Gideon - 04 - Illegal Motion (21 page)

“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.