaret.

  “Overruled,” said the judge.

  Jeffrey shifted in his seat and said, “Yes.”

  “And what was that conviction?”

  “Robbery.”

  “I see. No more questions, Your Honor.”

  Margaret shot up. “Redirect, Your Honor.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Would you please describe the circumstances of that arrest?”

  “Yes. I was living with someone in San Francisco. When I moved, I took some stereo equipment which I thought belonged to me. We did not part on good terms, and so he called and reported those items stolen. I was arrested and convicted. It was all a misunderstanding. That is, on my part.”

  “Did you serve any time?”

  “No, I got probation. But it was over ten years ago.”

  “And no convictions since then?”

  “Not even a parking ticket.”

  “Thank you.”

  Quentin’s mother said, “That man lying like a dog.”

  Nora shushed her.

  10

  Detective John Henley took the stand, wearing a leather jacket and a tie. He had a pocked face and heavy eyelids. Nora was confused for a moment, thinking that he must be part of the defense team, a friend of the rapist or some kind of snitch. But in a gravelly voice he identified himself as a police detective, the one on duty the night Simone’s call came in. Nora could imagine Simone’s discomfort, having to confess all to this man. His beady eyes—literally like dull black beads, or maybe coffee beans—had trouble landing on any location. He exuded hostility. In fact, given a choice, Nora felt she’d rather encounter the rapist in a dark alley.

  The detective stated that Simone had been visibly upset, but also quite drunk. She had trouble speaking. She couldn’t positively identify the scene of the crime. She kept wandering away and they had to chase her down and bring her back. But he also stated that clearly something terrible had happened to this woman. She was in an “exaggerated state of distress.” It was consistent, he said, with the behavior of most rape victims.

  When it was Bill Farrell’s turn to talk, he strode up to the witness box in the same flamboyant manner and said, “Were you actually there when the alleged rape occurred?”

  “No,” said the detective. “I’ve never actually witnessed a rape of any kind. Otherwise, I’d be able to stop them.”

  The jury tittered. Nora couldn’t help smiling.

  “So all you really know is what Simone Gray told you.”

  “Yes,” he said, “but I’ve been doing this for fifteen years, and I felt convinced that a rape had occurred.”

  “You said Ms. Gray was drinking. How did you determine this?”

  “She told me,” Detective Henley said.

  “What?”

  “She told me she had had a lot to drink, after the rape.”

  Bill seemed momentarily flustered. He said, “But she might have been drinking before.”

  “Objection . . . calls for s
peculation.”

  “Sustained.”

  Bill stood still for a moment, then shook his head and said, “No further questions.”

  Nora glanced at the jury again. They looked bored. Most of them were staring at the wall or their laps, as if they were planning a grocery list or events for the upcoming weekend. She wanted to shout at them to pay attention. She regretted all the times she had gotten out of jury duty.

  While the DNA expert was on the stand, Nora allowed herself to daydream. The talk became very technical, and she couldn’t follow it. She thought of Leo, wondering what he was doing, if he was thinking about her. Why had she fixated on him? She looked at Poppy and wondered if her connection to him was fueling her interest. If so, what was that about? Did she want to get back at Poppy in some way? That didn’t seem logical. It wasn’t like her, either. As far as she knew, she did not bear a grudge against Poppy. She wasn’t pleased with the way her friend was behaving these days, with all that God talk, but that wasn’t enough to make her spiteful. She had always loved Poppy. She had always suspected that Poppy could teach her how to live better, could make her more aware and in tune with her surroundings. She envied Poppy’s intensity, her opinions, her passion about her surroundings and the human condition in general. Maybe she was attracted to Leo because Poppy’s attachment to him years ago validated him in some way.

  And it could be a savior complex. That’s probably what her therapist would say. Leo was the first person in a long time who had come to her defense, who had protected her in a paternal way. And wasn’t she allowed? Poppy had God, Simone had the entire New Orleans judicial system. Couldn’t she have the benefit of a cab-driving ethics teacher for a while? She did not need to be saved forever. A single evening, in fact, would suffice.

  She hated the silly, needy way it made her feel, wanting the attention of a man. She had started to doubt herself, to wonder if her clothes were too dowdy, if her blond hair looked silly and desperate, if she were clever enough to hold Leo’s attention. He was smart, after all. She had been smart once, she thought, in college, when she spent a lot of time reading books. But lately she had let her intellect stagnate. Now she thought only about her children, tending to their various activities and play dates. They were turning her dull and it almost seemed intentional, as if they wanted her to be uninteresting, uninviting to outsiders. Were they plotting against her? Did they have her gradual demise in mind? Was it part of their long-term plan?

  When Michael was a little boy, he used to say he wanted to marry her when he grew up. All little boys wanted that, she imagined, wanted to marry their mothers. But lately, she suspected that he wanted to marry someone completely unlike her. Now, she thought, he used her as a different kind of yardstick against which he would measure women. It wouldn’t work, of course. He would try to defy her, but all men ended up marrying their mothers, one way or another.

  Bill Farrell approached the DNA expert and said, “You weren’t actually there when the rape occurred, were you?”

  The woman looked at him and said, “I don’t even live here. I live in Texas.”

  “So you didn’t see anything happen?”

  “Um, no, I didn’t.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  Margaret hid a smile behind her fist.

  The next witness was the doctor who was on call when Simone came into the ER. He looked very young. Everyone looked very young to Nora, and she wondered how the professional workforce had suddenly gotten younger than she was. For a long time she had existed in a world where congressmen and people in professional sports and even models and actors were all older than she was. Now they were a few years younger, and it made her feel crazy, as if the world were getting out of balance. But then again, she reasoned, this was probably how everyone felt, as time ticked away.

  The doctor’s name was Carl Zimmer. He looked very German, very Aryan, extremely bored and annoyed at having to be there. He looked like every fraternity brother she had ever known at UVA. She wondered, briefly, if he actually could have been one of them, some younger student she had ignored on campus. When he opened his mouth to speak, he had a distinct Southern accent, but not Virginian, or even Louisianan. It was more twangy, more like Texan.

  Margaret asked him several technical questions, and he answered them in a dull, uninspired way. Yes, he said, he had examined Simone Gray the way he examined other rape victims. He had used the sexual-assault kit. He went by the book, by the numbers. He was required to do a pelvic, a Pap smear, take a swab for the semen sample, extract a pubic hair. Before any of this began, he had someone take a photograph of Simone’s bruises. Yes, he said, there had been extensive bruising. Especially around the neck area, and on the upper arms. He had also done a rectal exam. He had done a swab, which had come back from the lab testing positive for blood. But there had been no apparent rectal tears. There were hemorrhoids, which he determined to be new, a result of a recent trauma.

  “Objection,” Bill Farrell said. “He can’t be certain of that.”

  “Yes, I can,” the doctor said.

  “You need to be more specific,” the judge advised.

  The doctor said, “Old hemorrhoidal tissue has a different color and consistency. I could tell that this tissue damage was new to the patient.”

  “Thank you,” said Margaret.

  “Objection,” Bill said. “He cannot state how new. Days, weeks, months?”

  “Days, I’d say,” the doctor answered.

  “But he can’t say how many days. Your Honor, I think we need to reexamine this line of questioning.”

  “You’ll get your chance, Counselor. Sit down.”

  Bill Farrell sat down.

  Margaret said, “Doctor, how many years have you been working in the ER?”

  “Five,” he answered. “If you don’t count my internship. That makes it more like seven.”

  “So you have seen a few rape victims.”

  “A few, yes.”

  “And so, after your examination, could you make a decent judgment as to whether or not Ms. Gray had been raped?”

  “Objection,” Bill nearly screamed.

  “I’ll rephrase the question,” Margaret volunteered. “What did the wounds on the patient suggest to you?”

  “She had obviously suffered a kind of trauma. She was bruised, and bleeding, and she was hysterical.”

  “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

  The doctor stood up, but Bill Farrell’s approach made him sit down again.

  Bill said, “Were you actually there during the rape?”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Margaret said, standing. “I think we’ve established that law-enforcement and health-care officials were not present during the rape.”

  The judge nodded. “I think you’ve proved your point, Counselor. No one is claiming to have been present during the rape.”

  “I’d just like to establish, Your Honor, that all of this is secondhand information. A gynecological exam cannot determine whether a sex act was consensual or nonconsensual.”

  “Yes, we’re all aware of that.”

  “So allow me to ask the question. Please.”

  The judge sighed and nodded. “I don’t think I can stop you.”

  “You were not there during, the alleged attack?” Bill insisted.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Thank you. I have no further questions.”

  Bill went back to his seat. Margaret leaned over her notes, talked to the young man beside her, then said, “We’d like to call Officer Frank Porfillio at this time.”

  Frank Porfillio came forth. He was also young, tall and lanky, wearing a street cop’s uniform. He had a goofy, Gomer Pyle face, and Nora worried that he would not be able to convince anyone of anything. She didn’t even know why he was there, or what his testimony would be about.

  She didn’t have to wait long to learn, however. He was the policeman who had been patrolling Bourbon Street the next night, when Simone G
ray approached him and said, “Can you help me? A man just went into that bar, and I think he attacked me last night.”

  Officer Porfillio said he agreed to detain the man and ask him a few questions. When he stopped Quentin Johnson, he immediately started to deny that he had done anything wrong, even though no one had accused him of anything. When he saw Simone Gray, according to the officer, he said, “I never saw that bitch before.”

  That was what he said, even though he now claimed they had had sex in the bathroom of the club, Oz. Nora smiled, thinking this was the turning point. They had him now. She reached over to touch Poppy’s arm, but her eyes were glued to the back of the room, where a man in an expensive suit stood, looking eagerly from face to face. Finally his eyes landed on Poppy.

  She whispered, “Oh, my God.”

  “Who is that?” Nora whispered.

  Poppy simply shook her head and said, “I don’t believe it.”

  She stood, and headed in his direction. Nora didn’t know what else to do, so she followed. Poppy took the man by the hand and led him out of the courtroom. Too dazed and confused to make a judgment, Nora followed.

  Once they were out in the hallway, Poppy said, “What are you doing here?”

  The man said, “It sounded like you were in trouble. I wanted to be here. I wanted to help out.”

  “How can you help out? This isn’t about you.”

  The man looked at Nora and said, “Are you Simone?”

  Before Nora could answer, Poppy said, “No, she’s not Simone. You don’t even know what’s going on here. It was wrong of you to come.”

  “I’m Nora,” Nora said quietly.

  “I’m Adam,” the man said, offering his hand. “Poppy’s husband.”

  “You had no right to come here,” Poppy said. “What the hell do you think you are doing?”

  “Simone was out here a while ago,” Nora said, thinking she could make peace. “She must have gone to the bathroom.”

  “Will you give us a moment?” Poppy requested.

  “Oh. Well, sure.”

  She walked away, but she kept her eyes on Adam, the man Poppy had accused of betraying Christ. He didn’t seem capable of betraying anyone. He was boyishly handsome with dark curly hair, not much gray, and round, prep-school glasses. He looked smart and sensitive, the kind of guy who was picked on in high school but triumphed in college. She thought it was considerate of him to come to New Orleans, looking for his wife. She couldn’t imagine Cliff coming to find her anywhere.